by Roger Booth
Before he joined her on the couch, his had been the first of the many speeches, though very brief. “Our people,” he explained to the wondering assembly of Romans and Goths; “since first they crossed the great river they have journeyed many highways. But no-one in the whole world has ever travelled quite so far,” and he had held her eye. “As, my lady, you did today.”
The room had shaken to a volley of cheers and happy sobs. To Athaulf she had hardly known what to say; and she had found herself thinking. How it was as well that just the one Goth, the elderly man sporting a new Episcopal gown in the far corner; only he could guess just how far it was she had really travelled.
Then she had looked at the joyous blur before her, felt the reassuring warmth of Athaulf’s hand on hers – the hand as warm as had been his words; and re-joined the raucous harmony of that room full to bursting with such different faces.
The Roman faces were mostly unknown but from accent, style of hair, style of dress; in a blink she had placed them each and every one. She knew the Goth reiks, of course. Most of the other Goth nobles she had never met but they did not strike her as so different; unlike their women.
They looked older than the Roman women of the province; hardly painted – or painted too much. None had her young friend’s grace or looked so at ease draped in silk across a couch. Over the wide, low banqueting table, a battlefield of gold flagons, silver candlesticks and, now, the first heavily laden platters, she sought out Rohilde’s familiar face; raised a quiet glass through the hubbub – to their hopes.
She had long lost count of the courses. Being by the sea, there was fish of every sort; in soups, in aspic, grilled and stewed. Though it was winter, cattle had been slaughtered, duck hunted down and the woodland larder pillaged of its pigeon, boar and deer. Between each course songs, more wine and speeches; the speeches led by Attalus, one time self-proclaimed Emperor of Rome, and witty they were.
Athaulf and she; together – heads almost touching – they admired the speeches, admired the food. Time enough to say the other things she had never said to anyone before. Long she had waited to be wed. And though, in Ravenna, none would agree; this day she knew it. She had wed well.
Ingenius had retaken his place when a fanfare of sorts from outside; and not from trumpets. To a bellow of hunting horns, the central doors were thrown wide and a new group of slaves was filing into the room. Inwardly, she groaned at the thought of still more food.
Then Athaulf’s hand was on hers. “Placidia,” he whispered, “you didn’t think I would forget? Your wedding gift,” he said.
She looked again. These new slaves were young men, every one; dressed in matching blue silk tunics. She tried to count how many, when she heard Athaulf’s proud voice: “Fifty, they are.”
The guests in the outer ring of couches had seen it first and the room began to fill with cries of wondering disbelief.
Now she saw why.
Each of the slaves carried a solid gold salver; on each salver a glittering rainbow of rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires.
She called for the nearest candle, beckoned across a brace of slaves. Lovingly she inspected the stones one by one, turning them between finger and thumb against the light. She had never seen the Goth treasury but had heard speak of it; heard, too, from where it was pillaged. For the smallest instant her inner voice wondered; whether in Rome she had ever met the women who once had cherished these selfsame jewels.
She was aware the din in the room had died. From the corner of her eye she saw how, Goth and Roman, all were following her every movement. Unhurried, she worked her way through the salvers, holding the entire room by a slender finger. When finally it was done, she affected not to notice the breathless hush. Instead, Athaulf she held square in the centre of her gaze; and upon him bestowed her most brilliant smile.
*
Wallia raised his glass to the Roman and his wife. Sprawled, what was the word now? Reclining, that was it. Hardly mattered how you said it, they were at least as drunk as he was. He downed the glass in one; and belched.
The Roman woman raised her head, tried to copy him. He called over a slave; had him fill their goblets once more – a woman after his own heart.
Half empty the room, he vaguely noticed. They’d all risen to escort King and Queen to their carriage many flagons ago. In the great hallway the clapping, hallooing; then some, like him, had come back to start again where they’d left off.
