Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  “You asked why they hate you,” the Goth broke the tense silence of their little column.

  “So I recall.”

  “Count, look at the children.”

  “They’re half starved,” he said, the disapproval spoken before he knew it.

  “And barbarian mothers, they know no better?” The Goth looked at him, part angered, part in pity.

  The slight accent on barbarian; only then did he remember what Euplutius had said. Of course, the blockade; and found he was being studied hard by both men. “No, Er… Erfrigius. I… I’m sure they do,” he managed, under the flat stare of the General’s chief spy.

  The next camp stretched away on both sides of the road as far as he could see. What fell as snow in the mountains fell here as dismal rain. One pace off the brick-paved highway and everywhere the ground was churned to mud, grey as the clouds, as the smoke from the Goth fires; as the worn faces.

  The Goth Erfrigius leant towards him. “Lucellus, tell your men. I shall ride in command.”

  He was about to snap something short and sharp by way of answer when, a hundred yards ahead, a horde of Goths, women as much as men, surged out from the wagons, blocking the road. “Men,” he swivelled in the saddle. “The Goth Erfrigius will take command. No weapons, no clever remarks,” he ordered. “Or if we live through this, I’ll flog you dead myself.”

  He reined in enough to allow the Goth to take the centre.

  “We’re in safe hands,” whispered Euplutius, leaning across behind the Goth’s back.

  “We’re certainly in God’s hands,” grunted Lucellus, as their steady trot brought them ever closer to the sullen line of staves and spears. Fifty to one, not counting however many were following behind; his men would not last a minute.

  Erfrigius raised his hand for the troop to halt; called out in his tongue. Silence, then heckling cat-calls and the line blocking the road edged a step closer. The young Goth swung down from the saddle, tore off his helmet, spoke more. A woman’s sharp voice answered, taken up by some of the men.

  “Lucellus, dismount,” the Goth ordered in Latin without turning his head. “Euplutius, you too.”

  Lucellus considered himself a brave man. But despite the winter cold, he was sweating as his stomach lurched and would not rest. It was not how he wanted to die, hacked to pieces on a scruffy winter’s day by barbarian peasants.

  Erfrigius turned. “Your sword,” and, bleakly, he obeyed. The Goth drew his blade, placed the point at his neck then tossed him back his own sword, hilt first. Lucellus looked on as the young Goth raised his blade high. “Wallia!” the shout and words he did not understand.

  No answer from the grim faces, the Goth walked to within sword length, marched left and right, then raised the sword again. “Wallia!”

  A stone bounced off a trooper’s breast plate with a sharp ring. The sword arm twitched and he locked eyes with the under-officer. A hurried snarl from the side of that battle-hardened mouth and the trooper stiffened in the saddle. Thank God, he thought; thank God for army regulations. Then he heard the mob begin to shuffle, loud shouts from the back. He turned to face them, determined to die with dignity.

  The woman with the venomous voice he saw in tears, a man’s burly arm about her shoulders, Erfrigius talking to them both. A band of heavily armed barbarians on horseback, come from the direction of Barcino, was forcing itself through the unresisting crowd.

  Erfrigius he must admit was a well-looking man. But the two lead riders were real barbarians; one with a typical fat, square head, the other sporting a savage scar. They bent down from the saddle, took Erfrigius by the hand as the peasants melted away behind their wagons. Soon the barbarians on horseback were laughing, Erfrigius too.

  Euplutius stood as unruffled as ever; ‘told you so’ written over every inch of the round face. Lucellus took a long breath and wondered. If that stone had drawn blood. Or the next stone had been an arrow or spear…

  Then the outstretched arm of Erfrigius pointed at him and the barbarian with the scar called out, wryly: “Count Lucellus, welcome to Barcino,” With a shock Lucellus recognised an accent he knew well. It was the soft accent of the Italian Campania.

  *

  “Didn’t think to see you again, Nephew,” and Wallia could not restrain himself from a spontaneous bear-hug. Stepping back he looked curiously at the bandaged head. Then he mustered the other two men: “Must say: interesting company you’re keeping these days.”

