‘His days draw peacefully to a close.’ The man paused and blinked back tears. ‘Excuse me, Sire. We should celebrate rather than grieve; he has had a long and wonderful life, full of service and achievement, and is assured of a heavenly reward. But where are my manners? You must be tired and hungry; let me offer you some repast — only poor fare, I’m afraid.’
While Theoderic gratefully partook of a bowl of thin soup, with bread and a wrinkled apple from a store-cellar, the other told him a little about himself. Named Myrddin, from Cambria in Britain, he had become, while scarcely more than a boy, an eager acolyte of Severinus when the latter visited the island as part of Germanus’ second mission, during the wretched reign of Valentinian III. When the sage stayed on to help Aurelian organize the Britons’ fight-back against the Saxons, Myrddin had become part of his team. He had returned with Severinus to the empire, eventually settling with him in Noricum as the old man’s factotum, as well as friend.
A monk appeared on the stairs leading to the upper part of the house, and said, ‘If there are any more visitors, the master will see them now.’
‘Thank you, Eugippius.’ Myrddin turned to Theoderic. ‘Severinus’ mind and memory are as sharp as ever, and you’ll find him willing to listen, and discuss any topic you wish to raise. But bear in mind he’s very weak, and will unselfishly overtax his strength if allowed to.’
‘It will be ave atque vale with but two questions in between. You have my word.’
The group of monks surrounding Severinus moved to a far corner of the chamber. Theoderic seated himself on a bench beside the bed on which the patient lay, propped up by pillows. Long white hair and beard reinforced the aura of authority and dignity emanating from the strong features. Though the old man was gaunt and pale, his breathing shallow, the eyes in the kindly face glittered with a fierce intelligence.
‘Greetings, Theoderic,’ said the sage, in a faint yet clear voice. He seemed, by some strange mental osmosis, to be aware of Myrddin’s observations to the king. ‘For some time now, I’ve been expecting you — and at last you’ve made it. But only just,’ he added with a wry chuckle. ‘Is there anything you wish to ask me?’
‘I have arrived at my own Rubicon, and am uncertain what my next course of action should be. Also, I would know what the future holds for me, if that is possible.’
‘As to your first point: the death of Strabo, while appearing to have solved your problems, has in fact created one much greater. As long as Strabo lived, you were useful to the Eastern emperor as a counterbalance to the Thracian Goths. Now that he is gone, and with all the Ostrogoths united under your rule, Theoderic has become a far more serious threat to the Empire than either he or Strabo were separately, as rivals. Oh, I know that you yourself are well disposed to Rome; but the people you lead are too warlike, their energies too violent, ever to co-exist peacably within the empire. But if you were to try to fight that empire, you would lose; it is simply too strong. So, for you, the status quo is not an option: you must remove your people from imperial soil. Where, I cannot say. Bleak tidings I’m afraid, but all I have to offer.’ Severinus gave a wan smile. ‘However, you are wise and strong, I think, Theoderic. I have no doubt that you will find a way.
‘Now, regarding the second matter that you raised, I fear I cannot help you. My reputation has become somewhat inflated, you see. I am credited with the power of prophecy, would you believe, a power which I simply do not possess. But try Myrddin. He is said to have what they call the ‘second sight’ — a gift peculiar to the Celts, I believe. It comes to him only at certain times; but who knows, you might be lucky.’ The old man drew a wasted hand from beneath the coverlet and laid it on Theoderic’s. ‘Thank you for coming, my friend. Farewell, and God’s blessing be upon you.’
Saddened and dispirited, Theoderic took his leave and descended to the lower room.
‘I see two eagles,’ intoned Myrddin, ‘one living, and one dead: the living in the East, the dead in the West.’ The seer sat upright in a trance-like state, his eyes open but seeming to look at something far beyond the confines of the chamber. ‘A horse comes from the land of the live eagle to that of the dead one, where he fights and kills a boar which has come there before him. After many years the horse dies, to be followed by eight others of his line. The final six of these the eagle of the East attacks, killing the last. The vision fades; there is no more.’ Myrddin stirred and blinked, seeming to return to the present.
