by Ross Laidlaw
Illus, an ambitious general and, like Zeno, an Isaurian, had at first supported Basiliscus in his short-lived usurpation ten years previously. However, realizing in time that he had backed a loser, he had switched his allegiance to Zeno — temporarily, as it transpired. In the year of Theoderic’s consulship he had made his own bid for the purple, coming out openly against the Eastern Emperor. To meet this fresh threat, Zeno had turned to the old ally who had helped him regain his throne from Basiliscus: Theoderic. With a mixed force of Gothic warriors and regular Roman troops (including Thracian units under a seething Julian), Theoderic loyally set out for Isauria. The army had advanced no farther than Nicomedia, the first major city in Asia, when a messenger came secretly to Julian in camp. The man revealed that he had come from Theoderic’s brother Thiudimund, with this warning: the Amal king was planning to join forces with Illus; together they would then overthrow Zeno and replace him with his rival Isaurian. Julian couldn’t believe his luck. If he acted swiftly, he could bring about the humiliation, perhaps downfall, of his old adversary. At the same time, he would be ingratiating himself with the emperor, and no doubt the coveted post of Magister Militum praesentalis would soon be his. Minutes later, a dispatch rider was posting westward for the capital; within hours rather than days, Theoderic would surely be receiving the order — written in purple ink and bearing the emperor’s seal — for his recall. .
And so it had transpired. In bitterness and fury, Theoderic had returned to his base at Novae, whence he had vented his feelings of betrayal in a series of devastating raids on Thrace. Within these last few weeks, he had escalated his offensive by launching a major assault on Constantinople itself: pillaging suburbs, cutting the Aqueduct of Valens, the conduit to the city’s main water supply, and now mounting this sea-borne attack on the capital’s soft underbelly, unprotected by the great landward-facing Walls of Theodosius.
The expected imperial gratitude for divulging Theoderic’s reported treachery had not been forthcoming. To Julian’s consternation, when he told Zeno that the source of his information was Thiudimund, the emperor had reacted with rage and disbelief.
‘Thiudimund slanders his brother — and you believe him!’ Zeno had stormed. ‘Good God, man, everyone knows that their relationship is poisonous, and that Thiudimund wouldn’t overlook the slightest opportunity to do his brother down. Everyone but Flavius Julianus it would seem. Well, thanks to you, we’ve got the most powerful barbarian nation in Europe in a state of war against us. For your sake, you’d better pray that Theoderic’s assault on the capital doesn’t succeed.’
‘Jacite!’* On Menander’s command, the stubby tongues of flame wavering from the mouths of the row of tubes were suddenly transformed into roaring jets, as his team began to work the pump-handles of the reservoirs containing a mixture of bitumen, sulphur and naphtha. The leading Goths swarming up the ladders propped against the sea-walls were engulfed in a fiery blast. Human torches, they dropped, screaming, to the beach; water flung on them by their horrified companions had no effect. Relentlessly, the flames continued to burn — through skin and muscle to the very bone.
The success of the new weapon was instantaneous and total. Witnessing the fate of the first to scale the ladders, the Goths — individual warriors who, unlike Roman troops, couldn’t be ordered into battle against their will — refused to press on with the attack, and the fleet retreated to the Asiatic shore. Soon afterwards, Theoderic called off the investment of the city, and marched his host back to their Moesian heartland.
‘Well, thanks to your new weapon, this “Greek fire”, as the Goths are calling it,’ Zeno reluctantly conceded to Julian, ‘we’ve now got a breathing-space from the attentions of Theoderic. For the moment.’ The pair, together with Thalassios (now Magister Excubitorum, commander of the crack Isaurian unit from which was drawn the emperor’s personal bodyguard), were holding a council of war in the capital’s Great Palace. ‘But we can’t allow things to drift. After that debacle at the Shipka Pass, and more recently his recall from the Illus expedition’ — Zeno paused, to glare meaningfully at Julian — ‘Theoderic’s never going to trust us again. We now have to treat him as a permanent enemy — one who’s going to continue blackmailing us, by beating up the Balkans, into granting more and more concessions of land, and subsidies in gold. Any suggestions, gentlemen?’
