Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  “Who had just been..?”

  “Yes, who had just been executed by my brother, Honorius. His son, too…”

  She pursed her lips.

  “I had not known Eucharius well but I had known him. We were much the same age and… You see, after my mother’s death, when still young, I left Constantinople for Ravenna. Serena and Stilicho became my…my… I’m not sure what you’d call them. Guardians, I suppose. Serena was trapped like us all by your army inside Rome.”

  “Yes?”

  “Rome, all Italy, was in panic. To justify the execution, my brother and his eunuchs had accused Stilicho of being in league with Alaric. Now Stilicho was dead and the Goths were still at the gates of Rome. So his wife they accused of the same crime. The Senate convicted Serena but she was of the blood. She… I suppose she was of my blood.”

  “The Emperor was away in Ravenna” she sighed. “They asked me.”

  Sigesar watched her eyes slowly empty of emotion and, for an instant, die.

  “You know what happened next, Bishop,” she said in a voice flat and low. “I confirmed the verdict and my cousin was put to death. But I have been with your people these three years now and have never once heard even a hint of a conspiracy. And Serena was long buried when the Salarian gate finally opened to your army. So I am sure she was innocent,” said the Princess. “She was innocent and I a foul murderess.”

  Somehow he was relieved that this was all.

  “Princess, my daughter; you are young still and were even younger then. The Senate of Rome had passed judgement. The mood in the city… what else could you do? I’ve not heard of any conspiracy either,” he admitted. “So your cousin may have been innocent. But the only man who can say for sure is Alaric. And Alaric is dead.”

  She nodded at each of his words. “Bishop Sigesar, so I have told myself. And I would not have asked you here but for one other thing.”

  “And what is that; Princess,” he asked reluctantly; “this one other thing?”

  “This other thing, Bishop? That every time I console myself with your logic I hear a voice within me cry: ‘Liar!’”

  Her eyes now flashed and her voice found its power again. “You see, I was the last person in the world the Senate should have asked. I was not an impartial judge. Because, on my immortal soul, I am convinced I wanted that woman dead.”

  She swallowed hard. “Serena was my guardian, a foster mother; a step-mother. She brought me up. But whatever she was, there’s one thing she was not. She was not my real mother. She was not Galla, the woman who gave me her name and gave me my life.”

  The Princess straightened and spoke like a centurion on the parade ground.

  “My mother was wonderful and my mother was dead. And I so hated the woman who presumed to take her place.”

  For an instant she held the Bishop’s eyes with a look that made him check instinctively for a blade hidden in the folds of her gown. But, of course, there was no weapon in the room – no weapon within the silken folds but the hard edge of her bitterness.

  Urgently he shook his head.

  “Princess, Princess – you must be gentle with yourself. Our hearts are not an open book – even to ourselves. Who is to say what makes us do the things we do? We must all remember the gift of humility; and beware the sin of pride. Only the one true Lord can comprehend our hearts.”

  So he spoke, his words honest enough. For who is to tell what tips the balance of a mortal mind? But more than the words; having seen what he had seen, of one thing he was certain. Whatever the real truth, the Princess Galla Placidia believed beyond all doubt in her own guilt.

  “Bishop, I have done a great wrong. I must find a way to make it good. I cannot bring back my cousin, but there must be something else. As my confessor what is it you would have me do?”

  He was instantly on his guard. “Princess, I told you. I would listen but I would not sit in judgement.”

  The eyes flashed again and her words were sometimes entreaties, sometimes Imperial commands. But he had seen the trap she had set for him; as for herself. And he was not to be moved.

  At length, with a deep breath, the Princess yielded and, relieved, he made to leave. The door half open, the latch in his hand, he turned to the Roman woman who had followed and now stood close by; uncomfortably close for a man of the faith. Her hair and gown were still in perfect array though her skin he thought now a darker hue.

