by Ross Laidlaw
After effusively thanking the Amal for freeing them from Babai’s yoke, the chief decurion turned to Theoderic and asked, ‘May I assume that, as of this moment, Singidunum is returned to Roman rule?’
About to rise to give his assent, Theoderic felt a restraining tug on his sleeve. ‘If what you’re going to say is what I think it is, don’t,’ whispered Timothy. ‘The Romans are masters of intrigue; when dealing with the empire, it always pays to do so from a position of strength. Keep Singidunum for the moment. It’ll make an excellent bargaining counter for you in any negotiations with Leo. Remember, you want to extract as many concessions as you can for the Amal, your people now, regarding any future settlement.’
When informed that, for the time being, Singidunum would remain in Amal hands, with its taxes going to Pannonia (as just reward for the Goths) instead of Constantinople, the smiles on the faces of the Roman hosts became somewhat strained.
Before the Amal departed for Pannonia, Theoderic took Thiudimund aside. ‘Well, brother,’ he demanded, ‘I think you owe me some explaining. Why did you fail to warn me, and to implement the diversion?’
‘Why did I fail?’ blustered the other. ‘It was you who failed, not I. I waited for your signal but it never came.’
Misunderstanding or deliberate malice? Theoderic could not be sure. He knew, with total certainty, that he had told Thiudimund to sound the horns as a signal that the diversion had begun. It was possible — just possible — that his brother could have confused their respective roles. But never again, he decided, would he involve him in his plans.
‘Very well,’ he replied, ‘we will leave it there. For now.’ He paused and gave Thiudimund an appraising stare. ‘But take care, brother. There is one thing among our people that can never be forgiven: disloyalty. Remember that.’
* Sremska Mitrovica — not to be confused with Kosovska Mitrovica, much further south.
EIGHT
Our lord and master [Euric], even he, has but little time to spare while a conquered world makes suit to him
Sidonius Apollinaris, Carmina, c. 475
To Gaius Lampridius, esteemed author, and adviser to the most noble Euric king of the Visigoths, greetings.
My dear old friend, tempora mutantur, as they say. When last I wrote to you, from Arverna,* I was organizing that city’s resistance against its annual summer siege by the Visigoths, while still nurturing the hope that Anthemius, our late Augustus, could bring Gaul, or Septem Provinciae† at least, back within the Imperium Romanum of the West. (Our new Augustus, little Romulus, is of course only a front for his father, General Orestes, one-time envoy of Attila. It’s too early yet to know what Orestes’ plans are; but we live in hope. God willing, he might even prove a second Aetius and restore the fortunes of the West.)
Since then, as all the world now knows, Arverna has fallen. Considering I’ve long been a thorn in the flesh of our new masters, I got off pretty lightly. I was carted off to exile here in Burdigala,‡ where the worst I have to endure is the drunken screeching of two old Gothic crones, next door in the draughty tenement where I presently reside. No matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to barbarians: their smell, disgusting manners, outlandish appearance — furs and trousers, long hair smeared with rancid butter. . How do you, living in their midst at Euric’s court, manage to put up with them?
Now, you’ll remember, I’m sure, that some time ago I lent you my treasured copy of Mosella by Ausonius? No thought then, of course, of any quid pro quo; but perhaps that time has come. The enclosed is a little poem I’ve written in praise of Euric. I’ve laid it on a bit thick but, being a barbarian, he’s sure to lap it up. I’d be for ever in your debt if you could show it to him, with a view to his revoking my exile. I’ve heard that (for a Goth) he’s quite a reasonable fellow, so perhaps he might be willing to let bygones be bygones. If you think it would help, you could say that I’d be willing to put whatever literary talent I possess at his service — perhaps as a species of court poet? (Panegyrics to order!) There must be worse fates. I trust this finds you in good health and spirits. I know you’ll do your best for your old friend and fellow-scribbler, Sidonius Apollinaris. Vale.
Written at the Insula Marcella, Burdigala, III Nones Decembris, in the year of the second consulship of Zeno* (no Western candidate this year!)
To Sidonius Apollinaris, poet, former bishop of Arverna, greetings.
