by Tim Severin
His tone was so abrupt, it made me wonder if he was thinking about the Avar woman who had left him. Perhaps he had hoped to set up home with her. For several minutes the only sound was the thudding of our horses’ hooves on hard-packed earth. The dust they kicked up carried the woody scent of crushed grass stalks.
I swivelled in my saddle and looked back at our so-called escort. The two soldiers were at least thirty yards behind us, riding at a safe distance. I imagined that if we ran into trouble, they would turn round and bolt for home.
‘What do you mean?’ I prompted, trying to strike up some sort of conversation with Beorthric. The emptiness of the landscape was unsettling, and I was making an effort to see the big Saxon in a more favourable light than before, as someone on whom I could rely.
‘They don’t have permanent homes. They move with the seasons. Their khagan switches between a summer capital and a winter one.’
‘Taking his treasury with him?’
Beorthric pointed to the track ahead of us. ‘Look closely and you’ll see the grooves left by waggon wheels. This is an ancient Avar road.’
‘If we’re to provide Archbishop Arno with what he requires, we’ll need to interview witnesses about what exactly was in the Avar treasury when it was looted.’
He made no response and I had given up hope of getting any further reaction from him, when suddenly he said, ‘If we do find someone, you’ll have to hand out more of those gold coins if you want answers to your questions.’
His voice had an edge to it that I had not heard before, and I looked at him sideways, noticing a grimace of distaste.
‘Was it so awful?’ I asked.
‘A massacre. We were ordered to kill everyone inside the Ring.’
‘And do you think we’ll find anyone who survived?’
‘I hope so.’
Nothing more was said for the rest of that day and, towards evening, Beorthric picked a secluded spot for us to camp. It overlooked a small reed-fringed lake. As we watered the horses, ducks and other waterfowl continued to fly in, landing nearby and unafraid. It was another clue that the land was without people. Afterwards, our two troopers sat on their own, chewing on the rations they had brought with them and not offering to share them. Beorthric and I ate dried biscuit and several handfuls of dark purple plums that I found growing wild. As we were finishing the meal, there was a distant trumpeting sound above our heads and a flock of cranes, several hundred of the birds, passed overhead, the shape of their formation etched against the deep red of the sky. It was a sign that autumn had arrived.
*
In the morning, the air had a distinct chill and a thick, clammy fog hung over the land, obscuring the countryside as we rode onwards, with Beorthric again in the lead. Once or twice he missed the trail, and we had to turn back and cast around until he picked up the faint marks of the correct track. We had been riding for almost four hours when there loomed ahead of us the relics of a forest ravaged by a terrible fire. Tall black columns, closely spaced, stood like the teeth of a gigantic black comb. Only when we came closer did I see they were the charred remnants of a huge palisade. Hundreds of massive tree trunks had been erected side by side in the ground to create a barrier, the gaps between them filled with packed earth and woven branches. Even scorched and buckled, the obstacle was forbidding and grim.
It was what remained of the Ring.
‘How on earth did Carolus’s troops find a way past this?’ I asked Beorthric as we rode along the front of the extraordinary defence works. Looking up I could see that the tree trunks were twenty or thirty feet high, impossible to scale without ladders and grappling irons. To knock them down would have required heavy siege equipment.
‘The same way we beat the Avars in the field – by treachery.’
It was obvious how the Ring had earned its name: the wall of black, scorched tree trunks continued in a great curve as far as I was able to see into the fog. Presumably, it came back on itself and formed a complete circle. I was awed.
Eventually, we turned in through what must have been some sort of gateway in the palisade. Whatever had closed the gap no longer existed.
‘There was room inside for all the khagan’s people, their flocks and herds, and that was only where they spent their summers. In winter, they moved to different quarters, taking their possessions with them, even their war engines,’ Beorthric explained. He gave a grim laugh. ‘We found that they had catapults, stone-throwers and siege engines. Everything mounted on wheels.’
‘But why did they need to erect such a fortress? What were they afraid of?’ I asked.
