by Ross Laidlaw
‘No, thanks,’ snapped the other. ‘One of us needs to keep a clear head.’
‘All right, all right.’ Basiliscus raised his hands placatingly. Iohannes’ concern was, perhaps, he conceded to himself, not unjustified. It might be wise not to tempt Providence too much. A pity to forgo his little ‘bonus’, courtesy of Gaiseric; but all good things had to end sometime. ‘We’ll do as you suggest. Anyway, in the five days we’ve been here, the fleet’s been made pretty well shipshape. Tomorrow, I’ll give the order to weigh anchor.’
Surfacing from a heavy sleep, Basiliscus was dimly aware that someone was shaking him. He sat up in his bunk, pressed hands to a throbbing head — the price of punishing that vintage Nomentan. He made a mental note to add more water next time.
‘Captain asks if you could come on deck, sir.’ His pilot’s voice held a note of urgency.
Hastily pulling on shoes and tunic, Basiliscus became aware that Perseus was rolling violently. He followed the pilot topside up a short companionway, gasped as cold spray peppered his face and a buffet of wind slammed the breath back down his throat. The sight that met his eyes in the grey light of dawn was disturbing. In the night the wind had changed; a near-gale, blowing from the north-west, was whipping the sea into a field of tossing whitecaps, with everywhere ships plunging and wallowing as they strove to point their bows into the wind. Several transports, their anchors dragging, had been taken in tow by dromons, which, with their banks of crawling oars, resembled strange monsters of the deep.
Enveloped in a hooded smock of heavy wool, the navarchus, or sailing-master, approached the commander.
‘The ships need sea-room, sir,’ he shouted above the howling of the wind. ‘We need to get clear of that.’ He pointed to the towering rampart of Mercurii Promontorium looming darkly above the anchorage. ‘No problem for the dromons, even in this sea. Harder for the transports, though — means sailing closer to the wind than they can comfortably manage.’
Driven on to a lee shore — next to fire, the mariner’s worst nightmare, thought Basiliscus. The great headland which, until a few hours ago, had formed a natural breakwater could now become their graveyard.
With storm lanterns hoisted to her mast-head and boom-tips signalling other ships to follow, Perseus weighed anchor and began to creep jerkily away from the coast, her oars, first on one side then on the other, biting air instead of water in the choppy seas. As the light strengthened, Basiliscus breathed a sigh of relief; the fleet was slowly clawing clear of danger, the transports rolling wildly as they angled sideways to the wind to make seaway.
‘Sail ho!’ The cry of the lookout in the crosstrees came faintly to Basiliscus. Peering into the distance, he made out a dancing white speck, then another, and another, as the sea became stippled with sails. The Vandal fleet!
Fighting for calm, Basiliscus told himself that his command was not at serious risk. With their vastly inferior numbers, the Vandal ships, despite having the wind in their favour, could only harry, not destroy, the Roman fleet. Then his mind seemed to freeze, as a row of glowing dots sprang up along the Vandal van. Fireships!
Basiliscus watched, horrified, as the blazing hulks swept down-wind upon his ships. Fire was the worst thing that could happen at sea: canvas, sun-dried timbers, tarred cordage — so much tinder waiting for a spark. Within minutes, all cohesion in the Roman fleet was lost, as vessels strove to flee the danger. Valiantly, the dromons tried to secure cables to the fireships to drag them clear but, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, could make little difference to the outcome.
Ship after Roman ship exploded into flame as the fireships got among them, becoming in their turn agents of destruction. Soon chaos reigned, with vessels piling up on the rocky shore, or scattering wildly in their efforts to escape. Now, like a wolf pack closing on a helpless flock, the Vandals struck. With the wind-gauge allowing them to manoeuvre as they chose, they picked off single vessels with several of their own. Then, boarding, they swamped the defenders with a tide of yelling warriors. After vainly trying to repulse one such onslaught, Iohannes, shouting defiance, leapt into the sea rather than surrender, his armour pulling him instantly beneath the waves.
Only a battered remnant of the mighty war-fleet that had set sail with such high hopes limped back to the Golden Horn. As news of the disaster spread throughout the Roman world, the Western federates breathed a collective sigh of relief. With the treasuries of both empires exhausted, no further rescue of the West could be attempted. Gaul, Spain and Italy were theirs for the taking.
