by Roger Booth
‘Thu is sunus meins sa liuba.’ – cried loud enough that even the distant sea might hear and forever know: ‘You are my son, the dear one’.
Then, face dry and back straight, she turned from the grave and marched out of the chapel yard, down the hill towards Barcino.
XI
The month of August: in Barcino
Mid-morning and Herfrig was wandering wherever his feet took him. In charge of one of the clan’s foraging parties, he was not due to go out again till next week and the town already lay baked under the unwearied sun. These were dog days and any sensible dog would be lying in the deepest shade it could find – except no sensible dog would be out on the streets in the first place. Dogs made good meat for hungry mouths.
The ring of hammer on anvil, the smell of horse heavy on the sultry air; he stopped to watch the smith at work, face running with streaky sweat. Horses were important as well as beautiful, normally better formed and more reliable to his mind than the people who rode them. Horses were also power. Since first he carried a wooden sword, his uncle had told him. How at Adrianopolis, with one great flanking charge, Goth horsemen had destroyed a Roman army of thirty thousand men in just a few short, wild minutes. If he had a solidus for each time he had heard the tale…
Next to the smithy the tannery, then the steaming laundry; hides and piss, bodies and sweat – the street smelt putrid like one huge dung heap.
When last they returned, to his own mind he hadn’t smelt much better. They had worked their way deep inland. An occasional green valley but also much land that was burnt and barren; so supplies were meagre. He and his men had offered good Roman coin but, after the Vandals, how much would you take on trust?
The peasants also knew that coins would not feed them when the icy winds came down from the mountains. In one village they had been, surrounded by good fields. The peasants sat silent, even while they ransacked the houses and barns for stores which they knew must be hidden.
Then patience had snapped and long swords had entered the parley; the swords not his, neither had he commanded the men to stay. Two peasants they asked, mouths sealed tight. Then the two men lay suddenly dying, secret untold. Bent across the bodies, before the rough-edged stone of their crofts, their women had cursed him and his men to the deepest pit of hell.
He had taken coins, thrown them in the dust. ‘Your men were offered silver,’ he had said. ‘They chose steel.’
By then all he could do; empty words, lifeless words. The men had followed his lead; each hurling coin at the grieving women. Otherwise they would have hurled spears and not a soul spared.
He stepped out through the harbour-side gates, to greet the flickering light off the waves. The sea was a blessing. The occasional gull made a half-hearted attempt at flight. Mostly, the birds waited as a row of bobbing sentinels against the next landing, when scraps were to be had. The people agreed: fish were a godsend and, for now, they got by. But no-one was looking forward to the winter. Wheat was the problem, wheat for gruel to get through the day.
Leaving the gulls to their own devices, he headed back into the town, the brick and stone a glowing furnace. In the shade of alleys and side streets he was headed towards the west gate and home when he heard the sound of horses on the main cobbled way. Another foraging party riding out in angry hope, his first thought.
By the corner of the alley he saw he was wrong. Two maistans rode side by side, followed by a handful of retainers, two of them carrying hawks on their raised and heavily gloved hands.
Something, he felt at once; something was not right. He was good yards away, had not been seen and stepped back; until he judged the last of the horsemen had ridden past. Then he ran the length of the block through the alley, past a clog maker shaping the wooden sole of a sandal, a seamstress sitting dreamily in her doorway.
He peered round the corner in time to see the lead horsemen pass through a blaze of sunlight, carved sharp from the surrounding shade. A hawking party it was and harmless enough – save the hawks they could have left behind. Both men he recognised. And both already wore the beaked faces of hunting birds, in grim pursuit of their prey.
*
“You think it’s just the summer heat? That I’m imagining it?” he asked his brother. He paced the room that opened out onto the courtyard.
“Who do you suspect?”
Athaulf walked to the window, looked out across the quiet, little garden, bounded on all sides by walls two-storeys high, the whitewashed walls overhung by the timber frames of flat-tiled roofs. He turned. “I… I don’t know. Sergeric…”
“I’ve watched Sergeric at every Council since Massilia, Brother.”
“He didn’t want us to marry.”
“At first. But since we’ve been here in Barcino…” He said, reasonable as ever: “And if he’d wanted to, what better time than when Wallia was the other side of the mountains?”
“So I’ve thought, Erfrid.”
He slammed a fist against the wall. “Constantius I cannot fight. Sergeric I cannot fight.”
A deep breath: “Erfrid, I want to live. So much; so many things…” He left the words unfinished, looked out again into the sweltering day.
“Galla Placidia…”
He shook his head. “No new fact.”
“She stands by you; by us?”
“Erfrid, she stands firm as a rock. When I’m like this, I feel ashamed. But I tell you, Brother. There are times when all day my back… I feel the knife point.”
He leant against the window frame. “We Goths, from our mother’s milk, we learn to fight. The Romans, they learn to rule.”
His brother’s soft eyes were thoughtful once again. “Aye, but for one to rule, many must silently obey. Our people will be heard.”
Erfrid stood; unlatched the door that opened onto the garden; outside a blanket of brooding, buzzing heat. “Athaulf, like you I feel something. Though I cannot tell you what. Bring Brodagast and some of his guards; let them watch here. It can do no harm.”
