However, on the order being given by Pitzia to break camp, the Goths assembled in marching order — facing eastwards! Fired up by their near-bloodless victory, which had aroused but not satisfied their martial ardour, and unwilling to pillage their Sirmian hosts, whom they had just delivered from the Gepid yoke, the Goths — by one of those strange collective decisions which can suddenly infect a mass, had determined to press on into imperial territory in a quest for glory and plunder.
‘Madness!’ exclaimed Cyprianus to a desperate-sounding Pitzia, when the latter informed him of the situation. ‘Sheer madness!’ Forcing himself to stay calm, the Roman tried to assess the crisis objectively and come up with a rescue plan. He should have seen this coming, he thought grimly. This was what happened when you put a barbarian army under a leader who was not up to the (admittedly difficult) task of imposing discipline. Strictly speaking, such a force was not an ‘army’ at all, just a mob of individual warriors, all ferociously brave but basically motivated by a thirst for loot and personal glory. Pitzia — generous, and valorous to a fault — they would follow into battle anywhere. But Pitzia was not strong enough to control them when their will needed to be curbed. For that, you needed a Theoderic. And Theoderic, now middle-aged, was happy, it would seem, to delegate the responsibility to others.
The situation was potentially disastrous, Cyprianus reflected. The Goths were embarked on what was technically an invasion of the Eastern Empire, the most formidable power in the world. Success against the Gepids was one thing; taking on a disciplined Roman army quite another. The best that could be done, he thought (and it seemed a very poor best), was for him and Pitzia, accepting the fait accompli, to put themselves at the head of the host and hope that some easy pickings would soon come their way. Hopefully, reward enough to satisfy the Goths and persuade them to to turn back for Italy before the full wrath of Anastasius descended upon them.
A bizarre, almost surreal atmosphere seemed to surround the expedition as it marched downstream along the Danube. The men, fortified by copious supplies of food and drink transferred wholesale from the Gepid commissariat, were in a relaxed and happy, almost holiday mood, as they tramped at a leisurely pace through a beautiful landscape of water-meadows, wooded hills, and vineyards, all bathed in golden summer sunshine. Bypassing Singidunum (scene of Theoderic’s youthful victory against Babai), whose massive ramparts were defended by a strong Roman garrison, the Goths pressed on towards Margus, where a shameful treaty had been imposed by Attila on the East Romans more than sixty years before. Near the latter city, as the Goths were pitching camp for the night, Pitzia’s scouts (detached from the small body of cavalry accompanying the host) came posting in with the news that a Roman general, Sabinianus, was approaching at the head of a large force of Bulgar mercenaries.
‘This Sabinianus, what do we know of him?’ queried Pitzia, as the two leaders conferred in the commander’s tent.
‘Only that he’s one of the East’s top soldiers,’ replied Cyprianus. ‘Son of a famous general of the same name, who once ambushed a column led by Theoderic’s brother Thiudimund, capturing all his wagons.’
‘And the Bulgars?’
‘A Turkic tribe of mounted nomads, originally from Central Asia. Not, thank God, horse-archers like the Huns. The only saving grace is that, with the East’s field armies fully committed on the Persian front, we won’t be facing a Roman force.’
‘We should be all right, then.’
‘Should we now?’ snapped Cyprianus, infuriated by the other’s groundless optimism. ‘May I remind you that our army amounts to the grand total of two thousand men on foot plus five hundred riders. We’ll probably be facing a much larger force made up of Bulgar cavalry — among the finest in the world. There’s only one way to see off cavalry: forming a defensive shield-wall. And that, my dear Pitzia, calls for steadiness and iron discipline, qualities which even you must admit the Goths conspicuously lack. Oh yes,’ he concluded bitterly, ‘we should be all right.’
‘What do we do?’ Pitzia now sounded sober and concerned.
‘Well, we can’t retreat, that’s for sure. Being cavalry, they’d soon overtake us. So we have to offer battle. That means choosing a defensive position with as many advantages of terrain as possible. Ideally, a narrow front on rising ground between woods or marshes, so that we can’t be outflanked, while they’re prevented from bringing their full strength to bear. After that, as I’ve said, everything depends on discipline — our Achilles’ heel, unfortunately.’
‘We’re going to lose — is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not necessarily,’ mused Cyprianus, as he recalled a codicil to their orders. It granted them permission to ally with Mundo, a renegade warlord whose stronghold, Herta, was only a few miles distant, at the confluence of the Danube and a large tributary, the Moravus.*
‘Mundo? That leader of thieves and cut-throats?’ exclaimed Pitzia in horror, when the other had reminded him of this option. ‘We can’t possibly accept help from such scum.’
‘Then we’ll probably all die!’ shouted Cyprianus, losing patience. ‘Wake up, man. This is war. We don’t have the luxury of choice. If the Devil himself offered to help us, we’d have to accept. Mundo’s a nasty piece of work, I don’t deny it — boils his prisoners alive, I’ve heard. But, as far as we’re concerned, the only thing that matters is: will he make an effective ally? You can see that, can’t you?’
Chastened, Pitzia nodded.
‘Good. Now we have to move quickly. Herta’s less than ten miles from here; if I set off now on a fast mount, I can be there by sundown. Assuming I can persuade Mundo to join us, we should be back here sometime in the morning — hopefully before Sabinianus shows up. Mundo and his followers are Huns and therefore almost certainly cavalry, which is where we’re weakest. They’re a remnant of Attila’s horde. Stayed behind when most of the tribe drifted back to Asia, following the collapse of Attila’s empire. Right, I’d best be on my way.’
‘Just one thing: why would Mundo want to help us?’
Cyprianus groaned to himself. Getting through to Pitzia could be hard work at times. ‘Because the man’s living on borrowed time. At present, Anastasius has bigger fish to fry — Isaurian rebels and a hostile Persia. But Mundo knows the day of reckoning is bound to come. And that day could dawn very soon. After ourselves, Sabinianus’ next target — being conveniently close — would almost certainly be Mundo, who’s become a serious challenge to the maintenance of local law and order. By joining us, he’d be helping to keep Sabinianus off his back. And now, I really must be off.’
‘Shall we go to the rescue of this Roman and his beleaguered Goths?’ boomed Mundo to his chief retainers, assembled in the praetorium of Herta — an abandoned Roman fortress perched on a bluff above the Danube. Cyprianus smiled to himself, prepared to indulge this game of saving face. Although Mundo needed the help of the Goths as much as they needed his, he must be allowed to appear to be conferring a favour, in order to maintain his status among his followers.
The scene had a kind of barbaric splendour, Cyprianus reflected, the great chamber’s Roman austerity relieved by colourful tribal rugs, and weapons plus trophies of the chase hanging on the walls. Mundo was a mountain of a man, whose slitted eyes, deep-sunk in the beardless Mongol face, betrayed his Hunnic origins. His huge head showed the curious flattening and elongation caused by binding the skull to a board in infancy, a characteristic deformation practised by the tribe.
The chief and his kaftan-clad retainers conferred noisily for a time in Hunnish, then Mundo turned to Cyprianus and declared, ‘We agree to help you; but our help will not come cheap. Twenty solidi apiece for my warriors, twice that for my captains, and let us say a hundred for myself. In addition, I desire to take the foedus.* If I am a foederatus of your king, Theoderic, he and I will have a mutual obligation to aid each other should the need arise. Those are my terms, Roman. Take them or leave them.’