  “Uncle, I should introduce you,” offered his sister’s son, switching to Latin.

  “No need. I’ve met the young tribune once before, as have you.”

  “No longer tribune, Uncle. Aemilius Lucellus is now comes of the men stationed at Summum Pyrenaeum. And this other gentleman is Euplutius. He is an Imperial…agent.”

  A barked laugh: “You mean spy.”

  “I prefer the term diplomat, King Wallia.” Euplutius stepped forward to offer his hand. “At times like these it’s so important to focus on the positive side of things. Like the fact we bring you your nephew, restore him to your side – without conditions.”

  This knocked him aback and, as he gingerly took the proffered hand, he struggled to keep it from showing.

  “Your nephew kept his word, King Wallia,” said the smooth voice. “He gave us safe passage to Barcino. So we keep ours. It is how things should always be.”

  Taking in the Roman’s earnest gaze and honest smile, for a moment Wallia almost believed him. “You’d better come through,” and he gestured towards the dining room at the end of the long hall.

  He had sent Harduric and Smiler at once, fearing the worst. Since the people’s return from Gades he had been out to the camps many days. After each desolate visit he would spur his horse, both rider and horse enjoying the thrill of the gallop along the highway. Fair enough for the horse but he, the King, should know better. However far they galloped, there was no escaping the unspoken reproach of a people ragged-eyed and near broken.

  While he galloped the highway he had also churned over Rohilde’s question to no avail. Could it really be true; that the fate of the people was held hostage to the slender woman who, once, had been their prisoner?

  He showed the Romans into the dining-room, the long table set cross-wise.

  “Theoderic, reiks, and Rademer, our quartermaster,” he made the brief introductions.

  “Herfrig, please,” and he pointed to a spare chair on the Goth side of the table.

  With as much regal dignity as he could muster Wallia walked around the table to the high-backed chair they had found the other day. Inlaid with ivory and sparkling gemstones; they decided it might pass to Roman eyes for a throne.

  As he sat himself down, Wallia was more than relieved that once again the King of the Visigoths might have something more to do than watch his people die. And he wouldn’t have minded telling anyone except the two Romans who, both, were staring about the room as if they were in a foreign country; as if they had never seen a wall painting of a hunting scene ever before.

  *

  For Lucellus it was as strange a moment as he could remember. Wallia’s insolence by the roadside camp long ago was still graven fresh on his mind. And here was the selfsame Wallia sitting on a fine chair, surrounded by mosaics and frescoes just like a Roman nobleman. A Roman nobleman, that is, if you overlooked the clothes, the hair, the sword, the rough edge to the Latin and, oh yes, that animal smell.

  “The Patrician and Emperor are saddened by what has passed between us these last years, King Wallia.” Euplutius had already recovered himself. “They are determined to put the ties between the Visigothic nation and the Empire on a firm and friendly footing. Determined,” he said with an emphasis that might mean more than one thing.

  The fine wordplay bounced straight back. “Patrician?”

  “Ah, forgive me, King Wallia, you could not have heard. The
General Constantius was proclaimed Patrician by the Emperor only last month,” Euplutius explained. “I’m sure you understand this signal honour. It places the Patrician but one step away from the Imperial household itself.”

  Lucellus remembered how Constantius had always said that with Wallia they could do business. Well, they were about to find out.

  “And this step into the Imperial household?” mused the mass of hair opposite.

  Euplutius was beaming. “You will perhaps remember the meeting you once had with the Patrician?”

  They were being studied by hard Goth eyes and Euplutius moved smoothly on. “The peace that the Empire proposes has not changed. Your nation will become foederati of the Empire. Your enemies will be ours and ours yours.” Euplutius paused slightly to emphasise the point: “Of course, as allies, you would wish to return all the Romans you hold.”

  “So Constantius once said. In return?”

  “That has also not changed. We offer food and land. Food now and lands once you have dealt with our many common enemies.”

