by Roger Booth
He leant forward, holding the disdainful eyes with his own. “You see, Princess, things are not as they were in the summer. We realise there are some things beyond any price.”
He saw how each of the reiks looked at him and then solemnly at Galla Placidia.
She took a small bunch of grapes from the plate in front of her and studied the fruit intently. Then she picked one which was particularly ripe and placed it to her lips.
“I see.”
*
The quayside they had left behind and were headed over a grassy field towards the beach, the first of the sand banks that marked where lagoon and sea rubbed alongside each other.
“I couldn’t tell you, I hope you understand.”
“This is the second time. Let us agree there will not be a third,” she said in an even voice but without turning towards him. Together they were walking a good distance ahead of the others who followed in groups of two’s and three’s. They had not done justice to the fruit but then, after the unexpected exchanges, no one had seemed that hungry; she least of all.
“Princess,” she heard Athaulf speak again. “I may be King. But I would not stay King very long if I lost the Council. Theoderic was a godsend. It forced the issue with you there.”
“No words were spoken,” she objected, still looking straight ahead.
“True enough, Princess, but the reiks took their decision even so. You saw it with your own eyes. We Goths are serious people and a bargain is a bargain.”
She turned to him this time. “It takes two sides to conclude a bargain, Athaulf. As you and Constantius have found out.”
Not a flicker in his face: “Princess, today the Council of the Visigoths made you a proposal. You could call it a diplomatic proposal, though young Theoderic needs to learn some diplomacy before too long.” He gave a small smile. “But I’ve not yet made you a proposal. Today was not for that. It was … Perhaps to show you I would always listen – that your words for me have meaning.”
Meaning to her words.
While she picked her way in the open toed slippers crafted more for marble floors than for the sandy grass, she thought of the long, empty corridors in Ravenna and Rome. Long, yes, not empty at all; they were full of quietly hastening slaves and statues of the famous who stared down in their cold contempt of alabaster. She was more than those statues, she had always known. She had a life and a voice. But the words she had spoken had been of no significance. Until that day the Senators came. Then they had meaning enough.
“For that, Athaulf, I thank you,” she replied, not trusting herself to say more.
On they walked, the sea and the lagoon all about them – the cries of gulls, the breaking of water on the shoreline and the sharp tang of salt that scoured and cleansed the air.
“It’s strange,” she heard him say. “I’ve fought beside Romans, more often against them. But I wish Rome well. Perhaps it was not always so. And there are still times… But as we have travelled through the Empire I think people like me, the people on the Council and other maistans, others of our great families, I think we have all come to see that we need Rome.”
“For bushels of wheat?” she asked, the tang of salt now on her tongue.
He laughed and looked down at her. “We agreed to talk in a different way about such things, I thought? Anyway,” he continued through her silence, “no, not for bushels of wheat. I told you that as King I need to bring with me the Council. That is not always easy. There are differences of opinion.”
“Between Sergeric and Wallia?”
“Sometimes,” he said and, for a moment, he made to say more; then fell silent.
“So why do you need Rome?” she asked, wondering what he hadn’t told. “Not for protection.”
“Princess, you can never say. Rohilde has told you about our past. We are many more now than once crossed the great river, many more. But I’d sooner deal with your brother and Flavius Constantius than the King of the Huns.”
This time he smiled a distinctly crooked smile. “You call us barbarians. But truly you do not know what barbarity is unless you have fought the Huns.”
“I do not consider you barbarians,” she said tartly. “But you still haven’t told me why you need Rome.”
“The reiks, the other maistans,” he answered. “They are normally wise and in any event they are few. Our people are many, yes; brave, yes. But wise? And how to govern such people, how to build a real nation?”
They had come to the edge of a narrow steep-sloping beach. “I once thought we could conquer Rome, create a Goth Empire,” he said as he stooped to pick up a pebble and cautiously threw it into the water. “Yet this I know,” he said, and crouched to choose another stone. “We Goths will not form an Empire except with Rome.”
