by Ross Laidlaw
Of Ambrosius’ troops, the limitanei alone had proper armour — battered ridge-helmets and mail hauberks issued by the Roman government many years before and since patched up times without number; the volunteers made do with caps and cuirasses of boiled leather. Each man carried a long spear and oval shield, the limitanei also bearing swords. The cream of the army consisted of the cavalry, positioned at either end of the three-deep line of infantry. Handpicked, sons of Romano-British aristocracy, these were natural horsemen, needing only some basic training to weld into a formidable fighting machine.
Until this year, the Saxon conquest had been a matter of slow attrition by separate war-bands. This present threat was on an altogether different scale, a mass invasion which suggested a concerted plan, perhaps masterminded by a single leader. A century before, Britain had faced a comparable danger, when a Barbarian conspiracy of Saxons, Picts and Scots, had overrun the island. But Rome then had a mighty army, and within a year Count Theodosius, father of one of Rome’s greatest emperors, had cleared the land of the invaders. Now that army was gone, replaced by federates as fickle and greedy as they were ill-disciplined and violent, ready on a whim to turn upon their masters.
To meet this new and terrible Saxon threat, Ambrosius had hastily assembled a scratch militia, organizing instruction in elementary drill and tactics by officers drawn from the all-but-vanished landowning and administrative class. On first news of the route of the enemy’s advance, using the terrain to maximum advantage he had drawn up the Romano-Britons on the crest of a low ridge flanked by woods, to negate as far as possible any Saxon superiority in numbers. Far away across the plain, the trilithons of the ancient Hanging Stones appeared as a faint tracery of concentric rings.
The hot summer afternoon bled away, the army standing down to snatch some rest before the coming encounter. At last, a swirling haze on the horizon, accompanied by a sound like breakers on a distant shore, announced the approach of the Saxon host. As the dust-cloud rolled nearer, a myriad of tiny specks interspersed with glints and flashes appeared at its base, while the noise swelled from a murmur to a muted roar. The Britons stood to arms, the ground beneath their feet beginning to tremble.
‘Is there no end to their number?’ breathed the young cavalry officer beside Ambrosius. ‘They blacken the earth like the locusts in the Bible. We’ll never hold them, surely?’
‘True,’ the general replied to his second-in-command. ‘But we can sting them, teach them that the price of British soil’s a heavy one — in blood.’
Like an incoming tide, the Saxon host — flaxen-haired giants, unarmoured and on foot — flowed across the plain, lapped the foot of the ridge, surged up it to break against the British shield-wall with an ear-shattering crash. For a time, the two armies swayed back and forth, the British footsoldiers holding the ridge while their cavalry mounted charge after charge to carve bloody swathes deep into the enemy mass. Forced to fight on a narrow front, the Saxons were at first unable to bring their overwhelming strength to bear. But, inexorably, sheer weight of numbers began at last to tell. The British line thinned from three deep to two, then one, while the cavalry returned from every charge diminished. His horse killed under him, Ambrosius fought on foot until brought down by a Saxon javelin. Rushing to the general’s side, his second-in-command dragged him behind the battle-line and made to pull the shaft from his leader’s armpit, where the opening in the antique Roman cuirass left it unprotected.
‘Leave it, Artorius,’ gasped the general. ‘I’m finished. Now it is you who must carry on the fight. We’ve done all we can here. Given them a mauling they’ll not readily forget. Withdraw with what’s left of the army, and regroup. Cambria, the mountains of the north, the moors and uplands of the west — that’s the terrain we can best defend. Raise and train a force of heavy horse; strike them hard and often, using hit-and-run tactics. You saw today the damage cavalry can inflict.’ Ambrosius forced a grin. ‘Your sword’s broken, I see. Well, at least that means a few less Saxons. You’d best have mine.’ He handed to Artorius not the customary long spatha of Rome’s late armies, but a bloodstained gladius, the short stabbing sword with which the legions had won an empire. This one had been handed down from father to son of the Aureliani for two centuries and more, since the days when the dynasty of Severus had worn the purple. Struggling to hold back tears, Artorius took the venerable weapon from the dying ‘Rock’.
