Theodoric (12 page)

Returning in triumph from Singidunum, a hero to his people, also to his father – who was overjoyed (and secretly relieved) that his son had
proved himself a worthy successor – he had accompanied Thiudimer with the Amal soon after to Moesia. There were two reasons for the migration (undertaken without imperial permission): starvation and the Squinter. Year after year, the harvests of Pannonia, its soils exhausted through abuse and over-tilling by successive waves of migrants since its abandonmant by Rome, had proved increasingly inadequate to feed the Amal nation. Meanwhile, in Thrace, Theoderic Strabo had become a growing menace not only to the Eastern Empire, but also to the Amal, owing to his ambition to assume the hegemony of all the Ostrogoths, not just those of Thrace. By repositioning the Amal close to Strabo's heartland, Thiudimer (allied to the East) could more effectively contain this double threat, as well as feed his people in the rich and fertile Eastern province. Not long after the great trek to Moesia, Thiudimer had died, whereupon, honouring the late king's will and spurning Thiudimund's rival claim, the Amal had proclaimed Theoderic their king and warrior-ruler,
*
raising him on a shield according to tradition.

True to his verbal pact with Zeno (who had succeeded Leo in the same year that Theoderic became king), Theoderic had championed the new emperor's cause: curbing the Squinter's aggressive moves against the empire in a series of skirmishes and armed confrontations; also helping Zeno to regain his throne, following a short-lived usurpation by Basiliscus, the incompetent general responsible for the disastrous North African campaign against Gaiseric. However, despite proving himself a loyal Friend of Rome (‘Rome' now consisting of the East alone, little Romulus, the last Western emperor, having been sent into exile by Odovacar just two years after Theoderic's accession), official sanction of Moesia as the Amal's new homeland had been withheld, with promised subsidies in gold arriving only intermittently and below the amount stipulated. In consequence, plagued by insecurity and diminishing resources, the Amal had seen their fortunes steadily decline, while those of Strabo (able, thanks to his Thracian power base, to blackmail and intimidate Zeno) year by year increased. In the darkest days, Timothy had proved a rock to Theoderic, ready with advice and encouragement whenever the king's morale flagged.

Then, just when the plight of his people was starting to look desperate (and therefore constituting a potential challenge to his kingship), a Roman envoy had arrived from Constantinople bearing marvellous tidings. If Theoderic were to cross the Haemus with his people, he would find awaiting him north of Adrianople not only the arrears of subsidy but an enormous force of Roman soldiers. Together, the Amal and the Romans would then advance into the Squinter's Thracian heartland, and crush him. Thereafter, Theoderic would assume his rival's forfeited titles of
Patricius
and
Magister Militum
, Patrician and Master of Soldiers, and his people's grant of homeland would be officially confirmed. At last, after years of frustration and uncertainty, Theoderic saw his dream of proving a worthy leader of his people, and achieving recognition by the Roman state, on the point of becoming a reality.

Gradually the terrain steepened, open uplands, stippled with flocks of grazing sheep, giving way to forested slopes. Dense stands of spruce, beech and oak closed in on the rutted trail; within their cool dimness, the column proceeded in a sepulchral hush broken only by the occasional call of birds, the shuffle of feet, and the creak of wagon wheels. That night the column made camp in a huge clearing. By noon of the next day the trees had begun to thin out, being replaced by rock and gravel as the Amal broke out of the forest onto a boulder-strewn wilderness hemmed in by stony walls – the mouth of the famous Shipka Pass, scene of an early victory by Alexander the Great. Away to his right, Theoderic could see Soas' column keeping pace with his, but of Thiudimund there was no sign. Theoderic experienced a momentary prickle of anxiety, then dismissed his fears; a vast body of people, led by experienced Roman guides, could hardly get lost. Could it? He and Soas would wait for Thiudimund at the summit, the designated rendezvous for the Amal to meet and rest before beginning the descent of the range's southern flank. But, as the two columns entered the throat of the pass, an unpleasant surprise awaited them.

In a scene eerily reminiscent of a long-ago ambush in the Succi Pass, thousands of armed men sprang up from among the boulders where they had been hiding, surrounding the Amal on both sides and to the fore. Then, amplified by the ravine's containing sides, a familiar voice boomed
out: ‘Greetings, Theoderic, son of Thiudimer. You remember, perhaps, our farewell conversation at the Monastery of St Elizabeth the Thaumaturge? I promised then that when next we met the score between us would be evened. That time has come.'