“The Romans,” he said, back on his feet, “they have not come so far. Your brother and his general; they do not see that they need us too. The Empire is still so very rich, so very powerful. But the towns – ruins everywhere, many buildings from the older times; surely anyone can see that Rome is not all it was?”
She made to speak but he was in full flow.
“Princess,” he laughed, “in Burdigala I saw a man without the top of his thumb and asked at which battle he lost it. The man ran off. I saw something similar in Narbo so I asked Candidianus. He told me. Romans give themselves these wounds so they do not have to serve in the legions. He told me the Empire has passed laws against it. Some have even been burned alive, can you imagine? Romans risk all this just to avoid fighting. And I can’t get my people to want to stop.”
She watched as he turned towards the sea, gingerly threw a stone then, his shoulder no complaint, another. He smiled, playing the game of a simple child. She could not imagine her brother knowing what to do with a stone on a beach. And the Goths, at least Athaulf and his reiks, they were not simple at all.
“Rome is an eternal city,” she said. “Not its walls and buildings; you and Alaric showed that. No,” she in turn talked through his attempted objection, “you showed they are no different. If torched, they burn. The buildings of Rome may burn but not the souls of all mankind,” she repeated quietly, as quickly she made the sign of the cross.
“And, Athaulf, however it pains me. You are very right. We Romans struggle to carry its weight alone. Perhaps, as you say, we have weaker shoulders than once we did. It is hard to say. Honorius is a fool but Theodosius, my father, was an Emperor to be proud of.”
She bent down herself to pick up a stone that had caught her eye with its stripes of so many colours. She turned it around in her palm and examined it closely as if it were a precious gem. But then she had seen many more diamonds and pearls than she had ever seen rough stones, however beautiful, on a beach.
“I think it is otherwise,” she went on, speaking to the pebbles. “For how will mortal man carry an eternal giant, when that giant grows year on year but man does not? So we need people like Rohilde and you, Sergeric and Wallia,” she continued quietly, turning to face him. “Only, as you said; I’m probably the one Roman who thinks so,” and she slipped the stone into her robe.
Athaulf stepped forward, her head barely inches from that broad chest. She had to lean her head back to look him in the eye.
“Together, perhaps, we can persuade them,” he said.
It was mid-afternoon. The autumn sun was still warm but the seasonal mists had started to mingle with the light. She thought about what he had said, about the Rome she knew; and the Rome whose mother she would be. She turned around, towards the soft rustle of the surf, swayed a hand’s breadth; and felt the shock of his fingertips on her shoulders.
Wherever she looked, the blues of sky, sea and lagoon had merged as one into the yellows of sun and sand. And in the great glow that fired the horizon and lit up her eyes she would have defied anyone to say; where the one element began and the other ended.
VIII
The month of January in the year of our Lord 414: in Narbo
“Jah stibna qam us himinam.” Her voice sounded uncertain but Rohilde nodded encouragement. “Princess, that’s good. ‘And the voice came out of heaven.’”
Galla Placidia furrowed her brow in frustration. “Thu is sunus meins sa liuba, in?”
“Thu is sunus meins sa liuba, in thuzei waila galeikaida,” Rohilde completed the line from the great bound book before them. “It’s hard the second part, I know. ‘You are my son the dear one, in whom I am well pleased.’”
The Roman sat back and rubbed her eyes. “It is hard,” she agreed with feeling. “Even though I know the gospel word for word – or thought I did.”
There were times when, despite Rohilde’s patient schooling, she wondered if she would ever get her tongue around these alien sounds. But it was somehow important, she felt, what she was doing, even more important now than when she had started.
“It is hard, yes. But you are doing well, Princess. You will speak Gothic better than any Roman alive. You will be a true Queen of our people.”
Rohilde laughed, she laughed back and shortly both were giggling like girls at play.
