by Roger Booth
The people might lack for land but, full to the brim within the closely guarded warehouses, the royal treasury made him one of the richest men on earth. The guards who crowded round, eager for a few minutes of idle chatter with their King; not for nothing were they, to a man, the sons of families who had crossed the Danuvius with him.
Rafts, freighters, even flat hulled fishing boats the Romans had used; much like those now nosing their way out onto the Garumna. Barely waist-high on a grown man and it all such years ago; that day was seldom far from his mind. Nor, earlier, had he told the women its full truth.
By the willowed banks he had waited with mother, brothers and sisters, while his father and uncles with the other grown men roared their desperate oath. Then into the muddy shallows, the youngest clutched in tight arms, the water’s chill making him shiver. Fearful shrieks and angry words; through the confusion, unfamiliar Roman voices barked out orders.
On rafts wide enough for a hundred men, women and children, whole kins crowded together between the long sweeps. As the Roman sailors pushed off, they had watched blankly the northern shore slip away; that land sown thick and barren with Hun arrow heads. Until, mid-stream, from men and women, from no-one and everyone; there echoed over their makeshift fleet a gut-turning and shaming lament of stifled sobs.
Proud, brave, sad; his father had taken him by the shoulders, smiled courage into damp eyes. He nodded, swallowing hard, but even as a boy he had known. Gone the past, their future unseen; once beyond the swaying reed beds that lined the Roman bank, on God’s earth they would walk bare-naked.
*
He strode into the courtyard, the house cool after the sharp May sun, all greenery and pots of baked clay around the rectangular pool and its red-backed, lazy fish. Between the tall ferns the only reiks to meet his eye was Erfrid.
“Athaulf, you need not have hurried – they’re late as usual.” His younger brother clasped the raised hand in greeting.
“Not so,” the dry response from over his shoulder. “Been waiting outside – wouldn’t do to embarrass the King.”
They turned to see through a mass of greying hair the hint of a smile in hooded eyes. “But if the others will be late, we can drink their wine.” Wallia walked past the two brothers as if the house were his own. “Now, where’s the cups?”
In the large dining room that doubled as Council chamber the slaves had flagons ready to hand. The slaves had come with the house, lent by a wealthy Roman to whom, in return, he had loaned a handful of retainers; enough for the Roman to sleep more soundly in his grand villa overlooking the Garumna.
Cups filled to the brim, he was raising his to Wallia and Erfrid in salute when the two remaining reiks were ushered in.
“Sergeric! Theoderic!” He embraced them each in turn. “Welcome. Here, a toast: to all the great clans,” he beamed; sure the excellent red wine of Burdigala would work its reliable mysteries.
He was particularly attentive to the young man, Theoderic. Flaxen hair, strong face unblemished – itself a rarity – tall even for a Goth; Theoderic had the looks that, reiks or no, would guarantee admiring glances from the womenfolk. More to the point, father dead and his uncles also dead or far too old, he was that year elected reiks of his clan, the Grethi. Once more he clapped Theoderic reassuringly on the shoulder, winked for the slaves to leave. “So, Wallia has tidings we must hear.”
Ochre-painted walls, on the longest a marble frieze of a wine-cheered banquet, the room had not been built for hosting councils of war. As they sat down, legs askew and cup to hand, their long scabbards grated loud on the elegant stone floors.
Wallia cleared his throat. He looked well for a man who had ridden long and was fifty if he was a day.
“Fellow reiks; so much you know: taking Jovinus was easy. So we sent to Arelate, made for the rendezvous point. And what should we find there?” he asked with a flourish. “A whole cavalry regiment and not any cavalry either. Those palatine bastards from the Army of Italia, all spit and polish; looking like they’d sooner cut us to pieces than thank us for all the trouble we’d saved ‘em.”
Wallia hawked, looked around for somewhere to spit himself. Not quite bringing himself to sully the pristine floor, he took another sip from his cup; to Athaulf’s quiet relief.
“Not what I wanted to tell you,” he said. “You see, they hadn’t sent a regiment of palatines all the way from Italia just to pick up Jovinus.”
