Theodoric

by Ross Laidlaw

  ‘Get this torturer away from me,’ growled the man.

  ‘How can I help him, Sire, if he won’t keep still?’ bleated the old man.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve done your best, Camlach,’ Artorius replied soothingly. ‘But you won’t object to a little help, surely?’ And he signalled to Myrddin.

  ‘I’ll need two assistants, sir.’

  ‘Cei, Bedwyr, give our friend a hand.’

  Two young men arose and joined Myrddin. Following his instructions they held the patient securely, while Myrddin gripped the affected arm. He gave a sudden pull and twist; with a click, the joint slipped home.

  A spontaneous burst of applause broke out, blending with the patient’s thanks.

  ‘It was nothing,’ murmured Myrddin, feeling quietly elated. He couldn’t have asked for a more opportune way to demonstrate his skill. What he had done looked (and sounded) impressive, but was really just a trick, easily mastered given a modicum of training and experience. Had he been asked, say, to treat a fever or internal injury, that would have called for a far greater degree of skill, without, necessarily, the bonus of success.

  But it would take more than such a facile feat to impress Artorius, Myrddin realized, as the leader whispered in his ear, ‘First time lucky, eh? You can stay — for now. Just remember, you’re on probation.’

  As the weeks passed, with autumn slipping into winter, Myrddin quietly consolidated his reputation, by treating with skilled efficiency a variety of ailments among Artorius’ followers. These ranged from petty injuries such as cuts and broken bones to agues, boils, coughs and toothache — the last invariably ‘cured’ by drawing the affected item, an operation calling for a degree of dexterity and strength. His stock-in-trade consisted of — besides surgical tools such as probes, scalpels and suturing needles — salves based on extracts of plants: henbane, St John’s Wort, poppy and comfrey. With a combination of tact and patience, Myrddin gradually won over old Camlach, whose pride had suffered as a result of the other’s preferment, from jealous aloofness to valued partnership.

  This was a happy time; the campaigning season over, the days were spent in hunting and martial exercises and contests, the evenings in feasting, storytelling and song. Drawing on his experience of travel within the Roman Empire and beyond, Myrddin became popular as something of a raconteur. In addition, he discovered a certain talent for diplomacy and problem-solving. For instance, at meals or conferences held at the high table with the Dux (as Artorius was addressed, inheriting the title from Aurelianus) and his dozen chief retainers, there was often a certain amount of jockeying for position, those finding themselves at the table’s ends tending to feel diminished in status. Myrddin’s suggestion that a round table be substituted was put into effect, and harmony prevailed.

  With spring came the news that more than one large Saxon war-band was pushing towards Calleva and Venta* — the farthest west the Saxons had yet penetrated — and that they seemed to be acting in concert. This was worrying. Hitherto, bar in a single case, the Saxons had operated as small independent parties, each carving out a piece of territory then settling in it, without the help of other bands: a process of slow attrition which, if it could not be halted, could at least he slowed down and, to a certain extent, contained. But should the Saxons start co-operating, the effects might spell catastrophe. Haphazard occupation could quickly escalate into all-out invasion, as had happened with the Western Empire when hostile German tribes coalesced into confederations powerful enough to smash through the frontiers. Only once, years before, had Saxon forces combined. On that occasion, Aurelianus, aided by Artorius, had fought a mighty Saxon host to a standstill, deterring further westward incursion until now.

  In response to this ominous intelligence, Artorius summoned a council of war at which, besides his twelve lieutenants (mostly grandsons of landowners or decurions from the days of Roman rule), was also present Myrddin, now a respected member of the team, thanks to his insight and sound judgement.

  ‘According to my scouts’ reports, the Saxons are advancing in two columns — each about two thousand strong,’ announced the Dux, when all were seated round the new, circular high table in the great hall. ‘Our strategy, it seems to me, must be at all costs to prevent the columns joining up.’

  ‘Why, Dux?’ inquired an open-faced young man, distinguished by a shock of hair so fair as to be almost white. ‘If we attack them both together, we can end this threat at one blow, surely?’

  ‘Simple arithmetic, old Gwyn,’ smiled Artorius, addressing the other by his nickname.* ‘Our total force is five hundred heavy horse, enough — just — to take on and defeat two thousand men on foot, provided we have surprise and terrain in our favour. But four thousand? Work it out.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gwyn paused, then added, ‘See what you mean, Dux.’

