by Ellis Knox
They followed Syragius and the other Thervings inside.
CHAPTER FOUR
The King of All Tribes
The Great Hall of the Thervings was narrow, dark, and filled with smoke—exactly as Julian pictured it. The smoke not only filled the air, it settled upon everything with a smell like a doused campfire. As his eyes adjusted, Julian could see servants here and there, carrying jars and baskets, arranging tables and benches, and squabbling with each other. Further in, a fire burned in a large pit that served for both cooking and heat. A hole in the ceiling took away some of the smoke.
“The king was seen at you,” Syragius said, still grimly mangling his Latin. He pointed into the darkness and started forward. Julian gave Marcus an isn’t-this-fun grin, which his First Tribune returned by giving a passable impression of a stone statue.
Julian followed his guide and worked his way toward the far end of the building, dodging servants who hurried about as if the visitors were invisible. He heard voices somewhere ahead, but could see nothing in the dim light. Past the fire pit, though, the smoke lessened and he saw torches lighting the interior. Here the tables gave way to piles of furs, arranged as if people might sit in them. It reminded him of a Roman dining hall, with furs in place of couches. More servants were here, scurrying with boards filled with bowls and tankards.
“They appear to be expecting a crowd,” Avitus said.
“More than just an ambassador, I should think,” Julian said.
In the center were mounds upon mounds of furs and in the midst of all this was the only chair to be seen. It appeared to be made of furs, for no bit of wood could be seen. Upon this sat a tall, thin man, sunk deep among the piles of brown and black, silver and white fur. His head showed, and one arm.
Leaving his escort behind, Julian approached, holding his right hand at shoulder height, palm out.
“Hail, Lord Fritigern, King of all the Thervingi!”
A thin reed of a voice emerged from the furs.
“Hail, Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the Twelfth Legion.”
At least he speaks decent Latin, Julian thought.
“Honored Guest,” the king said, “you are invited to feast at the king’s bench today, this last day of the New Grass. You and your servants may have the seats of honor.” He motioned toward a nearby pile of furs.
Julian winced at the “servant” reference and carefully did not look at his tribunes.
“Thank you, lord king,” he said. He started forward, trying to figure out how to sit gracefully on fur piles. Avitus moved to sit as well, but Julian waved him off.
“Sorry little bird,” he said softly. “I need your eyes and wits at this comedy. Serve and observe. And stay sober, eh?”
Avitus made a face but nodded even as he did so. He had played this role before.
Julian turned back to Fritigern.
“The Divine Valens, Emperor of Rome, sends you greetings, Lord King.”
The king stared, unmoving. His face was long and narrow, with slitted eyes under heavy, white brows. Julian wasn’t sure the eyes were even open.
“He bids me bring to you a gift.” He held out his hand and Avitus placed the bag in it, then stepped back again. Julian opened it and produced an enormous ruby, holding it up in the dim light. He took a step forward, then forward more as the bony hand beckoned. This let him see the king more closely. The king of the Thervings was old—his gray hair showed no other color—and he reeked of liquor. Julian placed the ruby into the exposed hand. Yellowed fingernails curved around it. He stepped back and waited.
The hand brought the ruby close to the face.
“Not from here,” Fritigern said. “Egyptian, maybe. From Nubia, I think.”
“Your majesty has a fine eye. Nubian it is,” Julian said.
The hand with the ruby disappeared into the furs.
“And who are these with you?”
“Marcus Salvius, my First Tribune,” said Julian, indicating that Marcus should step forward. “Beside him is my captain of cavalry and the standard-bearer of the XII legion.”
“And that one?” Fritigern said.
“My personal servant, o king.” Julian hoped the old man wouldn’t ask for introductions to the rest of the men because he remembered none of their names.
“You may sit at my table,” Fritigern said.
Julian saw piles of furs, but not one table. One of the king’s arms snaked out and gestured to a pile near the throne. Julian took a chance and eased himself into it and found he was supported well enough. Quickly, servants came and guided his tribunes to other seats, further away. He saw Ennius smiling and talking, but Marcus looked stiffly nervous.