Out of such fleeting moments, mythologies can grow. Thus did Arthur take the Sword from the Stone.
* It covered most of south-east England, from East Anglia to Hampshire, and was governed from London.
ELEVEN
Are you ignorant that it is the constant policy of the Romans to destroy the Goths by each other’s swords?
Jordanes (quoting Strabo taunting Theoderic), Gothic History, 551
Entering the foothills of the Haemus range,* Theoderic looked back at the long, long column snaking behind him almost to the gates of Novae, his base in Moesia Secunda.† First came the host, fit men aged sixteen to sixty, mostly on foot and armed with spears; then the train of baggage — mules and ox-drawn wagons accompanied by women, children and the elderly, with nursing mothers, the sick and the feeble carried in the vehicles. To his left and right, now invisible because of intervening spurs, marched two similar columns, one under Soas, his trusted second-in-command, the other led by Thiudimund, to whose care he had entrusted both their mothers. (Reasoning that the circumstances hardly gave scope for Thiudimund to effect any mischief, also unwilling, for the sake of appearances, to advertise any family disharmony, Theoderic had decided, albeit reluctantly, to give his brother the charge.) Barring those Goths who had migrated with Vidimir, brother of Thiudimer, to Italy (and ultimately Aquitaine to join their Visigoth cousins), the three columns together comprised the entire Amal nation. Fixing his gaze on the formidable mountain chain looming above them, Theoderic reflected on the highs and lows of his career these last ten years: from his homecoming in Pannonia, to this new beginning, which a wonderful offer by the Romans had made possible.
Returning in triumph from Singidunum, a hero to his people, also to his father — who was overjoyed (and secretly relieved) that his son had proved himself a worthy successor — he had accompanied Thiudimer with the Amal soon after to Moesia. There were two reasons for the migration (undertaken without imperial permission): starvation and the Squinter. Year after year, the harvests of Pannonia, its soils exhausted through abuse and over-tilling by successive waves of migrants since its abandonmant by Rome, had proved increasingly inadequate to feed the Amal nation. Meanwhile, in Thrace, Theoderic Strabo had become a growing menace not only to the Eastern Empire, but also to the Amal, owing to his ambition to assume the hegemony of all the Ostrogoths, not just those of Thrace. By repositioning the Amal close to Strabo’s heartland, Thiudimer (allied to the East) could more effectively contain this double threat, as well as feed his people in the rich and fertile Eastern province. Not long after the great trek to Moesia, Thiudimer had died, whereupon, honouring the late king’s will and spurning Thiudimund’s rival claim, the Amal had proclaimed Theoderic their king and warrior-ruler,* raising him on a shield according to tradition.
True to his verbal pact with Zeno (who had succeeded Leo in the same year that Theoderic became king), Theoderic had championed the new emperor’s cause: curbing the Squinter’s aggressive moves against the empire in a series of skirmishes and armed confrontations; also helping Zeno to regain his throne, following a short-lived usurpation by Basiliscus, the incompetent general responsible for the disastrous North African campaign against Gaiseric. However, despite proving himself a loyal Friend of Rome (‘Rome’ now consisting of the East alone, little Romulus, the last Western emperor, having been sent into exile by Odovacar just two years after Theoderic’s accession), official sanction of Moesia as the Amal’s new homeland had been withheld, with promised subsidies in gold arriving only intermittently and below the amount stipulated. In consequence, plagued by ins
ecurity and diminishing resources, the Amal had seen their fortunes steadily decline, while those of Strabo (able, thanks to his Thracian power base, to blackmail and intimidate Zeno) year by year increased. In the darkest days, Timothy had proved a rock to Theoderic, ready with advice and encouragement whenever the king’s morale flagged.
