by Roger Booth
Copyright © 2021 Roger Booth
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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For Marijke
Contents
List of Place Names
Principal Characters
I
The month of May in the year of our Lord 413: at the town of Valentia in southern Gallia.
II
One week later in the same month of May: beside the main highway leading south from Valentia to Arausio.
III
The last days of May: at Burdigala
IV
The month of August: before the city of Massilia
V
Later in that month of August: at Narbo
VI
The first days of September: at Narbo
VII
The month of October: at Narbo
VIII
The month of January in the year of our Lord 414: in Narbo
IX
The month of October: in Narbo
X
The month of April in the year of our Lord 415: in Barcino
XI
The month of August: in Barcino
XII
The next day: in Barcino
XIII
The month of November: in the neighbourhood of Gades
XIV
The month of January in the year of our Lord 416: by Summum Pyrenaeum
XV
The month of February: in and around Barcino
XVI
The first day of the month of January in the year of our Lord 417: in Rome
XVII
The month of June in the year of our Lord 418: in and around Corduba
XVIII
The month of September: approaching Tolosa
XIX
The next day: in Tolosa
List of Place Names
Arausio
Orange
Arelate
Arles
Baelo Claudia
Bolonia
Baeterrae
Beziers
Barcino
Barcelona
Burdigala
Bordeaux
Carcaso
Carcassonne
Corduba
Cordoba
Danuvius
River Danube
Gades
Cadiz
Garumna
River Garonne
Liger
River Loire
Massilia
Marseille
Narbo
Narbonne
Rhenus
River Rhine
Rhodanus
River Rhone
Summum Pyrenaeum
Col de Panissars
Tingis
Tangiers
Tolosa
Toulouse
Valentia
Valence (France)
Valentia
Valencia (Spain)
Principal Characters
Visigoths
Athaulf
King of the Visigoths, a member of the Balthi clan and brother-in-law to the dead Alaric
Brodagast
A retainer of the Balthi clan
Erfrid
Brother of Athaulf and Reiks or leader of the Balthi clan
Faurgar
A cousin of Athaulf and maistans or nobleman from the Balthi clan
Rohilde
Daughter of the dead King Alaric and niece of Athaulf
~~~
Sergeric
Reiks of the Karthi Clan
Brandas
Lead retainer to Sergeric
Euervulf
Member of the Karthi clan and the King’s groom
~~~
Theoderic
Reiks of the Grethi Clan
Ardrade
Lead retainer to Theoderic
~~~
Wallia
Reiks of the Ruthi Clan
Harduric
A retainer of Wallia
Herfrig
Nephew of Wallia
Smiler
A retainer of Wallia
~~~
Rademer
A new man of the Goths
Sigesar
Bishop of the Visigoths
Romans
Flavius Constantius
Magister militum, Commander in Chief of the Western Empire
Galla Placidia
Half sister to Honorius and hostage of the Visigoths
Honorius
Emperor of the Western Roman Empire
~~~
Aemilius Lucellus
Tribune of the IVth Palatine Cavalry
Attalus
One-time usurper to the imperial throne backed by Visigoths
Boniface
senior officer in Massilia
Candidianus
Wealthy Roman in Narbo
Elpidia
Nurse and companion to Galla Placidia
Euplutius
An Imperial agens in rebus or spy
Flavius Scaervo
An infantry tribune
Ingenius
Wealthy Roman in Narbo
Jovinus
A Roman from Gaul and usurper to the imperial throne
Marcus Clavinianus
A cavalry tribune
Oddo
A peasant farmer
Postumus Dardanus
Prefect of Gallia
Others
Fredbal
King of the Siling Vandals
I
The month of May in the year of our Lord 413: at the town of Valentia in southern Gallia.
Hollow the echo of cautious hooves; under war helmets pitted and scarred the tall men rode silent.
But the eyes spoke loud their unease. Ahead they peered down the cobbled street, roved to either side, took in the dusty alley and doorways draped, to all appearance innocently, in the shades of a spring evening. Twisting in the saddle, one after another they glanced back over shoulders covered in heavy leather, mail or armour. Yet still the town gates lolled harmlessly open; all as empty below as up on the unguarded walls. The leader slowly raised his right hand and the little column reined in.
“Harduric,” he said softly, pointing to one of the rear guard. “Take a handful of the men and watch those gates. Not a place I want to die in, this dried-up piss-pot of a town.”
His answer a grim smile on thirty faces, faces belonging to men of his clan, the Ruthi; all men who would fight at need until the last desperate sword slash or shrieking swing of battle-axe.
Just then what they had been half expecting; through the silence came the smallest creak, the window on the first floor and almost level with the leader’s head. Thirty pairs of eyes bored at that same spot and hands reached as one for spear, throwing axe or bow. For the briefest instance the leader saw a pair of eyes which locked with his own; wide eyes, curious eyes, a child’s eyes. Then they disappeared at once as if they had never been; to the sounds of clacking shutter, a woman’s muffled angry voice and the child’s painful wail.