Strange; a Roman for a queen and Athaulf dressed of all things as a Roman general. How he’d have loved to see the face of that miserable bastard, Constantius. Though it had been a feast to end all feasts, and Roman dress had suited Athaulf well.
The Princess had sparkled more than the diamonds in her crown but she not the only woman to catch his eye. In wide, woollen gowns Rohilde was one thing; in fashioned silk another altogether. ‘Course, he was old enough to be her grandfather. But Theoderic wasn’t, had absolutely insisted on seeing Rohilde and that old maid well seated. And had then swapped places with one of the maistans to be on the same couch.
Wallia snorted; dangerous bloody things, weddings.
A tap on the shoulder and he half rose, hand to absent sword; then collapsed with a wry smile. His sister’s son had stolen up on him without him hearing a step.
“Here,” said Herfrig, grinning. In his nephew’s hand was his sword belt. Wouldn’t feel right being on the street otherwise and Herfrig was right. Apart from his couch, the room was emptying fast. The Roman and his wife watched, fascinated, as he tottered to his feet, slipped the halter over his shoulder.
“Night,” he offered vaguely, took one last swig and lurched for the door.
Outside the wind was bitter, beyond the torches the night black as pitch; and, puzzlingly, his horse had grown by several hands.
“What’s the time?”
“Midnight gone,” Herfrig said, somehow getting his boot into that wandering stirrup. He felt the strong – and sober – young arms push him up into the saddle. Then Herfrig had swung onto his own horse and with a small guard of retainers they were walking the deserted, cobbled streets back home.
He’d have the head of a bear tomorrow. The wind, the movement of the horse; for now they kept him awake. “So, how was it?”
“Honour guard for the Princess? Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Uncle – what a lady our Queen.”
Much of the evening he’d spent stealing sideways glances at Athaulf and Galla Placidia. Not just young heads the Roman had turned. Smitten, he’d have to say, their King. As for the Roman, no telling – not much she gave away she didn’t want to. And, however drunk he might be, weddings did change lives. What with the fire he’d read on Athaulf’s face; if that illustrious belly was fertile, then this wedding might change a deal more.
“So you admire her then?” and Wallia need hardly look to know his nephew would be nodding through the darkness. “Well, Herfrig, I agree,” he belched once more. “The King’s treasury? Not worth half that woman, not half.”
IX
The month of October: in Narbo
The street stood in flames. Men, women, children ran in panic to the roar of fire, the crack of collapsing timber and the sound of their own screams.
“Help! Help me!” pleaded one soot-blackened woman, hair singed and smoking still. “My children!”
The crowd ran past without sight or heed. Where once her door had stood was a rage of flame whose tongues, even now, flicked at her torn gown. The roof had partly fallen in and the plaster on the walls was peeling away like the flesh from a burning man.
In desperation she bunched her hair, screamed; and thrust herself forward to her death. But he had seen in time. His arms snatched her back, clumsily held her as she sobbed hysterically. As fast as he dared without losing his grip on her, Herfrig backed their way out towards safety.
Ten yards, the putrid manure of a side alley and they were
in the fields. From here he saw how the flames, following the line of the old street, swept in a straight line towards the hulking walls of the town; an army at the charge.
Gentle drizzle from the night sky; across the scrubland where he stood, the tumbledown maze of the shanty town would crumple to ash at the first touch of those flames. Between the walls and the pillars of the old baths, eerily fading in and out of the reddened night, people stood by or wandered aimlessly among the weeds in a disbelieving daze.
He caught the eye of another woman. “Hold her,” and Herfrig handed over the mother now limp with despair.
Back he ran. Through the carnage Smiler and Harduric had organised a water chain. Another group of Goths turned into the street, some with swords in hand. At their head a maistans Herfrig recognised, just arrived with the men from Burdigala. “Faurgar, over here,” he waved.
The tall, grey-haired man snapped an order and his men hurried to join the line as the leather buckets were passed down.
“You see how it started?” he shouted over the din.
