Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  “Glad you’ve finally found eyes in your head,” Wallia snorted. “What’s Harduric up to?”

  Herfrig didn’t seem overly offended, just nodded over his shoulder. The rest of the men had spilt into two, one group fanning out as a screen across the clearing, the others working their way up along the clearing’s edge.

  Athaulf smiled: “So, we take a look?”

  “Don’t fancy being on that slope, facing a charge. Forgive me, Athaulf,” Wallia said with a frown. “But we’ve half the Council sitting here. Don’t want another Massilia.”

  A flash of irritation – he was the King, not Wallia. Then Athaulf remembered; Wallia was also the warrior and another Massilia they truly did not need. He must be worrying about Galla Placidia more than he realised.

  At the foot of the clearing they waited what seemed an age before Harduric came trotting down. “There, all right,” he called when in hailing distance. “Droppings and broken branches.”

  “How many?” shouted Wallia and the man Harduric waited until he was closer before answering behind the steam of his breath.

  “Don’t know, Wallia, a couple perhaps; just a small patrol.”

  “Wallia… Theoderic,” Athaulf said hesitantly, looking back up the slope then up at the sky. “Nightfall in a few hours; those woods not safe, seems to me.”

  It still sat badly, shying away from a fight, and he was relieved when Wallia agreed. “Aye, Athaulf; can’t follow a trail in the dark. Them buggers’ll still be hereabouts tomorrow. Then who knows? Maybe Herfrig’ll get his hunting.”

  *

  “Princess, you asked to see me?” A slave girl set out a goblet of wine and a bowl of fruit for each of them; then soundlessly disappeared. In the corner, an elderly maid sat engrossed in her embroidery. Just a short walk from his town house and he had come within the hour of her message.

  “Something has happened, Candidianus, something quite important. I don’t think it will come as a complete surprise to you either.”

  He reached for a sprig of grapes and waited for Galla Placidia to get to the point.

  “Athaulf has asked for my hand in marriage.”

  Candidianus was not surprised at all, the only surprise how long it had taken since that day at St. Martinus. “Ah, and I presume congratulations are in order, Princess.”

  “That’s what I want your opinion on.”

  “A simple question, Princess, but…” The prevarication brought a flash of impatience to the resolute eyes. “A powerful man, Athaulf,” cautiously he continued. “A man of substance – and not just because of his army. He has always struck me an honourable man.”

  Galla Placidia sipped at her wine and carefully replaced the goblet on her table.

  “I thank you for your thoughts, Candidianus. But I didn’t ask you here to discuss Athaulf’s personal attributes. I want your opinion about me marrying the man whose army sacked the Eternal City; and has defied Rome for nigh on forty years.”

  Before he could reply, “I know what they will think in Ravenna,” she went on. “For… various reasons I’m not sure how much I care. But you and your friends here in Narbo, the men you know in Burdigala; they are different. You are not in these Imperial wheels within wheels. Yet you are Roman. As Roman as any man in my brother’s council chamber.”

  The brusque confidence of a Princess atop her Imperial throne subsided into what sounded like a cry for help. “I would not have you feel betrayed,” she said to him.

  He glanced over at Elpidia in the corner: “Your maid?”

  “I would trust her with my life, Candidianus.”

  “I’m sure, Princess, and forgive me,” he said, glad Galla Placidia had understood.

  He was not a Roman senator but, for the province, of comparable rank. And he was wealthy. Many the secret reports written to a court in Ravenna that thought it might lack for friends and knew it lacked for money.

  Gathering his thoughts, he glanced round the room. The interlocked diagonals of the mosaic were interesting, the dominant browns and reds cleverly echoed in the soft ochre and pastel pink of the wall painting; a considered, harmonious whole. What a Roman house and a Roman life were meant to be.

  “Princess, to answer you fairly I should start at the beginning. Perhaps then you can better understand how the world looks; to those outside what you called the wheels within wheels.”

  She nodded agreement and Candidianus settled into his stride.