“And the gold?”
“Galla Placidia, your lady, it is as you say. She is a rock.” Erfrid pushed the door slowly to. “But if you’re right – and I pray to God you’re not – then, Athaulf, it’s not about her or our treasure chests that the waters will break."
*
Wallia stroked his thick beard and listened.
“You’re sure?”
“Certain.”
He stroked his beard some more then sipped the goblet of wine.
“I wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Herfrig went on. “But I remember one night in Narbo. The night of the fire outside the walls, when I joined Faurgar at the King’s council; you remember?”
He nodded.
“When we left, Faurgar said things; about the Queen – how everything since the wedding had gone wrong. The words, they’ve stayed in my mind, Uncle. And I don’t know why, but it struck me as odd. That on a blistering hot day Faurgar was off hawking with Sergeric, a Balthi and a Karthi, and both looking so deadly serious.”
It didn’t sit right with Wallia either and he had more reason than his nephew for suspicion. “You didn’t hear them say anything?”
“No, probably just the heat to my brains.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “But you did well to tell me, Herfrig. The mood, it’s not as it should be.”
“Aye, I felt it when we came back. The guards,” said his nephew, “the guards at the gate…”
“Filthy tempered?”
“No, Uncle, they smiled. But the smiles were way too tight.”
Tight as a drum, Wallia thought and realised he was tapping the table with his fingertips. “I cannot tell the King,” he decided. “Just oil to the flame, it’s so threadbare.”
He waved away Herfrig’s attempt at an apology. “No, Nephew, not what I mean. But we’ve nothing save two men riding in company and who�
�s to say they may not? Athaulf might even suspect me of throwing a feint; of planning my own plot.”
“Plot?”
He looked to the ceiling. ““I hope not so, Herfrig,” he said. “I hope with all my heart. But Faurgar is the King’s cousin; after Erfrid he is the greatest of the Balthi. And without the Balthi, one way or another, no man will ever be King of our people.”
“You think Sergeric will have Faurgar in place of Athaulf?”
A swig of the wine and he smiled a blood-red smile. “No, Nephew, I do not. Sergeric would be the King, I think, and Faurgar the bird broken to his wrist.” He paused. “You said, did you not? That Faurgar spoke ill of the Queen.”
Herfrig nodded reluctantly.
“I’ve told you before, Herfrig, how at Council Sergeric and me; we seldom agree. He was never in favour of the alliance, Herfrig. Never. He hid behind words. He said she would never accept.”
“But the Queen,” said Herfrig. “She is a great lady, a great jewel to our people. If they have another boy, he may be Emperor.”
“Aye, Nephew. Why else do you think I swallowed my own doubts?”
He saw the anger. “And before you ask, Herfrig, I’ll tell you straight,” he growled. “Any boy Athaulf sires by the Princess; he might be Emperor. But he’ll be half Goth, also half Roman. And what half will weigh the heavier, eh? ‘Cept half is better than nothing and we’ll never get it all,” he looked at his goblet a while. “I’ve seen that clear enough.”
“And Sergeric? Why wouldn’t he agree?”
“Can’t rightly say, Nephew. But you know the tale; of the man who flew too close to the sun?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, that’s what I reckon Sergeric thinks. That we must take whatever scraps the Romans throw us and be content. Or else clatter from the sky.”
*
The road shook with the noise of Goth voices coming through open windows. The clink of glass, roars of laughter; Theoderic gave Ardrade a wry smile. “Shame we weren’t invited. Whose house is it?”
“Belongs to Brandas. I heard it’s his birthday.”
He looked again at the welcoming yellow light from the echoing windows, then nudged his horse forward. Just then the door opened. A man he’d not seen in the street shadows made to go in.
“Strange,” he said. “Surely that was Euervulf.”
“Aye, Theoderic, but not so strange. He’s been a King’s man all his life. But Euervulf’s a Karthi. Didn’t you know?”
*
The garden too small for trees, she sat in the shade of the walls, hardly a stir on the heavy air. She rose to meet her guest, embraced her to each cheek.
“I noticed Brodagast at the door,” said Rohilde.
Galla Placidia nodded; Brodagast and half an army to be truthful.
“The council – come, sit.”
The windows of the dining hall were open and a snatched word or short laugh floated out towards them.
“What are they meeting for?” Rohilde almost whispered.
She waved a vague hand. “What to do next year – if things do not change with Ravenna.”
Last night he had told her and it was a good sign, another step towards his forgetting, though, at the same time, she knew. Next year, nothing in Ravenna would change nor the year after. They must build the flesh and blood of their claim against the opening which, one day, was sure to come.
The sounds from the council chamber grew louder and the door opened. Athaulf strode across. The cheeks more sunken than once they had been, the fine blond face, the compact, square shoulders; the sight of him still lightened her heart.
Once again last night, they had been man and wife. She could not say it was a pleasure; not as it had been. Then perhaps that was the way of it. At times in the last weeks, she had thought how they might better woo again, set clearer their hopes. Except they could woo an eternity and, at the end, he would always be tied to his restless people; she chained by a thousand years.