‘Themselves. Every khagan fears being overthrown by an army of rebels. The Avars are divided into many clans and, given a chance, will fight one another to lord it over the others.’
I sniffed the moist air. Two years after the utter destruction of the Ring by the Duke of Friuli’s troops, there was no mistaking the distinctive smell of charred wood. The place reeked of it. ‘Who was their traitor, the man who made it possible for the duke’s men to take this place?’
‘He was called Tugun, though whether that was his name or some sort of Avar title, I don’t know. Even before we invaded, he had secretly sent word that he was willing to turn Christian if Carolus would recognize him as khagan.’
‘And his men opened the gates for you?’
‘They did.’ He paused. ‘But we still carried out our orders.’
His meaning took a moment to sink in. ‘They were massacred along with all the rest?’
Beorthric did not answer.
‘What happened to this Tugun, was he also killed?’ I demanded.
‘His body was never found, though we did not look too hard. We were too busy looting.’
There was a shout behind us: the fat trooper was pointing to one side, into the fog. Indistinct shapes were moving towards us. My stomach gave a sudden lurch of fear, but they were only cattle, half a dozen of them trotting through the fog, curious to investigate our arrival.
‘Someone must be living here . . .’ I began. The words were scarcely out of my mouth when a human figure appeared behind the cattle, trying to head them off. He was running with a bad limp. He spotted us, spun round and fled. But Beorthric was too quick for him. The Saxon brought his horse into a canter, and in a few strides had wheeled in front of the man, blocking his escape.
When I rode up, the man was standing very still, shivering with fright as he looked up at Beorthric who was questioning him in a rasping language that I supposed was the Avar tongue.
I looked at the man’s face and was disappointed. I had expected to see the same high cheek bones, broad features and slightly slanted eyes of the triumphant warrior prince on the flagon. But the man’s face, grimy and hollow cheeked, was no different from those of the poorer people we had met on the far side of the Donau. He was dressed as a simple herder; shabby tunic and leggings of homespun, scuffed and well-worn boots. He had a badly crooked left leg.
‘He says that he’s been living here for the past year,’ Beorthric told me.
‘He doesn’t look like an Avar,’ I said.
‘He’s not. He tells me that his people are Gepids, one of the peoples who lived in this area before the Avars came.’
‘Is he the only person living here?’
‘Just him.’
The fog was beginning to dissolve, revealing the interior of the Ring. There was very little to see – mounds of rubbish, vague shapes which might be the stubs of house walls, a few charred timbers sticking out of the ground, a fence of salvaged wooden slats to make a rudimentary cattle pen. The rest was emptiness, a bare ground where weeds sprouted through a thin covering of ash and black cinders. The destruction wrought by the Duke of Friuli’s troops had been total.
My heart sank. I could not see how I was going to write a replacement page in the inventory of the Avar treasure. There was nothing here for me to learn.
Beorthric broke into my thoughts. ‘The man’s name is Kunimund. He tells me t
hat before the fall of the Ring he lived here as a servant of the Avars.’
‘Ask him if he was here on the day the Ring was stormed.’
The questioning took some time and I saw the man gradually relax as he gave his answers. Then Beorthric raised my spirits by saying, ‘I think we’re in luck. He was here that day. That’s when his leg was smashed, and he can tell us something about the treasure. He’s inviting us to his house.’
We got down from our horses, and walked with the Gepid across the wreckage of the Ring, our footsteps crunching on the cinders. He brought us to a shack he had made for himself close to the centre of the abandoned Avar stronghold. Salvaged timbers spanned the broken walls of one of the least damaged houses, and reeds had been used for thatch. Several stools and a rickety-looking bench stood outside.
He pushed aside the rag of curtain that hung across the low doorway and disappeared. When he re-emerged, he was carrying a heavy clay jug and some wooden bowls.