Wallia paused and looked around the room.
“Those bastards were escorting Flavius bloody Constantius, no less; magister militum as he calls himself.”
Athaulf sat bolt upright. Constantius, the power behind the Imperial throne: “What’s he like?” his first, curious reaction.
“Illyrian, not Italian. Mountain stock; so he looked to me. Stocky, swarthy skin, smooth tongue and sharp eyes; take him easy with the sword.” Wallia stopped and thought. “Have to watch him with a knife.”
“And the rest of the Army of Italia?” asked Sergeric. “They’ve taken the field?”
There was a shake of the great head. “Don’t think so, Sergeric. A couple of the lads doubled back. The regiment had already broken camp and was riding south. Constantius spoke of going back to Ravenna. Not that I’d trust much a Roman says, but that’s where I think he’s gone.”
Erfrid ran a thoughtful hand across the clean-shaven chin. “So what was he doing there?”
“They want our fighting strength against their enemies.” The hair parted to reveal a big toothy grin. “But most of all they want her back.”
“You mean Galla Placidia?” blurted their youngest reiks. “Three years and not a word – why now?”
“Well, Theoderic my friend, I was asking myself that same question all the way back to Burdigala.” A pause: “And I’m not sure if they want her back or he does.”
Theoderic looked around the room for someone to make sense of that for him.
Ever the attentive host and with the slaves safely outside, Athaulf circled the room, wine flagon in hand. “Honorius has no children,” he explained. “From what I’ve heard he never will. Constantius marries the Emperor’s half-sister and…”
He did not need to say more. “Athaulf, I take it we have plenty of guards outside her house,” Erfrid asked with a quick smile.
“Brother, Galla Placidia’s not going anywhere, I assure you. But I imagine Wallia has more to tell,” he asked, taking his seat again. “Like what was offered against our support and her safe return?”
“Lands, Athaulf; lands and food. Constantius even spoke a moment in our tongue. He offered us a new Gutthiuda. Oh, and if she’s harmed in any way,” Wallia added with a dismissive chuckle; “he also threatened to destroy us.”
“And you believe him?” Athaulf asked.
“They or he want her back; badly. On that I’ll swear. What they’ll really deliver in return – Lord knows.”
Athaulf nodded solemnly through his rising excitement. Perhaps the gift of that strutting fool Jovinus had finally done the trick. “How are the people for food?” he asked his brother, in the meantime trying to read the mood of his fellow reiks. Erfrid had followed him as leader of the Balthi when he had become King on Alaric’s death – by ancient tradition the King must stand above the clans. But no-one doubted the Balthi, the noblest of the clans, followed his lead. Instead, Erfrid had taken on the thankless task of overseeing their grain supplies.
“We get by and summer is still to come. Soon enough though, Brother, our people will be cold. And the hunger will start again.”
Erfrid had taken his cue and that grim thought he let settle in everyone’s mind.
“Sergeric, what say the Karthi? Peace in return for a new homeland?” and at mention of peace the room with its smiling frieze was suddenly quiet and tense.
Sergeric, too, was a younger brother; at least he had been until earlier in the year. His
brother had been the Sarus who had gone over to the Romans, then joined Jovinus and now, like Jovinus, was dead.
“I’ve never hidden my belief,” he said. With his hair cropped short in the Roman style, he wore it for all to see. “We must grasp this peace, Athaulf; before one day we’re destroyed.”
Theoderic and Wallia snorted in unison and, for a moment, the eyes narrowed. “Athaulf, you know it as well as me. We’ve routed one Roman army, fought others to a standstill. Why; we even captured Rome.” He shrugged. “So many battles and to what end? Rome still stands; and I do not even speak of the East.”
To which Theoderic, suddenly bold: “If they didn’t fight for the city, you think they’d fight for one woman?”
“My young friend,” said Sergeric, who rounded on the reiks of the Grethi with the most disarming of smiles. “Long ago they say a mighty city was destroyed – because all of Greece fought for just the one woman.”