‘Serenity, let’s not keep on appeasing Theoderic,’ declared Julian. Playing up to his nickname of ‘Alexander’, bestowed on account of his uncanny resemblance to the famous Macedonian, Julian was tricked out in Ancient Greek-style armour, which had the effect of making him appear both formidable and faintly ridiculous. ‘The Goths, after all, are just barbarians. If we were to mobilize a big enough Roman army, we could take him on and destroy him.’
‘And risk another Adrianople?’ sneered Zeno. ‘I think not. I suspect that, if pushed, Theoderic might prove to be as effective a tactician as Fritigern.’
‘What we need is another Strabo,’ put in Thalassios. ‘Pitting one barbarian against another — that’s a game the Romans have long been masters of.’
‘“Divide et impera” — good point,’ replied Zeno. ‘Trouble is, my friend, the Ostrogoths are all united now, and, inconveniently, we haven’t any rival barbarians within the empire.’
‘But outside the empire. .’ murmured Julian, as an idea formed in his mind. Enthusiastically, he began to expound his plan.
Alone in a reception chamber, Zeno rose from his throne as Theoderic entered. ‘Greetings, my dear old friend,’ he declared, with a warmth that was only half simulated. Despite the bad blood that now flowed like a river between them, he liked the tall German with the frank blue eyes and thoughtful, slightly troubled expression — this man who, in the past, had proved himself a loyal Friend of Rome, and to whom, indeed, Zeno owed his throne. ‘We have a proposition which may interest you,’ he continued, waving the other to a chair.
‘Your “propositions” I have heard before, Zeno. I would remind you that my bodyguard of loyal Goths is just outside this palace, and ten thousand of my warriors are encamped beyond the city walls.’
‘Well, no one can blame you for taking precautions.’ Dropping the imperial ‘we’, Zeno continued, ‘I confess that in our dealings in the past, I may sometimes have allowed myself to be swayed by wrong advice. But let’s try to put such misunderstandings behind us. I need someone to take over in Italy as my vicegerent. Who better than my friend and former ally Theoderic Amalo?’
‘But, Odovacar-’ exclaimed Theoderic, stunned.
‘-has shown himself to be a renegade, threatening to send warriors to help Illus in Isauria, against me. Why, I can’t imagine, except that power must have gone to his head. Granted, he’s made a reasonable fist of running things in Italy, but he can’t be allowed to flex his muscles in the East. He must therefore be removed. The last claimant to the imperial throne in the West, Julius Nepos, died eight years ago.* So, this is where you come in. Interested?’
Theoderic felt himself drowning in a tide of conflicting emotions. Vicegerent of the Eastern Emperor! It was a heady thought — next to the purple and the diadem, no higher role existed in the Roman world. His ambition to be accepted by the Roman state, an ambition which had been cruelly manipulated and thwarted in the past, would be fulfilled beyond his wildest dreams. And why had Zeno thrown in that remark about Julius Nepos, unless to suggest to Theoderic that the imperial throne was still vacant, and that therefore. .? Resolutely, he banned his thoughts from pursuing such intoxicating speculation — for the moment, anyway. Then, inside his mind, Theoderic seemed to hear the voice of Timothy urging caution: ‘He’s using you, Deric, employing the old, old trick of setting barbarian against barbarian — finally to rid the Eastern Empire of those troublesome Ostrogoths. Odovacar’s just an excuse; the Scirian’s posture over Illus is little more than sword-rattling, a reminder that, in the sphere of power politics, he can’t be overlooked. Anyway, what’s the vicegerency? An empty title which it costs Zen
o nothing to bestow. A fiction devised to preserve the comforting illusion that the “one and Indivisible Empire” still continues in the West, under the aegis of the Eastern Emperor. Remember, Deric, the ABC I taught you when dealing with the Romans. A: accept nothing; B: believe nobody; C: check everything.’
But the pull of Rome (which also held out a solution to the problem of his remaining within the empire, which Severinus had pointed out to him) proved too strong. Seduced by glittering images of semi-imperial status — riding in state through the venerable City; saluted by senators from ancient noble families; acclaimed by throngs of cheering Romans. . He heard himself reply, ‘I accept.’
