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 Amaclass="underline" ‘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’
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 cross 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.
An hour’s easy ride from where he’d joined the Via Egnatia brought Timothy to the edge of Strabo’s camp outside the Macedonian town of Stabula Diomedis. Having failed to forge an alliance with Zeno advantageous to himself, Strabo had launched a full-scale assault on Constantinople. Repulsed (predictably), he had resolved to switch his attack westward and was en route to invade Epirus, hoping to co-opt Amal support, as Theoderic’s new base at Epidamnus was in that very province.
Timothy’s entry into the camp made an immediate impression. Unlike their Visigothic cousins, the Ostrogoths had long been familiar with the use of horses, first as steppe-dwelling herdsmen, then as allies of Attila, when their cavalry had severely tested, though not broken, the Visigoths’ shield-wall at the epic battle of the Catalaunian Fields. Though only the wealthy could afford them, all Ostrogoths shared an appreciation of horses. An animal of Sleipnir’s appearance inevitably caused a huge buzz of interest, and he was soon the focus of an admiring, and growing, throng.
A lane parted in the mass of warriors and Strabo, yellow hair swinging about his shoulders, strode up to see what the excitement was about. He gazed at the dappled stallion with ill-disguised cupidity. ‘We know you,’ he declared, turning to Timothy. ‘You’re the one who defeated our champion in single combat at the Monastery of St Elizabeth.’ He fixed the other with a squinting stare. ‘But the fight was fair; we bear you no ill-will. What brings you to the camp of Theoderic of Thrace?’