The scrape of scabbards disturbed the silence, the Council divided along familiar lines. Athaulf had hoped the young man might follow more his King. But Theoderic, he knew, dare not stand alone. It all depended on Wallia, the only reiks to have reached manhood in the Gutthiuda; for all his years, still their greatest warrior.
“Wallia, you took the great oath. Our people, your clan, the great clan of the Ruthi,” he asked intently, leaning forward. “With Rome; will they accept a peace?”
The giant frame heaved itself up with a weary-sounding sigh and walked the length of the room; once, twice, then a third time. “Flavius bloody Constantius…”
The voice ran thick with the crust of years; then began again.
“Constantius, he told me that people change, that times change. ‘Course he’s a Roman,” spoken with frank contempt. “But, Athaulf, God help me; the more I think about it, the more I agree. That oath – how many of our people took it and still live? Or could’ve imagined; what was to come?”
Wallia slumped down onto his chair again, swirled the wine and drank a mouthful. The rough-haired cheeks slowly emptied, savouring every drop. “Thinking back, we were nothing but children; playing at dare.”
Athaulf saw the lips pressed tight in bitter remembrance, for the sake of their people willed the words that must be said.
“So, yes, Athaulf;” Wallia finally spoke again; voice heavy and without joy. “For a new Gutthiuda I’d ask the Ruthi to accept a peace. And the man who so much as whispered I’d gone soft would have to answer to this.” The gnarled fist slapped the sword hilt. “But after all the suffering no hint of surrender, no hint. The Ruthi…”
Wallia stopped and Athaulf understood. It would not be good to speak of Goth fighting Goth; that bitterness in the time before Alaric became King. And if he understood so, evidently, had the others; in the room a quiet murmur of assent.
As King and according to their ways, Athaulf pushed back his chair and stood tall. “Wallia, you met with Constantius. So, ride now to Arelate and tell the Prefect of Gallia this. If from next month we receive supplies and agree the bounds of our new homeland, we the Visigoths shall be the faithful allies of Rome. We’ll even …”
In a welling of relief he had almost laughed.
“We will even return the lady they are now so eager to reclaim as their own.”
IV
The month of August: before the city of Massilia
The lizard darted over the tinder-dry pine needles, avoiding the fallen cones with ease. Satisfied the coast was clear, it shot a yard further forward before once more coming to a halt. The lizard had done this sort of thing before, Athaulf presumed, as he followed its progress with idle curiosity. Though Lord only knew what a lizard saw through those small, cold eyes. Because it seemed totally oblivious to the heavily armed men sprawled alongside him on that same bed of pine needles. If it noticed them at all, it counted them no danger.
By later that day he hoped the Roman garrison of Massilia would have cause to think differently. Somehow, though, he could not shake off the feeling that maybe the lizard had a point; that this was a fool’s errand they could have spared themselves.
A strange summer it had been, he conceded, turning over to leave the lizard to its own devices. Like today with its drowsy perfume of pine, all summer long the sun had warmed their bones; and, all the while, his people had been in fury. So many false starts in their dealings with Rome; more than the men he should have known better. Yet it had hurt and hurt badly.
Wallia rode off to offer peace in Arelate with the same fiery joy he usually reserved for riding into battle. But by the end of June the carts piled high with the promised wheat had still not arrived. Instead, from Arelate a letter; he had read it and then re-read it. Finally, not trusting his own Latin, he’d shown it to Rohilde.
The Emperor was graciously pleased to consider the Goths foederati – the allies of Rome; so Postumus Dardanus, the Prefect of Gallia. He and Wallia were cordially invited to Arelate; to discuss the lands that would become theirs. Meanwhile, since peace had been agreed, the Empire looked forward to the prompt return of the prisoners. Sadly, due to a rebellion in Africa which, in time, the Imperial authorities were sure to crush, for now there could be no supplies of wheat. To be sure, the timing was very regrettable. But how better to begin the new alliance than in this spirit; that, Goths and Romans, they should together share good times and bad?
