Theodoric (28 page)

‘Shall we go to the rescue of this Roman and his beleaguered Goths?' boomed Mundo to his chief retainers, assembled in the
praetorium
of Herta – an abandoned Roman fortress perched on a bluff above the Danube. Cyprianus smiled to himself, prepared to indulge this game of saving face. Although Mundo needed the help of the Goths as much as they needed his, he must be allowed to appear to be conferring a favour, in order to maintain his status among his followers.

The scene had a kind of barbaric splendour, Cyprianus reflected,
the great chamber's Roman austerity relieved by colourful tribal rugs, and weapons plus trophies of the chase hanging on the walls. Mundo was a mountain of a man, whose slitted eyes, deep-sunk in the beardless Mongol face, betrayed his Hunnic origins. His huge head showed the curious flattening and elongation caused by binding the skull to a board in infancy, a characteristic deformation practised by the tribe.

The chief and his kaftan-clad retainers conferred noisily for a time in Hunnish, then Mundo turned to Cyprianus and declared, ‘We agree to help you; but our help will not come cheap. Twenty solidi apiece for my warriors, twice that for my captains, and let us say a hundred for myself. In addition, I desire to take the
foedus
.
*
If I am a
foederatus
of your king, Theoderic, he and I will have a mutual obligation to aid each other should the need arise. Those are my terms, Roman. Take them or leave them.'

The demands were, of course, preposterous, thought Cyprianus. As well as acquiring, at a stroke, a fortune which would otherwise take years to garner, as a federate Mundo would change his status from outlaw to respected ally under the protection of western Europe's strongest ruler. Well, needs must when the Devil drives, as Augustine (or was it Jerome?) said. And the deal was not all one-sided: the financial payout could probably be adjusted later to a more realistic level; also, as a federate Mundo could be a useful buffer against the East, should a state of war develop.

‘I accept,' said Cyprianus, whereupon the pact was sealed by mutual toasts of
kumiss
, a beverage concocted from fermented mares' milk.

‘Friends and fellow warriors,' Cyprianus – mounted, in order to be seen and heard more easily – addressed the Gothic host, ‘today we face a Bulgar army commanded by a Roman general. Let us not deceive ourselves: the odds are great. They outnumber us; they are well-led, brave and skilled, mounted while we must fight on foot. But we can win – of that have no doubt. Only, however, if we behave as Theoderic would wish us to. You remember the Ulca where you defeated Thrapstila, the Addua where you turned the tide against Odovacar? Those victories were won because of discipline, because you allowed
your warlike ardour to be tempered by obedience to the orders of your king. Though he cannot today be present in the flesh, Theoderic will be watching you in spirit from Ravenna. Remember that, and we shall win the day.' The thunderous banging of spear-butts on shields that followed his speech told Cyprianus it had gone down well. But would it prove enough to make them hold the line?

Shaking with reaction, his tunic below the padded cuirass soaked with sweat, the Roman stood down the host, with instructions to eat and rest until the enemy was sighted. To his credit, Pitzia had, without demur, allowed his second-in-command to supersede him as regards the ordering of the coming battle – no doubt conceding that the Roman's ability to persuade the Goths to accept discipline was superior to his own. Cyprianus had chosen the ground carefully: a declivity, flanked by great stands of oak and chestnut, and sloping down to a flat grassy expanse, the Plain of Margus.

Early in the afternoon, scouts reported that the Bulgars, numbering, they estimated, some five thousand horsemen, were close at hand and should arrive within the hour. Soon after, a growing cloud of dust on the horizon heralded the approach of the enemy van. The Gothic war-horns boomed and, following prior instructions, the host took up position along the ridge, a three-deep line of warriors bearing shields, and armed with spears plus various subsidiary weapons – daggers, throwing-axes, javelins, etc. The Bulgars, big, swarthy fellows armed, to Cyprianus' relief, with lances and sabres, not with bows, drew up a few hundred paces in front of the Gothic line. To one side, surrounded by his staff, Sabinianus, resplendent in muscle cuirass and crested Attic helmet, sat his horse.

