The irony of history and linguistics had transformed what was originally a military ruse, disgraceful but successful, into a symbol of desertion. But Basil’s and Gandolphus’s contemporaries, including the barbarians and the priests, understood clearly enough: it was the shame of victory, not defeat, that they blamed Basil and Gandolphus for. Only much later did the fox of Amphibolus completely change its meaning. One can easily understand how and why, and at least history and language preserved the element of shame and dishonor in the trick that marked Gandolphus’s triumph and Thaumas’s defeat and decline.
But the future soon brought the very results Thaumas had predicted for the battle and for the fox of Amphibolus: the vanquished barbarians returned in even greater numbers than before and ceaselessly harried the borders of the Empire. Gandolphus’s victory was not only a trick, it was also no more than a respite before the onset of new ordeals, the magnitude of which we shall see in due course. But it did Thaumas little good to be in the right. The rise of truth and justice in the world is slow, and when they do prevail it is often too late. Thaumas, pursued by Gandolphus’s hatred, rejected by Basil, who did not care for being told that his victory was precarious and won only through deceit and contempt for religion, was forced to quit the service of the emperor and take refuge in Aquileus. The clerics there were torn between the fear that Basil still inspired and the enormous prestige of the priest, now fallen from favor. They took Thaumas in, but in fear and trembling.
Thaumas’s dismissal brought a tremor in the structure of the Empire. The edifice was still sound enough, and for some time withstood all doubts, fissures, and divisions—but only with difficulty. As barbarian pressure on the frontiers increased, discontent grew within the Empire. The memory of the great days of Aquileus and Arsaphes, even the memory of the City, was not quite dead. Gradually, within the very borders established by Arsaphes and Basil, the barbarian mercenaries, moved by a secret solidarity with their brethren still outside the Empire and exposed to every kind of danger, began to resent army discipline and to claim a bigger say in the decisions of the imperial government. After years of acquiescence, the priests began to allude to the emperor’s atrocities. As Justus Dion says, “The fox of Amphibolus suddenly woke the guests of Onessa from their drunken stupor.” And all along the frontiers there was nothing but insecurity, raids, wars, and rumors of wars. The end of Basil’s reign is full of ghosts: the specters of barbarian horsemen ever rising to life again out of steppes already drenched in their blood; the specters of barbarians within the Empire who had no rights but who yearned for the possibility of wealth and prosperity as well as military glory; the shameful specter of the fox of Amphibolus; the gory specters of the banquet at Onessa. Ingeburgh was no longer there to advise the emperor. One winter’s night three messengers from Gandolphus arrived just as everyone in Aquileus was about to go to bed. After a few hours’ sleep and a meal of mutton, dates, and rye brandy, they mingled with the pilgrims come to take part in certain ceremonies that Thaumas was due to conduct. When Thaumas appeared the three men hurled themselves upon him and slew him. According to the legend the dying Thaumas, his hands still resting on the altar at which he was officiating, turned first to the priests and then to his murderers and cried out before he collapsed: “Weakness, where is thy victory? Victory, where is thine honor?” So ended the struggle between Gandolphus and Thaumas. Less than three months later, Gandolphus, in his turn, was assassinated by a barbarian chieftain in the pay of the Empire. And a fortnight after that, Basil died of the plague. And with Ingeburgh, Thaumas, Gandolphus, and Basil all gone from the scene, the Empire was once again exposed to the grave dangers of earlier days. The pirates reappeared. The barbarian troops mutinied. The priests plotted. Between Onessa and Aquileus the old hatred revived. Agitators went about the City uttering fiery prophecies and speaking again of enmity between the Tiger and the Eagle. Everywhere, unity was dissolving. As always, history seemed to be hesitating at the crossroads. It was as if the Empire would have to be built all over again.
