by Roger Booth
He stared hard into the faces about him, shocked and uncertain. “So die the lawless, the dust their shame.” He spoke loud, all the while his mind desperately seeking words in the old style; words that might sanctify his deed before Ardrade and the men.
“Lost the Lord’s grace, long the soul’s mourning.”
He stepped a pace back, the others he saw puzzled; how words that sounded so familiar they did not recall. “In the name of Wallia, our King, I do justice,” and his sword swung at the neck of Brandas, the cut not clean. Nevertheless and one by one, the men met his gaze; began to nod, slow and solemn.
He looked down a last time at the gashed and half severed head, tongue lolling from the blood-caked mouth.
“Bury the others,” he ordered.
“And Brandas?” a voice asked, uncertain still.
“This one?” He wiped his blade, before sliding it back inside its silver-rimmed scabbard. “This one you leave for the crows.”
XIII
The month of November: in the neighbourhood of Gades
The waves towered high and raced towards him; before breaking in an angry clash of green-grey water and dirt-white spray. He had faced countless charges of men and horse; had even seen sea storms before. But Wallia had never witnessed the like. It was all he could do not to turn and run back up the sand to the higher shore.
Theoderic tapped him on the shoulder. The wind whipped away the words before he had a chance to hear. But he caught the drift. No point in staying here any longer, making everyone despair. He part walked, was part blown back up the sloping beach. The others gratefully followed, once behind the dunes collapsing out of the wind.
“How long?” he asked, raised his voice to a shout. “How long can we hold on?”
Rademer stroked his dark, straggling hair. A new man, not from the old clans, he had taken on Erfrid’s thankless role as quartermaster. “Food enough, Wallia,” he shouted back. “Depends how much we want to fight the Vandals to get it.”
Wallia glared. They were counting out the heads of corn as if these were the rarest gemstones while living in what was a land of plenty. Problem was this wasn’t their land. “Those god-rotten Silings,” he spoke with frustration.
“The Vandals, Silings or Hasdings; makes no difference,” protested Theoderic. “They’re cowards. They’ll not touch us.”
“True,” he agreed. “But if they did… and half the people the other side of that water…”
He didn’t need to finish. No-one had seriously tried to stop them as their carts had trekked the long miles, seven hundred miles in all. Past Valentia they had rumbled, skirting what was the home now of the Alans, and then across the heart of Baetica, the territory of the Siling Vandals, to Corduba and finally Gades, the largest port in Hispania. No-one had seriously tried to block their path because the Suebi, Alans and the two separate groups of Vandals; they were each jackals to the Goth lion. But jackals can take a lion if it’s weak and there are enough animals in the pack.
“We keep paying the prices, we can last a while longer,” Rademer was speaking again. “But those prices’ll only go one way. We stay here till spring, Wallia; I reckon we’ll have a treasury near empty as our bellies.”
Wallia watched the tufts of grass above his head being flayed alive by the wind. It had been foolish to come to the shore; he’d made his mind up long ago. “Theoderic, we go ahead as planned. First decent weather, you take the advance party. The rest of us’ll follow in dribs and drabs.”
He looked at them; Rademer, Harduric, Ardrade, Herfrig, even Theoderic. He saw the doubt, even the fear, in their eyes. “I know, I know,” he shouted after the next gust. “But a better way we don’t have. We must try for Africa.”
Dutifully they nodded as the rain came on and the rhythm of the waves echoed in their ears; like the chanting of warriors beating swords on shields. Privately, he agreed with them and that with all his soul. Sooner the Vandals and all the legions Rome could muster than those watery demons, just the other side of the dunes, who would wash their lives away.
*
They left Rademer and Harduric back at the camps; the camps spread out along the highway, miles back to Corduba in the north. With Herfrig, Theoderic and Ardrade he crossed the narrow spit that linked Gades to the mainland, the spit all flying sand and branches.