  “I am indeed a Roman; as Roman as anyone you might meet in the forum of Rome. If what I hear of Rome nowadays is true, then a sight more. You see, Princess, Narbo was founded by Domitius Ahenobarbus as the capital of our then new Roman province; built among virgin fields. What should I say? Some one hundred or so years before the birth of our Lord – more than five hundred years ago, if memory serves me right.”

  “A long time,” Galla Placidia politely agreed. “And Ahenobarbus? As in..?”

  “Yes, Princess, a forefather of Nero. Fortunately he was a more – uh – considered man; quite the old school of the Republic. Apart from the town itself, he built the via Domitia – hence the name. But the point I wanted to make is that my family is not just Roman by upbringing,” he said. “We are Roman by blood, all the older families here the same. We were the first settlers to come from Italia.”

  He sipped the wine. “It has not been easy for us these past years.”

  “I can imagine, the Vandals. Now, they really are barbarians,” said Galla Placidia with evident sympathy.

  “The barbarians, yes, Princess. Then there are the brigands, the bagaudae, and the supposedly Roman armies of the rebels.” He made a dismissive gesture. “But the real worry, Princess, is what the Empire did.”

  “And that was?”

  “Nothing, Princess, not a thing.”

  She made to protest.

  “I exaggerate – perhaps,” he conceded. “They dealt with the first usurper in the end though it took an age before loyal troops ever showed themselves north of the Alps. Then Jovinus, the next one, they left to Athaulf completely…”

  Galla Placidia was a little lost. “Candidianus, I understand things have been bad; very bad. But I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Let me be plain, Princess” he said. “The best case we, I, see is that the Empire lacks the strength to defend us. That could be. It’s hard to believe they did not fight to defend Rome, unless they were certain of defeat.”

  He paused: “But it could be worse.”

  “Worse?” She was back on her Imperial throne, almost glaring him down, though perhaps, he thought, the glare was not meant for him.

  “Princess, you were young then. But you may just remember when Radagasius invaded Italia?”

  From the Princess the curtest nod.

  “Then you see,” he explained. “They dealt with him promptly enough even while the Army of Gallia was being cut to pieces by barbarians and rebels.”

  He looked down at the floor that could have been in any house from Africa to Britannia – if houses that embattled island still possessed. “Princess,” he said. “It seems we no longer live in the Roman Empire with all that should mean – our shared traditions, our shared way of life. It feels like an Empire of Italia, for Italia. An Empire in which, quite frankly, Gallia hardly counts at all.”

  He added gloomily more or less as an afterthought: “And Lord knows what they think in Hispania. As you said, Princess; with the Vandals it must be many times worse than here.”

  By now Galla Placidia’s face was a picture of frank astonishment. “So I suppose I asked you the wrong question, Candidianus,” she said at length. “I should have asked if my marriage to Athaulf would merely add to your sense of betrayal.”

  “Your marriage a betrayal, Princess? Not in the least. If you’ll forgive me,” and he could not quite suppress a glance across at the corner where Elpidia sat a
pparently deaf to the world. “If you’ll forgive me, it would be the first useful thing the Imperial family has done since Theodosius, your father, so sadly passed away.”

  *

  “We’d broken camp at dawn and bloody cold it was, too; then back to where we’d been spotted.”

  Athaulf had summoned the reiks to Council and Wallia was making report.

  “They were careless. Saw smoke. Athaulf, Theoderic and me, we left the horses and edged through the bushes overlooking the camp. We weren’t more than ten yards from the nearest tent – close enough to hear ‘em fart,” he growled with a flourish.

  “How many did you say?” asked Sergeric.

  “A hundred; few more, few less,” Wallia replied. “Nothing like a full regiment, too many to make it a certainty if we’d attacked. And with things as they are, didn’t seem a good idea. Not sure as how the Princess would feel ‘bout a hundred or so cut up Roman soldiers as a wedding gift.” This said with a glance in his direction.

  “The same cavalry you saw at Valentia?” Sergeric again the one to ask.