VIII
THE SIEGE OF BALKH
ON THE NORTHEAST, THE EMPIRE WAS BORDERED BY great forests, bounded on the south by plains of wheat, with Aquileus in the center. Watered by streams that were mostly tributaries of the Amphyses or the Nephta, the plains stretched as far as the eye could see toward the deserts of the Kirghiz and the Tartars. But in the north the forest had no bounds. Neither ancient tradition nor travelers’ tales ventured to assign its limits, or to describe anything but its outskirts and the few winding paths that soon lost themselves in its depths. Few men dared enter far enough to tell what it was like. All anyone knew was that deer and wolves, boars and bears were more plentiful there than sheep upon the hills. The armies of Onessa and Aquileus had made only rare thrusts in that direction, and but faint echoes had been heard there of the great battles of the Empire.
A few hundred kilometers from the most northerly reach of the Amphyses the forest was still penetrable, consisting chiefly of great oaks in their prime mixed with fir and beech and an occasional ash or birch. It was a wild region, very cold in winter and hot in summer. The small but belligerent population lived scattered about in shacks, from which they would descend at regular intervals to ravage the fertile plains in the south. Once they had carried out their raid and gathered up their booty the warriors from the north soon left the burned-out villages and withdrew to their forest fastness. Little is known of the language they spoke, and they left no written records. They had neither king nor assembly, but were divided into tribes each with its own absolute ruler. Under Basil, the most important of these tribal chiefs was a leader whose power and reputation were already spreading far. He was a tall, strong fellow, selfish and cruel, and his men feared rather than loved him. His wealth and the promise of power had enabled him to marry one of Arsaphes’s great-granddaughters, the sister of one of those insipid princelings who dragged out showy but poor and useless existences in Aquileus, openly scorned and sometimes even referred to as mere puppets, under the thumb first of the priests and then of the emperor. It was not long before Princess Helen was as much beloved by her subjects as her husband Roderick was hated. Almost as tall as he, very fair, and at once vital and gentle, Princess Helen was a direct descendant of the Porphyries of the City. The men of her race seemed to have handed over all its virtue to the women, and Helen was its most dazzling incarnation. Her great beauty, her courage, and the simplicity of her demeanor, whether in adversity or success, lent her husband a prestige and authority he would never have won for himself but of which he made skillful use. Despite the mistrust of the emperor, who naturally feared a revival of the power of the Porphyries, Roderick was able to add to his lands and resources through successful campaigns and well-planned alliances. Basil’s triumph had compelled Roderick, like many others, to recognize Onessa’s supremacy and pay tribute to the emperor; but up there, in the distant forests of the northeast, no one could yet challenge the lord of Balkh’s unashamed exploitation of his rights and privileges. Always engaged in some battle, or some raid against a poorly defended township, Roderick was really no more than a kind of brigand chief. One of his favorite exploits was to descend on the markets and fairs held where plain and forest met. He would suddenly appear at the head of his band of horsemen, seize all the merchandise, bales of cloth, and weapons, kill anyone who resisted, and vanish again into the depths of his forest as swiftly as he had come. Whenever he took a few days’ rest from plundering the rich merchants or the flocks and herds of the plain, his chief amusement was the chase. He was a hunter of prodigious skill and strength, and dozens of tales were told of boars he had strangled barehanded and bears and wolves he had slain with cold steel. While her husband and his men were away on distant expeditions, Princess Helen looked after everything. She dispensed justice, tended the children, visited women in childbed, and could keep order over a territory that was by now extensive. But in the evening, after a tiring day spent with stewards, captains left behind, physician
s, and shamans, what she really liked was to sit before a fire of blazing oak logs and talk with priests and scholars of travels in far-off lands and of what became of the soul after death. From her childhood in Aquileus she retained a respect for the priesthood and a taste for theological discussion. Twice for certain, perhaps three times, Thaumas came and spent several days in Balkh. And for years Helen and the high priest kept up a regular correspondence, which unfortunately has not survived.[1]