Then, just when the plight of his people was starting to look desperate (and therefore constituting a potential challenge to his kingship), a Roman envoy had arrived from Constantinople bearing marvellous tidings. If Theoderic were to cross the Haemus with his people, he would find awaiting him north of Adrianople not only the arrears of subsidy but an enormous force of Roman soldiers. Together, the Amal and the Romans would then advance into the Squinter’s Thracian heartland, and crush him. Thereafter, Theoderic would assume his rival’s forfeited titles of Patricius and Magister Militum, Patrician and Master of Soldiers, and his people’s grant of homeland would be officially confirmed. At last, after years of frustration and uncertainty, Theoderic saw his dream of proving a worthy leader of his people, and achieving recognition by the Roman state, on the point of becoming a reality.
Gradually the terrain steepened, open uplands, stippled with flocks of grazing sheep, giving way to forested slopes. Dense stands of spruce, beech and oak closed in on the rutted trail; within their cool dimness, the column proceeded in a sepulchral hush broken only by the occasional call of birds, the shuffle of feet, and the creak of wagon wheels. That night the column made camp in a huge clearing. By noon of the next day the trees had begun to thin out, being replaced by rock and gravel as the Amal broke out of the forest onto a boulder-strewn wilderness hemmed in by stony walls — the mouth of the famous Shipka Pass, scene of an early victory by Alexander the Great. Away to his right, Theoderic could see Soas’ column keeping pace with his, but of Thiudimund there was no sign. Theoderic experienced a momentary prickle of anxiety, then dismissed his fears; a vast body of people, led by experienced Roman guides, could hardly get lost. Could it? He and Soas would wait for Thiudimund at the summit, the designated rendezvous for the Amal to meet and rest before beginning the descent of the range’s southern flank. But, as the two columns entered the throat of the pass, an unpleasant surprise awaited them.
In a scene eerily reminiscent of a long-ago ambush in the Succi Pass, thousands of armed men sprang up from among the boulders where they had been hiding, surrounding the Amal on both sides and to the fore. Then, amplified by the ravine’s containing sides, a familiar voice boomed out: ‘Greetings, Theoderic, son of Thiudimer. You remember, perhaps, our farewell conversation at the Monastery of St Elizabeth the Thaumaturge? I promised then that when next we met the score between us would be evened. That time has come.’
Switching his address to the Amal, Theoderic Strabo declared, ‘Fellow Ostrogoths, your leader is a loser.’ ‘Loser. . loser. .’ came the mocking echo, reverberating from the canyon walls. ‘You, who left Pannonia with two or three horses apiece, now go on foot like slaves. He promised you gold by the bushel; now you can barely find two nummi to rub together. But, even worse than failing you, is this: your king is a traitor to his race, ready to shed the blood of other Goths whenever his Roman masters snap their fingers.’ Turning back to Theoderic, he shouted, ‘Well, namesake mine, here’s your chance. Come on, if you’ve the stomach for a fight.’
Shaken and bewildered, Theoderic looked around for the guides who had led him to this spot; they were nowhere to be seen. ‘Timothy, what’s happening?’ he cried.
‘It looks as though the Romans have made fools of us,’ replied the burly Isaurian. ‘We took their bait — hook, line and sinker. Let’s face it, Deric, there’s no Roman army waiting for us on the other side of these mountains, no subsidy, no homeland. We’ve fallen for the oldest trick in their book: playing off one set of barbarians against another — in this case, engineering a confrontation between ourselves and Strabo, in the hope that we’ll destroy each other. Which would suit them nicely; a final solution to their Gothic problem.’
‘Where in God’s name is Thiudimund?’ exclaimed Theoderic. ‘If only he were here, we could take on Strabo. Without him, we’re outnumbered and would probably lose, especially as Strabo holds the advantage of the ground.’
‘I’m not sure “taking on” Strabo is an option, anyway. Listen.’
From all around, a swelling murmur was arising from the Amal: ‘Strabo’s right — we shouldn’t fight each other. . We have suffered enough; give us bread and land, not graves. . Together, we can force the Romans to grant us food until the harvest, extend our settlements. .’