Good news, old friend. As requested, I showed your poem to Euric; I think he was more amused than flattered by your (shameless) attempt to butter him up. But he’s not the sort to bear grudges, and I think he’s rather taken with the idea of having a famous Roman poet in his entourage — along with jesters, cooks and grooms! Anyway, the outcome is that you’re forgiven, your exile is revoked, and your estates in Arvernum (which could easily have been forfeit) returned to you. So you see, ‘barbarians’, as you call them, are not perhaps as dreadful as you seem to think. At least they’re capable of generosity and fairness, which is more than can be said of many Romans.
A friendly word of caution. The world has changed and we’d be wise to accept the new realities. Whether we like them or not, the Goths are here to stay. Whatever adverse views you have of them, I must urge you to keep them to yourself. On the whole, they’re open, friendly types, but they have quick tempers and don’t easily forgive a slight. I’d hate to hear of the distinguished author of The Panegyric of Avitus coming to an untimely end because he’d offended ‘a smelly, trousered savage, with rancid butter in his hair’. They’re the masters now, and must be shown respect, if only for reasons of self-preservation.
Which brings me to another point. You seem to cherish hopes of some sort of recovery for the West. Well, let me disillusion you; it’s not going to happen. Even so recently as seven years ago, I might have conceded that you had a point. But the failure of the East-West expedition to recover Africa from Gaiseric has put paid to any chance of a Western revival. Now no Eastern army’s going to intervene to save the West. And the Army of Italy, composed of federates, is hardly likely to take up arms against the Franks, Visigoths and Alamanni — all fellow Germans, who are taking over Gaul and Spain. Anyway, what would be the point? Romulus is emperor of. . what, exactly? Italy, and a small enclave of south-east Gaul! The old Rome that we both knew and loved is passing and will soon be gone. The future lies with the German kingdoms that are taking its place. How will they fare? Maybe only the Sybils would have known the answer. But they, like Rome, belong to yesterday. With hopes that we may meet soon, perhaps at Euric’s court, your friend Gaius Lampridius bids you farewell.
Written at the Praetorium of Tolosa,* postridie Natalis
P
, in the eleventh regnal year of Euric, king of the Visigoths.†
* Clermont-Ferrand in the Auvergne.
† The southern of Gaul’s two dioceses.
‡ Bordeaux (in Aquitaine, the homeland granted to the Visigoths in 418).
* 4 December 475.
* Toulouse.
† 26 December 475. (‘
P
’ is a contraction, using modified Greek letters, for ‘Christi’. ‘X’, as a symbol for ‘Christ’, lingers on in ‘Xmas’.)
NINE
The garrison of Batavis, however, still held out. Some of these had gone to Italy to fetch for their comrades that last payment
Eugippius, The Life of Severinus, 511
Striding over the flower-spangled meadows of the Oenus* valley, Severinus wondered if the detachment — from the last Roman garrison that Castra Batava was ever likely to see — had made it back from Italy. He had warned them not to go.
For more than sixty years, Noricum† had witnessed the barbarian tides roll past it to the north and south — and had been miraculously preserved on account of its being a rustic backwater, off the main routes into Italy and Gaul. But lately things had changed. Raids by Alamanni, Heruls and the northern branch of the Ostrogoths led by Valamir had year by year become more savag
e and destructive. From experience gained in Britain he, Severinus, had shown the Noricans the best way to resist. This was to retreat to castella — fortified settlements (contemptuously called fliehburgen by the German marauders) — garrisoned with citizen-militia stiffened by the remnants of Roman units which, so recently as the Attila campaign, had amounted to a considerable military presence.
Seating himself on a boulder for a breather (though still hale and active, he was eighty, Severinus reminded himself), he filled his lungs with the pure mountain air. Around him stretched a vista of majestic peaks, lakes and limpid streams — the most beautiful land he had known in his travels to every corner of the Roman Empire: Britannia with its mists and rain, the burning sands of Africa and Egypt, the forests of the northern frontier. His mind drifted back to his early childhood in Britannia, where his father had been a primicerius* in the great military base at Eboracum.†
He was born in the final year of the reign of the great Theodosius, when, for the last time, Rome had been a single empire and was still the mightiest power in the world. When the self-styled ‘emperor’, Constantine III, had taken the field army of Britannia with him from the island in a doomed bid for the purple, little Severinus had accompanied his family with the legions, to Gaul. But, in the meantime, following the death of Theodosius and the ‘splitting of the Eagle’ (as the soldiers had termed the final division of the Empire into East and West), catastrophe had struck. On the last day of the year 406, a vast barbarian confederacy of Vandals, Sueves and Alans had crossed the frozen Rhine; they later swept through Gaul and into Spain.
