by Ross Laidlaw
‘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.
FIVE
A Goth, Valaris by name, tall of stature and most terrifying. . challenged all the Romans, if anyone was willing to do battle with him.
Procopius, History of the Wars, c. 550
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.’
SIX
In the banqueting hall. . these bold fighting-men took their seats. A servant. . performed the office of pouring out the sparkling beer. From time to time a clear-voiced poet sang
Anonymous, Beowulf, seventh century(?)
Five days after crossing the boundary between the empires into Pannonia (nominally a province of the West, but long abandoned by a weakening Rome first to the Huns then, following their collapse and dispersal after the death of Attila, to the Ostrogoths), Theoderic and Timothy, having parted with their escort at the border, approached Thiudimer’s ‘capital’. This was a straggling baurg, or townlet of thatched huts, in a forest clearing north of that great inland sea the Lake of Balaton.
Thanks to the presence of Thalassios’ Excubitors, the remainder of the journey, from the Succi on, had been comparatively uneventful. Isaurians had a formidable reputation far beyond their homeland, and the sight of a well-armed band of these ferocious hillmen was sufficient to deter all but the most foolhardy of marauders. Only once did they encounter any trouble, when a party of mounted warriors sallied forth from Singidunum* and attacked them. This imperial city had recently been taken by one Babai, a Sarmatian petty warlord who fancied himself a second Alaric or Attila. Stripped of most of its garrison to replenish the distant field army, the place had fallen to a surprise attack in which luck had played a greater part than skill. Those assailing Theoderic’s group had paid dearly for their temerity, being swiftly put to rout, leaving several of their number dead on the ground.
Word of the party’s coming had preceded them; Theoderic and Timothy were still some distance from the baurg when a richly attired figure on horseback, accompanied by two retainers, appeared round a bend in the path. Theoderic’s heart swelled; apart from greying hair and beard, Thiudimer was just as he had been all those years ago: tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong yet kindly face.
Father and son embraced with exclamations of joy. ‘What a fine young fellow you’ve grown to be,’ declared Thiudimer, pretending to remove a mote from a watery eye. ‘Those Romans have looked after you well, then?’
‘Very well indeed, father,’ enthused Theoderic. ‘I can speak Latin as well as Greek, have read the works of all their famous authors, studied their philosophy and law. You should see their buildings; why, a score of our villages could fit inside their Hippodrome-’ He broke off, seeing a frown crease the other’s forehead. ‘Still, it’s good to be back home,’ he finished lamely, embarrassed by his tactlessness.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Thiudimer glanced at Timothy. ‘And who’s this lowborn-looking fellow? A skalk — a slave — perhaps?’
‘This is Timothy, father,’ said Theoderic stoutly, ‘my bodyguard and friend. To save the lives of all my escort, he killed a man in single combat.’
‘He is welcome, then,’ said Thiudimer stiffly. ‘But why are we wasting time gossiping here like old maids?’ he went on, his face clearing. ‘A great feast is preparing, to welcome home my son. Come.’
Thiudimer’s gards or palace consisted of a great timber hall surrounded by outbuildings — kitchens, smithies, stables, store houses, etc. Inside the hall, the chief feature was a long trestle table flanked by benches. Near the entrance, temporary fire-pits had been set up; above them spitted carcasses of oxen, boar and deer gave off delicious smells. On the side of the board nearest the wall, in the centre, sat the king, with Queen Erelieva at his side, Theoderic to his right. Beyond, on either side, were Thiudimer’s chief retainers and their ladies.
Thiudimer rose; all followed suit.
‘Friends, fellow Amali,’ announced the king, his voice vibrant with emotion. ‘This is indeed a joyous day for me and for our nation, as we welcome home my son, your future king. As you know, he has spent the greater part of his life among the Romans. This was a great sacrifice for me, but one which, because it sealed our friendship with the Empire, I made willingly. Our gain is twofold: today, I have my son again; and our people have as ally, the greatest power in the world. I give you — Theoderic.’
