Theodoric

FOUR

Theoderic and Timothy spurred to the front of the column, where Julian had halted the escort.

‘Nock arrows and draw,’ ordered a white-faced Julian in a voice which trembled. ‘Loose on my-’

‘No!’ roared Timothy. ‘Can’t you see — they’re Isaurians; that’s Zeno in the van. It’s just a bluff to test our nerve.’

But Julian, clearly in the grip of panic, wasn’t listening. He opened his mouth to give the order.

‘Do not shoot,’ Theoderic heard himself say. Unbidden, the command — uttered with quiet authority — seemed to have come from someone else. It was the first time he had ever given an order, he thought, wondering. Even his bold stand against Julian over the Cambyses business had been carried through as a result of suggestions, not commands, on his part. It was Timothy, not he, who had organized the hunt, the boys unquestioningly obeying the Isaurian’s behests. And afterwards? He had happily slipped out of the limelight back into obscurity, content to be left alone to pursue a life of study and contemplation. But his countermand, however out of character, was, it seemed, effective. The archers were letting down their bows, thumb release-catches already off the strings.

Meanwhile, the ground began to tremble as the approaching cavalry thundered ever closer — a terrifying frieze of yelling warriors, flashing hooves, and wicked spear-points. Theoderic felt his bowels loosen and his palms begin to sweat. The urge to flee became almost overpowering.

‘Steady, Deric,’ murmured Timothy beside him. ‘Hold your nerve.’

With cries of fear, the escort — including Julian — broke and scattered, leaving Theoderic and Timothy alone facing the charge. Just when it seemed that nothing could halt their headlong career, the Isaurians, in a stunning display of horsemanship, reined in only paces from the pair, then, with a shout of acclamation, raised their lances in salute.

‘A true Isaurian, a true Goth,’ declared Zeno with an approving grin. He kneed his horse forwards to join them. ‘I’ve brought you some of my Excubitors to see you safely to Pannonia.’

‘I heard that,’ cried Julian, returning with a shamefaced band. He rode up to Zeno, confronting him. ‘How dare you challenge my authority? I have orders from the emperor.’

‘That’s all right, sonny. Just turn around and take yourself and your toy soldiers back to barracks. I’m relieving you.’

‘But my orders-’

‘-are from the emperor. I know; but not to worry. I’ll take full responsibility.’ Zeno smiled and continued in patient tones, as though explaining to a not-too-bright child. ‘You see, to all intents and purposes I am the emperor. He may wear the purple, but it’s me who pulls his strings. So off you go. Unless,’ he went on, his voice hardening, ‘you fancy arguing the toss with my Excubitors.’

Julian, his face a mottled red, opened his mouth as though to make an angry retort, then clamped it shut. He paused, glared at Zeno, then barked an order and departed with his troop.

‘Gilded popinjay,’ chuckled Zeno to Theoderic and Timothy, who had been listening dumbfounded to the exchange. ‘You don’t know what to make of me, right? I’ll explain. It’s bandit country where you’re going. Security’s broken down all along the Upper and Middle Danube frontier, with bands of Alan and Sarmatian raiders looting and destroying everywhere. No one to stop them, what with the Danube fleet stood down these twenty years, and the field army of Dacia confined to base except when called upon to deal with a major crisis.’

Timothy whistled. ‘Things as bad as that? I hadn’t realized. But what about the limitanei — the border troops? Aren’t they supposed to keep order on the frontier?’

‘Been pulled back to reinforce the field armies decimated in the wars with Attila. All things considered, I’d not have bet a brass obol on your making it through to Pannonia, not with that lot who’ve just left us. Don’t get me wrong; the Fifth Macedonians are a good bunch. It’s just that they’ve been trained to fight pitched battles in the field, not take on shadowy marauders using hit-and-run tactics — the sort of people you’ll be up against. As for their their boy decurion, he’s a callow green-horn who’d likely lose his head in a crisis and get you all killed. With my Excubitors, it’s an altogether different story; when it comes to dirty fighting, they’re the ones who wrote the book.’

‘May I ask a question, sir?’ enquired Theoderic, patting his horse’s neck to calm the animal, grown restless.

‘Ask away.’

‘Why are you willing to help us? I don’t wish to seem offensive or ungrateful, but some in my position might ask, “What’s in it for you?”’

‘A fair point, young man. Your question shows a Roman cast of mind: logical, rational, weighing up pros and cons, gains or losses. But I’m not Roman, I’m an Isaurian. My people have always been fiercely independent, and were never really conquered by Rome. Oh, to keep them off our backs we made a show of accepting Roman rule. In return, they’ve had the sense to leave us pretty well alone so long as we don’t cause too much trouble. Also, we provide some of the best fighting men for their legions. But back to your question. Isaurians are ruled by their hearts not their heads — the opposite of Romans. Let’s just say I’ve taken a liking to my fellow Isaurian Timothy here. As I’ve taken a liking to yourself; there aren’t many would have held their ground in face of a charge by Excubitors. I admire that. A pity, I thought, should either of you come to grief because of poor protection.’