Athaulf’s visits had become increasingly frequent, now almost daily, yet this was the closest either had come to broaching the subject. Sometimes only Elpidia was with her to maintain decorum. Those visits by Athaulf often awkward – so much unsaid by them both – but very often Rohilde made up the threesome. Then they would talk as easily as they always had; about Rome, about the Goths and a future to be shared, golden and bright – once men on both sides were brought to understand.
“I am not Queen yet,” she reminded Rohilde and perhaps herself.
“No, but you will be. I feel it. It is only a matter of time.”
A sigh came without her knowing and, suddenly, Rohilde was watching her close. “You do want him to ask? He is my uncle, I know, but he is not just the King. He is, well,” and her nose crinkled playfully. “He seems to me a very handsome man.”
“Yes, Rohilde, my eager young match-maker,” she said in a reproving tone which collapsed into more laughter that slowly died away. “Your uncle is indeed a handsome man. I do want him to ask and I think I will accept.”
She saw again puzzlement and worse in the fresh, open face. “It is not that, Rohilde,” she protested. “It is not as you think.”
She turned the pages of the great book before them at random, as if the answer to her dilemma were to be found in its words that, to her, were often still a secret code. “I am more than a woman by the name of Galla Placidia,” she explained. “I am the Emperor’s sister. Though my brother is the man he is, to wed I should ask his permission.”
She leafed a few more of the pages. Then, with an air of finality, she shut the heavy leather tome. “But I know what the answer would be. And it would not be what is right – fear of your army, the shame of Alaric and Athaulf in Rome.”
Her face hardened.
“And, of course, that odious little general and his…his ambitions for me.”
She inched her ramrod-straight back straighter still. “It would be easier were I not an Imperial Princess. But, then, I doubt Athaulf would ask me either.” She shrugged. “It is the world’s way.”
How it looked to the young Goth she could not judge but her front, to her, felt brittle as glass. It was with relief that in her words at least she heard no doubt. “That is why I do want your uncle to ask,” she said, “and why, Rohilde, I think I will then accept. So that he and I, you and I; together, we can make the world a better place – better by far than it has now become.”
*
The dogs sniffed the damp air and growled expectantly. Like the men and horses just behind them they knew the deer was somewhere in the trees off to the left; looking back at them from behind its cover. Steam and the breath from animals and men rose in a dense fog before being scattered by the next fierce gust of wind from the high lands to the north. Athaulf could feel the cold reach under the thick cloak that hung in heavy folds of brown fur down the warm flanks of his mount.
The dogs saw it before the men and were off with a howl in hot pursuit, as the deer jumped over a fallen log and sped towards the temporary shelter of the next bank of trees. Wallia was next to react and, brandishing his spear in the direction of the deer’s run, spurred his horse on to give chase. With Theoderic and the men he followed suit. Eight dogs and fifty heavily armed men were trailing the deer as it suddenly broke its course and darted sharp right. The dogs wheeled around and were almost charged down by the following horses as the men swore and tried to make the same tight turn.
By the time they had swung about they could see what the deer had already known. There was a steep slope down to a stream. On the other side, the forest was thick with bush and trees. The ground was a mixture of shale and rock that climbed quickly to a summit where perhaps the dogs could follow but certainly not the horses. The deer was already through the stream and scampering up the steep slope. Sensing it was safe, it half turned to look down at the yapping dogs with an expression of quiet superiority.
“I’ll show that bloody animal…” Harduric swore and notched an arrow to the bow that had appeared in his left hand.
Wallia swung round in his saddle, lowering his spear across the man’s front.
“No, Harduric, let it go. Teach our dogs to eat less and run faster.”
A few of the dogs were making half-hearted attempts to clamber up the slippery stone but soon gave up, barking their frustration. The clouds delivered their own verdict; releasing a torrent of rain the like of which they had not seen all morning.