A trumpet clanged, and the Bulgar cavalry began to trot forward; the trot became a canter, then a gallop, and the lances swept down, presenting a terrifying sight to the waiting Goths: a solid wall of flashing hooves and foam-flecked muzzles fronted by a line of deadly points. This was the first time Cyprianus had faced a head-on cavalry charge. Till now, his military experience (in the wars with Odovacar) had been limited to campaigns largely fought on foot, with cavalry action confined to skirmishes, scouting, and hit-and-run raids. His father, who had fought under Aetius at the great Battle of the Catalaunian Fields, where the Romans and the Visigoths had defeated Attila's Huns and their
Ostrogothic allies, had told him that cavalry would never press home a charge against a line of spearmen as long as the line held firm. You could persuade men, his father had said, to commit themselves to destruction, but never horses; they had too much sense. Well, he was about to find out if the theory was true, Cyprianus thought, his mouth dry with fear and his palms sweating.

The ground began to tremble as the Bulgar horse swept nearer. It seemed that only a miracle could save the Gothic line from being shattered and destroyed. At a signal from the war-horns the Goths, in a blur of movement, swung up their shields, each man planting his right foot firmly forward and presenting his spear between his own shield and that of the man to his right. Then the miracle happened. A few yards from the Gothic shield-wall, the Bulgar charge stalled; for a few moments the horsemen milled about in apparent confusion, then they wheeled about and trotted smartly back to their original position. A ragged cheer – of relief as much as triumph, thought Cyprianus – arose from the Goths.

That the line had held was due to the matchless courage of the Germans, he knew. As long as they retained formation, they would be safe. The danger lay in their warlike instincts prevailing, causing them to break ranks to attack the enemy.

Which nearly happened. Time and again the Bulgar cavalry charged, only to retreat when confronted by that rock-steady wall of shields with its row of glittering blades. Then, after the sixth charge had failed, the Bulgars' morale seemed to break; instead of withdrawing in good order, they turned and fled in confusion, uttering cries of despair.

‘They flee! They flee!' exclaimed Pitzia a few yards down the line from Cyprianus, and, before the latter could restrain him, he rushed forward, followed by a section of the Gothic front.

Cursing, Cyprianus spurred his horse into motion and galloped down the line, which was beginning to lose cohesion as the warriors, the light of battle in their eyes, began to move forwards. ‘Back! Get back! he shouted. ‘It's a trick! Remember Theoderic – his eyes are upon you!' The reminder of their revered king's expectations cut through the fog of fighting-madness that had begun to cloud the warriors' minds. They halted, sense returning, then quietly resumed their shield-wall formation.

A terrible object lesson in how close they had come to disaster was now played out before the Goths' eyes. Halting their headlong flight, the Bulgars wheeled and galloped back, swiftly surrounding Pitzia's group. In moments the party was slaughtered to a man, cut down by sabres or skewered on lance-points.

Their ruse having failed, the Bulgars resumed their tactic of trying to break the Gothic line with repeated charges. To no avail; they could make no impression on the Goths, who now knew, from hard-won experience, that as long as their discipline held, they could see off the enemy indefinitely. At last, their horses blown, their resolve faltering, the Bulgars ceased attacking. At a trumpet-signal ordered by Sabinianus, they turned and began to move off – this time in good earnest.

Now Cyprianus sprang the surprise he had prepared. A special call on the war-horns boomed out, and from the enclosing woods there issued on one side the Gothic cavalry held in reserve until this moment, and on the other Mundo's Hunnic horse-archers. Exhausted, caught unawares, the Bulgars reeled before the double onslaught, falling in scores to Gothic spears and Hunnic arrow-storm. The enemy being too numerous to defeat decisively, Cyprianus called off his horsemen before the Bulgars could start to counter-attack, allowing Sabinianus to leave the field and lick his wounds.

 

*
River Morava.

*
Oath of allegiance.

What can be hoped for which is not believed?

St Augustine,
On Faith
,
Hope and Charity
,
c.
421

Rumours concerning the Sirmium expedition reached Timothy (who, hoping for a change of heart on the part of Theoderic regarding his banishment, had spun out the date of his departure for Byzantium) at Brundisium, as he was about to board a trading-vessel bound for Corinthus. Thanks to the powerful state-sponsored guild of shippers, the
navicularii
, which, because of the benevolent and conservative administrations of Odovacar and Theoderic, had survived the passing of the Western Empire to maintain trading links with the Eastern, and even with southern Gaul and parts of Spain, the voyage back to Constantinople had posed no problems. As the ship sailed down the coast of Epirus and on into the Sinus Corinthiacus,
*
Timothy had time aplenty to consider his future plans.