‘And the real reason?’

Zeno stared at Theoderic, then let out a delighted whoop. ‘By the bones of St Euphemia, there’s more to you than I was led to think.’ Shaking his head, he shot Timothy a rueful glance. ‘All right, I’ll come clean. Nothing personal, young Theoderic, but I’m no great lover of your people. Ever since they wiped out our army at Adrianople nearly a century ago, they’ve been a thorn in the empire’s flesh. Most, thank goodness, have now moved on — the Visigoths to a new homeland in Gaul, the Ostrogoths to theirs in Pannonia. But here in Thrace, too close to the capital for comfort, a large contingent of Goths have been permitted to settle, officially as federates. Their leader’s your namesake: one Theoderic Strabo, known as “the Squinter”, a formidable young man who’s got the emperor’s ear, thanks to General Aspar — my rival for the top army job. He admires the Goths, by the way, and to my way of thinking has allowed far too many Goths into the army. Complicated?’

Theoderic and Timothy looked at each other. ‘Just a bit,’ admitted Timothy.

‘Bear with me. The Squinter’s federates are getting restive; seems they’re afraid that me and my Isaurians might displace them in the emperor’s favour. To keep them in check I need a counterbalance — a group powerful enough to take them on should they become a danger to the Eastern Empire. Unless your uncle Vidimir blocks the succession, which is unlikely, you, Theoderic, are set to take over from your father eventually as king of the Ostrogoths. Given that you’re willing, you could provide that balance of power — the Amal Goths holding the scales against the Thracian Goths. As a Friend of Rome, you’d have a lot to gain: the backing of both empires, generous subsidies, the security of a guaranteed homeland. What do you say?’

Theoderic’s head whirled. Things were moving almost too fast for his mind to grapple with. At seventeen, a retiring student with no experience of ordering the lives of others, he was being invited to enter the heady world of power politics, to hold the balance between, on the one hand, the huge might of the Roman Empire — or at least of its Eastern half — and, on the other, the immense and dangerous energies of volatile barbarian nations. A challenge at which the most experienced of statesmen might surely balk. Hopefully, though, his father would reign for many more years yet, years in which his son would learn from him the arts of statecraft and the management of men. And being a Friend of Rome, well, that at least represented a form of acceptance by that glittering world of power and beauty which he admired and loved, but, as a barbarian, could never fully enter.

‘What is there to say?’ rejoined Theoderic. ‘When the time comes for me to rule the Ostrogoths, I’ll gladly take up your offer.’

‘Splendid,’ pronounced Zeno, making his horse perform a cara-cole. ‘If we had wine, I’d drink a toast to that. I’ll leave you now, in the care of my Excubitors. That’s their captain, Thalassios.’ He indicated a villainous-looking individual with a leering, scarred face. ‘He’ll see you safe and sound to Pannonia. You’ve nothing to worry about till after the Succi — that’s the pass between Dacia and Thrace. Thrace being the Squinter’s fief, and the Squinter being Aspar’s ally, no one’s going to bother you this side of the diocesan border. Well, good fortune, and may the gods-sorry, God, be with you.’ And with a wave and a grin, Zeno wheeled his mount and galloped back towards the capital.

The first part of the journey, heading slightly north of west, was through the central plain of Thrace, which was studded with farms and villas, with endless fields of wheat and sunflowers rolling away on either side. On the fifth day they reached Adrianople, near which, as Zeno had mentioned, the Goths had inflicted a massive defeat on a Roman army a hundred years before. The arrow-straight strap of the Sirmium road branching off from the Via Egnatia now followed the valley of the broad, tree-lined Maritsa river, dotted with craft of all kinds from fishing-boats to freight transport vessels.

Eight days out from the capital, the party reached the great walled city of Philippopolis,* founded by Philip of Macedon, father of Alexander the Great, its Graeco-Macedonian past now subsumed by Roman buildings. These included a vast theatre, a stadium, and a church dedicated to Emperor Constantine. Once beyond the city, the scenery changed dramatically, the route running between the heavily wooded foothills of the Haemus and Rhodope ranges, to north and south respectively, with glimpses of distant snow-capped peaks etched against skies of brilliant blue. The steadily rising terrain afforded welcome relief from the heat, oppressive even in early June.

The approaches to the Succi were heralded by steepening slopes hemming in the highway on either side, a dramatic V-shaped cleft on the far horizon marking the pass itself.