To seaward, against the greying of wind-whipped cloud, the great waves still surged and plunged like the sea-monsters of which the old tales sung, the squat walls of Gades a small off-white pearl bedded in the anguished vastness.
“See you down at the harbour,” Wallia waved as he walked into the hall; his household a home for waifs and strays, as often he grumbled to himself. But he would never have hinted so much to either Rohilde or Galla Placidia, the two women under his protection. Or was it the other way round, he sometimes wondered, as the household slaves scurried to fulfil their many orders in this new and temporary home?
After Barcino there had been no debate about Galla Placidia’s future. As his nephew had famously said, the Goths were in no doubt who was their Queen; or that Alaric and Athaulf were the founders of their young nation. At a time when wounds were raw, it served him well to be so linked with daughter and widow.
And the thing was, he reminded himself, the wounds had needed to heal quickly. Those seven hundred miles had taken an age to cover in carts carrying a hundred thousand men, women, children and their livestock; the horses to fight on and those ever fewer domestic animals that gave some sort of food.
He had convened a new Council and preparations were begun for the great journey. Athaulf’s last words had died with the man. Not much hope in out-waiting the cautious General in Arelate. For him, as a new king, to wait in Barcino was to wait for the next knife.
Led by Theoderic, the advance guard headed south within the week of Sergeric’s death. Theoderic told him the very first day they met in Gades, just a week or so back, that Africa was close enough to touch. But Theoderic had been there during September and the weather fair. Just over two months to cover seven hundred miles and every wagon brought safely to camp; but, still, it hadn’t been fast enough. Those shocking waves this morning had spoken it loud and clear.
“Bad out there?” Rohilde asked him. In the privacy of the house his face must have said much about what he thought.
“It was…it was something I’ve never seen before. Standing there on the shore, can’t quite credit it, Rohilde. But I think I was afraid.”
She looked as if he spoke in jest. Then, from the faint shadow across the eyes, he saw she understood; how it might be as he said. “But it can’t be like this all the time, can it? Not all winter long?”
“No, Rohilde. No, suppose it really can’t,” he forced himself to agree.
She turned to Galla Placidia, as if looking for confirmation, but the Roman kept her counsel, eyes downcast. Since Rohilde had joined his household, Theoderic had maintained a daily siege on those flaxen plaits. For once, he was not there to lighten the dark silence of the blue and red tiled room.
Wallia cleared his throat. “Reminds me, Rohilde. Theoderic’s down at the harbour.” He turned in the doorway. “Care to join us?”
She looked again at the Roman woman, hesitated; then with a nod she followed.
Out on the street, two men coming towards them squeezed against the house wall to let them pass. Helmets and no greeting; “Vandals,” he grunted. Rohilde scurrying at his side and retainers following on close behind, he strode on, over the glistening cobbles and down to the harbour. She joined him in a quick, curious glance at the disappearing men, who returned the gaze. In the streets of Gades, Goth and Vandal brushed shoulders and watched their backs.
Wallia was more interested in watching the boats. The hulls they could buy with shiny coin; or shining sword point. But captains to sail them? In Gades, from up and down the coast, they had begged and bribed as many a
s they could and there were still barely enough.
“Galla Placidia,” she began through the latest cloudburst, water dripping down from her sable hood. “I don’t know what it is. Since we arrived here… she’s different. Hardly says a word.”
“Lot on her mind,” he ventured; saw Rohilde unconvinced.
“It’s not that, not what happened at Barcino,” she said, dodging a puddle. “The child, Athaulf; the loss made her sad, made her weep perhaps – but it didn’t stop her talking to me. Here in Gades, it’s as if we’re strangers.”
“Maybe in a way we are.”
They were coming to the quayside, an armed camp of retainers who guarded the precious boats and, outside the walls, the narrow way back to the camps. Here more than anywhere else in the town, any Vandal who approached did well to talk easy and keep his hands well clear of the sword hilt. Besides the boats, here, too, was the royal treasury.