In the chaos of Gaul, his father had been killed fighting the Vandals, his family had become dispersed and, aged twelve, Severinus had found himself a homeless refugee. Sustaining himself by begging and stealing, he had made his way to Aremorica‡ in north-west Gaul, an enclave run by the Bagaudae. These were ‘outlaws’ (as the state termed them), refugees from oppressive landlords and the crushing demands of the Roman tax machine, who had banded together to form their own self-governing communities, with strict laws and People’s Courts. Severinus had lived among these tough and independent-minded folk for several years, absorbing many useful skills, from woodcraft to healing.
When quasi-stability was restored in Gaul by the great general and co-emperor Constantius, Severinus had made his way south in stages to Italy, earning a living by practising the medical skills he had learnt among the Bagaudae. So much in demand did his craft become in Rome that he had been able to live in enough comfort and security to attend classes in law and philosophy at the university. Crossing to Roman Africa, he had continued his studies at the University of Carthage, and conversed with the famous scholar Augustine, bishop of Hippo. When the Vandals crossed the Pillars of Hercules* and seized the diocese, he had moved to the Eastern Empire, first to Egypt, where he had studied medicine at Alexandria — Galen’s alma mater — then to Constantinople, at whose university he had attended lectures in philosophy and rhetoric.
And so, in an unplanned Odyssey as a wandering scholar-cum-healer, he had completed the whole vast circuit of both empires, returning to Britannia (now abandoned to its own defences) as part of Germanus’ second mission to combat the influence of the Pelagian heretics. Here, he had met and befriended Ambrosius Aurelianus, son of a Roman senator and resistance leader against the inroads of the Saxons. After helping Aurelianus to organize a system of self-defence among the island’s cities, he had returned to imperial soil. Finally, these fifteen years past, he had made his home in Noricum where, to his amusement, he had become venerated as a ‘holy man’ and sage.
When at last the barbarians came, Severinus had slipped naturally into the role of leader, organizing the defences of Castra Batava, Lauriacum† and a dozen other places. Apart from an intermittent trickle of pay for the few surviving Roman units, no help from the central government had been forthcoming. When that, too, ceased, some Roman soldiers based at Castra Batava had volunteered to make the journey to Ravenna and bring back the funds themselves. Severinus had tried to dissuade them; the way was long and arduous, beset with danger. Moreover, the political situation in Italy was in a state of melt-down. The latest wearer of the diadem and purple, one Julius Nepos, having murdered the previous incumbent, Glycerius, and proclaimed himself emperor, was in conflict with the commanders of the Army of Italy. (Severinus had actually met one of them, Odovacar, of the old Scirian royal line. En route to Italy to seek his fortune, Odovacar had sought out the famous holy man of Noricum. Severinus remembered being impressed by the big German’s intelligence and self-confidence, predicting Odovacar would go far.) Despite Severinus’ warnings, the Batavan soldiers, brave and stubborn, had insisted on going. Two months having passed since their departure, the old man was now making his way to Castra Batava, to find out if they had returned.
‘Nearly home, lads!’ At the rear of the straggling line of soldiers and pack-mules laden with coin, the circitor* pointed ahead to a dramatic gash in the saw-toothed crest of the Alpes Carnicae.† The men, travel-stained and weary, raised a ragged cheer and quickened their pace. A few hours later they reached the summit of the pass and began the descent into Noricum.
They had found Ravenna, the imperial capital and terminus of the outward journey, in a state of confusion, with harassed heads of state departments rushing about like so many headless chickens. No one seemed to know who was in charge of anything; the latest emperor, Julius Nepos, had apparently quarrelled with his top general, Orestes, and sailed for Dalmatia — abandoning the Roman West and creating, in effect, an interregnum. After endless requests, the Batavans were eventually granted an audience with the two chief financial ministers, the Comes Rei Privatae and Comes Sacrarum Largitionum — the Counts of the Privy and Public Purses respectively.
