Suddenly, a huge weight of depression seemed to settle on the king’s shoulders. He must say goodbye to the old freebooting past that had occupied his youth and young manhood — a colourful past of skirmishes and raids, when pitting his wits against Zeno and Strabo had made life seem at times like an exciting game. Granted, a life not lacking in hardship and privation, but with an edge and zest which would surely be lacking in the years that stretched ahead. Middle age beckoned, and with it the massive responsibility of getting his people to Italy: a prospect full of toil and tribulation, with each day presenting a remorseless tally of problems to be solved, grievances assuaged, and plans formulated. Even when they reached journey’s end, there was Odovacar to be dealt with. The bold Scirian, who had risen to be king of Italy through cunning and resolve, was hardly the man to surrender his realm meekly to another. In a trial of strength between them, could Theoderic be sure the Ostrogoths would prevail? He could give no guarantee, he admitted. Perhaps the two barbarian peoples would end up destroying each other? Which of course might be the result that Zeno had planned all along — a necessary prelude to bringing back Italy within the imperial fold.
He longed for Timothy, the steadfast and resourceful friend who always knew ways to lighten his blackest moods. But Timothy had gone to Olbia on the Euxine, hopefully to bring back one Callisthenes, a famous merchant with a trading empire throughout Scythia, who should be able to provide expert advice regarding provisioning and transport for the epic trek.
Looking up, Theoderic felt his heart sink. Bounding towards him was young Frederick, the son of the Rugian king whom Odovacar had captured and murdered, after annihilating many of his people. Theoderic sighed; like all relations between the empire and Germanic peoples, the Rugian Question was complex, with far-reaching repercussions. He reminded himself of the facts. To counter Odovacar’s threat to support Illus in Isauria, Zeno had enlisted the Rugians — whose territory adjoined Noricum — to block any force the Scirian king might send eastwards. Odovacar’s response had been swift and brutal; descending in strength on the Rugian kingdom, he had wreaked devastation and slaughter on such a scale as to destroy it utterly. Frederick, however, had escaped, and with a band of pro-Ostrogothic followers had managed to join up with Theoderic in Moesia, where he had offered his services in the inevitable campaign to wrest Italy from Odovacar.
Theoderic liked the young Rugian, with his open friendly manner and boyish enthusiasm; but at this moment, sunk as he was in gloomy introspection, hearty Frederick was the last person he wished to encounter. Forcing a smile, he greeted the prince with a polite, if unenthusiastic, ‘Good morning.’
‘And the same to you, Sire,’ boomed the young man. He glanced about him at the busy scene with an approving eye. ‘Looks as if we’ll soon be ready to begin the march.’
‘Just as soon as the harvest’s in,’ agreed the king. ‘We need to break the back of the journey before the onset of winter.’ Now that Frederick was here, Theoderic decided he might as well make use of him by picking his brains as to the route. In his flight from Odovacar, the young Rugian must have covered virtually the same ground that the expedition would be following for the first half of the journey.
‘Nothing to worry about, Sire, until we reach the Ulca,’* replied the Rugian in response to Theoderic’s query about possible hazards. ‘That’s the river forming the boundary between the Empire and Pannonia.’
‘Pannonia, the Amals’ old homeland,’ observed Theoderic. ‘But that was many years ago. We abandoned it to become. . “guests”, let us say, of the emperor.’
‘“Guests” — I like it,’ chuckled Frederick. ‘Well, Pannonia’s since been taken over by the Gepids, a brutish bunch allied to Odovacar. Their orders were to wipe out me and my Rugians following our escape from the attentions of the last-named gentleman. There not being many of us, we managed to detour round them undetected. No way can you hope to do the same, unfortunately, Sire. But my guess is you won’t have any trouble; you’ll only be passing through their territory, after all. They’d be mad to pick a fight with so formidable a nation as the Ostrogoths.’
‘Let us hope you’re right.’
* The Baltic Sea.
† The Black Sea.
‡ The Oder, Vistula, Pruth, Dniester, Dnieper and Don.
* Scythia: an imprecise term, roughly equivalent to the steppes of Central Asia.
* River Vuka. The town of Vukovar has become familiar from the 1990s’ Balkan conflict. On 18 November 1991, it fell to the Serbs after enduring a terrible siege.
SIXTEEN
And the children of Israel. . about six hundred thousand on foot. . and flocks and herds, even very much cattle. . went out from the land of Egypt
‘You expect to get to Italy in that?’ screamed the merchant, administering a savage kick to the side of the wagon. His single eye glittering with simulated rage, the diminutive Greek advanced towards the vehicle’s owner, a huge, tow-headed Goth, who backed away in alarm. ‘Well, I, Callisthenes of Olbia, whose wagons have forded the Borysthenes and traversed the Altai Shan,* say that you’ll be lucky if this apology for a donkey cart gets as far as the Alps, which it stands as much chance of crossing as an icicle in Hades. Those spokes — they’re oak, hard but dense — like your head, my friend. They should be of ash, tough yet springy, yielding instead of cracking when the going’s rocky.’
Enjoying the performance from the sidelines were Theoderic and Timothy. ‘The man’s a treasure,’ chuckled the king. ‘Remind me how you found him.’
‘He’s from Olbia, an old Greek colony and trading-centre on the opposite side of the Euxine from Anatolia — my home turf, you’ll remember. Everyone in Anatolia — a Greek sphere of influence since long before Alexander — knows of Callisthenes the famous trader. He claims in his youth to have guided Attila to the shores of Dalai Nor,† to confer with the seer Wu Tze.’
On meeting the tiny Greek, who was one-eyed, aged and voluble — especially concerning his own alleged exploits — Theoderic had not at first been impressed, being inclined to dismiss him as a bombastic blowhard. However, within an hour of Callisthenes’ arrival at Novae, the king changed his mind. Without waiting for explanations or introductions, the little merchant had begun buzzing round the camp like an angry gadfly, examining wagons and draught oxen, poking into stores, quizzing Goths in their own tongue. . After completing an exhaustive inspection of the site, he had delivered his verdict.
‘Half your transport isn’t fit for purpose, King,’ he snapped (eschewing the usual respectful ‘Sire’). ‘Many of your oxen are in poor condition or require their hooves treated; gear’s often defective or lacking; a lot of grain and foodstuffs badly stored — which means it’ll spoil. I could go on. All in all your expedition’s anything but ready.’
‘But half our lives, we Goths have been on the move.’ Theoderic protested mildly. ‘So far we’ve managed to cope, without-’
‘Oh, yes — inside the Eastern Empire!’ cut in the little Greek, with a dismissive snort. ‘Good roads, tamed countryside. What happens when you reach what used to be the empire’s Western half? Roads in disrepair, tillage and pasture reverting to wasteland, above all the crossing of the eastern Alps to face. A journey of a thousand miles, part of it over some of the hardest terrain in the whole of Europe. I tell you this, King: if your transport and provisioning are defective, you may not make it.’