Then, unbidden, the opening words of Myrddin’s prophecy rang in his head: ‘A horse comes from the land of the live eagle to that of the dead one, where he fights and kills a boar that has come there before him.’ The meaning was suddenly clear. The eagle, the enduring symbol of Rome. The live one — the Empire of the East; the dead, the now defunct Western Empire. A horse, long the totem of the Ostrogoths. A boar, the motif of the royal house of the Sciri. The Ostrogoths would come from the Eastern Empire to Italy, where they would defeat Odovacar. Wonder tinged with dread swept over Theoderic.
The sheer immensity of the enterprise to which he was now committed began to dawn on him. The task was staggering in its implications: the migration not just of the warrior host, but of a whole people, to the number of two hundred thousand souls, involving the organization of transport, food supplies, equipment, planning and following a route of nearly a thousand miles through sometimes hostile tribal territory and difficult terrain. The challenge called for someone with the vision and authority of a Moses. Thus far in his career, he had proved himself a successful warlord: good at plundering, sacking cities, holding his own (just) against rival Goths, and Romans — hardly a glittering record. Now, at thirty-four, the call upon his leadership was of uncharted, infinitely greater dimensions. Would he prove equal to the test?
* ‘Fire!’ (Literally, ‘Hurl!’; orders in the East Roman army were still given in Latin.)
* In 480 — i.e., after the deposition of the last Western Emperor, but still leaving open the possibility that the throne could, in theory at least, be occupied again.
PART II
EXODUS
AD 488-493
FIFTEEN
Cold is the way to Miming, hidden and perilous, and it lies over icy mountains and frozen seas
Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum, c. 1195
In his dream, Theoderic saw the ancestors of his people, the Gothones, in countless galleys crossing the Mare Suevicum* from Scandia — a cold land of fiords, forests and tall mountains — to Germania. There, under a great leader, Filimer, they began the long, long journey that ended only when they reached the northern shores of the Pontus Euxinus.† In two great clans, the Balthi, and the Amali of divine descent, they travelled with their herds and wagons, between the valleys of the Viadrus and the Vistula, across a mighty watershed, and so to the great southward-draining rivers, the Pyretus, the Tyras, the Borysthenes and the Tanais,‡ that led them to the Euxine.
That had been a time of gods and heroes, long ages before their kinsman, the missionary Ulfilas, persuaded the Gothones to adopt the faith of gentle Christos, a ‘king’ who sacrificed himself not only for his people (who rejected him), but for all mankind. Folk then believed in Odin the mighty, in Balder the good and gentle, and in evil Loki who brought about the death of Balder, and so hastened the coming of Ragnarok, the dreadful day when gods and evil beings shall destroy each other, and when Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life and Fate, shall be consumed by fire along with Earth itself. In those far-off days, a hero was the only man who mattered, brave deeds alone worthy of recounting, and a king’s self-sacrifice for his people the noblest act a leader could perform. And then. .
And then had come the Huns, thought Theoderic, awaking. Like a storm of angry locusts, the Hunnensturm had burst upon them from the east. True nomads, unlike the farming Goths, the Scythian* horse-archers — squat, powerfully built men with yellow skins and flat Oriental faces — had conquered or driven out all who stood in their path. The Balthi, who later became the Visigoths, had sought refuge within the Roman Empire; the Amal had stayed, becoming subjects of the Asiatic horde. In a heroic gesture, redolent of the ancient tradition of kingly sacrifice, Ermanaric, the Amal king, had taken his own life, hoping thus to placate the old gods, who might then help his people prevail against their oppressors. If so, the hope was vain, and the Amal — as the nation of the Ostrogoths — were destined to become the ally of Attila in his campaign against West Rome. Following the Hun king’s death (which occurred the year before his own birth, Theoderic recalled) and the disintegration of his empire, the Amal had remained for a time in Pannonia, the territory allotted to them by their Hun masters. And the rest, thought the Amal king, is history — my own and theirs, interwined.