‘Until I get the emperor’s permission,’ the Privy Purse, a thin, intense man, had bleated, ‘I cannot issue funds. And as the emperor is — not forthcoming, shall we say, my hands are tied, completely tied.’ The Public Purse, a plump, jolly individual clearly sympathetic concerning their predicament, had proved more accommodating. ‘I think we can, ah, “liberate” a small amount from the pay chest of the Army of Italy,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘After all, they’re federates — barbarians, not Romans like yourselves. Anyway, everything’s going to hell in a handcart just now; I doubt if I’ll ever be called to account. Best assume, though, that this’ll be your final pay instalment.’
Now, relaxed and carefree to be nearing journey’s end, the Batavan soldiers abandoned their usual caution. Helmets and heavy hauberks loaded on the pack-mules, they made their way beside the sparkling Oenus, eagerly anticipating the welcome that awaited them in Castra Batava, which was expected soon to come into view.
They followed the riverside path into a wood. Suddenly, spears thrusting, axes hacking, armed Alamanni raiders burst from the trees and fell on them. Unarmoured, taken by surprise, the Romans could put up only token resistance. In seconds it was all over; the soldiers’ lifeless bodies were tumbled into the stream, and the killers departed, delighted with their spoils.
When Severinus reached the Oenus and observed the threads of scarlet in the current, he had a premonition of disaster — soon to be confirmed, as the first body bobbed in sight. Tears flowing down his face, the old man hastened to break the news to the Batavans.
* River Inn.
† West Roman province, roughly corresponding to southern Austria — Sound of Music country.
* A non-commissioned rank roughly corresponding to sergeant-major.
† York.
† Brittany.
* The Straits of Gibraltar.
† Passau; Lorsch.
* A non-commissioned rank roughly equal to corporal.
† The Carnatic Alps.
TEN
All their inhabitants [of British towns]. . were mown down, while swords flashed and flames crackled
Gildas, The Destruction of Britain, c. 540
‘Saxons, Sire �
�� a mighty host,’ gasped the scout, reining in his lathered mount before Ambrosius. ‘As thick as blowflies on a week-old corpse.’
‘Numbers? Distance?’
‘My guess is ten thousand at the least, Sire. Now about five miles off, I’d say.’
More than thrice our strength, thought the other grimly. Ambrosius Aurelianus: Dux Britanniae et Saxum Britannorum — Duke of Britain and ‘the Rock of the British’ — son of a Roman senator and leader of the British resistance against the blue-eyed heathens from across the German Ocean. Within two hours, his rag-tag army, the Exercitus Britanniae, could be locked in battle with the Saxon host. Less than three generations ago, he reflected, when Britannia was still a diocese of Rome, the ‘Sea Wolves’ had come as raiders only. Now, with the legions long gone and the forts of the Saxon Shore abandoned and crumbling, they arrived each year in ever greater numbers, driving the Britons from the land to seize it as their own. Already, the great province of Maxima Caesariensis* had fallen to the North and South Folk and the East and South Saxons, the native Britons fleeing to the west or across the sea to ‘New Britannia’ in north-west Gaul.
Turning in the saddle, Ambrosius surveyed his force: civilian volunteers stiffened by limitanei — second-rate frontier troops, all that remained of the Army of Britain after Constantine, self-styled ‘the Third’, had taken the legions with him to Gaul in a doomed bid for the purple. Desperate appeals for help against the Saxon menace had been sent to Aetius, the greatest general of the Western Empire — appeals perforce ignored by a Master of Soldiers struggling to save the West from extinction by barbarian insurgents. Now, any hope of help from Rome had long vanished; Aetius was dead these twenty years, slain by a jealous emperor, and the West itself was tottering towards its end. With the aid of a remarkable man, one Severinus — scholar, healer, natural leader, a member of Germanus’ second mission to counter the Pelagian heresy in Britain — he had encouraged the British to organize defence centres. These were fortified strongpoints within whose walls the local populace could gather and be safe whenever Saxon war-parties approached. It was his efforts in this field that had earned Ambrosius his nickname, ‘the Rock of the British’. For a time his scheme had proved successful, but of late the increasing frequency of attacks had begun to make such centres appear like islands in a raging Saxon sea.