Since his dismissal from the king's service, he had felt slack and useless – like an unstrung bow. What would he do now? The future stretched before him, grey and drab, like those mist-shrouded flatlands of the Padus valley round Ravenna. For the first time in his life he felt old. At sixty-three – twelve years older than Theoderic – he
was
old, he supposed. Old enough to draw his pension as an
agens
of the Eastern Empire when he returned to Constantinople – assuming that his commission from Leo, granted all those years ago, was still valid. He had some money saved; and the funds allocated to him for the voyage had been generous, enough to leave a healthy surplus after he had paid his passage. Perhaps he would make a down-payment on a little wine-shop near the Iron Gate? On reflection, he found the prospect less than enthralling.

The shock of his abrupt dismissal had given way to a great sadness and concern regarding Theoderic's state of mind. Hadn't some Greek philosopher once said, ‘Those whom the gods destroy, they first make mad'?
*
Assuming it was true, the news that Theoderic had sent troops to Sirmium to take the city and occupy Pannonia was ample confirmation of his fears. Unless they could be changed or ended, Theoderic's ambitions, which now seemed to include recovery of Western imperial territory, would surely end in tears – conflict with the East and dissension in Italy. Anastasius could hardly be expected to look favourably on his vicegerent's plans first to take over and revive a Roman province in an area which the Eastern Empire had come to regard as its own preserve, and second to realize his ultimate dream of being crowned Western Emperor. In Italy, the Romans would never accept a German as their
imperator
, while the Goths would surely resent their beloved ‘Dietrich von Bern' changing his title ‘King of the Goths' to ‘Emperor of the Romans'. Yet Theoderic seemed blind to all of this – as though, simply by believing them, he could bring about his hopes' accomplishment.

By the time he stepped ashore at the Golden Horn (after a short overland journey from Corinthus to Athenae, the voyage had continued from Piraeus to the Bosporus), Timothy, without being consciously aware of having done so, had arrived at a momentous decision. Alone, he could do nothing to help save his old friend and master from himself. But there was a man, probably the only one in Europe, who perhaps could: the Eastern Emperor. Somehow, he would arrange an interview with Anastasius. He would endeavour to make the emperor fully aware of his, Timothy's, concerns about Theoderic's imperial ambitions, while at the same time pleading the king's cause: emphasizing the efficiency of his administration and his essential loyalty towards the emperor. A difficult balancing act? That, for sure. Timothy felt rather like the Colossus of Rhodes, whose legs were said to have straddled the harbour's entrance. (Not, perhaps, the most comforting of similes, he reflected: the mighty statue had been toppled by an earthquake.)

*

Ushered by a
silentiarius
into the reception chamber of Constantinople's Great Palace, Timothy found himself in the same vast colonnaded hall where, thirty-four years earlier, he had been quizzed about Theoderic by Emperor Leo. At the far end of the great space sat an elderly diminutive figure, clad not in imperial robes but in a simple dalmatic. In a most unimperial gesture, Anastasius rose, advanced towards Timothy and, taking him by the shoulders, greeted him warmly. ‘Welcome, Timotheus Trascilliseus. My Master of Offices informs me that you have travelled all the way from Ravenna with information concerning King Theoderic, my vicegerent in Italia.' Seating himself on a chair, he waved Timothy to another, and with his own hand poured wine for them both. He glanced at Timothy's uniform of an
agens in rebus
(seldom worn but carefully preserved): pillbox cap, broad military belt, undyed linen tunic with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder. ‘I see you're dressed as an
agens
of the Eastern Empire,' he observed. (No royal ‘we', Timothy noted, warming to him.) ‘I thought I knew all my
agentes
by sight; you must have been absent from the capital since before my succession to Zeno.'

Anastasius' ancient and careworn face displayed only kindly curiosity. All at once Timothy felt unmanned, close to disgraceful tears. His whole life he had fought and striven, surviving against hard circumstances and harder men, through skills learnt as a boy in the tough school of the Tarsus back streets. It was a contest he had relished all his life. But no more, he realized abruptly. His strength was ebbing; his joy in pitting his wits against others and prevailing had lost its savour. It was this knowledge, combined with the other's unforced cordiality and kindness, that had somehow got to him, filling him with an unfamiliar gratitude mingled with self-pity. No more of this maudlin weakness, he told himself in shame, taking a sharp pull at his morale. If he would help Theoderic, let alone himself, he must stay collected and positive.