Then servants brought planks and placed them alongside; somehow they found something solid on which to rest them. He looked skeptically at his own plank table, nestled into its place at about the level of his stomach. If he leaned over into it, would it all come spilling into his lap? He made a tentative move and it held steady. A servant arrived and set a bowl of wine on the board.
“You are here to talk,” Fritigern said in a voice as thin as his face, “but first you must accept my hospitality. Eat and drink; there will be time for talk.”
Not soon enough, Julian thought. He thanked the king and settled in. He knew barbarians set great store in the protocols surrounding feasting, so he would let the king make the first move. That would be more satisfactory, in fact. In betting games he always preferred to let the other fellow open, and the stakes in this game were high. Valens wanted his warriors, true enough, but Julian needed them. Only by gaining the Emperor’s favor could he return to the City and face his enemies. Failure would be catastrophic. He might have to go into exile himself, to avoid arrest. He imagined his own possessions burning in a pile with men chanting around them.
He grimaced, then turned the grimace into a smile.
Without any sort of flourish or introduction a group of ten men appeared from the far end of the hall, singing, though it was more like chanting. All ten were big, dressed as warriors, with hand axes.
They knelt before the king, then stood and launched into an energetic ballad about something or other in their native tongue. Julian could only guess it told the tale of some great battle. All he knew for sure was, the singers sang too loudly, very badly, went on much too long, and few in the hall were listening to them.
At least there was wine. Servants brought drinking bowls filled with an excellent vintage, full-bodied yet refreshing. Julian soon saw that sipping at one’s bowl was far from the local custom. Men drained their bowls in a single gulp, so Julian followed suit. He managed to drink only two bowls by pretending to be caught up by the singers’ tale.
When it was at last over, the king pitched some gold at them but otherwise the performance went unremarked.
Julian leaned toward Fritigern. “I thank you for the entertainment, lord King, so reminiscent of the harpers of Cyreneica. Perhaps we might find other points in common.”
The old man nodded, which might mean anything, and spoke not a word. Julian tried a different angle.
“Rixen,” he said. The king turned and regarded him with one eyebrow raised.
“I heard the word today, when I watched one of your priests burn someone’s possessions.” He wanted to push the king a little, to break through the reserve. Or the alcohol; it was hard to tell.
“Sorcery is forbidden among my people,” Fritigern said. “The penalty is death or exile.” He paused and teeth showed between his lips in what might have been a smile. “Few choose death.”
“Sorcery is forbidden in Rome as well,” Julian said, “but tell me, how does a mere boy become a sorcerer?”
“Who knows?” The furs around Fritgern’s shoulders moved slightly in what might have been a shrug. “He is rixen and so the People exile him. It is the law.”
The ancient head retreated into the furs.
Patience, Julian counseled himself, though the urgency of his need nagged at him. He needed
the agreement tonight, and the king was already awash with wine. Half the time, when Julian glanced over, the old skunk seemed to be sleeping.
Patience.
The king belched loudly.
Or maybe, Julian concluded, they’re just a bunch of barbarians.
“Lord King,” Julian said. He spoke more loudly than he had intended; everyone turned to look at him.
Fritigern gazed back at him with yellowed eyes.
“Lord King,” Julian said again, more softly, “your entertainments are fascinating. Do they tell some tale?”
The furs near Fritigern’s neck moved in what might have been a shrug.
“Old stories, told many times. We remind ourselves of the victories and defeats of our ancestors. It is part of the celebration.”
“We do somewhat the same,” Julian said, groping for any sort of opening for conversation. “Much of our reminding comes in books, but we also have performances, we call it theater.”
The king replied by staring. Fritigern was either slippery clever or thick drunk. Whichever it was, he showed no sign of wanting to talk about ancient battles.
Once again Julian told himself to be patient.
