Ross Laidlaw - Theodoric

Next morning at the first hour, mounted, accompanied by a small train of spare horses and pack-mules carrying luggage and supplies in the charge of a groom, Timothy and Theoderic arrived at the Golden Gate, where they were to be joined by the armed escort assigned to accompany them on their journey. They hadn’t waited long when, with a clatter of hooves and jingle of accoutrements, a dozen horse-archers plus remounts and supply wagon approached along the Mese. With their highly polished cuirasses of overlapping iron scales and red-crested Attic helmets of gleaming bronze, they made a brave show.

‘Legio Quinta Macedonica,’ observed Timothy; ‘note the sunflower motif on their shields.’ He groaned in sudden consternation. ‘Oh no! Look who their decurion is — our old friend Julian, no less.’

A splendidly mounted young officer, scarlet cloak billowing, pulled up before Theoderic.

‘ You! ’ exclaimed Julian. His expression of shocked amazement swiftly changed to one of calculating malice. ‘Well, Goth, this should be an interesting trip. It’s a long way to Pannonia.’ He shook his head in simulated concern. ‘You’ll need to watch yourself; a lot can happen in a thousand miles. Well, there’s the gate opening. Shall we go?’

Headed by the escort, the cavalcade proceeded through the second of the triple arches in the Golden Gate, the chief entry into the city through the Theodosian Walls at their southern end. Turning in the saddle, Theoderic looked back at the city that had been his home for the greater part of his young life: the mighty double rampart of the Walls studded with massive towers, before which even Attila had quailed, and beyond them the roofs of churches, palaces, baths, and gymnasia without number, the statues crowning the columns of Constantine, Arcadius and Marcian, the topmost tier of arches of Valens’ aqueduct. .

A wave of nostalgia and sadness engulfed the young Goth. He was leaving, probably for the last time, all the things that had shaped his life and that he held dear — Roman art and architecture, Roman thought, Roman poetry and learning, Roman law with its noble aspirations linked to equity and justice. Through his education as a hostage, in outlook he had become fully Roman. Yet because of his German blood and Arian faith Rome rejected him — as Julian had once so cruelly reminded him. (It was ironic as well as unfortunate that fate had decreed their paths should rejoin, if only for a limited period. He supposed there were worse alternatives to being saddled with Julian for several weeks: a long sea voyage, for instance, tedious, uncomfortable, perhaps even dangerous. As for the young Roman’s thinly veiled threat, he dismissed that as the empty rhetoric of a spiteful mind.) He should be glad, he knew, to be returning home. But what was home? A dimly remembered land of plains and forests peopled by warlike farmers, ignorant, illiterate, scratching a living from the soil, eked out by plundered goods and livestock. A world without culture, barren and violent, where enjoyment was equated with fighting and feasting, and personal worth with loyalty and courage: noble qualities, to be sure, but hardly the compass of a man’s full measure. How would he be judged when back among his own people? Would he measure up? One thought alone sustained and comforted him: the memory of his father. Strong, wise and loving, Thiudimer would surely help him to make the transition from Roman to Goth.

The group had travelled only a few miles along the Via Egnatia, the great artery linking the empires of the East and West, when Theoderic and Timothy, in the rear, were alerted by a distant pattering behind them. Turning, they saw a dense mass of galloping horsemen, some way off but closing fast. Splitting into two wings, the pursuers, a wild-looking lot whooping and brandishing weapons, raced past on either side to join up again some hundreds of paces to the fore. Then, swiftly wheeling round, they charged towards the other group with levelled lances.

* 31 May 471 (see Notes).

Theoderic and Timothy spurred to the front of the column, where Julian had halted the escort.

‘Nock arrows and draw,’ ordered a white-faced Julian in a voice which trembled. ‘Loose on my-’

‘No!’ roared Timothy. ‘Can’t you see — they’re Isaurians; that’s Zeno in the van. It’s just a bluff to test our nerve.’

But Julian, clearly in the grip of panic, wasn’t listening. He opened his mouth to give the order.

‘Do not shoot,’ Theoderic heard himself say. Unbidden, the command — uttered with quiet authority — seemed to have come from someone else. It was the first time he had ever given an order, he thought, wondering. Even his bold stand against Julian over the Cambyses business had been carried through as a result of suggestions, not commands, on his part. It was Timothy, not he, who had organized the hunt, the boys unquestioningly obeying the Isaurian’s behests. And afterwards? He had happily slipped out of the limelight back into obscurity, content to be left alone to pursue a life of study and contemplation. But his countermand, however out of character, was, it seemed, effective. The archers were letting down their bows, thumb release-catches already off the strings.

Meanwhile, the ground began to tremble as the approaching cavalry thundered ever closer — a terrifying frieze of yelling warriors, flashing hooves, and wicked spear-points. Theoderic felt his bowels loosen and his palms begin to sweat. The urge to flee became almost overpowering.

‘Steady, Deric,’ murmured Timothy beside him. ‘Hold your nerve.’

With cries of fear, the escort — including Julian — broke and scattered, leaving Theoderic and Timothy alone facing the charge. Just when it seemed that nothing could halt their headlong career, the Isaurians, in a stunning display of horsemanship, reined in only paces from the pair, then, with a shout of acclamation, raised their lances in salute.

‘A true Isaurian, a true Goth,’ declared Zeno with an approving grin. He kneed his horse forwards to join them. ‘I’ve brought you some of my Excubitors to see you safely to Pannonia.’

‘I heard that,’ cried Julian, returning with a shamefaced band. He rode up to Zeno, confronting him. ‘How dare you challenge my authority? I have orders from the emperor.’

‘That’s all right, sonny. Just turn around and take yourself and your toy soldiers back to barracks. I’m relieving you.’

‘But my orders-’

‘-are from the emperor. I know; but not to worry. I’ll take full responsibility.’ Zeno smiled and continued in patient tones, as though explaining to a not-too-bright child. ‘You see, to all intents and purposes I am the emperor. He may wear the purple, but it’s me who pulls his strings. So off you go. Unless,’ he went on, his voice hardening, ‘you fancy arguing the toss with my Excubitors.’

Julian, his face a mottled red, opened his mouth as though to make an angry retort, then clamped it shut. He paused, glared at Zeno, then barked an order and departed with his troop.

‘Gilded popinjay,’ chuckled Zeno to Theoderic and Timothy, who had been listening dumbfounded to the exchange. ‘You don’t know what to make of me, right? I’ll explain. It’s bandit country where you’re going. Security’s broken down all along the Upper and Middle Danube frontier, with bands of Alan and Sarmatian raiders looting and destroying everywhere. No one to stop them, what with the Danube fleet stood down these twenty years, and the field army of Dacia confined to base except when called upon to deal with a major crisis.’