  When the laughter had subsided, Myrddin put forward a suggestion. ‘I know in theory it’s dangerous to split one’s force. But suppose we were to try to keep the columns from converging by luring one of them away; letting them spot a small dismounted party. If the Saxons took the bait and followed, our main force could then lie in ambush. .’ He glanced enquiringly round the table, to be rewarded by a buzz of interest.

  ‘I like it,’ declared Artorius at length. ‘I think I like it very much. Anyone disagree? No? Then that’s what we’ll do.’

  Perhaps made over-confident by easy pickings further east, the Saxons advanced boldly up the valley, where at last the exhausted Britons had turned at bay to face them. With a triumphant shout, the Saxons broke into a trot.

  Hidden in the woods crowning a hill which formed one side of the valley, the British horsemen waited for the signal. Clad in old imperial armour salvaged from the limitanei, long, cutting spathae in hand, they sat mounts descended from Roman cavalry stock — big, powerful beasts, bred more for weight than speed.

  High and clear, a trumpet note rang out.

  A solid mass of mailed cavalry, red dragon banner streaming in the van, burst from the woodshore, swept down the slope and drove through the Saxon host as a sledge-hammer smashes through a rotten door. Reforming on the valley’s farther side, the horsemen charged again, before the Saxons could recover and form a defensive shield-wall. Time after time the tactic was repeated, until at last the Saxons broke and fled, to be cut down almost to a man, by the pursuing Britons.

  Learning of their fate, the other column, putting discretion before valour, retreated to the east. Britain to the west of Vectis* was safe, for another year at least.

  Looking out to sea from one of the towers surmounting the gatehouse of Anderida, Meurig experienced a twinge of concern. A shimmering wall of white obscured the coastline — perfect cover for a Saxon sea-borne attack. His anxiety was groundless, he told himself. Since Artorius’ great victory at Mons Badonicus† three years before, the Saxons had lain low, licking their wounds presumably. And yet. . All Meurig’s instincts suggested that this spell of inactivity was but the calm before the storm. By nature ruthless and persistent, the Saxons were not the sort of people to be permanently knocked back by one defeat, however costly. Well, whatever happened elsewhere on the island, Anderida was secure. Nothing could penetrate these massive walls — ten feet thick by thirty high, of solid concrete faced with stone, reinforced by twelve great bastions from which a deadly enfilading fire could be directed against any enemy who reached the curtain. The fort was utterly impregnable. Wasn’t it?

  What was that? Straining his ears, Meurig picked up a faint sound, a low susurration which slowly grew in volume. Suddenly, as was wont with these seasonal sea-frets, the mist began to thin and shred, then in a twinkling had dissolved away. The commander stared in consternation at the sight that met his eyes: a forest of sails bearing down upon the beach. Beneath the towering squares of canvas, banks of oars dipped and rose — the source of the sound that he had heard. This was no ordinary raid, such as Anderida had seen off scores of times in the past. This was a full-scale offensive which bore the hallmarks of
concerted planning. All at once, the fort’s invincibility seemed less assured.

  Before the longboats grounded on the beach, the garrison had manned the walls. The great ballistae — new when Theodosius was emperor a century ago, but kept in good repair — were rushed from store and hastily assembled on the bastions. Meanwhile, the Saxons, pouring from their craft, formed up, thousands strong, on the narrow beach. Then, giving a savage roar, they rolled forward in massed formation.

  ‘Jacite!’ The order to shoot rang out from the ballista platforms on the nearest bastions. Their connecting cords released by a trigger mechanism, the arms of the huge catapults, powered by the enormous stored-up energy of their springs of twisted sinew, flew forwards. A storm of iron-headed bolts smashed into the Saxons, tearing great gaps in their ranks. These were immediately filled up, the enemy advancing without pause to the foot of the walls, to be subjected to a deadly hail of javelins and arrows. Despite incurring terrible losses, the Saxons pressed on. Scaling-ladders were raised, sent crashing to the ground, scattering their human loads; but more and more thudded on to the parapet until at last the Saxons gained a growing foothold on the walkways, and the balance swiftly tilted in their favour. Knowing no quarter would be given, the garrison, by now reduced to a shrinking knot of limitanei, fought on grimly in the fort’s great courtyard until the last man was killed.