He was starting to hope for food when a contingent of barbarians came striding up to the throne. He wondered what their performance would be.
Forward came a bear of a man: massive black beard, a heavy brow, deep-set eyes, wrapped in layer upon layer of furs, as if he would wear upon his body the whole wealth of the clan. This fellow boomed out a greeting of some sort, and one of his bear-like followers—there were six of them—lumbered forward, carrying a small box.
The king said, “Bosomil, brother, please speak in Latin, in honor of our guest.”
The man looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he adjusted, and spoke again, much more slowly.
“A gift I give you, lord king, brother upon sword, to declare you are … brother … upon sword.” He frowned, aware that he had perhaps not said this quite gracefully.
“A gift I give you, Clan Chief Bosomil, my sword brother. I accept brotherhood.”
Fritigern’s education in Latin had clearly been superior. With this little exchange—Julian noted that neither man actually looked at the gifts—the new arrivals took their places, all seven sitting together.
“I drink to Clan Bosomil!” Fritigern suddenly shouted, and raised an odd-looking little cup. Julian realized there was one such cup sitting beside him as well, too small to be a wine bowl. Curious, he was about to sniff at it when everyone in the room gave a shout and downed their drink, so he quickly followed suit.
He spent the next several seconds trying desperately to swallow. His mouth was on fire and his throat had closed up. Spitting was the obvious course, but that was out of the question. He forced it down. His stomach glowed as if he had swallowed a live coal. He glanced at Marcus Salvius and saw that he too was struggling, which made Julian feel a little better. Whatever that liquid was, it was certainly not wine.
Another entourage now approached and Clan Chief Raginmar was announced. Again, gifts were exchanged and again there was a toast. A servant had replaced the cup with another, filled with another liquid. This one burned like hot metal; Julian was surprised that fire came in different flavors. By the seating of the third clan chief, he found that his tongue was going numb.
The clan chiefs continued to arrive, each in the same way. By Clan Chief Six, Julian was starting to leave some of the liquor in the cup. There were limits to politeness. By the eighth, he was only pretending to drink, but even the liquid in his mouth, discreetly spat back, filled his head with powerful fumes. He was beginning to shift his thinking from negotiation to survival.
But a ninth clan chief did not appear. The room, for some time filled with the loud voices of declarations and toasts now fell strangely, uneasily quiet, as if everyone were afraid to be the first to speak. The hall was less than half full. Men looked at one another. Men looked at their tables, their hands, the ceiling, anywhere but at the king. Julian looked, though, and saw Fritigern scowling fiercely. Something was wrong. Suddenly the king stood up. He was tall, thin to the point of frailty, yet his voice cut the air like a reed pipe.
“Sigeric!”
Silence. Every man in the room behaved as if they, like the Romans, had never heard the name.
“Where is Sigeric?” the king said, more loudly. “Is he sick?” Fritigern looked around inquiringly, as if anxious for a friend. Every man who chanced to meet the king’s gaze looked down again at once.
“Well,” he said generously, “perhaps so. But where is Beremund? Sick also? And Euric? Tulga? Thrasimund?” After each name, the king paused to wait for an answer, but no one spoke.
“What, all sick? Is it a plague? Damn all of you, answer me! Where are my clan chiefs?”
The king’s voice rose to a shriek, then he sank back into his chair.
“Your clan chiefs are here, lord king,” one of the men ventured, “we are all here.”
Fritigern threw a cup at him and did not miss. “Not enough,” he rasped.
“I drink to those who are here,” Julian said, rising to his feet, instantly sorry he had done so. He weaved, then steadied himself. “Rome recognizes them as her friends.”
Fritigern looked up and his thin lips curled. It was like seeing a corpse smile.
“To friends,” Fritigern said, his voice hollow. Then, more strongly, “to the feast!”