His dream had been extraordinarily vivid and was slow to fade; Theoderic experienced an unaccountable, sharp longing for the homeland of his ancestors — those icy mountains, fiords and forests he had seen in his sleeping thoughts: a fitting stage for mighty deeds of valour, from where fallen heroes were translated to Valhalla. But perhaps such feelings were nothing more than childish nostalgia. Could the things his forebears had seen and felt really be transferred across the generations to himself? Anyway, was not Italy, sunny, rich and fertile, a more appealing vision? Of course it was, Theoderic told himself sternly, banishing northern fantasies to a dark corner of his mind. This was the real, the Roman world, where a man’s status was measured in wealth and property, a world which had no place for gods or heroes.
He shaved (a Roman custom he refused to abandon), dressed and, munching a hunk of bread dipped in wine, left the house in Novae he had commandeered. Resentful Romans making way for the tall German, Theoderic strode through well-paved streets to the Amal camp outside the city walls. Here, preparations were under way against the day of departure for the great expedition. Wagons, gear and weapons were being furbished, carts were bringing in the harvest (Theoderic had promised Zeno not to live off the land while travelling within the empire — a promise which, because of the residual affection and respect he harboured towards the old fox, he knew he would keep) — a scene replicated countless times throughout all lands assigned to the Amal in Moesia Secunda and Dacia Ripensis.
Suddenly, a huge weight of depression seemed to settle on the king’s shoulders. He must say goodbye to the old freebooting past that had occupied his youth and young manhood — a colourful past of skirmishes and raids, when pitting his wits against Zeno and Strabo had made life seem at times like an exciting game. Granted, a life not lacking in hardship and privation, but with an edge and zest which would surely be lacking in the years that stretched ahead. Middle age beckoned, and with it the massive responsibility of getting his people to Italy: a prospect full of toil and tribulation, with each day presenting a remorseless tally of problems to be solved, grievances assuaged, and plans formulated. Even when they reached journey’s end, there was Odovacar to be dealt with. The bold Scirian, who had risen to be king of Italy through cunning and resolve, was hardly the man to surrender his realm meekly to another. In a trial of strength between them, could Theoderic be sure the Ostrogoths would prevail? He could give no guarantee, he admitted. Perhaps the two barbarian peoples would end up destroying each other? Which of course might be the result that Zeno had planned all along — a necessary prelude to bringing back Italy within the imperial fold.
He longed for Timothy, the steadfast and resourceful friend who always knew ways to lighten his blackest moods. But Timothy had gone to Olbia on the Euxine, hopefully to bring back one Callisthenes, a famous merchant with a trading empire throughout Scythia, who should be able to provide expert advice regarding provisioning and transport for the epic trek.
Looking up, Theoderic felt his heart sink. Bounding towards him was young Frederick, the son of the Rugian king whom Odovacar had ca
ptured and murdered, after annihilating many of his people. Theoderic sighed; like all relations between the empire and Germanic peoples, the Rugian Question was complex, with far-reaching repercussions. He reminded himself of the facts. To counter Odovacar’s threat to support Illus in Isauria, Zeno had enlisted the Rugians — whose territory adjoined Noricum — to block any force the Scirian king might send eastwards. Odovacar’s response had been swift and brutal; descending in strength on the Rugian kingdom, he had wreaked devastation and slaughter on such a scale as to destroy it utterly. Frederick, however, had escaped, and with a band of pro-Ostrogothic followers had managed to join up with Theoderic in Moesia, where he had offered his services in the inevitable campaign to wrest Italy from Odovacar.
Theoderic liked the young Rugian, with his open friendly manner and boyish enthusiasm; but at this moment, sunk as he was in gloomy introspection, hearty Frederick was the last person he wished to encounter. Forcing a smile, he greeted the prince with a polite, if unenthusiastic, ‘Good morning.’
‘And the same to you, Sire,’ boomed the young man. He glanced about him at the busy scene with an approving eye. ‘Looks as if we’ll soon be ready to begin the march.’
‘Just as soon as the harvest’s in,’ agreed the king. ‘We need to break the back of the journey before the onset of winter.’ Now that Frederick was here, Theoderic decided he might as well make use of him by picking his brains as to the route. In his flight from Odovacar, the young Rugian must have covered virtually the same ground that the expedition would be following for the first half of the journey.