‘Can you hear what your people are telling you, Theoderic?’ resumed Strabo. ‘If so, I suggest you listen. Order them to fight me, and they’ll mutiny. But I have another plan,’ he went on, in tones of seeming magnanimity. ‘Why don’t we all meet and discuss how best to get the Romans to grant concessions to both our nations. Agreed?’
Fury, bitter humiliation and betrayal engulfed Theoderic, as his dream collapsed in ruins. But he retained sufficient grip on reality to appreciate that he had been comprehensively outmanoeuvred, and had no choice but to comply. The words sticking in his throat, he heard himself call out, ‘I agree.’
His anger and frustration were compounded when Thiudimund eventually turned up — plus the two mothers, but minus the wagon train. This, he explained, he had been forced to abandon when his column had been threatened by a Roman force led by one of their top generals, Sabinianus. Misfortune, incompetence or treachery? Theoderic could not decide. But, for the second time, he found himself vowing that never again would he entrust his brother with responsibility.
In time-honoured fashion, the two Gothic kings drew up their peoples facing each other across a river, and entered into an agreement. From now on, they would present their demands jointly to the imperial government, the details to be supervised by Roman officials — as only Romans possessed the know-how to implement such things efficiently. With concord apparently established, the two great branches of the Ostrogothic nation broke camp and went their separate ways — Strabo eastward to Constantinople, to parley with the emperor, Theoderic westward to Stobi in the diocese of Dacia, which city he sacked and whose garrison he massacred, in revenge against the Romans for their perfidy.
* The Balkan Mountains.
† Equivalent to Bulgaria; Novae is now Sistova.
* In 474.
TWELVE
Then came Fenge to Amleth and spoke him fair, but with a false smile: ‘I have brought a horse for you and would have you ride it’
Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum, c. 1190
Approaching the coast of south-east Macedonia, Timothy rode through an enchanted landscape: meadows thick with poppies, interspersed with noble stands of beech and oak, their silence broken only by the chatter of squirrels and the call of grouse, while inland rose pine-clad mountains streaked by waterfalls. Occasionally, a deer or boar would dash across the path ahead, and, once, he glimpsed high above him an imperial eagle, moving through the air with majestic flaps of its great wings. There had been a magic moment during his journey from Epirus, when his attention had been caught by a strange-shaped white cloud far to the south; on its remaining immobile, he had realized that in fact it was the snow-capped peak of Mount Olympus.
Skirting the battlefield of Philippi where, five centuries before, Antony and Octavian had smashed the legions of Brutus and Cassius, Caesar’s murderers, he headed south and in a few miles picked up the Via Egnatia, the mighty Roman highway linking Constantinople to Epidamnus on the Adriatic. Turning to his left, westward, he cantered along the verge of the paved road, running parallel to the Aegean, Homer’s ‘wine-dark sea’. Breezes from the offshore isle of Thasos carried a tang of cypresses and olive trees — the very smell of Greece.
Several paces behind his mount, connected to Timothy’s hand by a lead-rope, ran a beautiful dapple-grey horse, his muscles rippling like silk beneath the glossy coat. This was no ordinary steed. An enormous stallion, a cr
oss between a Hun great horse and a chunky Parthian (the type beloved of Roman stablemasters), and a full twenty hands in height, he was the biggest horse that Timothy had ever known. He had bought him for a song from a Gothic horse-coper who had purchased him as a reject from the Roman cavalry. For, although beautiful, Sleipnir — as his Gothic owner had named him after Odin’s terrible eight-legged steed — was evil. No one had succeeded in riding him; of those who tried, a legacy of smashed limbs and broken backs bespoke their failure.
No one, that is, until Timothy. For Timothy, the breaking of horses had, from an early age, been a passion, an obsession almost. The method favoured by most Roman riding-masters — bending an animal to one’s will by harsh treatment — he despised. By a system based on rewarding and praising co-operation, balanced by withholding attention in response to bad manners or aggression, he had never, thus far, failed with any horse. Sleipnir had proved his severest test; but a challenge was something Timothy relished, and with patience and consistency he had eventually won the creature over. But woe betide anyone else foolhardy enough to try to mount him.