  “You asked me, Princess, what you should do and truly, as God is my witness, I do not pretend to know. But I know one thing,” he said. “There is something you have already decided. Something you hoped that I, too, would suggest.”

  He spoke what he must with scant hope of her heeding.

  “Remember what I told you, my daughter. Remember that only the Lord can judge our hearts.” He paused again. “And that only the Lord can tell what our next action will bring in its train.”

  *

  The Bishop’s bent frame had passed out of the room and the Princess Galla Placidia studied the spot where, just now, he had stood. As if with her eyes she might wipe away the slightest trace of his ever being there. Then, slow and measured, she walked back to her seat, heard Elpidia close the door and slip quietly across the cool floor to her side.

  Cocooned in the arms she had known all her life, she thought on what the Goth had told about their books. A forest, he had said, that one day would be swept away. How strange the world must look through heavy, barbarian eyes.

  But perhaps, elsewhere, those old eyes had seen well. For which indeed was the man who might sit in high judgement on her or her reasons? When she; even she dare not say. Whether the silent tears now rolling down her cheeks were tears of remorse and pity; or the tears of anger and shame.

  VII

  The month of October: at Narbo

  The barge slipped smoothly through the waters of the lagoon; the hint of a breeze scarce ruffling the single sail that hung half-heartedly amidships. Under the canvas awning Candidianus took his simple pleasure in the mild sun, which made of the world such a pallet of pastels. Hard to imagine winter just around the corner; Gallia sat easy on the eye of a man with the time to appreciate these things.

  The slaves clustered about the mast were working up a good sweat he noted. Perhaps they, too, enjoyed the beauty of the morning; or perhaps it was enough that they were not having to manoeuvre a fully laden goods barge in the cold rain of winter.

  It hardly mattered.

  The wide blades of their oars swept in perfect rhythm through the air and into the water again with hardly a splash.

  “Princess, Athaulf, can I offer you some more of these quite excellent almonds?” he asked, switching his attention back to his guests.

  For him, almonds were ten a penny. But some things even the wealthiest cannot often buy; a brief part on the world’s stage, for example.

  The two principal actors were half sitting, half reclining on plush red cushions each to one side of the vessel. The Princess stretched out a graceful hand, on her wrist a slender bracelet of gold chain, inlaid with tiny green and red gemstones. The almond she placed between fine, white teeth and her red lips moistened as, delicately, she savoured it.

  The other actor casually took a clutch of the nuts in a tanned, scarred hand; a hand that must know well the sword that even now hung at his belt. But Athaulf’s eyes, he saw, had never left the face of the Princess.

  “When do we get to St Martinus?” she asked, carefully selecting a second almond from the silver plate he offered.

  Against the tar of the ship’s timbers and the salt of the lagoon, he caught a fleeting moment of her dry perfume, sandalwood if he was not mistaken.

  To the captain, astern by the tiller: “How long?”

  “Don’t look like we’ll have much wind to help us, sir. But within the hour. Be in time for lunch, sir. Don’t you or the lady ‘n gen’leman
worry ‘bout that.”

  Athaulf and Galla Placidia seemed to share a joke. A Princess was most certainly always a lady. But Candidianus imagined it was not often the King of the Goths was called a gentleman.

  It had all started over one of the regular dinners he and Ingenius had offered the King and his leading men since their arrival in the summer. Athaulf casually mentioned a day out on the water which he had been pleased to arrange. He was able to arrange most things in and around Narbo. And he was not easily thrown by the unexpected but that morning had run him close.

  By the town gate, the agreed meeting point, apart from the Goth notables and the usual band of retainers, there stood a wagon. And in the wagon Athaulf and the Princess Galla Placidia, the sister of his Emperor, were laughing and joking as if … well, as if they had been married for years.

  Or perhaps not, he corrected himself as a married man of some standing. They had been laughing as if they had just become betrothed; so his first, disbelieving reaction and now it seemed not so wild a stab at that.

  “Candidianus, very kind of you,” remarked the King. “The Princess had mentioned how it would be good to use the fine weather somehow, while we still can.”

