Theodoric

FIVE

A tense hush spread throughout the mass of Goths packing the cloister’s pillared walkways. Facing each other across the grass-covered central enclosure, stripped to the waist, were the rival champions: the Goths’ a flaxen-haired giant armed with a great two-handed sword; Timothy, the choice of the Isaurians, with a slender knife. (Thalassios had reluctantly given way to Timothy, who had persuaded the rest of Theoderic’s party that his background of no-holds-barred street fighting gave him the edge.) On the face of it the pair were unevenly matched. The Goth’s huge stature, powerful physique and formidable weapon appeared to give him a distinct advantage over the short, stocky Isaurian with his puny blade.

The umpire stepped into the middle of the arena. ‘No gouging, no backstabbing,’ he announced, ‘the contestants to fight until one is killed or surrenders, in which event his life is forfeit.’ He glanced at Strabo, who was seated on a specially erected dais. The king nodded, whereupon the umpire called, ‘Begin,’ and exited the courtyard.

His sword a whirling silver blur, the Goth charged at Timothy, who waited till the man was nearly on him then skipped nimbly aside, just avoiding a ferocious cut which, had it landed, must have split him from neck to navel. Forged by master-swordsmiths and edged with razor-sharp steel, such blades were lethal. Time and again the Goth repeated the manoeuvre, on each occasion Timothy’s deft footwork proving his salvation.

‘I see what Timothy’s game is,’ Thalassios murmured to Theoderic’s party, huddled in a tense knot apart from the Goths. ‘He’s letting the big chap wear himself out, then he’ll go in for the kill.’

‘Risky,’ demurred another Excubitor. ‘If he spins things out too long, chances are the Goth’ll score a hit. Just one would finish Timothy.’

Which is what almost happened. With his opponent’s next rush, Timothy fractionally mistimed his avoiding action and the sword-tip flickered down his rib-cage. A scarlet thread tracked the point’s passage, widening instantly to a ribbon pouring blood. Timothy staggered, flung himself clear as a second blow parted the air inches from his head.

A collective sigh, like wind in a cornfield, rippled round the audience, followed by a gasp of horror from the Isaurians as Timothy appeared to slip on grass made treacherous by dripping blood, to measure his length on the ground. With a roar of triumph his adversary swung the great sword above his head.

Suddenly, in a sequence almost too rapid for the eye to follow, Timothy doubled forward from the hips, tucked his legs beneath him, then sprang upright with the speed of a striking adder. His knife, a wicked-edged Anatolian sica, insignificant to look at but deadly in close-quarter fighting, flashed across the other’s throat. The Goth, sword still raised aloft, blood jetting from a severed artery, swayed, then, with a look of surprise, collapsed, shuddered, and lay still.

The ensuing silence, born of shocked amazement, seemed to stretch out interminably, then was broken by a storm of cheering. Rough and violent they might be, but the Goths admired two virtues above all others, even when displayed by an enemy: martial skill, and valour.

‘Farewell, then — for the present,’ Strabo told his namesake at the monastery gate. ‘You turned the tables on me,’ he admitted, a note of wry respect entering his voice. ‘This time. When next we meet — as the Norns who weave the web of men’s lives have surely decreed we shall — Theoderic Thiudimer will be the one to lose.’