‘He invites us to sit with him. We are his guests,’ Beorthric translated. The two troopers hung back. They did not trust the Gepid. When he offered them bowls of milk from the jug, they shook their heads. They were left to hold our horses while Beorthric and I sat down. Kunimund filled our bowls, and before we drank, he tipped a small amount of milk on the ground as an offering. Then, with a little prompting from Beorthric, he launched into his account of the day that the duke’s army destroyed the Ring.
I could not understand his language but watched his emotion increase as his story progressed. At first he was matter-of-fact, almost casual. Gradually, his voice rose to a pitch, and there was a tremor of the lip as he fought to hold back tears. His knuckles turned white as he held the wooden bowl more tightly. Occasionally, Beorthric interrupted to ask some detail, and the Gepid would gather himself and frown as he tried to remember. Once or twice during his narrative he pointed towards different parts of the compound.
When he finished his tale, Beorthric turned to me. ‘Sigwulf, I think you’d better take notes. He’s likely to be our only witness.’
I fetched parchment, pen and ink from my saddlebag, Kunimund watching my every move with almost dog-like attention. It crossed my mind that, for the Gepid, having his story written down would enshrine the memory of those who had perished on that day.
‘His account agrees with what I recall,’ Beorthric began. ‘Our army advanced much more swiftly than the Avars expected. It took them by surprise. The khagan was preparing to follow his usual tactics, to withdraw and drag out the negotiations until the invaders lost heart and went home.’
‘What about the treasure?’ I reminded him.
‘According to Kunimund all the gold and silver was loaded on carts, ready to accompany the withdrawal. But Friuli’s army appeared in front of the palisade before the evacuation could start. Everyone inside was trapped.’
‘Does Kunimund know if there were any special items in the treasure, like the warrior flagon?’
Beorthric put my question to Gepid. ‘He says that most of the treasure was in coin, in sacks and boxes. He supposes there were some special items like gold plates and ornaments. On one occasion he was called upon to serve at a banquet for the khagan and his noblemen, and many precious gold objects were on display. But he cannot remember much about them.’
Dutifully, I wrote down what Beorthric had told me, though it was far too vague to satisfy the archbishop’s requirement for an inventory of the Hoard.
‘What happened next?’ I asked.
‘When the enemy arrived in front of the Ring, the khagan’s servants were ordered to take the treasure off the carts and bury it. But there was too little time to do the job properly.’
Beorthric waited while the Gepid refilled his wooden bowl with milk from the earthenware jug. The Saxon took a sip before continuing.
‘I’ve asked Kunimund to show us where the treasure was buried. He says he knows the spot, because he was one of the squad that dug the trench. Of course there’s nothing left. The invaders took everything before they set fire to the Ring.’
‘How did Kunimund survive all this?’ I asked.
‘He was rounded up with the rest of the prisoners, but no one wanted him as a slave because his leg was so badly broken. He slipped away and hid amongst the wrecked buildings. When the troops set fire to the Ring, he crawled away from the flames, and eventually found his way out into the countryside. He lived like a beast for months.’
I noticed that Beorthric had not mentioned anything of his own part in the massacre.
‘Does this match with what you yourself remember?’ I asked him.
‘Mostly. After the Ring fell, I was put with the squad held in readiness in case the Avars launched a counter-attack, so I wasn’t involved in sorting out the plunder. That job was left to the King’s notaries who travelled with the Duke to make sure everything was accounted for.’
‘Ask Kunimund to show us where the treasure was buried,’ I suggested.
We got up and Kunimund led us across the barren landscape to a spot close under the southern wall. He stopped and pointed to a dip in the ground.
‘He says that is where the treasure was buried, not very deep.’
There was nothing so see. Nevertheless, I drew a sketch of the position of the dip.
We trudged our way back across the cinders and debris to find that the two troopers had put our horses in the cattle pen. The one with the cough was idly poking through the wreckage of one of the huts. Presumably, he was hoping to find some item that had been overlooked during the sack of the Ring.
I tried one more time to dredge up some useful information. ‘Ask Kunimund if he saw or heard anything about what was in the treasure when it was dug up by our troops. Did he see anything?’