  Wallia’s face was unmoved. “Constantius said that, too, and we believed him. But that’s not what happened. You broke your word.”

  On the way down from the mountains, Lucellus had feared far worse than this. Then that was before they had seen the camps.

  “King Wallia, we should leave the past,” so Euplutius and full of sorrow. “Let us think rather how we can overcome our common enemies.”

  The honeyed words were met by a bear growl. “And who might they be?”

  “There are a number of provinces here in Hispania we’d like back. We’re not sure the barbarians presently in possession will totally agree.” The almost bare head shone in the candlelight. “Does our ally, the King of the Visigoths, see any difficulty?”

  Wallia gave it a moment’s thought. “The Suebi we’d sooner you persuaded by something other than battle. The Alans, it’s their choice and I don’t care either way. The Vandals, the Silings first and foremost, they don’t deserve a choice.”

  “King Wallia, a most statesmanlike assessment, if I may say so,” and Lucellus caught the small, sideways glance. When he had told how little the Goths cared for the Vandals, Erfrigius had spoken true. Throughout, the young Goth sat silent and impassive across the table; as if the whole conversation interested him hardly a jot.

  “Before we get carried away, Euplutius, when and where are we to settle? What are the lands you offer?”

  “We had thought of Aquitania. Once the fighting here is ended. But the supplies can start at once; six hundred thousand bushels,” Euplutius let his tongue savour the words. “Six hundred thousand modii of wheat can be with you in time for your march south.”

  Wallia glanced across at the man Rademer. “Enough for now, Wallia. But it won’t get us through next winter.” The great mane swivelled back to Euplutius.

  “King Wallia, the granaries are bursting full in each of the provinces we want returned. How heartening that we have the one more interest shared.”

  It was heartening enough to make the Goths laugh in derision but Euplutius chose not to notice. “A further shared interest are the men under the command of Count Lucellus here. He will march to your orders.” Eyes widened across the table. Each of the Goths stared at him and he felt them measure him, every inch. “The Count will march to your orders, King Wallia,” Euplutius repeated. “Just as the army as a whole marches to the orders of the Patrician.”

  Wallia turned to each of his fellow Goths. There were no protests. “This you should understand, Euplutius. The one Roman you really care about; she’s neither prisoner nor hostage.”

  “We know all about the so-called marriage,” Euplutius said, sounding for the first time distinctly old-fashioned. “I cannot imagine her Imperial Highness Princess Galla Placidia will want to stay here a moment longer than she has to.”

  Lucellus saw the Goths exchange what, between civilised people, he would have taken for ironic glances. Wallia frowned. “I’ll have to talk to her.”

  *

  She had waited upstairs in her room, remembering another time, long ago in Narbo, when she had listened to the sound of walls. Rohilde put her head around the door. “They’ve gone.”

  Galla Placidia gathered herself. The maid Elpidia was in her quarters, she had wanted to be alone. She stood, touched her hair, her gown; straightened her shoulders. “Come, Rohilde,” she said. “It is time.”

  The door to the dining room was half-open, Wallia’s gruff voice, speaking in Gothic. They were startled to see her; Wallia, Theoderic, another man and then Herfrig, head bandaged. To Herfrig she nodded and smiled. A relief it had been to hear he was hale.

  Rohilde and she took the two empty chairs which she presumed had been the Romans’ just a few moments before. There was a strained silence in the familiar room. “We once talked about me being carried off in a Roman grain ship, did we not, Wallia? In happier times.” She managed a sort of smile. “So, how many modii did I turn out to be worth?”

  A long time before Wallia finally replied: “They want you back, Galla Placidia. They want you back and I’m afraid I must ask you to go. Without peace, the people will die. And that cannot be.”

  Loss, regret, relief: all or none, it hardly mattered. She had no right to stay. Since Gades she had not been their Queen. “When do I leave?”