  He saw the Princess return the Goth’s smile before dipping her hand over board to trail a while in the cool waters, a young woman whose wishes could move the King of the Goths; a young woman quite evidently without a care in the world.

  They had left the harbour side in a small flotilla of three barges, the other two following the royal party at a discreet distance. St Martinus was the last land before the lagoon emptied out into the sea; the last firm land to be more precise, because the lagoon was itself a shifting world of sand banks and silted channels.

  Ahead the sloping roofs of a squat church, the cross on its roof reaching for the mellow sky; and now the flat, one storey cottages of the village. All the while, the rippling bow-swell washed over languid words; through which Candidianus clearly heard the crackle of breaking ice.

  The sail lowered and oars raised, the crew expertly brought the boat alongside the stone harbour side. The captain and he handed first Athaulf and then the Princess onto shore, he following in ungainly style – a toga not the most practical clothing for clambering over gunwales and up sea-weed covered steps.

  The cottages were impoverished hovels, the once gaily painted plaster cracked and worn – from close up the brick-built church hardly better. A handful of ragged fishermen and the women of the village stared without courtesy or shame. The men were mending nets in the sun, the women’s faces in the shaded doorways grey as their aprons. The snot-nosed children stood in silent wonder and he supposed they must seem a strange group; him in white toga, the slender, bejewelled Roman woman in her pink silk robes and Athaulf with his yellow bordered red tunic, leather trousers and long sword.

  Though perhaps for the villagers the Goth was the least strange, he thought. The fishermen wore trousers and tunics, too. In his mind, he shook his head.

  Taking each of Galla Placidia and Athaulf by the arm, he guided them towards a white tent at the end of the quay, where he knew his household slaves had been busy all morning. They were barely at the tent when, to his quiet satisfaction, the first tumblers of cool white wine were in their hands. Candidianus had never been the man to skimp or scrape.

  *

  Athaulf felt the wine’s warmth in his throat, her eyes playfully soft, and his spirits high. The shoulder was still on the mend. But the sapping pain was gone and with it many of the darker thoughts that had hung to him since Massilia. Many of the thoughts, he reminded himself, but not all. Wallia had warned him to be careful and today, apart from the reiks and Galla Placidia’s maid, there had only been space in the other two boats for Brodagast and three more men from the treasury guard.

  He wondered if, earlier, he had not caught a glance between Sergeric and Brandas, Sergeric’s lead retainer, who along with the men of the other reiks had stayed behind. Though, to judge from the laughter echoing down the quayside, he was probably imagining things. As Wallia and Sergeric came ashore they were pretending to throw their captain back into the water. He caught a moment of anxiety cross the face of Candidianus next to him and smiled.

  “They’re happy, Candidianus. It’s our way.”

  The Roman dutifully nodded and, from what Athaulf could tell, looked more reassured than the captain who, once free from Wallia’s bear paw, jumped smartly back into his boat as if the entire Goth army were in pursuit.

  Galla Placidia placed a calming hand on the Roman’s arm. “Candidianus, I already feel guilty. I hate to think how much trouble I’ve – we’ve – put you to.”

  Their host made light of the arrangements. It was a moment’s work, he assured them; he just hoped the scoundrels in his kitchen would not disgrace him. Nothing was too much for such good friends, as he hoped he had the honour to consider them both.

  Athaulf silently agreed, if for a reason Candidianus would not understand. The reply had come swiftly from Arelate. The blunt message meant that, indeed, nothing was too good for the Princess. Though she did not know it, the lady by his side was only a few words away from becoming Queen of the Goths.

  Far from a kitchen, Candidianus had tried to keep the lunch as simple as possible; as the Roman explained over a welcoming toast once the others had joined them. The first course was a selection of every shellfish the lake and nearby waters could offer. This mountainous tribute was then followed by fresh fish grilled on an open fire behind the tent that had been smoking even as they arrived. Busy slaves bustled to and fro to fill plates and flagons.

