by Ross Laidlaw
Theoderic wheeled. There, twenty paces off, stood Julian, at his back half a dozen of his followers holding eggs or fruit which they were clearly intending to throw.
Theoderic began to move off; the best method of dealing with such confrontations was to avoid them, he had found.
‘That’s right, run away,’ the group chanted. ‘Yellow as his own hair. Yellow! Yellow!’
An overripe pomegranate burst on the paving beside the young Goth, splattering his legs. Theoderic halted, as something seemed to snap in his brain. This was where it ended. He would throw down a challenge, something testing, with an element of danger. What form could such a challenge take? He had barely asked the question in his mind when the answer came to him. But perhaps that idea was a bit too dangerous. He hesitated, but only for a moment. If that was the only way to gain their acceptance, by proving that he was their equal — in courage, at the least — so be it.
Feeling strangely calm, he walked up to the group. Something in his bearing made them fall silent and lower their throwing arms.
‘If you are all so brave,’ he said, ‘I will give you the chance to prove it.’
‘It speaks. Ooooh, I’m quaking in my shoes,’ responded Julian, his scoffing tone not quite concealing a hint of uncertainty. ‘Hear that, boys? He’s going to set us a dare. Wonder what it’ll be? Climbing the Golden Gate? Pinching peaches from the palace orchard?’ The others sniggered dutifully, but it sounded somewhat forced.
‘Come with me to hunt Cambyses.’
‘Cambyses?’ Julian laughed disbelievingly. ‘You can’t be serious.’ A pause, then Julian continued, his face paling, ‘My God, you are serious.’
Cambyses. The legendary wild boar that had killed or maimed not only several unwary passers-by but more than one hunter who had sought to make him their quarry.
‘Well?’
Heads bowed, two of Julian’s followers slunk away. The rest stood firm.
‘We accept.’ All trace of bluster had gone from Julian’s voice, replaced by a note almost of wondering respect.
Theoderic’s heart gave a leap. He had, he felt, just crossed some sort of Rubicon.
* The Sea of Marmara.
* He was actually a Romanized Greek.
TWO
With loud shouts, Herakles dislodged from a thicket the Erymanthian Boar
Pisander, c. 650 BC
Returning to his spartan little suite in the palace, Theoderic found himself confronted by Timothy. Standing with folded arms in the middle of his charge’s tablinum or study, the bodyguard — stocky, muscular, nose flattened in some ancient brawl — looked exactly what he was: a self-reliant bruiser.
‘Timothy! You wish to speak with me?’
‘Indeed I do, young Deric, indeed I do. This Cambyses business. .’ He shook his head and chortled softly. ‘Lucky for you I’m an Isaurian — agin the government. What I should have done is report your plan to the Master of Offices. Then you’d have been confined to barracks, as it were, and I’d have been commended.’
‘But. . how did you know?’
‘To see but not be seen, to hear but not be heard — all part of my job. A gaggle of schoolboys taking on Cambyses on their own. I can think of simpler recipes for suicide.’
‘I suppose it was a stupid idea,’ Theoderic admitted, reddening. He shuffled his feet, his expression downcast.
‘Now there you’re wrong. It has the makings of an excellent idea. All it lacks is a bit of planning, preparation and expert assistance. That’s where I come in.’
‘You’d help us?’ Theoderic’s face lit up.
‘I must be crazy even to be thinking of it,’ murmured Timothy wryly, ‘but the answer’s yes. Having grown up in the back streets of Tarsus, I know how important it is to establish your status in a peer group. If you don’t, they’ll kick you to the bottom of the heap, and that’s where you’ll stay. So old Timothy understands that you need to even the score with your schoolmates. Lucky it’s me you’ve got to lend a hand. Isaurians aren’t just streetwise; most of us, and that includes yours truly, are expert woodsmen to boot. The Taurus mountains are our backyard, and they’re teeming with bears, wolves, deer, wild boar — you name it. There’s scarcely a cottage in Cilicia without its bearskin on the floor or pair of horns on the wall. Right, listen, young Deric, this is how we’ll go about it. .’