‘Theoderic!’ echoed the guests. Goblets and drinking-horsn were raised, and the toast drunk to the young prince. Seated beside him to his right, Timothy nudged Theoderic. ‘I think you’re supposed to reply,’ he whispered.
Theoderic was gripped by panic. This was something he should have foreseen and prepared for. To strike the wrong note, could, quite conceivably, compromise his position as Thiudimer’s successor. With these people — his people now — to be accepted as a leader you needed more than inheritance. You had to look, sound and act like a leader. Desperately combing his brain for inspiration, he rose to his feet. The faces of his audience — fierce and proud, intensely curious — swam before his eyes.
‘As my father says, I have lived as a Roman for more than half my life,’ he began haltingly, nervousness making his rusty Gothic even rustier. ‘But I hope I have not become too Roman. At heart, you see, I am an Ostrogoth [too late, he realized he should have said ‘Amal’, their clan name within the tribe] and will do my best to become like one of you.’ His mind went blank and he could think of nothing more to say. He sat down amid a scatter of half-hearted and perfunctory applause. He had made a wretched start, he thought miserably. His ‘speech’, if you could call it that, had been feeble and apologetic when it needed to be bold and confident. His father must be deeply disappointed.
A young man to Thiudimer’s left leant forward. ‘Congratulations, brother,’ he said. ‘At least your life among the Romans has given you the gift of eloquence — something you may have need of on the day you claim the throne.’ And he sat back with a malicious smirk, forestalling any intervention by Thiudimer.
The speaker must be his brother Thiudimund, whom he remembered only dimly, Theoderic realized. Did his words imply that Theoderic’s succession was somehow invalid? But how could that be? Thiudimund was his younger brother. Was there some dark secret here, or had the lad spoken merely out of spite and the eternal jealousy of the younger sibling passed over in matters of inheritance?
Any jarring of the atmosphere produced by Thiudimund’s words was soon forgotten as the feast progressed. Gold arm-rings were distributed by the king for feats of valour in raids against the Sciri or the Gepids; beer flowed copiously, with endless toasts proposed and drunk; vast quantities of pork, beef and venison were consumed; jo
kes (mostly simple puzzles such as ‘What is the cleanest leaf?’ Answer: ‘Holly.’*) did the rounds, to gales of merriment; a harper sang of the deeds of Goth heroes from legend and history, of Amal, the founder of their clan, of Fritigern, who had smashed a Roman army at Adrianople, of Alaric, who had taken Rome itself. .
Self-conscious in his Roman clothes, ashamed of his poor showing in his speech, Theoderic found himself unable to join in the revelry, becoming increasingly tense and silent. The never-ending toasts (which he was compelled to drink or risk giving offence) were making his head swim and his stomach rise. The plentiful but greasy and monotonous meat dishes — unrelieved by sauces, fruit, and puddings, such as he had known in Constantinople — grew cloying, and the tales of battles and heroic exploits wearisome. He had nothing in common with these valiant boors, he told himself. A tide of longing for the life of Roman culture and refinement he had left behind washed over him. (In contrast, Timothy, who had acquired a fair amount of Gothic during drinking sessions with Aspar’s troops, was proving a great success, regaling those around him with tales of brawls and drinking bouts in Tarsus and Constantinople.)
After hours that seemed interminable, with the torches guttering and guests slumped snoring on the benches or the floor, the king turned at last to Theoderic and laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. ‘Go to bed, my son. Things will look better in the morning.’ The pity in his voice made the young man burn with shame as he stumbled to the curtained alcove reserved as sleeping quarters for Thiudimer’s family.
Awakening in broad daylight, Theoderic picked his way over sleeping bodies to the entrance of the hall. Outside, he breathed in grateful lungfuls of morning air, which helped a little to clear his pounding head. Despite his father’s words of reassurance, things didn’t look any better; in fact, in the cold light of day they looked considerably worse. Deciding to take a solitary ride in order to sort out his thoughts, he made his way to the stables and asked a groom to saddle his horse. As he was about to mount, he was accosted by Thiudimund.