Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  Athaulf realised he hadn’t even asked. “Sentries out?”

  “Aye, but they’ll spend the night listening to the crickets, I reckon. By Arelate we made enough dust for a whole army.”

  Wallia poked at the fire with the blade of his knife. “Even so,” he said, “it might have worked – if they’d been there when we opened the gates.”

  “You think so?”

  “Aye, Athaulf. Time to build them carts into a barricade – could’ve held ‘em for days.”

  A blessing we didn’t, he thought half-guiltily, while Wallia looked around with exaggerated care; then lowered his voice, though no-one was in earshot.

  “You know, Athaulf? I don’t understand. Why Sergeric didn’t ride on my signal. By Christ, it was clear enough.”

  “He feels bad, he told me. Came to see me just after sundown.”

  Wallia nodded but without conviction. “Even so, can’t help but wonder. Sergeric in Council, he and I don’t often agree; least not at first. But something like this; in battle…”

  Wallia hesitated before going on. “Riding home these last days, can’t get it out of my head. Sarus was his brother. And just months ago Sarus dies on our swords.”

  “Some things bad to think, worse to say.”

  “Suppose you’re right.”

  Wallia picked the meat from between his teeth. “But I’ll be watching my back from now on. And you’re the King, Athaulf my good friend. You need to be doubly careful.”

  “After Massilia we should all be more careful. Sergeric fought as well as either of us.” He grimaced, looking down at the shoulder’s stained bandage. “As well as you.”

  Wallia got to his feet. “As you say, Athaulf.” He stifled a yawn and scratched the inside of his leg. “Still…”

  Long into the night’s shadows Athaulf stared; even after the vaguest hint of Wallia’s broad back had been lost to view among the camp-fires, the camp a sprawl of men, fires and horses over the weed strewn acres. From the wagon he had seen endless such acres, parched and cracked, but also sunflower fields waving in golden-yellow hope.

  In the wagon he also had time enough to think his own thoughts about what had happened at the gates. Such a hair brained scheme; he couldn’t find it in him to blame Sergeric. “Still…” Wallia had said and Athaulf knew it was so. All the sunflower fields in Gallia Narbonensis wouldn’t wave away the doubt.

  Pulling up the thick blanket he crawled under the cover of his simple tent. He turned his injured shoulder towards the fire; to drive out the cold and the damp, to still the ache. Dog tired and light-headed from the throbbing wound, he felt himself fast drifting off to sleep.

  The next morning, when he woke to the dew and the bird call, his last memory of that evening was not, as he had expected, of the stars gently crowding the sky. What he recalled were the flames of the camp fires. The flames had gradually changed shape; framed a man and a woman, both in Roman dress. They smiled at each other as they walked hand in hand, away from an orchard. Curled up in the branches of one of the trees was a snake. The snake had a knife. And that knife was stuck deep in the heart of a blood red apple.

  V

  Later in that month of August:

  at Narbo

  “No, not quite like that. This is how I was taught it.”

  Galla Placidia took Rohilde’s hand and guided her through one of the stitches she remembered from those dreary afternoons of her girlhood. She was a daughter of the great Theodosius. But the Imperial court was large enough for a motherless child to be lost without trace, especially if that child was a girl. Without her faithful nurse, Elpidia, who was with her still, she doubted she would have survived.

  How different her life now; the King’s visits were rare and unpredictable. She had not seen him since that day almost three months ago in Burdigala when, for a moment, all had seemed on the edge of harmony. But Rohilde she saw each day. Rohilde, too, had lost her mother young – it was one of the bonds of their improbable friendship, bordering on sisterhood.

  Then there were the other Roman hostages, Attalus their unofficial leader, and the local nobility who could not do enough for her. Only last night she had been the honoured guest of Ingenius, his house magnificent enough for Rome itself. Much of the evening she had spent talking to Candidianus, a large owner of land around Narbo – if only he had the peace to farm it, he had told her with a self-deprecating smile.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Princess?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking. Thinking about how strange my life is; and how, even stranger, I quite like it the way it is.”

  Rohilde beamed.

  “You – well, of course not you – your people, the Goths, they are so different.”

  “You mean we are barbarian,” said Rohilde.

  “No, it is more like seeing everything the other way round,” she said. “You think nothing of roaming across Europe, for instance; from town to town, province to province. We could not do that and survive, as you have done. The city of Rome has not moved from its sacred hills for a thousand years.”

  “Princess, our people has always been on the move.”

  Rohilde put aside her stitching.

  “Our stories tell that King Berig led us south from the ice and snow which had been our first home. The great King led us from that wilderness where the sky is dark and the earth is dead for half the year; to the wide pastures and marshes south of the cold sea. Life was good, we are told. But we did not stay there. Filimer, our other great King, he took us south again. The lands were not so different. They were pasture and marshes and now sometimes mountains. And there was a sea and a great river that ran into the sea, the river you call Danuvius. But the waters were warm – at least for most of the year – and the people prospered. We Goths became one of the great peoples of Germania.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, Princess, came the Huns and our nation fell apart. Some stayed with Athanaric in the old homeland and fought their losing fight. We others, who call ourselves the Visigoths; we left the Gutthiuda and crossed the great river into the Empire. Ever since, we have hoped another king like Berig or Filimer will guide us to a new homeland; so that, at least for a time, we can stop our wandering.”