As arranged, the six boys — Theoderic, Julian, and the four of Julian’s circle who had accepted the challenge — met Timothy outside the Charisius Gate at the second hour,* soon after the opening of the gates in the Theodosian Wall. It was the feast day of St Euphemia (so no school), a celebrated local martyr, credited with performing a miracle at the Council of Chalcedon seventeen years previously. For several miles they followed the River Lycus north-west on made roads, taking turns to wheel the handcart containing a long bundle, which Timothy had brought. Arriving at the confluence of the Lycus and a small tributary, they followed the latter north along a farm track, gradually leaving behind villas and cultivation to enter an area of rough pasture climbing towards woods. Reaching an isolated farmhouse the party halted; Timothy went off to find the farmer, while the boys flopped on the ground, exhausted by the trek in the warm September sun. After quarter of an hour Timothy returned, with four rangy mongrels on leash.
‘Not much to look at,’ he said, ‘but the best boar-hounds this side of the Bosphorus. If any get killed, your dads’ll pay the bill — except Deric’s, for obvious reasons. Understood?’ He looked round the circle of tense young faces; all nodded. ‘Right, gentlemen, what I’m about to say I’ll say just once, so listen good. In a mile or so we’ll be entering Cambyses’ parish. Follow my instructions and you’ll be all right. Ignore them and you could end up dead or maimed — your silly faults but my head on the block. Which I don’t intend to let happen.’
Exchanging the leashes with Julian, the Isaurian unwrapped the bundle on the cart and handed a short spear to each boy, retaining the last for himself. They were workmanlike affairs, with sturdy hafts and broad, vicious-looking blades with a cross-bar below where the blade joined the handle. ‘Tempered steel with razor edges; extra-wide for maximum damage. The guard’s to stop the quarry getting close, if spitted. A boar’s weapons are its tusks — sickles that’ll rip you open from crotch to breastbone. Now, we don’t want that to happen, do we, lads? So here’s the plan. When we track down Cambyses’ lair — which’ll be in dense undergrowth — the first task is to persuade him to come out. That’ll be my job. You lot stand back in a semicircle, weapons at the ready. When he comes, he’ll do so in a rush. A charging boar’s a scary sight, and Cambyses is a lot of boar. It’s vital to keep your nerve and hold your ground; he won’t charge the blades. Let the dogs distract him, then, when I give the word — and not before — move in for the kill. Above all, no heroics. There are old hunters, and bold hunters, but no old, bold hunters. Remember that. Questions, gentlemen? No? Then let’s be having you.’
Deep in a thicket, Cambyses slept. At twenty years, too old for sows to feature in his reveries, he dreamt of sunlit glades carpeted by acorns, with juicy tubers just below the surface waiting to be grubbed up. Suddenly he started twitching, as something intruded on these pleasant visions. Blinking awake, he became aware of of what it was that had disturbed his rest: a familiar, hated scent. Man. His inch-thick hide seamed with scar tissue bore witness to past encounters with hunters, some of whom had suffered death or mutilation from his tushes. The scent grew stronger, stirring memories of pain and danger. Quivering with fury, the old boar raised his vast bulk from the ground and prepared to give battle.
‘They’ve got the scent, lads. Let ’em go,’ Timothy called to the three who, besides himself, had held the hounds in leash while they quartered the terrain — a soggy plateau stippled with bushes and stands of dwarf timber. Unleashed, the hounds — silent until now, streaked off, barking with excitement. They halted before a patch of dense under-growth, their baying, an eerie chiming sound, rising to a frenzi
ed crescendo.
Lining up the boys in a wide semicircle behind the hounds, Timothy took a handful of pebbles from a pouch at his waist, and proceeded to pelt the patch of brush. For a full minute nothing happened. Then the bushes began to shake, and a moment later the quarry burst from shelter. He was a terrifying sight: huge body covered in blackish bristles streaked with yellow, tiny red-rimmed eyes blazing with hate, long foam-flecked snout, pair of wicked tusks curving from the lower jaw.
Faced with this apparition, Theoderic was seized with paralyzing fright. The urge to run was overwhelming, but, recalling Timothy’s advice, he stood firm, spear levelled — as, to their credit, did the others.
Confused by the hounds, Cambyses halted in full career, then charged first one, then another. But his tormentors were old hands at the game, and backed away from his furious rushes. At last, bewildered and exhausted, flanks heaving, the old boar stood at bay.
Julian, next in line to Theoderic, broke ranks and rushed forward, spear raised to deliver the coup de grace.