  ‘Let us leave their bodies for the kites and crows,’ said Aelle to his fellow leader.

  ‘No,’ replied Cissa, resting on his bloodstained sword. ‘They were brave men. We will give them honourable burial.’

  So disappeared from Britain the last reflected rays of Rome’s imperial sunset.

  * Straits of Dover.

  † Pevensey.

  * Prehistoric tracks along the crests of the chalk downs of southern England. Parts of some of them are popular with walkers today.

  † Ilchester (see Notes). The Roman road is the Fosse Way, connecting Exeter and Lincoln.

  ‡ The Weald.

  * The Long Man of Wilmington (for this and other features mentioned in Myrddin’s itinerary, see Notes).

  † Cadbury Castle/South Cadbury hill-fort (see Notes).

  * Silchester and Winchester.

  * ‘Gwyn’ is Welsh for ‘white’ (hence ‘Gawain’?).

  * The Isle of Wight.

  † Mount Badon (see Notes).

  TWENTY

  The gods favour the bold

  Ovid, Metamorphoses, c. 5 AD

  Suddenly the mist, which had plagued the Amali almost from the moment of striking winter camp ten days before, began to thin. In moments it had gone, revealing a world utterly changed from the one in which they had wintered. The Dravus, then a wide and placid river flowing gently through a fertile valley, had become a rushing torrent confined by steep slopes, where stands of pine and hazel alternated with slabs of naked limestone. Ahead, a jagged wall of mountains loomed on the horizon. ‘Das Karnthen Gebirge,’* the guide (one of several Boii,† hardy mountaineers recruited for their knowledge and experience) informed Theoderic. ‘Tomorrow we change route, head south towards the Savus.‡ All right, Herr Konig?’

  Theoderic concurred, mentally reviewing the plan. They would cross from the Upper Dravus to the Savus where, at a prearranged spot, they would rendezvous with Timothy. The Isaurian had gone ahead, a) to reconnoitre a possible southern route into Italy via the Vipava valley, through the foothills of the Alpes Juliae§, and b) to discover, if possible, what Odovacar’s movements were. Depending on what Timothy reported, a decision would have to be taken as to which route to follow: the southern, longer, but almost certainly much easier; or a short cut straight across the Alpes Juliae, which was bound to prove difficult, possibly dangerous to boot.

  Next morning, the wagons, heading south and a little west, began to crawl round the southern flanks of the Karnthen Gebirge, on the tenth day descending to the Savus river at its junction with the Sorus,* the rendezvous. Here, they found Timothy awaiting them.

  ‘The Vipava valley route’s an easy one,’ Timothy, gratefully chewing a slice of roast chamois, told Theoderic in the latter’s wagon. ‘Broad, well-used trail, no gradient steep enough to cause a problem for wagons. I followed it right through to the Italian border, which is demarcated by the River Sontius. Posing as a trader, I crossed the river at Pons Sontii† and did some snooping. Odovacar’s there, waiting for you. Clearly, he expects you to come via the Vipava, the route favoured in the past by almost all invaders. According to the gossip, he’s mustering an army “from the kings of all the nations” — whatever that means; but so far, not that many have turned up. If there is a viable route directly over the Alpes Juliae, I’d say take it. You’d then have the element of surprise, and likely catch Odovacar before he’s had time to assemble all his force.’

  Theoderic spent the next few hours agonizing over which route to take. If he opted for the short cut, he might end up losing half his wagons, or getting stuck in the mountains — when his people would be faced with slow starvation. But, if he chose the longer route, he might find himself eventually facing an Odovacar to whom he had gifted time sufficient to assemble an army of such overwhelming strength as to prove invincible. He thought of holding a council of war, but rejected the idea immediately; this responsibility belonged to him alone. That night he fell into an exhausted sleep, the problem still unresolved. Before unconsciousness claimed him, he found himself hoping that perhaps in dreams a sign might manifest itself.

  When he awoke he discovered that, although no sign had come, his mind was made up: the short cut it would be.