  She heard the yearning in her young friend’s voice. “You know where it was exactly – the first home that King Berig led you south from?”

  Rohilde shook her head. “As they say, in the North across the cold sea – I’ve told what every one of us, every one of the old clans, is taught word for word from the cradle. But we have no maps, no books. Whether King Berig was a man like Augustus the Emperor – or more like the Aeneas you’ve told me of; that we can never know.”

  “And Filimer?”

  “The same, although the lands he led us to, there are still people among us who remember.”

  “And Athanaric?”

  The young Goth was more definite. “He was a man like your Augustus. My father, Alaric, he knew him; Wallia the same. We chose well to leave when we did. Those that stayed are no more than the slaves of the Huns in the lands where once we ruled. I do not know how they can bear it.”

  Rohilde took breath.

  “There are many new men with us who do not belong to the old clans.” She looked surprised as though she had never thought of this before. “So I suppose we are two things at the same time; an old nation divided and a new people. And we do have the one great book, Princess. Ulfilas took the holy book and made it our own. For us it is perhaps more important than it is for you Romans.”

  Galla Placidia was a loyal daughter of the church, the one true Catholic Church, and she could not prevent a small dismissive movement of the hand.

  “No, you see? Because of the holy book, written in our own tongue, we know we are not what you call us.”

  “It is as I have said,” the Roman agreed. “Your people are in
everything our opposite but that does not make you barbarians; not as we Romans mean it. I have done much of the teaching between us. But this you have taught me.”

  The Goth girl set aside her needlework once more; reached across and touched her hand.

  “Rohilde, please, do not be cross,” she asked after a while. “One thing I still do not understand. If your Bible means so much, why do your people persist in the heresy?”

  A shrug: “Bishop Sigesar tells me, when we converted, even the Emperor professed our style of the faith. Your Trinity – that God the father and Christ his son are somehow one and the same – well, I don’t see how that can be. And even if we agreed, who’s to say you Romans wouldn’t then think of something else for us to change?”

  The voice became animated: “We are not Romans and we are not Catholic, but our God is your God. That must be enough. Or would Rome prefer we became heathens again,” she demanded, “for the sake of this one thing between us?”

  “Rohilde, no. No, of course not. I will one day talk to your bishop Sigesar,” and her lips formed slowly around the unfamiliar name. “But, in the meantime, there is a favour you can do for me. You can teach me to read the Holy Book – as Ulfilas wrote it.”

  She saw the hint of anger in the young Goth’s eyes give way to pride.

  “I must try to understand better,” she went on. “Just now you talked about your great Kings of the past. It is a wonderful tale. But there are only so many things we can each remember. That is why we Romans have always written things down.”

  “If we wanted to write about ourselves,” Rohilde answered quickly, “each time we’d start anew before even the last ink was dried. And why should we try? Time can’t be held captive on a scroll. You’ve taught me how Rome traces its line all the way back to Aeneas. But even you Romans can’t find the ruins of Troy.”

  Rohilde picked at the needlework an instant; then again put it aside, face set stubborn. “I’m glad we Goths do not write everything down,” insisted her young friend. “Because you’re right; there are only so many things each of us can remember.”

  “Yes, but what… what about the rest?”

  “The rest? Why, Princess; the rest we forget.”

  Those seditious words, spoken so matter-of-fact, she touched gingerly with her mind’s finger-tips. Once or twice she thought to voice her loud objections. At length, and without any further comment, she changed the subject: “There was quite a commotion yesterday in the town.”

  “Yes, the men were coming back.”

  “The men coming back? From where?”

  Rohilde hesitated. “M… Massilia,” she mumbled.

  “Massilia, what on earth would they be …?”

  Seeing the embarrassment come up over Rohilde’s whole body, she stopped.

  “Oh, I see. But why? Why now?”

  “Princess, I am not sure I should…Well, I suppose it’s all happened so it can’t really do any…”

  The blond, round face was a picture of misery but Rohilde told her all she knew: the Goth offer of peace, their willingness to return her along with the other hostages, the Prefect’s letter – the reason why they had first marched on Narbo – then the Council’s decision to storm Massilia.

  “I know much of this because my uncle asked me to read the Prefect’s letter,” she finished in a plaintive tone. “My Latin… thanks to you…”

  “So? My brother finally wants me back.” Galla Placidia spat the words one by one. “And Athaulf offered to hand me over. But what did I expect?” she asked herself. “I am a hostage and hostages are to be used.”

  Only then did she see the distress in the younger woman’s face. “Rohilde, I owe you better – a poor reward for your honesty.”