It is very likely, though not sure, that Helen consulted Thaumas over the problem of her son’s education. Young Simeon was very like his father. Dark-complexioned and very strong, at the age of seven he had had a servant whipped to death for failing to comply quickly enough with his already crazy whims. At the age of eleven or twelve he was said to have raped a shepherd’s daughter who was his play-fellow. He showed promise of being a splendid archer, he had the gift of command, and even as a child was an indefatigable horseman. But he was false and cruel, and his mother could hardly believe he was her son. She tried to surround him with good influences, and trusted much to that of two or three lads of Simeon’s own age with whom he had made friends. One in particular became almost another son to her. This was Nandor, the son of one of Roderick’s lieutenants, a bold, lively boy a little older than Simeon, who had lost both mother and father. Then an incident occurred that seemed slight enough at the time but was to leave its mark. Roderick had a dagger that he greatly prized. It was inlaid with ivory and precious stones and had been given to him by a prince of Bukhara. One day he noticed it had disappeared. Under torture, two or three servants on whom suspicion first fell revealed evidence pointing to the group of lads surrounding Simeon. Roderick questioned his son at length, no doubt with his usual harshness, but Simeon knew nothing. Roderick was wild with rage. He had brought before him one by one all who could possibly have had anything to do with the affair. He received them whip in hand, and did not always refrain from using it. But when Nandor’s turn came the boy did not remain passive. As soon as the thong touched him he seized it with all a boy’s courage and strength, and tore it out of Roderick’s hand. Roderick, furious, tried to wrest it back again, but Nandor snapped it over his knee and threw the pieces away.
“You would not have dared to touch me if my father were still alive,” he panted. “But because he’s dead you think you can do anything.” And without another word he turned and walked out.
Roderick was still stunned by the lad’s resistance, and a touch of admiration was beginning to mingle with his anger, when his son asked to speak with him. Simeon confessed he had told Nandor where the dagger was kept in Roderick’s absence, and said Nandor had taken it one night after they had both drunk the leavings in some glasses of rye brandy they had found lying about. A confrontation between the two boys in Roderick’s presence produced little result. Nandor only shrugged his shoulders and gave Simeon a look of the utmost scorn. Helen tried talking to the two separately—she loved them almost equally. But they would only stick obstinately to their contradictory stories. Then the men Roderick had ordered to find the stolen dagger at all costs discovered it hidden under Nandor’s bed. And despite Helen’s entreaties the boy, who was only twelve years old, was executed before Simeon’s eyes. The executioner cut off his hand and tore out his tongue before decapitating him.
A few months later, one of Helen’s old servants fell dangerously ill. Helen was very fond of him, and was sitting by his sickbed when he indicated that he wished to speak to her. She bent over him and listened with horror as he told, in a voice broken with fever, how Simeon had forced him, by the direst threats, to hide the dagger under Nandor’s bed. Helen seized the dying man’s hands and begged him to tell whether it was Simeon alone who had stolen the dagger in the first place. Summoning his remaining strength, the old servant said it was so. One night he had heard a suspicious rustling and, creeping toward it, had seen, by the light of a dying fire, that Simeon was searching the chest where Roderick kept the dagger. He had gone up and tried to reason with him, but Simeon had only insulted him, threatened to accuse him of the theft, and forced him to swear secrecy. A few days later, seeing his father’s wrath, Simeon had sought out the old man and made him plant the evidence that led to Nandor’s death. With his last breath the old servant begged Helen to forgive him the sorrow he was causing, but he could no longer hold back the truth. He asked Helen to forgive Simeon, too, for a sin he put down to youth and a temporary aberration. Then the old man fell back dead.
Helen never dared tell her husband what she had just learned. But she sent for her son and spoke to him sternly. He denied everything. His pretense of innocence was sufficiently unconvincing to make his mother certain of his guilt, but at the same time skillful enough to horrify her at such duplicity in one so young. That day saw the end of any bond between them. Dozens of times Helen felt an impulse to tell Roderick everything, but she always drew back because of the pitiless punishment she knew would follow. As a result, Roderick came to reproach her for her strange harshness toward their son. And Simeon played off against his mother the indulgence of a father from whom, but for her, he would have had so much to fear, but whose cruelty and violence he now exploited for his own ends. It was at this point, perhaps on Thaumas’s advice, that young Fabrician arrived in Balkh.
