Dismounting, Timothy knelt and said, ‘I come, Sire, with a gift from the king of the Amal. He hopes you will accept this horse as a token of the amity that now exists between our peoples. His name is Sleipnir, and he is without peer among his kind.’
‘Sleipnir? A strange name for a strange beast.’
‘A mount fit for a god, Sire. Or a king. Let me demonstrate how perfectly he responds to a rider’s will. The lightest touch of heel or bridle, the merest hint of pressure by the knee is all the guidance he requires.’
Oddly enhanced by the squint, the glint of avarice in Strabo’s eyes was plain to see. ‘Show me, then.’
Timothy vaulted nimbly onto the back of Sleipnir, whose tack was already in situ. Without once touching saddle-horn or bridle, he proceeded to put the stallion through his paces — the old, old moves going back to Xenophon, which all war-horses must learn if they were to be of any use to a rider whose hands were occupied with shield and lance. With consummate grace and apparent ease, Sleipnir performed a series of evolutions: the high trot on the spot; rising up with hocks bent and forelegs pawing the air; and, hardest of all, static leaps, a feat accomplished by only the very best of mounts. Alighting, Timothy bowed to Strabo and extended a hand towards the horse. ‘Your turn, Sire.’
Matching the Isaurian’s agility, the king sprang onto the saddle — whereupon the full wickedness of Sleipnir’s nature manifested itself. Feeling the weight of a stranger on his back, the stallion, eyes rolling, ears laid back, immediately began to rear and plunge, obliging Strabo to hang on grimly to the two front saddle-horns. A gasp of horror arose from the scattering onlookers as Sleipnir bounded in the air, then landed with a jarring thud that sent Strabo flying from the saddle, to crash onto a rack of spears outside a tent. Several blades drove through the king’s back, their bloody points emerging from his chest. Strabo gave a choking cry, a fount of blood gushed from his mouth, and he lolled lifeless, suspended from the spears.
Before the Goths could react, Timothy had mounted Sleipnir and was galloping from the camp. A spear whistled past his head; a warrior who tried to bar the way went down, skull stove in by an iron-shod hoof. Then they were clear and speeding eastward along the Via Egnatia, at a pace no other steed could hope to emulate. The plot — intended by Theoderic and Timothy only to humiliate Strabo before his followers, and thus hopefully reduce his standing — had succeeded beyond their wildest imaginings.
The results of Strabo’s accidental death were immediate and far-reaching. Theoderic had proved himself stronger than his rival. Therefore (according to the Gothic mind) he was worthy to be the leader of Strabo’s followers. Thus the hegemony of all the Ostrogoths fell to Theoderic, who thus became, almost at a stroke, a major potential threat to Zeno. Unable now to play off one Gothic bloc against another, the Eastern emperor sought to win over Theoderic by a series of gestures. He connived in the murder of Strabo’s son Rekitach, thus eliminating the only serious challenge to Theoderic’s supremacy; he granted the Amal Goths land in Dacia Ripensis* and Moesia Secunda; he appointed Theoderic Magister Militum praesentalis, the highest post in the Roman army; and he designated him (along with one Venantius) consul† — an unheard-of honour for a barbarian. Through an unexpected turn of fortune’s wheel, it seemed that all Theoderic’s tribulations had been smoothed away, and his dream at last fulfilled.
* Roughly equivalent to north-east Serbia.
† For 484.
THIRTEEN
The divine inspiration of his [Severinus’] prophetic mind
As he neared his destination, Lauriacum, Theoderic’s pleasurable anticipation at the throught of meeting the famous holy man of Noricum, Severinus, was tempered by a deep sadness. Everywhere throughout the former West Roman province, ruined farmsteads and the fire-blackened remains of villages made a stark and ugly contrast to the beautiful landscape of mountains, lakes and Alpine meadows. The devastation had been wrought only in recent years by bands of Alamanni, Heruls and, sadly, the northern Ostrogoths under his brother Valamir, now dead. (The Sciri had ceased their raids, banned by Odovacar of the royal house of that tribe and now king of Italy. For all that he was a barbarian ruler, Odovacar was a just and enlightened one, doing a far better job than his recent predecessors who had worn the imperial purple.)
Keen to capitalize on the power-vacuum created by the death of Strabo, and anxious (secretly) to know what the future held in store, Theoderic had decided to visit the famed sage and reputed seer to seek advice and prognostications. Forced to leave Thiudimund nominally in charge of the Amal during his absence (but with Timothy and Videric, the aged but able head of the Kuni, primed to take over at the first hint of disloyalty), Theoderic had travelled by ship from Dyrrachium* up the Adriatic coast and out of the empire, to the port of Tergeste† (Aquileia, which would have been nearer his destination, having been destroyed by Attila thirty years earlier). He had completed the remainder of his journey via the route over the Alpes Carnicae, in the guise of a wandering monk — sure defence against the attentions of raiders or bandits, such was the universal veneration in which these anchorites were held.
At the town’s main gate, Theoderic was searched and questioned by two guards in imperial-issue helmets and mail hauberks — reminders of a Roman government now defunct. Theoderic didn’t object, accepting that in these times of insecurity, strangers, especially those of Germanic appearance, were understandably regarded with suspicion. Enquiring as to the whereabouts of Severinus, he was given directions but warned that the sage was dying, and might be too ill to receive him. Outside a mean dwelling in a back street he found a throng of people, some openly weeping, waiting their turn to see the great man.
‘No more today,’ a man in the doorway called to some visitors approaching the line. Then, spotting Theoderic’s tall form among them, he added, ‘Just one more,’ and signalled him to join the end of the queue. Two hours later, when the last of those before the king had been ushered out, the porter, a spare man with a wise and pleasant face and the tallest forehead Theoderic had ever seen, admitted him to a bare lower room, then shut and barred the door behind him. Showing Theoderic to a settle, he seated himself on a stool.
‘My master is exhausted and must rest a while, but will see you by and by, Sire,’ said the doorkeeper with a smile. ‘I could hardly send away such a distinguished visitor as the king of the Amal.’
‘But, how-’ began Theoderic, amazed.
‘-did I know who you were?’ finished the other. ‘Not magic, I assure you, Sire. Merely observation, a faculty I’ve practised and developed all my life. Despite your monkish garb, your bearing, fair colouring, and blue eyes bespeak a German warrior of high rank. Among that race and class, how many have attained such a great height as yourself? You see, already the field has narrowed to a few. Your habit is worn, and ragged at the hem, besides bearing traces of salt, suggesting you have made a long journey by land and sea. Which fits the circumstances: all the world has heard that the squinting king is dead, and now waits to see what his great rival, Theoderic, will do. What more likely than that the king of the Amal should seek counsel from the sage of Noricum — as did Odovacar, on his way to Italy? The clues all point to just the one conclusion, Sire.’
‘Well, when you put it like that, it seems obvious enough,’ said Theoderic. He shook his head and laughed. ‘Still, I’m impressed. Not many would have spotted those tell-tale signs, let alone deduced anything from them.’ He went on gently, ‘I’m sorry to hear that your master is sick.’