‘Well, Deric,’ remarked Timothy, ‘so far, so uneventful.’ He jerked his chin towards the distant gap. ‘Once through that, perhaps the fun will start.’

‘We may not have to wait that long,’ observed Theoderic drily. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the hillside above them to the right, where scores of men were emerging from the trees.

‘And over there.’ Timothy pointed to the left. All at once, the surrounding slopes were swarming with footsoldiers who, rapidly descending to the road, surrounded Theoderic’s group. Big, fair-haired fellows armed with spears, they were clearly Goths. One, their leader, judging by his sword and gilded Spangenhelm — the conical, segmented helmet favoured by Teutonic warriors — approached Theoderic and Timothy. ‘You will come with us,’ he announced in passable Greek.

‘What’s all this about?’ asked Theoderic, striving to sound calm despite his pounding heart. ‘We were promised safe passage through Thrace.’

‘You will come with us,’ the man repeated stolidly. ‘Now, surrender your weapons.’

Theoderic looked at Timothy and Thalassios. They shook their heads in unison. ‘Better part of valour, I think, sir,’ said the captain, shrugging. ‘No choice, really; as you see, we’re heavily outnumbered.’

After handing over their arms, Theoderic’s group dismounted and, leading their horses and pack-animals, accompanied the strangers two abreast along a steep path snaking up the hillside to the south. All questions to his captors being met with silence, Theoderic gave up, to share his speculations with Timothy. Neither could think of any reason to explain their abduction.

That night they camped in a forest glade, the Goths issuing their captives blankets and strips of dried meat. Next day the trail led high into the mountains, past tarns, rushing streams, remote villages and occasional stone keeps, to enter a strange and silent world of sandstone pinnacles carved by wind and water into fantastic pyramids and columns. Once, they passed a line of figures performing a processional dance, dressed bizarrely in the skins of animals surmounted by the heads — bears, wolves and bison.

Not long past noon, a turn in the path suddenly revealed to Theoderic an arresting view. Ahead, the terrain fell steeply away to a verdant cup enclosed by tall spruce-clad mountains rising to spires of naked rock and seamed by silvery waterfalls. In the middle of the hollow rose an extraordinary building, or rather a complex of connected structures — something between a fortress and, with its peristyle and outer courtyard, a typical Roman villa. There followed a difficult descent, the path continually looping back on itself to accommodate the gradient. The great doors in the gateway of the surrounding wall swung open and the column entered a courtyard hung with long wooden galleries and dominated by a massive tower. Grooms led away the horses and baggage-mules, and Theoderic’s party were conducted through an open colonnaded square into a long hall. This was filled with noisy Goths, seated on benches or reclining on pallets, drinking, furbishing gear, playing dice or board games. At the chamber’s far end, seated, very still, on a throne-like chair, was a young man perhaps six or seven years older than Theoderic. In contrast to the others in the hall — they were bearded and attired in belted tunics, some with cloaks fastened at the shoulder with chip-carved fibulae — he was clean-shaven and wore a Roman dalmatic of fine but plain material. The most singular thing about him, and the obvious source of his nickname, was a marked squint in one eye, which however did nothing to detract from his air of authority and calm self-confidence. A hush spread throughout the great chamber as Theoderic’s group was led towards him.

‘Welcome to the monastery of St Elizabeth the Miracle-Worker, Theoderic, son of Thiudimer,’ the young man said in a quiet voice, beneath whose apparent friendliness there was an edge of hostility. ‘The monks have graciously granted us the temporary use of the cloisters and this refectory. I am Theoderic Strabo, son of the great Triarius and king of the Thracian Goths; also Magister Militum, Master of Soldiers, of the diocese on behalf of the emperor. When we heard that you were on your way, we thought it only proper to arrange that you be met by a reception committee at the Succi.’

‘Is that what you call it?’ responded Theoderic. ‘Then why do we find ourselves treated as prisoners? Before we left Constantinople, I was assured that we would be given safe passage through Thrace, under your protection.’

‘And so you would have been,’ replied Strabo equably, ‘had the situation in the capital remained unchanged. Events, events,’ he murmured. Then, casting aside the mask of mocking affability, he said with icy menace, ‘The Isaurian troops in Constantinople, no doubt jealous of what they see as preferential treatment of his Goth soldiers by General Aspar, have risen in revolt. In the course of the disturbance, Aspar and a number of his Goth bodyguards were murdered by order of his rival, General Zeno. Natural justice demands some evening of the score. Do you not agree?’