‘Don’t question me about what I’ve seen, or ask me to explain it,’ he said. ‘I have no memory of anything. The meaning is for you alone; in due course it will reveal itself to you.’
‘That’s good to know, for I confess I can make nothing of the menagerie that you’ve described. Eagles, boars and horses!’ Theoderic shook his head, giving a wry smile. ‘But I’m grateful nonetheless. Tell me, what are your plans now, Myrddin? Stay on in Noricum, perhaps, to continue the work begun by Severinus?’
‘Hardly that, Sire. There is only one Severinus — “the latchet of whose shoe I am not worthy to unloose”, as it says in the Gospel of St John. Besides, his work here is done. As a province of the former Western Empire, Noricum comes under the jurisdiction of Odovacar, who has proved himself a strong and able king. In the six short years of his reign, he has done more to solve the problems of the Noricans than all the petty emperors who wore the purple following the murder of Aetius. Severinus has suggested that I return to Britannia. He says that there I will find work fully to engage my hands and brain, in helping Artorius.’
‘Artorius?’
‘The successor to Aurelian, the Dux Britanniae who fell in battle against the Saxon invaders seven years ago.’
‘Then I wish you good fortune, Myrddin. I fear you will need it. I’ve heard the Saxons are a hard and cruel foe, still clinging to the fierce old gods that we Goths abandoned a century ago for a kinder faith.’
‘I’ve no doubt the struggle will be long and bloody, Sire. But I’ve had a vision of my own in which two dragons fight, a red against a white. In the end it is the red dragon which prevails.’
‘Make it the symbol on your pennant, then. A red dragon fluttering in the breeze before the host — now there’s a flag to inspire your fighters.’
* Durresi, Albania.
† Trieste.
FOURTEEN
If, with the Divine permission, I succeed, I shall govern in your name
From the battlements surmounting St Barbara’s Gate, Julian watched the flotilla creeping across the Bosphorus from Chrysopolis on the Asiatic shore. Licking his lips nervously, he glanced at the array of brazen tubes poking between the crenellations. ‘These things had better work,’ he snapped at Menander, the engineer in charge of a revolutionary new weapons system intended to counter Theoderic’s assault on Constantinople.
‘Don’t worry, General,’ replied the other calmly. ‘They performed perfectly during the trials yesterday. Those chaps have a nasty surprise coming to them.’ And he nodded towards the fleet of impounded vessels crammed with Ostrogoths, the van of which was already grounding on the narrow strip of shore below the city’s sea-walls.
Should Menander’s contraptions prove ineffective, he, Julian, would be in serious trouble. Sourly, the general reflected on the events leading up to this crisis — events for which he was being made to shoulder the blame. It all went back to the confrontation between Strabo and Theoderic at the Shipka Pass. Julian had engineered the clash, but unfortunately it had backfired badly. The empire had paid dearly for his miscalculation. Full of fury and resentment, his trust in the word of Romans shattered, Theoderic had gone on the rampage, sacking Stobi and slaughtering its defenders, then embarking on a campaign of devastation and pillage throughout Thrace. The death of Strabo and the consequent unification of all the Ostrogoths under Theoderic made the latter a doubly dangerous foe. However, Zeno’s attempts to mollify Theoderic — heaping him with gold and honours, making him a ‘Friend of the Emperor’, consul and Magister Militum praesentalis, the top post in the army — had been largely successful. (Julian, a career soldier who had come a long way from his first appointment as a lowly decurion of horse, had been especially resentful of this last preferment. He had expected to be appointed to the post himself, but had been fobbed off with the lesser assignment of Magister Militum per Thracias.) And then, just when it seemed that fences had been mended with Theoderic, this wretched business of Illus had blown up.