“Afternoon, Brodagast,” he nodded.
“Aye, Wallia, and a foul one.”
He gestured for Rohilde to follow him some paces, under the eaves of the warehouse, sheltered from the worst of the wind. “Don’t know if I’m right, Rohilde. And I wouldn’t have told you…”
“Told me what?”
“Galla Placidia,” he began, stopped then started again. “She…she can’t want us in Africa.”
“Then what does she want? Us all to starve to death?”
“No, Rohilde,” he said, looking into the open face. “She means the people well; you most of all. But Africa… you remember long ago, back in Burdigala? Athaulf’s first offer to return the Princess, as we called her then? Did you know?”
“Athaulf asked me to read the Prefect’s letter. He couldn’t believe what it said.”
“Nor I,” he admitted. “But think about it. If Rome needs Africa for wheat and we control Africa…”
“Then we control…” She caught herself. “But we wouldn’t, Wallia, surely? My father, my uncle; we’ve always wanted to be Rome’s friend. It’s Rome that has always said no.”
He leant back against the warehouse wall. “You have your foot on a man’s wind-pipe…” he sighed but came no further.
Theoderic’s head popped around the corner, gave a quizzical look at the two of them. “So there you are, Rohilde. Ardrade thought he saw you.” The tall reiks held out his hand. “Come, let me show you the boats.”
Wallia nodded; he had said all he wanted.
Back by the warehouse gate, he watched as Theoderic proudly showed off the stores of spears and javelins, the barrels of herring, all stacked along the quay. Losing interest, he looked for gaps in the cloud.
None for now but the pilots and captains had told them. If the weather let up just for a day they could easily be across and ashore in Africa, so long as they were quick about it. The royal treasury had loosened tongues. On the other side were border guards, the limitanei, who held no fear for a Goth army. What men the Romans had were spread out in garrisons all across the province of Tingitana. For Galla Placidia, Goth Queen and Roman Princess, it could not be easy. Once his people were safe in Africa, the world would be forever changed. Friends to the Romans they might be, that he’d grant; but on their terms, not those of a Roman General.
*
The water dripped down the stacked spear shafts into the rippling puddles. Theoderic didn’t seem to notice, any more than the men waiting patiently in the doorways of the wooden fishing shacks.
“Each boat’s different,” he was explaining to her, as Ardrade called out the names and men stepped forward, into the driving rain. “Each captain tells us how many men we can take. The retainers will go into the camps tomorrow, find volunteers to join them. Then, as soon as the weather clears, we can begin loading.”
She watched the boats rock and sway at their moorings. Some she heard called for sixty men, others forty. The ropes rattled, the forest of masts a-whine; even in the harbour the waves slapped up hard against wooden hulls and stone quay. Further along the harbour, by the breakwater that guarded the entrance to the bay, there billowed constant clouds of misty spray. Sometimes, evil like a serpent, the Ocean slid over the wall in a cascade of solid green.
She watched all this but her mind was elsewhere, in the dowdy house where sat her friend, Galla Placidia; who wished them well, according to Wallia. But how well, she was thinking?
“’Course, we’re not taking horses for now,” she heard him say.
“No, of course not.”
“Better this way, keep the men busy.”
She remembered Wallia; how he had almost said the unthinkable. She wanted to ask. Were the men, was he, not afraid? First Galla Placidia, now Wallia; an instant, she imagined the sopping, solid stone dissolve beneath her feet into an uncertainty of spume and foam. An instant she closed her eyes.
When next she opened them, he was peering into her hood. Unlike Herfrig’s or her uncle’s, when he was alive, his face was regular but large boned she noticed; as if for the first time. She looked away again, towards the heaving breakwater. Then, when she still gave no answer: “Wallia says we have to try. They say we’ll be in sight of land all the time,” he told her; with the comforting smile she thought she should rather have offered him. “And it’s not so terrible, Rohilde, is it now,” he said. “One day’s ordeal against a whole life?”