The Gepid shook his head and Beorthric translated. ‘He was lying on the ground with a broken leg. He knows nothing.’
Gloomily I looked down at my notes. There were just a few lines, not enough to recreate a plausible page in the inventory. I would have to use my imagination, perhaps add an extra sketch of the Ring embellished with some credible details. It would at least prove to Arno that Beorthric and I had visited the Ring.
At that moment Kunimund asked a question. From his expression he looked as if he was trying to be helpful.
‘What does he say?’ I asked Beorthric.
‘That he worked as a herder and horse-minder for the khagan. He’s sorry that he can’t tell us about valuable household items. The only precious items he handled were the saddlery and other horse gear for the Khagan.’
I remembered the buckle I had seen in Rome, the one with the griffin. I had imagined it was for a belt, but now realized it could well have been from a horse harness.
‘Did the khagan use very costly horse gear?’ I enquired.
‘His saddle was decorated with precious stones set into strips of gold, and his horse wore a harness with gold ornaments all over it,’ came the reply.
‘Were those items buried as well?’ I asked.
‘Some of them.’
Again I was disappointed.
I took another sheet of parchment and drew the maker’s marks that I had copied from the warrior flagon. I held the page up for the Gepid to examine.
‘Ask him if he recognizes these?’ I said to Beorthric.
Kunimund studied the line of marks for a long moment. Then he looked up at me, a gleam of understanding in his eyes, and gave his answer. ‘He thinks he saw these same marks on the khagan’s gold breastplate,’ Beorthric translated.
I pointed to my own chest, to make sure I had the meaning correctly. The Gepid shook his head. He led me across to where our horses were in the cattle pen. One of them came across, hoping to be fed. He pointed to the centre of the horse’s chest. All of a sudden I remembered the picture of the warrior prince on the flagon. He was shown riding in a saddle that had a breast strap across the horse’s chest to prevent the saddle sliding back. Decorations were shown dangling from the strap. Doubtless they we
re in gold, and the one in the centre might be substantial.
I held up my hands, holding them eight inches apart, indicating the possible size of the breastplate.
The Gepid nodded.
I beckoned to Beorthric. ‘Does he know who made the breastplate?’
There was another nod from the Gepid as soon as Beorthric had finished translating. ‘Kunimund says that on one occasion the plate was badly bent when a horse stepped on it. He was sent to the goldsmith to get it straightened.’
I could scarcely contain my excitement. ‘Where was the goldsmith?’
‘Less than half a day’s ride away, to the south,’ came the reply.
The smile that spread across my face must have showed my relief. Here was my chance to find the Avar goldsmith and have him make a copy of the warrior flagon.
Not caring whether or not Kunimund learned about the money belt, I fished out a gold solidi and pressed it into his hand. ‘Tomorrow, I want you to take me to see this goldsmith.’
‘Maybe he’s dead or fled,’ Beorthric cautioned. I scarcely heard him. I was already looking forward to asking the goldsmith what he knew about griffins.
*
Our two escort troopers flatly refused to venture deeper into Avar territory. Between coughs, one of them reminded me that they had orders to go no further than the Ring. His overweight colleague took pleasure in adding that they would only stay on for two days. If we had not returned by then, they would head back to their guardhouse. Holding up his hand, the fat one made the universal sign for money and made me understand that he and his colleague expected to be paid for looking after Kunimund’s cattle if Beorthric and I decided to press onward. I handed over the bribe without argument. I needed the Gepid as a guide.
Kunimund’s shack was too small to accommodate us so we bedded down for the night in a burned-out building, and again kept watches. I wished I had brought a heavier cloak with me for the night was very cold, and the first streaks of dawn revealed a coating of frost on the blackened timbers of the great palisade.
The Gepid brought us more bowls of milk for our breakfast and then fetched himself a sorry-looking nag that he kept stabled in another of the wrecked buildings. The animal’s appearance was deceptive. As soon as he had led Beorthric and me out of the Ring and turned south, his horse broke into a flat jolting run that ate up the miles. Beorthric and I had a hard time keeping up.