What happened next, though lasting only seconds, seemed to Theoderic to pass as though time had slowed down. Julian tripped on a tree-root and toppled forward, to lie extended on the ground. Spotting one of his enemies prostrate, the boar, like an ox turning a mill-wheel by its pole, wheeled slowly round and made for Julian, its short legs rising and falling no faster than a galley’s oars.
Then the moment passed, and the enraged brute was hurtling towards the boy like a bolt from a ballista. Unaware of making a conscious decision, Theoderic found himself sprinting forward, standing athwart Julian’s body and thrusting out his spear to receive the boar’s charge. The blade took the animal full in the throat, the impact hurling Theoderic backwards, in a spray of blood jetting from a severed artery. Closing in at once, the others quickly finished off the dying monster. Julian rose shakily to his feet.
Timothy, his face suffused with anger, struck the boy a ringing slap across the cheek. ‘Glory-hunting fool!’ he roared. ‘You nearly got yourself killed. Worse, you put your mates in danger. If it hadn’t been for Deric here. . Now, apologize and make up.’
Trembling as reaction set in, his emotions in a tumult, Theoderic extended his hand to his erstwhile enemy. His chief feeling was exaltation: surely now they would accept him as an equal and, more importantly, a Roman.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Julian stiffly, Timothy’s handprint livid on his face. ‘I behaved stupidly. I owe you my life. For that I thank you.’ He looked at the other’s open hand, then turned his head away. ‘But I don’t shake hands with Germans. You’re brave, I grant you that, but then so are all your race. For all your courage, Goth, you’ll never be one of us — Roman, that is.’
Theoderic’s euphoria drained away, replaced by a terrible feeling of failure and frustrated longing. Now he knew how Moses must have felt when, having led his people to the Promised Land, he alone was not allowed to enter.
* About 7 a.m. (see Notes).
THREE
That noble sentiment, love for Rome
from a letter of Theoderic recorded by Cassiodorus in Variae, c. 537
‘Timothy of Tarsus, Your Serenity — guardian of Prince Theoderic, son of Thiudimer Amalo, joint king of the Ostrogoths,’ announced the silentiarius — one of the tribe of gentlemen-ushers who ensured that the elaborate machinery of court procedure in the Imperial Palace functioned smoothly. Bowing, he showed Timothy into the reception chamber, then withdrew.
Timothy found himself in a vast colonnaded hall, at the far end of which were two figures: enthroned, an elderly man swathed in purple robes which somehow created the effect of diminishing his slight form; and, sprawled on a bench, a colossal individual wearing undress military uniform: round pillbox cap, undyed linen tunic (somewhat soiled and worn) with indigo government roundels at thighs and shoulders. These were, respectively, Emperor Leo and his top general, Zeno, a tough Isaurian chieftain who had changed his name from the barbarous-sounding Tarasicodissa to the more euphonious Zeno in deference to the sophisticated ears of the capital’s citizens.
Making what he hoped were the correct obeisances, Timothy advanced towards the pair, halting with lowered head several paces from the throne. ‘Serenity, General, your humble servant is honoured to receive your summons, and awaits your pleasure. . er, is desirous to know how best he may be of service.’ Despite having been on the palace staff for years, this was the first time Timothy had been in the imperial presence. He was, as he admitted to himself, making up the rules of etiquette as he went along; he just hoped he wasn’t committing any major gaffes.
‘Tarsus, eh?’ chuckled the general. ‘A fellow Isaurian then. But I could have told that from your accent.’ He surveyed the other’s muscular frame appraisingly. ‘There’s a place in the Excubitors, my crack corps of Isaurians, if you’re interested — good pay, easy service, generous donatives. Isaurians always welcome.’ He turned to Leo. ‘Sorry — bad form to be speaking ahead of my emperor.’ He grinned in mock contrition. ‘Over to you, Serenity.’
‘Thank you,’ snapped Leo, a flush of annoyance spreading up his neck. Addressing Timothy, he stated, ‘We have just received a message from Theoderic’s father, requesting the return of his son. You’ve had the boy daily in your sights for the past nine years. In your opinion, would you say the time is, ah, appropriate, for the young barbarian to rejoin his tribe?’