  An inspired choice, Athaulf answered, which it was; not easy to stand on ceremony slipping down an oyster or battling with the claw of a crab. Soon the company were chatting away as if all were lifelong friends.

  The Princess sat opposite him flanked by Wallia and Sergeric. To his right were Candidianus and Erfrid; Theoderic to his left. As platters were cleared for the final course of fruits, olives and cheeses, the goblets were filled again; this time with a sweeter wine.

  “A fine day,” Sergeric spoke loudly and took in the whole company with a sweep of his cup. “Roman and Goth, Goth and Roman. So it should always be.”

  “Oh aye. Thanks to our good friend Candidianus,” said Theoderic. “Pity someone forgot to tell Constantius.”

  Athaulf looked a warning but too late.

  “What does my brother’s Lord General do now?” asked Galla Placidia in a conversational tone.

  Theoderic began to mumble, his cheeks red with more than just the wine. “Oh, Princess you know…. the usual.”

  “I know there was correspondence before… before you went to Massilia.” Galla Placidia smiled all innocence. “General Constantius – has he written again?”

  The table fell still and Theoderic looked down as if hoping against hope that an underground passage might yet open up beneath his chair and take him away to safety.

  Athaulf was unmoved by the imploring glance. “Theoderic, I can see that you’ve intrigued the Princess. Perhaps you should finish what you started,” he added with a grim smile.

  The young reiks’ face contorted through several further variations in colour.

  “Theoderic?” asked Galla Placidia in a voice cooler than the wine.

  “Princess, it is…You see, Constantius…Constantius presses us to …”

  Theoderic gathered himself and spoke the words as if they were his death sentence. “General Constantius has demanded we return all Roman prisoners and hostages,” he said.

  “I see.” Galla Placidia casually nodded. “But this is nothing new, I think?” she asked in the lightest of tones.

  She turned to Candidianus and remarked in her best dinner party voice: “Candidianus, I am so sorry; this must be all a little confusing. Still, I am sure it can’t do any harm to explain,” she said with a withering sideways glance.
>
  “You see, my brother the Emperor was planning to make peace and to trade me for some bushels of wheat. But then it turned out that there was no wheat available to – um – consummate the transaction.”

  She smiled sweetly at them one by one; and, as Athaulf was sure he was meant to notice, at him last and most of all. “So here I am, still waiting on a quayside for a Roman grain ship to carry me home.”

  There was another pause only this time the silence was of the tomb. Theoderic did not even try to meet the looks from around the table but stared instead at a particularly large wrinkled fig on the fruit platter a slave had just placed before them. Athaulf hoped he knew enough of his Bible to sense this might be an unfortunate image.

  Wallia cleared his throat. “Princess, I was the one who met your brother’s general. Now that young Theoderic here… well, the short of it is I’ve been thinking a long time. It’s not your brother as wants you back but Flavius Constantius his god-rotten self. And after the last letter, I’m as near certain.”

  “And there was silly me thinking after three years my loving brother had all of a sudden realised I’d gone missing. Tell me, Wallia, has he now located the grain to fund my…. my dowry, this eager general?” asked the Princess, who did not seem in the least surprised at the turn of events.

  At this even Wallia gave himself for beaten and joined the other reiks in silence. But she was not done yet. “So is this the rendezvous point for the ship? Is this an elaborate farewell?” she asked, swivelling round, and with an exaggerated motion she placed her hand across her eyebrows to scan the lake. “Or is the harvest here now good enough,” she asked, skewering him with one more icy thrust, “that you and my suitor cannot even agree a price for the trade?”

  Thoughtfully Athaulf rubbed his chin, now sober as a judge, and carefully measured each of the reiks before slowly answering.

  “Princess, I would not have spoken of these things to you today. But no matter,” and he turned to look Theoderic up and down.

  “No matter,” he said, “perhaps it is for the best so.”