The colour had slowly drained from the young cheeks. “Uncle, they treat us as fools,” Rohilde’s face had flashed. “Not a modus of spare wheat in the entire Empire! And this not enough, you and Wallia must go to Arelate as hostage against the release of the Princess.” So much, within brief minutes, had understood a girl of sixteen, not yet done with dimples.
That night he had summoned the reiks to Council. Erfrid and Sergeric stared in disbelief. For Wallia and Theoderic mutilation had been the answer; the only doubt whether to include Constantius and Honorius along with Dardanus. After listening a while, he pointed out that, from what he knew, their keener proposals would hardly make much difference, certainly not as far as Honorius went.
“The Romans still offer peace and lands,” Sergeric had tried to argue. “True, the Prefect is a fool, perhaps worse. But punishing the Romans is futile. Peace with lands, an honourable peace, it’s our only hope.”
“Not so,” objected Theoderic, emotions slowly on the wane, “they’ve told us how to do it themselves. We capture Africa and starve them.”
“We tried Africa three years ago, Theoderic,” said Sergeric, acid to his voice, staring angrily down his broad, flat nose. “And how far did we get?”
“Barely a mile,” Athaulf reminded them, “before the ships started to founder.”
At the same time, he had not lent his royal backing to Sergeric; and so forced Wallia to say what then he must. There would be no Goth surrender before any Roman, let alone before the foresworn Prefect of Gallia; not over the bones of the Ruthi.
Faces flushed, Sergeric, Wallia and Theoderic, they had barely contained their anger, with each other almost more than with Rome, until his ever reasonable brother had provided the answer: “I agree with Theoderic, of course. We must never forget Africa. But, for now, Africa is far away,” Erfrid had said, pensively, “while Narbo is very near; also very near to Arelate. We take Narbo; more chance of foraging through the winter. And it sends a clearer signal to the Romans than any letter we could write.”
After the others reiks had left, his proposal thankfully agreed, Erfrid had stayed behind. “Brother, we are taking the royal treasure to Narbo I assume – and the captives?”
He hadn’t given much thought to such detail but vaguely nodded.
“Apart from Africa, we now know there is one other way to hurt them, Brother.”
“Mmh?”
“Galla Placidia.”
He could not quite believe his ears; his brother, that mildest of men. “Erfrid, you can’t seriously mean I th
reaten …”
“To what – kill her?”
Erfrid laughed at being so misunderstood.
“No, Brother, I was thinking of a threat far greater than that. You could threaten to marry her.”
*
“Athaulf, it’s time.”
Wallia was evidently in high spirits. Athaulf pulled himself to his feet, at pains to hide his own misgivings. “Get Sergeric and Theoderic. We should go through the plan once more, just to be sure.”
The finest irony but they were here because the move on Narbo had been such a success. The gates were opened before they had the chance to rattle a sword, which wasn’t what the people wanted at all. They wanted to fight, kill and destroy; their mood ever more ugly.
“Ah, Theoderic, Sergeric,” he looked to the heavens. “A fine day we have for it.”
“Always a fine day for battle,” Wallia growled predictably from behind the hair, while they all grinned wide like boys about to steal the fruit from a farmer’s shed.
“Theoderic, you know what to do?” he asked, lightly as he could.
“I stay here with the men until Sergeric sends word.”
“Yes, Theoderic, then you advance – and quickly.”
It was the first battle since Theoderic had become reiks and, behind the good humour, Athaulf looked at him keenly. The young man nodded, eyes steady, and after the briefest pause the conversation moved on.
“And I’m to wait a way from the walls?”
“That’s right, Sergeric. Any closer and we’ll never convince them we’ve come in peace. Once we’re in, you send word to Theoderic and help us hold the gate.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Sergeric, I know. But be sure to let us make our move,” he said. “Otherwise they’ll just slam the gate shut and that’ll be it. So,” he asked, looking around the little circle, “Any questions?”
He was answered by the grins now not of boys but of hungry wolves.
“Good, then may the good Lord watch over us. We go.”