Herfrig shook his head in dumb reply and pointed in disbelief at the bodies strewn haphazard with arrow shafts buried deep in chest and back.
“Hey, you, all this?” Faurgar shouted in Latin to a Roman scurrying past. “What happened here?”
The Roman looked them up and down. “Goth scum – rode through the street with firebrands, shot the people coming out.” He spat at Faurgar’s feet. “Scum, murderers, every last one of you.”
Faurgar’s gauntleted hand gripped the man’s arm. “Scum we may be but we do not run, my friend. Get over there with our men,” he ordered with a crook of his head. “Help us save those we can.”
He released his grip and, for an instant, the man spun around before, eyes wild, he kept on down the street. They looked in disgust at the disappearing back before joining the swaying line of their retainers, with its dead and dying the narrow humdrum lane become a flaming vision from hell.
*
The guards outside the house recognised them both. “Faurgar, the King’s expecting you not Herfrig. And he was expecting you a while ago. He’s got the reiks with him and he’s not a happy man.”
Faurgar turned on him. “You see the blaze over there,” he said pointing to the red sky.
“Some-one got careless with a cooking pot?”
“Son,” said Faurgar pushing his finger into the man’s chest. “Someone got careless with firebrands and quiverfulls of arrows. And that someone was a group of our men. Now, I’ve travelled all day from Burdigala and with this young man’s help I just put down a riot on the King’s own doorstep. So, if you’ll stop wasting my time…,” and Faurgar elbowed his way on into the hall.
Herfrig was swept along and scarcely had chance to take his bearings before a slave ushered them in. Spread around the dining table the five men who ruled the people; he knew them all but had never been within the bounds of a Council before. He sought out his uncle, caught the warning; and so sat silent, watching on, while Faurgar gave report of the fire.
“And it has also been like this in Burdigala, you say?” said Athaulf, older than he remembered when last he saw him. Perhaps it was the dark frown that drew new lines about the eyes.
Faurgar looked down at the table before answering.
“No, Athaulf, it was not like that in Burdigala. In Burdigala women were raped, small children hacked to pieces before their mothers’ eyes, whole areas of the town burnt to the ground.” He paused: “Burdigala, Athaulf, was a disgrace. Our retainers – thank God for their discipline. We saved the town within the walls, though the rabble threatened even us.”
“How did you get things back …under control?” asked Erfrid.
“Under control? You mean like tonight?” and Herfrig saw Faurgar’s sarcasm go home as a blow to the face of both brothers.
Erfrid had the name of a gentle man. Certainly he was not angered as easily as some Goths he knew; his uncle Wallia for one.
“Faurgar,” spoke the King’s brother with no more than a hint of reproof. “You brought the men back to Narbo. That is some sort of control.”
“Yes, Erfrid, suppose it is,” apologised the grey-haired maistans. “Just like the men,” he said. “I lash out at the first thing I see.”
Faurgar drained his cup. While Athaulf carefully poured it full again, the maistans caught his breath and then returned to his tale. “Well, Erfrid, we got things under control, such as it is, by walking out of the gates and challenging the cowards to fight real men. A few likely lads banged their shields, told us how they’d feed us to the pigs. But none so much as raised an arm against us. Then we told them the next man caught raping, burning or stealing would hang.”
A grim smile: “Later that day we caught one with his trousers round his feet; hauled him by his scrawny neck over a tree. That sobered them up, the rabble.”
“You did well, my friend,” murmured the tight-cropped head of Sergeric. “But, apart from hanging, Faurgar, how else are we to calm their evil temper?”
Herfrig knew Sergeric was not his uncle’s closest friend on Council. But it was a question he also would have asked.
“Food or a fight,” Faurgar answered without hesitation. “Preferably both.”
Sergeric pursed his lips. Wallia and Theoderic gazed down at the table, Erfrid stroking his chin.