Out on the street nervous grins; throwing axes went back to the belt, arrows to their quiver.
“Hold the gate,” the leader repeated.
“Aye, Wallia.”
The man Harduric dismounted and slapped the legs of the men who would join his watch. “No Roman bastard as’ll get within thirty paces,” he thumbed in the direction of the walls.
The leader, the man he had called Wallia, gave a curt nod, his mind already elsewhere. A piss-pot of a town Valentia might well be, but many the alleyways and shuttered windows to hide a man.
“Uncle?”
“Aye, Nephew,” he murmured without turning to the youth, who rode on the right of the first little rank behind.
“If they won’t fight, Jovinus’ll hide the safest place he knows.”
Wallia blinked.
“The safest place,” the young voice continued, “is the biggest church, Uncle. That’s where he’ll be.”
“Church?” scoffed one of the men. “What good’s a church, Herfrig?”
Under the others’ laughing eyes the lad Herfrig held his ground. “It’s the one place he knows we won’t kill him.”
Throughout the short exchange Wallia had remained on guard, ears pricked for the hint of softly stalking feet; or the death-rattle grate of steel unsheathed. Then he allowed himself the first hint of a smile since earlier that afternoon; when the gates of Valentia had suddenly swung open – and he had to find out why.
“Stupid bugger,” he finally spoke. “But, Herfrig?” he nudged his mount. “You might be right.”
His retainers three abreast behind him, he resumed the cautious advance. Up ahead a cross roads; a mule sidled out. The old peasant following on behind scarcely honoured them with a glance. Not easy to say; whether the old man was leading the animal or the other way about. But this was either the best laid ambush he had ever seen, or Herfrig had it right. The fight was out of them like melting ice in spring. Not much ice here to start with, though; not like the lands of his boyhood – there the winter ice was thick enough to ride on.
Reaching the cross-road he raised again his gloved hand. He watched a while peasant and mule, the eternal pairing. Ahead two women left the shelter of the houses, came sauntering towards them, baskets of washing between hip and arm; the bolder ones or, there again, the ones with not enough to care.
“You, Smiler,” he pointed back at a horseman whose scar ran from the line of his helmet down to the side of his mouth. “Get word to camp. We know where Jovinus is hiding himself,” this with a nod towards his nephew. “No fighting to be had. But some of the lads might join us,” he said. “’Less they’ve better things to do.” Then to the front rank: “Follow me. The rest of you, hold here till more men come up.”
The armoured head of his war charger leading the way, he whistled a tune from his father’s camp fires, alert but at ease in the saddle. A ripple of shutters swung open as they passed, as if the townsfolk had come to the same conclusion; neither much danger to the other.
The roads in Valentia ran straight and true, he thought – unlike the people, that is. They were crooked as green oak. One minute they were cheering Jovinus to the rafters; the length and breadth of Gallia “Hail Emperor!” the cry. A battle and a few weeks of aimless siege later, they couldn’t wait to be shot of the man.
Then that was Romans for you.
The street emptied into the paved square of the forum and he spat as he completed the panorama on show. Broad steps, stone balustrades, green-coppered domes; and everywhere pillars in the different styles he had often seen before. More than once he had learnt their awkward names; and then promptly forgotten them. Pillars and domes, brick and stone, a typical Roman town; mortar and concrete to set firm a wavering gut.
Their arrival had brought out the beginnings of a crowd. The townsfolk on the far side of the forum only had eyes for the Basilica; high as twenty Goths standing head to toe.
Red brick peeked through the powdery white walls.
“I think… ”
“No doubting it, Nephew. They might as well chant the name and point.”
Nimbly he slid down the sleek chestnut-coloured flanks of his charger, lovingly patted the hair, better kept than his own.
“Mind the horses,” he ordered the escort. “Anyone comes within fifty paces, blow this,” and he untied a horn from his belt.
A glance up at the mass of wall, towering above him into the sky: “Come, Nephew.”
Then he pushed open the Basilica’s studded wooden door, right hand resting on the well-worn pommel of his great swor
d. A step inside and the nostrils flared like his horse when it smelt danger. Only here thick wafts of incense struggled to cloak the stench of fear. Windows set high by the rafters; their pale yellow-blue light was joined by the flicker of the giant altar tapers, in the dancing shadows two men.
The one stood calm, hands folded; a priest, from the purple cloak perhaps a bishop. The other had been sitting, head bowed. The priest stooped to whisper some words and he stood to face them, chest out and hands slipping to where, only that morning, there would have been weapons strung to his belt.
Followed by his sister’s son, Wallia slowly trod the length of the single chambered hall, his leather boots heavy on the terracotta tiles; eyes making a swift tally of side doors from which might rush death on a sharp blade. Within sword’s reach of the two Romans he came to a halt.