  Rohilde still looked miserable. “I often wanted to tell you. But I thought ‘why, it may all change’ and, Princess, as I’ve told you, it has all changed. First it is peace, then neither peace nor war. Now it seems that we are fighting again. Heaven knows what will happen next. ”

  “What did happen at Massilia? The men are back so I suppose they did not take the town?”

  “No, the town held. It was a nasty skirmish. My uncle led the attack as our kings always do. He was wounded.”

  The ramrod back straightened. “The King – Athaulf – wounded? Badly wounded?”

  “I’ve not seen him. I think he is well enough but it was a spear in the shoulder, deep in the shoulder. So, yes, I suppose quite badly.”

  She sat a while before taking Rohilde’s hands again. “You have done me several favours already today, Rohilde, but there’s one more I’m afraid, one I have never asked before. I want to see the King.”

  *

  Athaulf watched them run laughing around the room. The dog they were chasing seemed to enjoy it as much as the boys, though perhaps the house owner might not have approved. The great gentle hound leapt over the end of the couch where he was sitting, then sent a chair and small table crashing to the floor; followed by the eager hands of his six young pursuers.

  But, for today, he would not worry about the niceties, he thought, as he lay back on the couch, trying to ignore the throb in his shoulder. They were fine boys, they did their mother proud. Perhaps that was why he did not seek them out as much as he should. He couldn’t see them without seeing her – and that was far worse than his shoulder.

  Soon it would be time for something else he’d been avoiding; the Princess. His brother’s astonishing remark those months ago had cast a long shadow. He’d delayed and delayed but Rohilde had been persistent. In the end, he’d run out of excuses.

  The door started to open and the dog saw a wonderful opportunity to make a real game of it. Galla Placidia and her old maid were hardly to be seen before they were forced to step smartly back by a phalanx of barking dog and whooping boys that rushed headlong past them as if they were not there. He struggled to his feet.

  “The boys… Princess, please – good of you to see me. A drink?” and he nodded to the slave standing discreetly in the corner. “Take a chair,” he said, slumping back onto the couch. “Forgive me – I don’t often get the chance… ”

  While they waited for the wine to be brought, the Princess asked politely after his shoulder. The maid he had seen before, on the rare cases he had visited her and Rohilde was not there. A matron, grey hair, face narrowed by age; and dressed in her mistress’s silk cast-offs that he imagined would be the envy of any Goth lady. The slave served the wine, leaving half a flagon by his side, and, at his wave, left the room.

  Hardly the door shut: “This cannot be allowed to happen again.”

  He had been half expecting it. Wearily he explained; and true though it was, the explanation did not seem very convincing – even to him.

  The Princess sat impassive as a judge. He poured some wine awkwardly with his good left hand to fill the gathering silence.

  “I understand all that. Rohilde had the kindness to tell me. She told me everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Don’t blame her. She only told me three days ago.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “What, about you attacking Massilia to keep discipline in your ranks?” she asked and thought a moment before answering her own question. “No, I wouldn’t say that made me angry; disappointed, yes, but not angry,” she said.

  “To discover the King of the Goths would trade me for a handful of wheat; that angered me perhaps a little.”

  He winced as if someone had just put a spear through his other shoulder.

  “But I am a hostage,” she said, “and I understand – though I’d have preferred you had the courage to tell me.”

  She fixed him with a stare that might have been many things.

  “You’re a good King, you could be a great King – the new King Berig or Filimer that Rohilde has told me about. Then you go on a… a jaunt to ple
ase the men and come within an inch of dying in the dust.” She spoke almost as an aside to herself: “‘Because that is what our kings do’, so Rohilde told me.”

  She shook her head in vigorous despair but was not done with him yet.

  “Athaulf,” she said, picking up her goblet. “You are not leading a war band. If you want the Empire to treat you as an equal, then you and your people must start acting like one. Not like barbarians from the depths of Germania who know nothing better than blood on the altars of heathen gods.”

  He saw her take a first, cautious sip.

  “When I know you and your people can be so much more; are so much more. In a nutshell, I suppose that is why I’m angry,” she stormed and drained the cup in one.

  He was certainly grateful she had only given the potted version. And perhaps the Princess might be grateful that blood on the altars of heathen gods was long since not their way. But, of course, she was right and he had known as much since his first step inside Massilia’s walls. After that evening on the way back to Narbo, he sensed even Wallia might agree. Massilia had been the last page in a book that now was done. They desperately needed another way.

  Her eyes, the glowing eyes he remembered all too well, had not left him, while he pondered her words. He did not find it easy to match her gaze.

  “Princess, I… I couldn’t tell you everything before now, though I’m glad Rohilde did. And I will not argue with you,” he said. “Such things must not happen again.”

  He hesitated.

  “Forgive me, Princess” and he finally forced himself to look at her directly. “But you cannot want to remain forever a hostage in our camps?”

  Her reply fell into the room as a large stone into a pond.

  “Athaulf, I will not argue with you either,” she said. “I stay; I have always stayed with your people, because the King of the Goths wills it so.”

  Dusk was falling. He had not moved from the couch since she had left more than an hour ago. He ran the fingers of his good left hand through his hair, for the hundredth time turning her words.