Athaulf walked his horse over to Wallia and slapped Wallia’s man on the back.
“Keep the arrow for something bigger, eh, Harduric, never know what’ll come along.”
“Aye, Athaulf.” Harduric slipped the bow back over his shoulder, the killing lust gone from the small dots in his square face. “Ran well that hind.”
“Men,” the King cried through the noise of the dogs. “We can stay in this pissing rain. Or we can go back to the camp and eat and drink.” He grinned. “How about we hold a meeting of the reiks to decide?”
“An’ be here till bloody nightfall?”
Their disappointment swiftly forgotten, the men trotted back in the direction they had come, towards warming wine and the dripping roasts of stag and boar.
Theoderic and Wallia hung back and fell in either side of him. The chill rain dripped everywhere, off branches, down helmets; even down his neck.
“I’m probably not the one to ask this, Athaulf,” said the younger of the two reiks. “Not after St Martinus. But what did she say?”
“It’s alright, Theoderic. Times when hamfistedness works better than fine words,” he answered, amused; then considered. “She’ll accept. At least, I think she will. She believes in them so much; her God and her Empire. Many Romans who’ll see her a traitor in bed… in league with the enemy. She needs time to think.”
“Cuts both ways, Athaulf. Takes some getting used to, a Roman Queen,” said Wallia. “But before young Theoderic here runs a lance through me for offending the lady’s honour, I’ll say one thing. She’d be a fine reiks – if she was a man and a Goth.”
From Wallia this was as ringing an endorsement as he could hope for. With a damp nod Athaulf acknowledged the compliment.
The main body of men had passed out of sight around a copse of trees and, downwind, the yapping of the pack was blown away. Three men riding together, friends and comrades in arms; it was a simple world, Athaulf reflected, a good world on days like these. As if to prove the point, the rain had been whisked away and there were even a few breaks in the cloud, scudding by overhead.
They had left Narbo two days ago, heading towards the hills that hedged in the town against the sea. It was good land they had ridden through;
villas sprouting up every few miles – many abandoned but one or two still bravely lived in.
It was also old land. Once, far off, they had seen derelict walls and damaged columns between the cypress trees; the ruined temple of a god who had lost his immortality as the generations passed him by.
To the north of the Carcaso road the olive groves thinned out. Bush, scrub and woodland had accompanied their climb, as they turned westward towards the peak they called the Black Mountain. The light faltering on the short January day, they camped in the rough stone buildings of an old mine. From there they had hunted the hills, today almost as far as the Black Mountain itself.
“Athaulf?” Wallia’s whisper was urgent. “Slowly, slowly. Look to your left, up on that crest.”
Following the instructions to the letter, he saw a large clearing; beyond, a wooded hillside like they had been travelling past for much of the past two days.
“Can’t see it, Wallia; that deer do you think?”
“Not ‘less the deer’s got very clever and found some armour, no.”
“Wallia, how much of that wine…?” Theoderic’s jibe ended in silence. “Wait… By the Lord Christ,” he murmured. “Someone’s there, Athaulf. Wallia’s right. Bandits, bagaudae, whatever it is the Romans call them.”
Athaulf peered towards the wood. Yes, no; he couldn’t be sure.
“Wallia?”
“Not bagaudae, Athaulf, don’t think so. ‘Less I’m much mistaken that sunlight’s catching the metal of cavalry helmets. We’re being watched. Not just our dogs going soft, Athaulf. We’ve got Roman bloody cavalry within the mile and not one of our men has spotted ‘em. Just wait till I get Herfrig and Harduric back at camp, the lazy bastards.”
They spurred the horses on to join the rest of the men. He was calculating how long it would take Roman cavalry to reach them at the charge. But no horsemen came surging out of the far wood, just Herfrig with five of the men cantering back towards them.
“We thought you might be feeling lonely.” Herfrig scanned the wooded rise. “Still, looks like we might get some decent hunting after all.”