  “Don’t know.” Wallia thought a moment. “Council, but that’s the work of minutes. After what’s happened, can’t let you go before…” He looked for confirmation from the others: “Before we see the first of the grain.” He thought again. “And the Roman troops get here. That’s a few thousand good men hostage.”

  One used Princess against boatloads of corn and perhaps the finest Roman soldiers north of the Alps; how her stock had risen. But, then; it was not at all like before.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Theoderic began to apologise.

  She lifted her hand. “Theoderic, none of us do. We ran out of choices the day the child died.” And perhaps there was the slightest break in her voice. “So I suppose I shall be leaving before the month is out,” she stated matter-of-factly into the silence.

  No-one disagreed.

  She began to get up. “Wallia, I have just the one request,” she said. “I would like an escort of Goths, to come with me to Ravenna; a guard of retainers. I would like that very much.”

  “Of course,” he sounded puzzled. “If there are men who will go.”

  “Uncle, I am sure some of Athaulf’s men will follow their Queen.” Herfrig looked across the table towards her and she answered with the smallest incline of her head. “If the Queen and you both agree, I will lead them to Ravenna. Where I expect to stay.”

  She had realised a long while; though nothing between them had ever been said. From the faces around the room, Wallia’s most of all, she understood she was the only one who had.

  *

  The days passed quickly. The first of the grain ships had appeared a week ago. Euplutius and Wallia had even been seen laughing together in the streets of the town. No one doubted that, at least for now, the peace was real. The Roman cavalry had already jangled into Barcino and the first of the legionaries were expected to arrive by the hour.

  Rohilde had not wanted to come to the beach, this beach a place of ghosts. But it was perhaps the last day Galla Placidia would still be their Queen and the Roman had insisted. While Elpidia quietly held the rest of the women out of earshot, they dawdled in silence towards the water’s edge, a gentle ripple of waves running lazily to the shore.

  “Has Wallia agreed?” Rohilde finally asked. “Has he agreed that Herfrig goes?”

  “Yes.” the Roman replied, foot sweeping through the loose pebbles. “I never knew Herfrig meant that much to him, Rohilde. He’s not the sort of man you can tell these things by.”

  Unlike Galla Placidia to be defensive; even les
s the next words which fell with more than a touch of bitterness. “It’s time for me to go. It really is. Whatever I do here, it wounds people I only ever wanted to help.”

  Athaulf, Erfrid, Faurgar, all the other dead; and what Wallia felt for his sister’s son plain as day. Rohilde held her tongue. Tomorrow or the day after, the Roman, her friend, the woman she had once admired more than even now she could say; she would be gone. “I certainly knew Herfrig admired you,” Rohilde finally allowed herself to say. “Your stand against Sergeric, everything else. But still… it’s a shock to us all.”

  “It’s not that,” said Galla Placidia, “not only that. Herfrig told me. Here he would always be in the way.”

  “In the way? It’s his home.”

  “Herfrig sees that Theoderic will be the next King. With his Queen he hopes Theoderic has many children.”

  Under the Roman’s gaze she kept her face clear as the day’s sky; almost.

  Galla Placidia pretended not to notice: “In Ravenna he thinks he can remind me; of my duty to you all.”

  “But he’s still such a young man and…”

  “And his youthful admiration for me cannot last?” Her friend shrugged. “There are good roads from Ravenna to Aquitania. And, anyway, Herfrig lives by his dreams,” the Roman said. “Like Athaulf, like me, he longs to serve something greater than himself. And the greatest thing on earth is Rome.”

  “Still we count for so little?”

  Galla Placidia reached for her hand, as she had done so often in the past. “No, Rohilde, the Goths count for much. Not just for me and, of course, for Herfrig. Athaulf was right when he said Rome needed the Goths.”

  The Roman who this day was still their Queen looked away, far out across the sea, before again meeting her eye.

  “We have talked about this before, many times. The Goths and the Romans, we are different in almost every way. The people, they are young, with all the fire and strength of their youth; and, as we saw last year, with so much of its folly. It will be good, Rohilde, that there is someone in Rome who understands.”