In that same fateful year, the twelve hundred and twenty-second from the Founding of the City, a fourteen-year-old hostage was receiving the education of a Roman aristocrat in Constantinople. The boy was the son of Thiudimer, king of the Ostrogoths, a Germanic tribe settled in Pannonia.* His name was Theoderic.
* Cape Bon, Tunisia.
* Payment of a ‘backhander’ accompanying a transaction; in effect, a covert bribe.
* An abandoned West Roman province in the Upper Danube region.
ONE
The poor Roman imitates the Goth, the well-to-do Goth the Roman
Aphorism of Theoderic, c. 500
The poor Roman imitates the Goth, the well-to-do Goth the Roman
Aphorism of Theoderic, c. 500
‘“Ingentem meminit parvo qui germine quercum
Aequaevumque videt consenuisse nemus”,’
declaimed Demetrius to the semicircle of (mainly bored-looking) schoolboys. ‘He remembers the great oak as a small acorn, and sees the grove, planted when he was born, grown old with him.’ The class, sons of aristocrats, generals and top civil servants, mainly from the Eastern Empire with a few from Italia and Gaul, was being held in a room of Constantinople’s Imperial Palace, a jumble of splendid though ill-assorted buildings that sprawled downhill towards the Propontis.* The schoolmaster was expounding the ideas contained in Claudian’s poem On the Gothic War.
‘Bearing in mind that Alaric’s barbarians had crossed the Alps and were rampaging down through Italy,’ continued Demetrius, ‘what do you think Claudian was trying to tell us about this simple old man from Verona?’ He looked round his pupils’ faces expectantly. ‘Well?’
Silence, while his charges fiddled with styluses and waxed tablets, or stared out of windows at the towering bulk of the Hippodrome. Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered. Granted, for most of them Greek was their mother tongue; but they’d had Latin — Caesar, Vergil, Tacitus, Ammianus et al. — drummed into them from an early age. It wasn’t the language they couldn’t cope with, just the authors’ concepts. Horses were the only thing that occupied the minds of these upper-class lads. Soon it would be girls. And after that? A sordid scramble for money and power, which was all that seemed to matter these days. Unless, that is, you were a member of the hoi polloi, when religion and betting on the Blue or Green teams at the Hippodrome were the twin obsessions. Whatever happened to otium — leisured scholarship — which, with civic patronage, was once seen as the proper ambition of a Roman gentleman?
Before the pause could become embarrassing, Demetrius forced a smile and said, ‘No volunteers? Well, let’s start with George. Your thoughts, please.’
An open-faced boy with an eager-to-please expression rose. ‘Pigs eat acorns, don’t they, sir? Perhaps he was a pig-farmer. Barbarians probably like pork, so naturally he’d be worried.’
A murmured, derisive cheer rippled round the class.
‘Thank you, George. An imaginative contribution, if nothing else. You may be seated. Julian, perhaps we might have the benefit of your opinion?’
A tall, stylishly dressed youth stood up. His chiselled features bore a remarkable resemblance to those of Alexander the Great when a boy. So much so that his classmates had nicknamed him ‘Alexander’, a soubriquet he played up to by cultivating long, carefully disordered locks.
‘Perhaps the old fool hoped to hide from the Goths among his oak-trees,’ drawled Julian with a smirk. ‘And if they found him, well, he c
ould always pelt them with acorns. Couldn’t he, sir?’
A delighted titter greeted this sally, not on account of any humour it contained but because it laid down a challenge to the master’s authority.
‘Sit down!’ snapped Demetrius, a spurt of anger bringing red to his cheeks. Arrogant young lout. It had been a mistake to ask him, of course — he’d simply handed the boy a chance to show off. With his wealthy family connections, subversive attitude and air of cool confidence, Julian was, unfortunately, something of a hero to many of his classmates. Aware that he must rescue the situation before it slipped out of control, Demetrius turned towards his favourite pupil, Theoderic Amalo. Though shy and awkward, the young Gothic prince could usually be relied on to come up with an intelligent answer. ‘Theo, perhaps you could shed some light where all seems darkness?’