Switching his address to the Amal, Theoderic Strabo declared, ‘Fellow Ostrogoths, your leader is a loser.' ‘Loser . . . loser . . .' came the mocking echo, reverberating from the canyon walls. ‘You, who left Pannonia with two or three horses apiece, now go on foot like slaves. He promised you gold by the bushel; now you can barely find two nummi to rub together. But, even worse than failing you, is this: your king is a traitor to his race, ready to shed the blood of other Goths whenever his Roman masters snap their fingers.' Turning back to Theoderic, he shouted, ‘Well, namesake mine, here's your chance. Come on, if you've the stomach for a fight.'

Shaken and bewildered, Theoderic looked around for the guides who had led him to this spot; they were nowhere to be seen. ‘Timothy, what's happening?' he cried.

‘It looks as though the Romans have made fools of us,' replied the burly Isaurian. ‘We took their bait – hook, line and sinker. Let's face it, Deric, there's no Roman army waiting for us on the other side of these mountains, no subsidy, no homeland. We've fallen for the oldest trick in their book: playing off one set of barbarians against another – in this case, engineering a confrontation between ourselves and Strabo, in the hope that we'll destroy each other. Which would suit them nicely; a final solution to their Gothic problem.'

‘Where in God's name is Thiudimund?' exclaimed Theoderic. ‘If only he were here, we could take on Strabo. Without him, we're outnumbered and would probably lose, especially as Strabo holds the advantage of the ground.'

‘I'm not sure “taking on” Strabo is an option, anyway. Listen.'

From all around, a swelling murmur was arising from the Amal: ‘Strabo's right – we shouldn't fight each other . . . We have suffered enough; give us bread and land, not graves . . . Together, we can force the Romans to grant us food until the harvest, extend our settlements . . .'

‘Can you hear what your people are telling you, Theoderic?' resumed Strabo. ‘If so, I suggest you listen. Order them to fight me, and they'll mutiny. But I have another plan,' he went on, in tones of seeming
magnanimity. ‘Why don't we all meet and discuss how best to get the Romans to grant concessions to
both
our nations. Agreed?'

Fury, bitter humiliation and betrayal engulfed Theoderic, as his dream collapsed in ruins. But he retained sufficient grip on reality to appreciate that he had been comprehensively outmanoeuvred, and had no choice but to comply. The words sticking in his throat, he heard himself call out, ‘I agree.'

His anger and frustration were compounded when Thiudimund eventually turned up – plus the two mothers, but minus the wagon train. This, he explained, he had been forced to abandon when his column had been threatened by a Roman force led by one of their top generals, Sabinianus. Misfortune, incompetence or treachery? Theoderic could not decide. But, for the second time, he found himself vowing that never again would he entrust his brother with responsibility.

In time-honoured fashion, the two Gothic kings drew up their peoples facing each other across a river, and entered into an agreement. From now on, they would present their demands jointly to the imperial government, the details to be supervised by Roman officials – as only Romans possessed the know-how to implement such things efficiently. With concord apparently established, the two great branches of the Ostrogothic nation broke camp and went their separate ways – Strabo eastward to Constantinople, to parley with the emperor, Theoderic westward to Stobi in the diocese of Dacia, which city he sacked and whose garrison he massacred, in revenge against the Romans for their perfidy.

 

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The Balkan Mountains.

†
Equivalent to Bulgaria; Novae is now Sistova.

*
In 474.

Then came Fenge to Amleth and spoke him fair, but with a false smile: ‘I have brought a horse for you and would have you ride it'

Saxo Grammaticus,
Gesta Danorum
,
c.
1190

Approaching the coast of south-east Macedonia, Timothy rode through an enchanted landscape: meadows thick with poppies, interspersed with noble stands of beech and oak, their silence broken only by the chatter of squirrels and the call of grouse, while inland rose pine-clad mountains streaked by waterfalls. Occasionally, a deer or boar would dash across the path ahead, and, once, he glimpsed high above him an imperial eagle, moving through the air with majestic flaps of its great wings. There had been a magic moment during his journey from Epirus, when his attention had been caught by a strange-shaped white cloud far to the south; on its remaining immobile, he had realized that in fact it was the snow-capped peak of Mount Olympus.