Timothy thought carefully before framing his reply. ‘Appropriate’ was code for ‘suitable on account of the subject’s posing no threat’. In other words, had nearly a decade of exposure to the civilizing influence of Roman culture been sufficient to dilute the warlike instincts natural to any Goth, while inculcating respect and loyalty for Rome, thus rendering him more likely to prove a useful ally than a dangerous foe of the empire? The ‘Cambyses incident’ two and a half years ago had, in order to avoid awkward consequences for all involved, been kept a strict secret. So no one suspected that the shy, studious persona that the young Goth presented to the world concealed a spirit both courageous and determined. It was best, Timothy decided, that Leo remain in ignorance of this side of Theoderic’s nature. (As a result of the boar-hunt, persecution of Theoderic by Julian and his gang had stopped immediately; though shunned, he was treated with wary respect. Schooldays had ended soon afterwards, some of his classmates going, like Julian, into the army, others entering the civil service, one or two the Church. Theoderic himself continued his studies at Constantinople University, founded by Theodosius II just forty-four years previously, attending classes in philosophy and Latin grammar.)
‘Theoderic’s a quiet lad, Secrenity,’ Timothy pronounced. ‘Mild, inoffensive, a conscientious student. Overall, rather timid and ineffectual, I’d say.’
‘Timid and ineffectual?’ ruminated Leo. ‘Excellent, excellent. Well, assuming what you say is true, I think we can safely let our young barbarian go. Probably to sink without trace. Theoderic — a name written on water, it would seem.’
‘Doesn’t sound like any Goth I’ve ever encountered,’ snorted Zeno. ‘“Timid and ineffectual”’? You must be joking! Alaric himself could come over all sweet reason when it suited — and look what he did to Rome.’
Leo shook his head impatiently. ‘Spare us the history lesson, Zeno. Sometimes we have to go with our instincts and take a chance on things. I’ll have the release order made out straight away.’ He glanced at Timothy. ‘Our thanks for your advice. On your way out, tell the silentiarius to send for my scribe.’
In the name of the Invincible Augustus the Most Sacred Leo, four times Consul, Emperor of the Eastern domain of our One and Indivisible Empire, his Master of Offices requests that within the Prefectures of Illyricum and the East: the vicars of the Dioceses of Thracia and Dacia, and the governors of the Provinces of Europa, Haemimontus, Thracia, Moesia Secunda, Dacia Mediterranea, Dacia Ripensis and Moesia Prima, together with all officers and servants acting in their names, allow to pass freely without let or hindrance, affording him such assista
nce and protection as may be necessary, Prince Theoderic, the son of Thiudimer Amalo, king (jointly with his brother Vidimir) of the Ostrogoth nation which currently resides within the provinces of Pannonia Secunda, Valeria, Savia and Pannonia Prima, by gracious permission of the Invincible Augustus of the West, the Most Sacred Anthemius. Issued at the Imperial Secretariat within the Great Palace of Constantinopolis, and given into the hand of our trusty and well-beloved emissary Timotheus Trascilliseus, guardian of the aforesaid Theoderic. Pridie Kalendas Junii, in the year of the consuls Leo Augustus (being his fourth consulship) and of Probianus.*
With disbelief tinged with awe, Timothy finished reading this portentous document, Theoderic’s safe-conduct, with which he had been entrusted. ‘Trusty and well-beloved emissary’! Could that really refer to him, Timothy the brawler, Timothy the small-time crook, Timothy the humble bodyguard — a nothing, an invisible presence lurking in the shadows? But that was yesterday. Today, by some miraculous stroke of administrative alchemy, he had been transformed into a government official entrusted with an important mission, and holding the impressive title of agens in rebus, a catch-all job description covering anything from spy to diplomat. It felt good. With the commission in his satchel, and wearing the same undress uniform as Zeno (having semi-military rank, agentes were entitled to wear uniform, though not armour), he found himself walking with an extra swagger and confidence. Now palace underlings made way for him with respectful expressions, whereas formerly they had treated him with indifference or easy familiarity. All immensely gratifying.
Next morning at the first hour, mounted, accompanied by a small train of spare horses and pack-mules carrying luggage and supplies in the charge of a groom, Timothy and Theoderic arrived at the Golden Gate, where they were to be joined by the armed escort assigned to accompany them on their journey. They hadn’t waited long when, with a clatter of hooves and jingle of accoutrements, a dozen horse-archers plus remounts and supply wagon approached along the Mese. With their highly polished cuirasses of overlapping iron scales and red-crested Attic helmets of gleaming bronze, they made a brave show.