Theoderic’s heart seemed to turn to a block of ice. This was appalling news. Strabo, as a barbarian leader, could not afford to let such a situation rest. To avoid a loss of prestige which would inevitably endanger his position as monarch, he must act overtly to avenge the deaths of his fellow-Goths, and of Aspar, his people’s protector and champion. ‘Some evening of the score’: the words had an ominous ring which hardly bode well for Theoderic or his companions.

‘What happened is regrettable — extremely so,’ Theoderic conceded. ‘But surely no blame can attach to my Isaurian escort. The things you mentioned happened after our departure from Constantinople.’ Even as he uttered them, the words sounded hollow in his ears. In a barbarian society’s simple code of justice, someone always had to pay — if not the transgressor, a member of his kin or following.

‘I could have your party slaughtered on the spot,’ declared Strabo. ‘My men here would certainly approve. But I am not quite the lawless savage some Romans no doubt think me to be. As perhaps do you, being Roman-bred. Nine Goth soldiers were slain by Zeno’s men. Therefore nine of your Isaurians must die. You yourself will remain here as my. . ‘guest’, shall we say, until the situation in the capital resolves itself. Your men will now draw lots to decide who are the ones to die. Sentence to be carried out immediately thereafter.’

Theoderic’s brain seemed to spin. Nine deaths — that was half his entourage! Their deaths would be for ever on his conscience. Moreover, the chances of his party completing the journey to Pannonia safely would be thrown into jeopardy, even should he be released. And that was unlikely to happen any time soon. As Strabo’s hostage, he would be far too valuable a bargaining chip in any negotiations with Leo (or rather with Zeno, his puppet-master) to be readily set free. Perhaps he was destined never to succeed his father. And that would mean the ending of a cherished dream, Theoderic, the Friend of Rome. These reflections flashed through his mind in seconds, to be succeeded by a sudden thought which offered, perhaps, a ray of hope.

‘Wait,’ he cried. ‘There is another way.’

Strabo smiled indulgently. ‘Convince me.’

Raising his voice so that all in the chamber could hear, Theoderic declared, ‘Single combat, a duel between a champion of yours and one of ours. The condition: should your side lose, my party be permitted to continue our journey unmolested.’ The suggestion stemmed from Theoderic’s recollection of something he had learnt at Constantinople University. The institution boasted two famous chairs of law. Although the subject was not one for which he was formally enrolled, Theoderic had sometimes attended law lectures, especially those touching on the laws of Germanic nations, as contained in tracts such as Lex Gothica, Leges Visigothorum, and the recently enacted Codex Euricianus. Written statutes known as leges scriptae or belagines often referred to the time-honoured practice of settling disputes by combat, with God (or, in the recent pre-Christian past, gods such as Thor or Odin) the arbiter: a tradition with which even kings meddled at their peril.

A charged silence throughout the great hall followed Theoderic’s words, witness to the interest they had aroused. An enthusiastic murmur arose among the assembled Goths, gradually swelling to a roar of approval, with weapons being banged on the floor or benches. Watching Strabo’s face intently for any sign of reaction, Theoderic hoped against hope that the other would be swayed by his followers’ mood. A German king — reiks in the Gothic tongue — was not like a Roman emperor whose orders commanded unquestioning obedience. A reiks ruled strictly by consent and force of personality. Once perceived to be weak, unsuccessful, or acting against the interests of his people (or at least of those that counted), he would swiftly be replaced. The Goths present were probably Strabo’s andbahtos, his personal following of armed retainers. Such men would belong to the top rank of Goth society, frijai or free men, the other orders being freedmen, then slaves. Should they approve the duel (something members of a warrior society in which a man’s status was linked to his prowess as a fighter might be expected to endorse), could Strabo, as no more than primus inter pares, afford to ignore their collective will? Theoderic had read in the Histories of Ammianus Marcellinus, that eminent Roman soldier-turned-historian, that German kings often found great difficulty in controlling the martial ardour of their warriors.

‘Very well,’ at last pronounced the Squinter, his face impassive. ‘It shall be as you suggest.’ He leant forward, yellow hair swinging about his shoulders, to look intently into the other’s face. The squint was unsettling, disconcerting, and lent a chilling weight to the king’s next words. ‘However, by your terms, should my champion win we would have no advantage over and above the status quo. That is hardly fair. I therefore add this rider: should your champion lose, all your party, yourself excluded, will suffer death.’

The thunderous applause that greeted Strabo’s verdict made Theoderic’s blood run cold. The ingenious ‘solution’ he had sprung upon his namesake had backfired, creating a situation with implications too nightmarish to contemplate.

* I hesitate to differ from the great Ammianus, but Dacia, not Illyricum, is the diocese adjoining Thrace on the west. Perhaps he is using the term ‘Illyricum’ in a loose sense for the area known as ‘Illyris Graeca’, the western Balkans, Greece and Macedonia.

* Plovdiv.