Stooping slightly, as if to avoid drawing attention to his great height, Theoderic rose. In his mind, he reviewed the lines Demetrius had quoted. The message that Claudian was trying to get across was surely to do with familiar memory. Unbidden, a vision from his Pannonian homeland flashed into his mind, filling him with a sudden, sharp nostalgia: Bakeny Forest with its scented glades of noble trees — oaks, pines and cedar; the air filled with the plash of hidden waterfalls and the cooing of rock-doves. All at once, he knew what that old man had felt: affection for the trees, contemporary with himself; and fear that he might lose them through depredation by the Goths — his, Theoderic’s, own kinsmen, he thought with a pang of guilt.
‘Those trees were planted as acorns at his birth,’ he said, speaking slowly and with a kind of passionate conviction, something he had never before expressed. ‘He had grown old with them, as they matured. They had become part of his life. Almost friends. I think he. . loved them. So he was anxious in case the barbarians should carelessly destroy them.’
The class sat up, visibly impressed. Who’d have thought old Yellowknob could hold the floor like that? Suddenly self-conscious, Theoderic shuffled and looked down.
‘Well done, Theo,’ declared Demetrius warmly. ‘There’s nothing I can add to that.’ He breathed a mental sigh of relief. With the class now quiet and receptive, the lesson could proceed on an even keel.
Then Theoderic clapped a hand to his cheek as something struck it a tiny, stinging blow. A wax pellet dropped to the mosaic floor and rolled to the foot of the master’s throne-like chair.
‘All of you, hold up your tablets — now!’ thundered Demetrius. Cowed, the class promptly obeyed. Their genial master could, if pushed too far, change in a flash to a terrifying autocrat. A brief inspection exposed the culprit: Julian’s codex showed a hollow where a lump of wax had been gouged out. Rolled into a ball and flicked from the flattened erasing end of Julian’s flexible ivory stylus, it had made a highly effective missile. Punishment was duly meted out with a bundle of birch twigs, then, with discipline restored, the lesson resumed.
‘I hear your pet barbarian showed up your young Roman charges,’ Paulus remarked to Demetrius. The two schoolmasters were in a taberna off the Mese, the capital’s main thoroughfare.
‘The cream of Byzantium — thick and rich,’ Demetrius chuckled wryly. Nothing stayed secret for long in the palace. Probably one of the paedagogi — slaves who accompanied pupils to school, and who waited for them at the back of the classroom to bring them home — had spread the story. ‘At times, I feel I’m casting pearls before swine.’
‘Don’t we all. Your Goth — a bright lad, I hear.’
‘He’s that all right. Somehow, having just one pupil of his calibre in a class makes it all seem worthwhile. Doesn’t make him popular, unfortunately. The others tend to pick on him; that oaf Julian’s the ringleader. Poor little beggar; I speak figuratively — he must be several inches taller than I am.’
‘Then why doesn’t he give Julian a good thumping? The rest would soon leave off.’
‘Not in his nature — a gentle giant if ever there was. But if he chose to he could thrash the lot of them I’m sure. Most people tend to dismiss him as a passive ox, but I admire the lad. I feel he has an inner strength, also that he’s looking for something — trying to find his destiny, perhaps?’ Demetrius paused and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I must sound like Aristotle on the subject of the young Alexander.’
‘No, you intrigue me. What do you suppose it is he’s looking for?’
‘I believe it’s Rome. I think he wants to identify with her, be accepted by her.’
‘Rome? What’s that?’ Paulus grinned and refilled their wine-cups. ‘After the North African fiasco, the West’s finished. There won’t be a second rescue attempt; Gaiseric’s stronger than ever, Basiliscus terrified for his life, has taken sanctuary in Hagia Sophia, the Treasury’s empty, Anthemius no longer has a role. The Franks and Visigoths’ll grab what’s left in Gaul and Spain, and Ricimer could well take over Italy. Anthemius might turn out to be the last Augustus of the West. What would that leave? The Senate and the Papacy. Augustus and Constantine would turn in their graves.’
‘But Rome’s more than just a physical empire. Rome’s an idea. And even if the West goes down, the East’s still there to pick up the torch.’