A friendly hand on Rohilde’s shoulder, he bent his head towards her.
“Off to the stables; to see the new foal.”
The reiks were mingling in the hall, she saw.
“It went well?”
“The council? Aye,” he said, “nothing untoward. Erfrid thinks we’ll get by this winter – if we tighten our belts.”
A flickering smile as he took her hand. “Until later, then.”
“Yes, Husband, until later.”
*
They turned the corner towards the stables, set against the wall between north and west gates, handsome brick front, built by the Romans for their messengers who sped up and down the highroad.
The first Council for an age, they talked of food and forage; they even talked of marching back across the mountains. But what was there in Gallia, Erfrid had asked, save empty fields, bruised friends – and the walls of Arelate? His brother had spoken the words they had rehearsed the day before. They must learn from their Queen, hold their nerve through the winter; play the Romans at their own game of time. To his relief, and a little to his surprise, no-one had disagreed.
The little cavalcade turned into the courtyard. They also talked of horses and, in passing, he mentioned the new foal born last night. Quickly, quite how he couldn’t remember, it had been agreed. They would all come and see.
Athaulf swung down and the reiks followed.
“Ah, Euervulf.”
The head of his stables, also once servant to Alaric, Euervulf wore a dark green apron with the red smudges of last night’s work still fresh.
“Athaulf,” and he saw how Euervulf was looking nervously over his shoulder. He turned to follow his gaze, the quiet courtyard where Euervulf was master suddenly full of reiks and retainers.
“They just want to see the foal,” he reassured the man. Euervulf knew all there was to know about horses but was shy as a mouse.
“It’s in here?” Athaulf asked, walking to the stable block, standing aside by the half door to let Euervulf show the way.
The mare and her foal were settled in a stall at the far end, more settled than Euervulf who kept looking back as the stables filled. He put a soothing arm around his shoulders.
“So good you are, Euervulf,” he said. “With horses big and small.”
The pain stabbed at his gut and, an instant, he did not understand. Then he saw the short sword. Blood on the blade, his blood; still nothing said. He turned to face the others, Euervulf the same, sword hanging from his hand, as if waiting for a further command.
Athaulf slid to the floor, back against the wooden stall, mind silently screaming between the tearing pain and utter surprise. As he reached the hay-strewn floor, the silence was broken by a loud bellow of ‘traitor!’ Sergeric unsheathed his sword and, with a scything swing, he took off Euervulf’s head with the one deadly strike.
The mare in panic kicked at the stall. The stables were a charnel house, Euervulf’s headless torso pumping blood onto the floor. The timid eyes looked up from the severed head as if still asking what it was he’d done.
“Get the King out!” his brother was shouting and two retainers took him under the arms. They half dragged, half carried him outside, set his back against the stone trough in the yard.
“Brother,” he looked up at Erfrid, speaking through the pain. “Send the others away. Send them away. We must talk… need to talk.”
He watched Erfrid and the retainers push everyone, reiks and all, out of the yard, form a line across the gateway. He also watched his leather trousers stain red as if from spilt wine. Now Erfrid was crouching at his side, offering a cup of water from the trough. He drank, drank again; spat half back onto the dirt.
“Erfrid,” he gasped, “watch Sergeric. Watch that man. You must call Council. Today or tomorrow. Be named King before…”
“Athaulf, a
s you say,” his brother nodded. “As you say. But what do I tell your wife? What do I tell Galla Placidia?”
His eyes lit up for a moment. “Tell her, tell her she was always beyond…beyond any price, Brother. Tell her that for me.”
He took another sip of water. But his body was shivering and he began to cough up the water mixed with his own blood.
“One more thing, Erfrid. Tell her I never regretted… Never.”
The coughing redoubled and his voice began to fade. “But… it’s over. Erfrid, the same thing… the same thing will happen again; to you, Erfrid, if there’s no peace.”
With all his remaining strength he turned his head towards the brother he could still just see through the gathering darkness of his eyes. For a moment his voice was strong again.
“It was a fine hope, Brother. But tell her…her people did not …did not understand. She must go…she must go back. She…”
Athaulf’s head slumped into his brother’s arms. Erfrid shook him and called to him, the older brother who had always stood as a bulwark between him and the world. But the head which once had laughed at everything the world could throw at them; it rolled silently in his arms. In the soiled hay and dust of the stable courtyard Erfrid had lost his brother and the Goths had lost their King.
*
She had been out all day, aimlessly riding the hills. She’d ridden since she was a young girl. There were stories the people told of a time when women fought on horseback alongside the men. As archers, even with the lance; so the tales went. But if the stories were ever true, they told of times that were long ago. She carried a dagger hung from her saddle but would not normally venture out from the camps without some sort of escort. But then yesterday had not been a normal day.
Erfrid had brought word of her uncle’s death. Mother dead, father dead, now Athaulf; she spent most of that afternoon and evening with Galla Placidia. Shock; at the same time, it was what each had feared and neither spoken. Galla Placidia told of her uncle’s words, that day in the treasury. She, Rohilde, had not needed telling. It had been a race against the candle and that race lost; lost almost before it had even begun.