  The mass of hair shook vigorously. “No, Sergeric. Lighter cavalry, these were, scouts; not real serious battle cavalry like them bastards last year. Not as good as the others either, else we’d probably never have found them; or got so close.”

  “So you think that’s all they’re there for, scouting?”

  “Sergeric, we think so,” Athaulf answered, taking over. “We rode the hills for two more days and that was all we found.”

  “Baeterrae to Carcaso – it’s a long flank if Constantius comes at us.”

  To Athaulf’s count, this was the fourth time the reiks with the closely cropped head had spoken; and each time to voice discomfort, perhaps displeasure.

  “Sergeric,” he said, voice level. “I’d be surprised if Ravenna’s first reaction is one of joy. Whether they’re prepared to fight over it, well,” he conceded, “it’s possible. But we all agreed,” he reminded the Karthi. “We all agreed it’s worth the risk.”

  “Be surprised if they got a real army through them hills,” added Wallia, the support welcome in the frosty room. “Once upon a time maybe, but they’ve not got it in ‘em now, you ask me. If they do come, they’ll follow the highway down from Arelate,” he said. “We hold the fork by Baeterrae and we cover both roads – to Carcaso as well as here to Narbo.”

  Nodding heads from his brother and Theoderic and no argument from Sergeric this time, who sat back, arms folded tight enough to crack a rib.

  “Of course, Athaulf, this all assumes the Princess accepts.”

  “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. That was the other reason I called us together today,” Athaulf said, trying to keep the triumph from voice and face. “The Princess asked me to see her shortly after our return last night. We are to be wed in two weeks, before month end. A Roman marriage, nothing religious, you’re right there, Sergeric. Galloping horses wouldn’t drag the Princess to a Christian wedding according to our faith. Anyway, everything’s in hand. Candidianus tells me that every Roman family within a hundred miles is dying to attend.”

  *

  She turned around again and studied herself up and down. Her head was adorned with the crown of an Imperial Princess, while diamonds hung at her neck and glistened on the bracelets around both wrists. Below the sumptuous folds of her white dress peeped the toes of her shoes, saffron-yellow in the traditional way.

  “So how do I look?” she asked, more than a little nervous.

  Elpidia, Rohilde and a handful of slave women gave her a concerted and critical examination.

  “Magnificent,” her maid’s answer; Rohilde just gleamed with mute pride. The Goth had put aside her normal woollen gown and also wore a white silk dress in the Roman style, a gift for the occasion from the wife of Candidianus.

  There was a discreet knock and Galla Placidia saw the lady herself poke her head around the door. “Wonderful, Princess” she smiled. “The carriage is ready, when you are,” she added, quickly pulling the door to against curious eyes.

  Elpidia carefully fitted the ceremonial veil; the same saffron-yellow as her shoes. Then she took from the outstretched arms of two slave girls the heavy cloak of rich purple silk, its hem picked out in gold thread. This she draped about the shoulders, closed the gold clasp at her neck; shook and brushed the cloak into one even fall.

  The slave girls helped Elpidia and Rohilde with their own, simpler cloaks before Elpidia, one last time, made minute adjustments to crown, veil and cloak; a satisfied sparkle from the familiar, crinkled face.

  A short intake of breath and a slave girl drew open the door. In the hallway was waiting her escort; Candidianus with wife and Erfrid, long hair flowing down to the crisp toga that, all his days, he had surely never worn before.

  Following the lead of Candidianus, all three applauded, and she stole a glance about her; this the last time she would ever set foot inside the familiar house. Tonight she would rest elsewhere; and told her pulse it need not race so.

  Candidianus offered his arm, Elpidia and Rohilde falling in behind, at the rear Erfrid and Candidianus’ wife. Followed by this small cortege, she stepped out into the bracing gusts of the January morning. By the door waited two carriages and, further down the street, two lines of Goth horsemen. Behind a further file of Goth retainers, the townspeople of Narbo stood rows deep.