He gestured, and all the servants sprang into action. They came forward burdened with long boards piled high with food. The men in the hall now fell to eating with a kind of manic intensity, as if by eating they could banish the specter that hung over the hall. Julian ate along with them, gratefully. The food would ease the burning in his belly and clear his head; at least if he was eating he wasn’t drinking that foul brew. More importantly, eating gave him time to think.
Something had gone wrong with the king’s plans. Some, perhaps many, of the clan chiefs had not shown up. They clearly had been expected, so this had come as a rude surprise, and something of a humiliation, for the king. He’d been embarrassed, and in front of company.
But the situation was more serious than that. This wasn’t just a dinner in honor of guests; this was a ritual celebration, something to do with fields and grass, probably marking the beginning of turning the flocks to pasture. A significant day, for such a people, and half the kingdom had pointedly chosen not to show up.
He looked over at the king. Fritigern was attacking his plate as if he were angry with it, stabbing with his knife, almost throwing food into his mouth, some of it landing in his beard. Every couple mouthfuls were followed by a drink. This, Julian decided, was a king who was losing his grip on power. What this might mean was another matter. Either he was someone not even worth talking to, or he was one with whom he needed to make an agreement quickly, before the king lost even more of his grip. Julian shook his head without moving. There was no choice to be made. He had to get the Emperor his warriors, but now he was wondering if the King had ever commanded fifty thousand.
The food kept coming, in ever-greater mounds. Several different liquors were brought, some wine and some unidentifiable. The feast went on and on. The clan chiefs toasted the king and his prowess in war. They toasted ancient kings and wished a curse upon … Julian couldn’t catch the word. Some ancient enemy, no doubt. Whoever it was, they were universally despised, for there ensued much spitting and bashing on tables.
The clan chiefs were toasted, and their women, and their children. There were toasts for battles and feuds and deeds of arms, for houses and fortunes. One fellow rose, began a toast, and vomited mightily across the floor, which act was itself toasted with much cheering.
Servants kept bringing liquor. Julian realized the king was trying to out-drink him. The knowledge fortified him a bit. He had engaged in many such contests in the lower stretches of Constantinople, most particularly at the Inn of the White Dog. He had won far more such contests than he had lost, but he
had lost enough to know he might lose this one. Despite using every trick he knew, he was growing steadily more drunk.
The chiefs were drifting off, too. They began to forget what Latin they knew, and toasted in their native tongue. Gradually, the speeches became less clear; they meandered, trailed off as the speakers lost their thought partway through.
Steadily, men wore down. Heads began to loll. A quarter, then a half were asleep, and every so often another slurred toast was proffered, between which were long gaps of silence punctuated by snores and belches and groans.
Marcus was asleep, still sitting upright, leaning against a great wooden post. Ennius had slid into his furs and was snoring grandly. Avitus, following instructions, looked alert enough.
Julian remained awake only because of his need to get the treaty. He did not think he had ever been this drunk. He would have passed out long ago had the drink been wine, but this liquor had the curious quality of keeping him awake. He looked over at Fritigern. The old man was not merely still awake, but alert. Julian decided to try again, before he lost his ability to think altogether.
“Lord King.”
Fritigern turned and smiled at Julian. The smile was broad and open and downright sunny. Julian was appalled, aware that his own returning smile was most likely lopsided.
The man held aloft the ruby Julian had given him. He inspected it in the dim light.
“I think,” the king said, “that it is not Egyptian at all.”
“Right again, o king,” Julian admitted. “The truth is, I have not the slightest idea of the origin of the stone. Nor is it a gift from the emperor. My father brought it back from one of his wars in Numidia, and I am pleased to give it to you on behalf of Valens.”
“Hm,” said the king, continuing to stare at the gem, “Egyptian after all, I think. Maybe I like you, Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the XII Legion.”
Julian was baffled by this behavior, though he had to admit that he was easily baffled by this point. Even so, he knew how to rally. He took some deep breaths. This king was old and he might be drunk, but he was still sharp, and Julian respected that. He also recognized the king was at last ready to talk. It wasn’t exactly private, but many a man in the room was fast asleep.