The demands were, of course, preposterous, thought Cyprianus. As well as acquiring, at a stroke, a fortune which would otherwise take years to garner, as a federate Mundo would change his status from outlaw to respected ally under the protection of western Europe’s strongest ruler. Well, needs must when the Devil drives, as Augustine (or was it Jerome?) said. And the deal was not all one-sided: the financial payout could probably be adjusted later to a more realistic level; also, as a federate Mundo could be a useful buffer against the East, should a state of war develop.
‘I accept,’ said Cyprianus, whereupon the pact was sealed by mutual toasts of kumiss, a beverage concocted from fermented mares’ milk.
‘Friends and fellow warriors,’ Cyprianus — mounted, in order to be seen and heard more easily — addressed the Gothic host, ‘today we face a Bulgar army commanded by a Roman general. Let us not deceive ourselves: the odds are great. They outnumber us; they are well-led, brave and skilled, mounted while we must fight on foot. But we can win — of that have no doubt. Only, however, if we behave as Theoderic would wish us to. You remember the Ulca where you defeated Thrapstila, the Addua where you turned the tide against Odovacar? Those victories were won because of discipline, because you allowed your warlike ardour to be tempered by obedience to the orders of your king. Though he cannot today be present in the flesh, Theoderic will be watching you in spirit from Ravenna. Remember that, and we shall win the day.’ The thunderous banging of spear-butts on shields that followed his speech told Cyprianus it had gone down well. But would it prove enough to make them hold the line?
Shaking with reaction, his tunic below the padded cuirass soaked with sweat, the Roman stood down the host, with instructions to eat and rest until the enemy was sighted. To his credit, Pitzia had, without demur, allowed his second-in-command to supersede him as regards the ordering of the coming battle — no doubt conceding that the Roman’s ability to persuade the Goths to accept discipline was superior to his own. Cyprianus had chosen the ground carefully: a declivity, flanked by great stands of oak and chestnut, and sloping down to a flat grassy expanse, the Plain of Margus.
Early in the afternoon, scouts reported that the Bulgars, numbering, they estimated, some five thousand horsemen, were close at hand and should arrive within the hour. Soon after, a growing cloud of dust on the horizon heralded the approach of the enemy van. The Gothic war-horns boomed and, following prior instructions, the host took up position along the ridge, a three-deep line of warriors bearing shields, and armed with spears plus various subsidiary weapons — daggers, throwing-axes, javelins, etc. The Bulgars, big, swarthy fellows armed, to Cyprianus’ relief, with lances and sabres, not with bows, drew up a few hundred paces in front of the Gothic line. To one side, surrounded by his staff, Sabinianus, resplendent in muscle cuirass and crested Attic helmet, sat his horse.
A trumpet clanged, and the Bulgar cavalry began to trot forward; the trot became a canter, then a gallop, and the lances swept down, presenting a terrifying sight to the waiting Goths: a solid wall of flashing hooves and foam-flecked muzzles fronted by a line of deadly points. This was the first time Cyprianus had faced a head-on cavalry charge. Till now, his military experience (in the wars with Odovacar) had been limited to campaigns largely fought on foot, with cavalry action confined to skirmishes, scouting, and hit-and-run raids. His father, who had fought under Aetius at the great Battle of the Catalaunian Fields, where the Romans and the Visigoths had defeated Attila’s Huns and their Ostrogothic allies, had told him that cavalry would never press home a charge against a line of spearmen as long as the line held firm. You could persuade men, his father had said, to commit themselves to destruction, but never horses; they had too much sense. Well, he was about to find out if the theory was true, Cyprianus thought, his mouth dry with fear and his palms sweating.
The ground began to tremble as the Bulgar horse swept nearer. It seemed that only a miracle could save the Gothic line from being shattered and destroyed. At a signal from the war-horns the Goths, in a blur of movement, swung up their shields, each man planting his right foot firmly forward and presenting his spear between his own shield and that of the man to his right. Then the miracle happened. A few yards from the Gothic shield-wall, the Bulgar charge stalled; for a few moments the horsemen milled about in apparent confusion, then they wheeled about and trotted smartly back to their original position. A ragged cheer — of relief as much as triumph, thought Cyprianus — arose from the Goths.
That the line had held was due to the matchless courage of the Germans, he knew. As long as they retained formation, they would be safe. The danger lay in their warlike instincts prevailing, causing them to break ranks to attack the enemy.
Which nearly happened. Time and again the Bulgar cavalry charged, only to retreat when confronted by that rock-steady wall of shields with its row of glittering blades. Then, after the sixth charge had failed, the Bulgars’ morale seemed to break; instead of withdrawing in good order, they turned and fled in confusion, uttering cries of despair.
‘They flee! They flee!’ exclaimed Pitzia a few yards down the line from Cyprianus, and, before the latter could restrain him, he rushed forward, followed by a section of the Gothic front.
Cursing, Cyprianus spurred his horse into motion and galloped down the line, which was beginning to lose cohesion as the warriors, the light of battle in their eyes, began to move forwards. ‘Back! Get back! he shouted. ‘It’s a trick! Remember Theoderic — his eyes are upon you!’ The reminder of their revered king’s expectations cut through the fog of fighting-madness that had begun to cloud the warriors’ minds. They halted, sense returning, then quietly resumed their shield-wall formation.
A terrible object lesson in how close they had come to disaster was now played out before the Goths’ eyes. Halting their headlong flight, the Bulgars wheeled and galloped back, swiftly surrounding Pitzia’s group. In moments the party was slaughtered to a man, cut down by sabres or skewered on lance-points.
Their ruse having failed, the Bulgars resumed their tactic of trying to break the Gothic line with repeated charges. To no avail; they could make no impression on the Goths, who now knew, from hard-won experience, that as long as their discipline held, they could see off the enemy indefinitely. At last, their horses blown, their resolve faltering, the Bulgars ceased attacking. At a trumpet-signal ordered by Sabinianus, they turned and began to move off — this time in good earnest.
Now Cyprianus sprang the surprise he had prepared. A special call on the war-horns boomed out, and from the enclosing woods there issued on one side the Gothic cavalry held in reserve until this moment, and on the other Mundo’s Hunnic horse-archers. Exhausted, caught unawares, the Bulgars reeled before the double onslaught, falling in scores to Gothic spears and Hunnic arrow-storm. The enemy being too numerous to defeat decisively, Cyprianus called off his horsemen before the Bulgars could start to counter-attack, allowing Sabinianus to leave the field and lick his wounds.
* River Morava.
* Oath of allegiance.
TWENTY-NINE
What can be hoped for which is not believed?