The King, a face of stone, slipped a gold armband over his wrist. “Faurgar, I cannot take away what has happened in Burdigala. But I can thank my kinsman for all he has done.” He handed the armband to Faurgar. “Please.”
It was a high honour, such a gift from the King. But Faurgar studied the armband a long moment before he took it.
Then Herfrig followed the older man’s lead; rose and made for the door. Every pace he took the room’s cold silence louder than a forest of flame.
Their hurried footsteps echoed in the shuttered and deserted streets, disturbed otherwise only by the wail of a stray cat or the muffled grunts of animals in their sheds. Their route passed the great house of Ingenius which occupied almost half the block.
“You know, young man? Last time I was in Narbo, it was for the wedding. In there,” he pointed. “Lot has changed since then, a lot has changed. And not a thing for the better.”
Herfrig was as respectful as the next of age and rank but could not let that pass. “Faurgar, the Queen is not to blame.”
“No, she’s not,” the other agreed. “I’m the King’s cousin and a Balthing and I’ll die before anything happens to either of them. But still, Herfrig, at times you have to face facts.”
They turned the corner and stopped; their paths to home leading separate ways.
“And the facts are as I say,” repeated the older man. “Not much good has happened since January. We are maistans, Herfrig. We must think what we can do. Because the people, they don’t think. They burn, they torch; and then they butcher whoever is weaker than them.”
“Still hard to credit,” Herfrig said, wondering. “But the Romans, they all told the same story so I suppose it must be true.”
“I have no doubts.” The older voice sounded tired. “You heard me say to Athaulf just now, Herfrig. In Burdigala I saw no end of fires. And fires the very least of it. Our people, I despair of them. Lord knows what the Romans here must think.”
Then Faurgar raised his hand in salute and Herfrig watched him head across the forum towards the great archway, soon lost among the shadowy statues. Then the dampness of the night drove his feet homeward; his home but his uncle’s house.
A maistans Faurgar had called him. Of course, that was true, though first a Ruthi and his uncle’s nephew. As long as he could remember, Wallia had always had the answer to every question asked. Tonight, though, he had seen that was no longer so; how empty-handed were all the men camped around that table. And the one, Theoderic, counted just a few summers more than he.
/>
*
She looked out between half-open shutters. “The fire is over,” she said, slowly pushing the shutters to and walking back to the bed.
Elpidia smoothed the sheets with practised hand. “Yes, Princess.” Princess she called her still, never queen; in Latin so foreign a word. “Tomorrow, about the house; should I ask more?”
Galla Placidia lay back against the bolstered, white pillows. “No,” she shook her head. “It’s probably not important. You’re sure, though, Elpidia; about this other thing? I can tell Athaulf?”
“Yes, my dearest,” and the old hands, creased and lined, rested on hers a moment. “Yes, you most certainly can. But first perhaps a moment’s rest?” and Elpidia signalled the waiting slave-girl to douse all but two of the candles. Then with a small curtsy and the swish of a gown, she was alone.
Galla Placidia eased the shoulders, let the shades of the room softly engulf her; unsettling, that fire, then the loud voices by the door. Athaulf was still with the Council, the reiks, as she had learnt to say. She could feel the tension seeping up through floor and walls.
The afternoon, too, had been far from easy.
“So, Attalus my friend, where will you go?” she had asked.
“I’m not sure, Highness; Africa perhaps.”
“And the blockade?”
“With the gold I will find a boat. As for the blockade,” he had shrugged. “We are all in God’s hands.”
They sat in the smaller of the formal rooms in the King’s house, the house that was now also hers. Galla Placidia was fond of Attalus; he had been a fine companion through the years since Rome. She would never forget how he had sung so charmingly on the day of their wedding; even if that day now often seemed long ago.
“I hope you do not feel too let down,” she asked hesitantly. “But I think it is for the best.”
“Athaulf has been generous to a fault, Highness. I’m sure I can thank you for that. And there’s no point in me staying. You can claim the throne once, even twice as we tried. But a third time?”