‘And so the race goes on,’ intoned Paulus with mock solemnity. ‘Apologies; you’re right, of course. And who knows? Even if it falls, the West might one day be re-occupied. But back to your young hostage. What is it about Rome that he so admires?’
‘Think what an impact Constantinople must have made on him when he arrived six years ago. To an impressionable youngster from a primitive shame-and-honour society geared to a dreary cycle of petty feuds and subsistence farming, the city with its statues, paved streets, and great buildings, buzzing with cosmopolitan life and colour — it must have seemed wondrous beyond words. From the first, he showed an interest in the examples of Roman culture to be found everywhere around him: sculpture, architecture, literature, philosophy, science, law — things conspicuously lacking among his own people. He picked up Greek in no time, and was the first in his class to master Latin. He actually enjoys reading the classics. How many fourteen-year-olds can you say that of?’
‘Sounds, then, as though he could be in for a big comedown when he returns to his own people.’
‘Sadly, I have to agree. I sometimes wonder if our policy of civilizing German hostages isn’t misplaced kindness. We give them a taste of something they can never really be a part of. Anti-German discrimination’s rampant: intermarriage with Romans illegal, German clothes like furs and trousers banned, Germans barred from elevation to the purple. . I could go on. Perhaps Rome only feels at ease with those she’s conquered. That never happened with Germania.’
‘Didn’t a general called Varus try, back in the time of Augustus?’
‘Yes. Got wiped out, along with his three legions.’
‘And Germans have been a thorn in Rome’s flesh ever since.’ Paulus shrugged and drained his goblet. ‘Seems that Varus has a lot to answer for.’
Trailed by his bodyguard (a necessary precaution, given his status as a royal hostage), a tough Isaurian called Timothy, Theoderic wandered disconsolately through the streets of the capital. This morning’s incident was the latest in a long campaign of petty spite waged against him by Julian. The other boys were not really hostile, Theoderic knew, just willing to follow the lead of a character stronger than themselves. He was not afraid of Julian; should it ever come to a straight fight between them, he suspected he would beat the Roman easily. But that would be to betray his father’s counsel, given him at eight years old on his departure for Byzantium.
‘You are too young, my son, fully to understand my words now,’ Thiudimer, king of the Ostrogoths, had said, ‘but in time, you will. Learn all you can from the Romans — they are a great and clever people, and have much of worth to teach you. But do not forget you are a Goth — a Goth of royal lineage, who will one day be a king. That means trying to live by three things. Never use your strength against those weaker than yourself, but spend it freely fo
r those who need your help. Deal justly with friend and enemy alike. Think long before you give your word, but, once given, do not break it. You will find these precepts hard at times to keep. Succeed, and you will return to our people a man fit to rule them.’ His father had embraced him then, and he had set out for the Great City with a lump in his throat, but a heart beating faster with excitement and high hopes.
As ever, wandering among the capital’s great buildings soothed Theoderic’s troubled spirit. Around him, in abundance, were beauty, strength and permanence — all qualities which spoke of Rome: the mighty Walls of Theodosius before which even Attila had quailed; the stupendous dome of Hagia Sophia; the aqueduct of Valens with its soaring tiers of arches. .
Then, finding himself in the Forum of Arcadius, his mood changed suddenly to one of puzzled sadness. In the middle of the great square rose a tall marble column, its surface wonderfully carved to depict an ascending spiral of figures in action. On closer inspection, however, the frieze took on a sinister aspect. The figures were fugitives fleeing, falling, dying, before the frenzied onslaught of a mob armed with staves and cudgels. Long and short hair differentiated Goths from Romans, respectively. The scene represented the great Expulsion of the Goths from the city, sixty years before. It was beautiful — and horrible.
Why do they hate us? Theoderic wondered. From his reading of history (written, of course, by Romans — Polybius,* Caesar, Tacitus, Suetonius, Ammianus) he knew that even the fiercest of her foes — Spaniards, Gauls, Illyrians, Dacians — had yielded in the end to Rome. Only the Caledones and the Germans had refused. Therein, perhaps, lay the reason.
‘Jerry bastard!’