*
From outside came the tramp of marching feet, snatches of rough song; she pushed away the plate of grilled fish. The roads had echoed to the noise of the Goth army all day. The house was empty but for the slaves who hovered at the edge of her sombre gaze. Upstairs she knew Elpidia would be readying the little room that was the only space reserved for her; the only space, save the aching space of her mind.
This was the simplest of all the houses she had lodged in, barely room for the slaves in the tents that filled the small garden to bursting point. Wallia had explained that, what with the province full of Vandals, they were lucky to find anywhere at all close to the harbour side. Vandals, harbour side… The next silver dish had made its steaming way to the table, the smell of garlic, beans and salted fish turning her stomach.
“No,” she said. The rough wall tiles, red flowers in a blue and white surround, shouted at her through the silence. She made her way out into the hall and, slowly, tread by tread, up the white painted wooden stairs.
“Rohilde is not back yet, Princess?”
“No, Elpidia. She is still down at the harbour, with the men.”
“They will sail tomorrow?”
“So Wallia tells me.”
The shutters clacked and clattered in the brisk westerly wind. Stars she could see through the slats, stars and the ghostly edges of small ragged clouds.
“It is early but I shall go to bed.”
Elpidia smoothed the sheets, the top covering turned down. “Shall I come back to blow out the candle?”
She shook her head, had already begun to slip the gown from her shoulders, place it across the arms outstretched and waiting.
“Leave me now.”
The door shut, she watched the candle flicker, as if each loud step outside so disturbed the calm air of the shaded room. The wax slipped down the side, a jumble of white lava where the rim of the candle top had given way. Earlier, Wallia and Rohilde had asked her if she would join them; and had not seemed so surprised when she mumbled her decline.
Half in a trance, she lay there until the candle spoke of an hour and more gone past; and outside no more the sound of marching feet. She pushed the shutter ajar and peered out into the bluster of the evening. From the harbour she heard now the distant grumble of men’s voices, sometimes a deep hum, sometimes a high note, as if, already, the people were celebrating their conquest.
She cupped her hand and blew out the wick; stared at the feeble oblong light coming through the cracks of the doorframe from candles in the corridor. On t
ip-toe, she went to the door, lent her shoulder against it. It was shut fast, the house quiet.
She had thought about it for many days, many weeks, as they rattled southwards down the highway. She had hoped against hope that the storms would never abate. But if, of its own accord, the Ocean would not come to Rome’s aid, in her innermost she had always known what she must do. She listened at the door one more time; then stealthily padded back towards her bed.
*
The rush of winter air had Theoderic awake in seconds. Torch in hand, Ardrade stood in the warehouse doorway. Wallia he heard stir, the blond head leant against his shoulder still fast asleep. He slipped out from underneath, let the head down onto the bench where they had snatched a few hours rest. With Wallia’s help he lifted the legs up, so Rohilde was stretched out. Then they left, softly shutting the door.
The word had gone out to the camps yesterday, the first day in more than a week when the rains and wind had not lashed the coast. From the camps the men had trooped across the spit, those who, bravely, had held up their hands. On the quayside waited barrels of ale and oxen turned over a blazing fire. The first good meal many would have had in months – then nothing was too good for the men who would take Africa for the people. In the darkness, at the feast’s end, they had followed the retainers to their boats, cloaks and shields their shelter for the rest of the short night.
None of the captains had been convinced but long swords and the hint of yet more coin had reduced the protest to shrugs and muttered words.
The rumble of waves echoed across the quayside, now quiet and deserted but for Wallia and those retainers staying behind. Aboard the boats, shields and cloaks were pushed aside, an army of men emerging from under their makeshift tents. Theoderic went to his boat, greeted by yawns and the smell of ale and sweat. He talked a few words with the helmsman, came ashore once more.