Fabrician was the great-grandnephew of one of Arsaphes’s generals who was killed near Aquileus in a battle against the Oïghurs. Alexander, the young man’s father, had been a friend of Thaumas’s, and Thaumas had always helped him, even during the darkest days in Aquileus. Alexander’s death left Fabrician very poor. He was thin, tall, full of fire and ambition. He looked like a skinned rabbit, but had lively green eyes that attracted women and impressed men. Thaumas took him under his wing and sent him first to the priests’ seminary, then on various missions to Mursa, Ctesiphon, and Caesarea. After that he gave him administrative posts in the City that involved a great deal of responsibility for one of his age. Fabrician had fought against the pirates and been taken prisoner, then exchanged and repatriated after the battle of Cape Pantama. Then Basil, on Thaumas’s advice, had summoned him to Onessa, and it was from there he set out for Balkh. Fabrician revered Thaumas, but had mixed feelings about the emperor, and hated Gandolphus. Some say it was Gandolphus who sent him to Roderick, in order to get rid of him. History is full of such ironies.
Simeon did not react too badly to his new tutor. Roderick, perhaps warned against the newcomer by Gandolphus, who might have commended Fabrician for his learning while alerting Roderick to the ambition and independence of mind that could prove dangerous, received the young priest with a mixture of roughness and contempt. But he was gradually won over by the young man’s courage and keenness. For Fabrician, who was rather delicate, threw himself ardently into the hunting parties and military expeditions in which Roderick had included him in the hope of putting him to shame. He ended up by acquiring great skill in riding and throwing the javelin, and by becoming Roderick and Simeon’s boldest and most dashing companion-in-arms and in roistering. Only Helen was not won over by the newcomer. She found him insolent, frivolous, and self-satisfied, and his cool gaiety frightened her. Justus Dion tells how one evening when she was complaining of him an old servingwoman told her, “But you will come to like him, madam. He is like Thaumas.”
And in a way it was true. Beneath a brilliant and sometimes sarcastic exterior, he had the same strength of character, the same sense of destiny, the same ability to forget himself in a greater cause. But he hated any affectation of virtue, and preferred to hide his own under a mask of cynicism and pleasure-seeking. Danger and adversity, however, were soon to show his true worth.
Less than a year after Fabrician’s arrival, Roderick set off once more on a long expedition against the bands of Ossetes and Alans who, for some time past, had been harrying his domains. Most of his soldiers went with him, leaving Helen to take charge of Balkh with the help of a handful of veterans and young men. All went well for a few weeks, and then one spring m
orning Fabrician was told that two horsemen were asking to see him. He had them brought in, and immediately recognized one of them as Gandolphus’s agent. The two envoys began by showering Fabrician with compliments and precious gifts, and then came out bluntly with the proposition that he should hand Balkh and its possessions over to the emperor. In return, they promised in Gandolphus’s name that Fabrician should be made ruler over Balkh and given half its revenues. The young man had a swift vision of power and fame, but then he recalled the trust reposed in him, and remembered Thaumas and all he had learned from him. He was astonished that Thaumas should countenance such dealings. But as the conversation proceeded he realized it was a personal maneuver on the part of Gandolphus and not an official move on the part of the Empire. Basil might be shutting his eyes to it; Thaumas, at any rate, could have no part in what was probably just one more episode in the hidden struggle between him and Gandolphus, in which the latter never let slip an opportunity to try to better his position. Seeing all this, Fabrician soon made up his mind.
“I have been entrusted with the task of educating Simeon and preparing him for life,” he said. “What future should I be giving him if I deprived him of all his possessions? As for myself, if I betrayed my present masters, how could the emperor or Gandolphus ever trust or respect me again? It is more reasonable to value servants for their loyalty than for their treachery. If I were Gandolphus’s man I would serve him against Roderick, but since I am Roderick’s I shall defend him against Gandolphus.”[2]
The Glory of the Empire Page 11