  The wagons pushed westwards beside the narrowing Savus, the distant blue mass of the Alpes Juliae looming larger by the day. A week after rendezvous-ing with Timothy, they arrived at a great side valley coming in from the left, above which, in the distance, dominating the surrounding sea of snow-capped mountains, rose a vast and snaggled peak: Tridentium,* the Three-Fanged One, the highest summit of the Alpes Juliae.

  Ordering the word to be passed down the line for the wagons to halt, Theoderic, accompanied by the Boiarian guides, entered the mouth of the valley to reconnoitre the route which the guides had already recommended as offering the most direct passage through the range. The prospect presented by the valley was a daunting one indeed: a vast stony trough, its upper slopes a field of scree and boulders, leading steeply up to a narrow col. This connected, on the left, the beetling cliffs of Tridentium’s north face, with, on the right, a ferocious line of sawtoothed crags ascending to a dramatic peak, Spica.

  ‘Es geht nicht — impossible!’ exclaimed Theoderic, aghast, immediately regretting his choice of route.

  ‘Not so, Herr Konig,’ demurred the guides’ leader. ‘With care, and preparation, and perhaps a little luck, it can be done. You see that stream?’ He pointed to a barely discernible rivulet bisecting the great cirque. ‘There is a track beside it, just wide enough for a wagon, which will lead us to the summit of the pass.’

  At first, the going was fair — far easier than it had seemed during Theoderic’s inspection the day before. The wagons rocked and rolled along the stony trail, with grassy patches and stands of stunted beech and larch relieving the monotony of the ubiquitous bare limestone. At one point the track passed beneath a waterfall spouting from an overhanging crag — an unforgettable phenomenon. All too soon, however, such pleasant sights were displaced by a grim testing-ground of unforgiving rock. From a point where the stream mysteriously disappeared, presumably flowing underground from its source far above, the trail steepened brutally, becoming increasingly littered with boulders, which had to be laboriously manhandled out of the path of the wagons. As they gained height, slippery scree and lying snow combined to create a serious problem, denying traction to the wagon wheels with their smooth iron tyres. Drag-ropes, hauled by everyone except the very young, had to supplement the efforts of the oxen, folk and beasts labouring for breath in the thin mountain air. Others strained to push the wagons at the rear, ready at a moment’s
notice to jam boulders beneath the rear wheels should they start to slip, brakes alone being insufficient to stop the heavy vehicles sliding backwards.

  Halting further progress, nightfall found the leading wagons well below the summit, a long, long snake of vehicles winding back down the corrie and along the valley of the Savus. What with the effects of cold at such high altitude, and anxiety lest their vehicles start to slip on the steep upper slopes, those in the foremost wagons spent a sleepless night. But dawn brought no relief.

  As the wagons began to move again, dark storm-clouds rolled up from the south, discharging volleys of hailstones as big as sling-shot, accompanied by cracks of thunder, and lightning bolts that struck the mountain all around, leaving dark smoking patches in the snow. The oxen panicked, becoming almost unmanageable, taxing the drivers’ skill to the uttermost to prevent the wagons overturning and tumbling to destruction. Then, as suddenly as it had worsened, the weather cleared; the oxen quietened, the train proceeded without further incident, and by noon the first wagons were trundling through the pass.

  Riding beside his wagon as it started the descent, Theoderic felt a surge of relief and euphoria. Thank God, he told himself, that he had after all made the right decision as to the route; and thanks to Fortuna for sending him Callisthenes, without whose advice the expedition would probably not have got this far. Further lightening his spirit, the terrain on the far side of the pass was a welcome contrast to what had gone before: grassy slopes, dotted with trees and grazing chamois, dropped gently to a fast-flowing stream of the purest aquamarine blue, the Socus.

  With the most critical part of the route now pioneered, an endless line of wagons rolled over the pass and down to the Socus valley. The train followed the winding river through a landscape of stunning beauty — grassy meadows studded with stands of pine, beech, and rowan, with a backdrop of dramatic snow-capped peaks, their flanks seamed by gorges, waterfalls and precipices. Parting at last from the Socus as from an old friend, an easy traverse took the column to the headwaters of the Sontius, which they followed to the river-crossing at Pons Sontii, above which the Sontius emptied its waters into the Terginus Sinus.* Beyond the far bank, all seemed strangely quiet and deserted: no ranks of tents nor smoke of cooking-fires, no stir and bustle of a mighty host.