Skirting the battlefield of Philippi where, five centuries before, Antony and Octavian had smashed the legions of Brutus and Cassius, Caesar's murderers, he headed south and in a few miles picked up the Via Egnatia, the mighty Roman highway linking Constantinople to Epidamnus on the Adriatic. Turning to his left, westward, he cantered along the verge of the paved road, running parallel to the Aegean, Homer's ‘wine-dark sea'. Breezes from the offshore isle of Thasos carried a tang of cypresses and olive trees – the very smell of Greece.

Several paces behind his mount, connected to Timothy's hand by a lead-rope, ran a beautiful dapple-grey horse, his muscles rippling like silk beneath the glossy coat. This was no ordinary steed. An enormous stallion, a cross between a Hun great horse and a chunky Parthian (the type beloved of Roman stablemasters), and a full twenty hands in height, he was the biggest horse that Timothy had ever known. He had bought him for a song from a Gothic horse-coper who had purchased him as
a reject from the Roman cavalry. For, although beautiful, Sleipnir – as his Gothic owner had named him after Odin's terrible eight-legged steed – was evil. No one had succeeded in riding him; of those who tried, a legacy of smashed limbs and broken backs bespoke their failure.

No one, that is, until Timothy. For Timothy, the breaking of horses had, from an early age, been a passion, an obsession almost. The method favoured by most Roman riding-masters – bending an animal to one's will by harsh treatment – he despised. By a system based on rewarding and praising co-operation, balanced by withholding attention in response to bad manners or aggression, he had never, thus far, failed with any horse. Sleipnir had proved his severest test; but a challenge was something Timothy relished, and with patience and consistency he had eventually won the creature over. But woe betide anyone else foolhardy enough to try to mount him.

An hour's easy ride from where he'd joined the Via Egnatia brought Timothy to the edge of Strabo's camp outside the Macedonian town of Stabula Diomedis. Having failed to forge an alliance with Zeno advantageous to himself, Strabo had launched a full-scale assault on Constantinople. Repulsed (predictably), he had resolved to switch his attack westward and was en route to invade Epirus, hoping to co-opt Amal support, as Theoderic's new base at Epidamnus was in that very province.

Timothy's entry into the camp made an immediate impression. Unlike their Visigothic cousins, the Ostrogoths had long been familiar with the use of horses, first as steppe-dwelling herdsmen, then as allies of Attila, when their cavalry had severely tested, though not broken, the Visigoths' shield-wall at the epic battle of the Catalaunian Fields. Though only the wealthy could afford them, all Ostrogoths shared an appreciation of horses. An animal of Sleipnir's appearance inevitably caused a huge buzz of interest, and he was soon the focus of an admiring, and growing, throng.

A lane parted in the mass of warriors and Strabo, yellow hair swinging about his shoulders, strode up to see what the excitement was about. He gazed at the dappled stallion with ill-disguised cupidity. ‘We know you,' he declared, turning to Timothy. ‘You're the one who defeated our champion in single combat at the Monastery of St Elizabeth.'
He fixed the other with a squinting stare. ‘But the fight was fair; we bear you no ill-will. What brings you to the camp of Theoderic of Thrace?'

Dismounting, Timothy knelt and said, ‘I come, Sire, with a gift from the king of the Amal. He hopes you will accept this horse as a token of the amity that now exists between our peoples. His name is Sleipnir, and he is without peer among his kind.'

‘Sleipnir? A strange name for a strange beast.'

‘A mount fit for a god, Sire. Or a king. Let me demonstrate how perfectly he responds to a rider's will. The lightest touch of heel or bridle, the merest hint of pressure by the knee is all the guidance he requires.'

Oddly enhanced by the squint, the glint of avarice in Strabo's eyes was plain to see. ‘Show me, then.'

Timothy vaulted nimbly onto the back of Sleipnir, whose tack was already in situ. Without once touching saddle-horn or bridle, he proceeded to put the stallion through his paces – the old, old moves going back to Xenophon, which all war-horses must learn if they were to be of any use to a rider whose hands were occupied with shield and lance. With consummate grace and apparent ease, Sleipnir performed a series of evolutions: the high trot on the spot; rising up with hocks bent and forelegs pawing the air; and, hardest of all, static leaps, a feat accomplished by only the very best of mounts. Alighting, Timothy bowed to Strabo and extended a hand towards the horse. ‘Your turn, Sire.'