  Handed up, she sat back cautiously against the leather bolster, not wanting to disturb Elpidia’s touches of perfection more than she must. To her side Candidianus, opposite Erfrid; then a wait and all the while she gave thanks for the veil, that none could see what she supposed was a face even whiter than her dress.

  Candidianus turned, the other ladies were settling in the second carriage. Then forward and a riot of garlands and ribbons filled the air, the thunder of well-wishes drowning out hooves and wagon wheels.

  Ten minutes that might have been ten seconds they rolled through the streets of Narbo. As they had taught her those many years in Ravenna, just now and then the slightest incline of her head.

  The coach came to a halt by a heaving crowd, for the first time the massed sound penetrating her sealed composure. At the door Ingenius stood waiting beside Sergeric dressed in toga; next to them Wallia and Theoderic in Goth tunics, Wallia’s deep green, Theoderic’s crimson; both brilliant against the formal Roman white.

  Erfrid and Candidianus were handing her down, her foot on the first rung of the folding step, when Wallia cried out in his own tongue; a salute answered by the Goth cavalry escort, swords held high. They were calling her name; if she was not mistaken, they were calling her Queen.

  This they had not taught her in Ravenna. For a moment she stood there nonplussed, foot poised in mid-air, before from Rohilde a quick flash of encouragement. Then she was down, surrounded by her ladies and into the entrance hall.

  Elpidia unclasped the cloak and made a final, minute check, while guests standing towards the back of the central hall craned their necks and stared. The honour party was re-arranged. With Ingenius and Candidianus the Goth reiks formed two rows, immediately behind her the ladies, Rohilde in the middle. A nod from Candidianus and she threw back her head; began to walk with measured stride.

  Her ears sung to the blood pumping in her veins, the noisy hush of whispers, the sweep of her dress. Past one laurel-covered pillar, then a second, a third; she turned. Behind the cover of her veil, she felt the blood flood back to her cheeks.

  At the far end of the hall stood Athaulf; she had thought in toga.

  Instead, he was arrayed in the full dress of a Roman general; gold-burnished breast plate, sword at his side and under his left arm the traditional golden helmet with red-feathered plume. About his shoulders hung the dark crimson paludamentum or dress cloak worn only by a magister of the Empire’s army.

  As nearer she came, pace for pace, she thought; how naturally he wore the uniform of Ro
me. His long blond hair which scarce would fit under the helmet she chose to ignore – in favour of the chiselled face and frankly admiring gaze with which he followed her approach. A step away she stopped and with that all the room fell silent.

  Athaulf raised his right hand.

  She lifted her veil; grasped his hand with her own. Women screamed and cried, the men shouted and cheered near enough to have the ceiling of Ingenius’ fine house come tumbling down. And of this she was barely aware. All she noticed was a welcome of firm grip, broad chest, square shoulders; and the glowing blue-green eyes.

  “Dear guests, illustrious guests; so it has come true and in our own time what is written in the Good Book: how a Princess of the South shall be joined with a King of the North.”

  Ingenius beamed around the room.

  “I ask you charge and raise your glasses. I give you King Athaulf of the North and Princess Galla Placidia of the South,” he turned to her and bowed: “His fair lady Queen.”

  Fists pounded tables, feet stamped the floor. She smiled her thanks at the worthy and well-meaning Ingenius.

  A whir of smiles it had been, since Athaulf had led her into the great dining room of the house. By the door they had stood and received the homage of the Goth maistans and what had seemed to her the entire province of Gallia.

  Ingenius, Candidianus and the reiks had ushered the guests to their places. To accommodate so many they had set two banks of couches around the room. At the head of the central horseshoe was a particularly grand couch with a high carved back, gilded and encrusted with pearl.

  When all had taken their places, Ingenius, Candidianus and the four reiks had escorted her and Athaulf to the head of the table past walls draped in embroideries of silk. The couch was set for five.

  She had been about to sit to the right of the King’s central place when Athaulf had taken her arm.

  “Placidia, yours the place of honour,” he had spoken softly and to her alone.