The Storm of Heaven (38 page)

Alexandros drew a folded packet from the pocket of his cloak. The letter was on a rich, creamy parchment, newly made, and tied with purple twine. He held it in his hands, still watching the face of the
reik
.

"Though I have been favored with the hospitality and grace of Senator Gregorius, I do not speak for him, nor do I come with his words on my tongue. To give my message legs, I wish to remind the
reik
of an offer made by the Gothic people to the Empire two years ago. At that time, with the Eastern Empire on the verge of collapse, the senator went before the Emperor and proposed no less than sixty thousand Gothic fighting men could be placed in the service of the Empire, should the Emperor but allow such a thing to happen."

"That offer," Geofric interjected, his tone verging on insult, "was rejected out of hand. It has been withdrawn. If the Western Emperor does not require anything of Gothic honor but policing the river, then that is all he will get!"

Alexandros ignored the outburst, turning the letter over in his hands. "Emperor Galen is a Roman. He believed Roman arms could succor the East and he was right. Lord Geofric may take exception to the Emperor's decision, but the honor of the Gutthilda has not been impugned. Many Goths fought in the army that broke the back of Persia. They gained great wealth and honor by those means. Their songs will be heard around many a campfire."

Alexandros raised the letter to the
reik
, holding it out to him. "My master is
Caesar
and Prince, Maxian Atreus, co-regent of the West."

This was technically true, though no one had seen the Prince in months. Still, Gaius Julius had proved a dab hand at forgery, and the scrawl on this letter could not be distinguished from the Prince's own. As the old Roman had said smugly, it was what the Prince would have wanted to say, if only he were around to write it down himself.

"He is a friend of the Gothic people. He knows the strength of the Gutthilda and their numbers. He knows these sixty thousand would be a royal gift. He knows the young men yearn to find glory of their own, glory which can only be won on the field of battle, in the company of their peers and under the eyes of their own chieftains."

Ermanerich, his eyes shining, nodded sharply to his father as Alexandros said this. The old
reik
watched and listened intently, gnarled old hands clasped in his lap.

"The Prince, in his wisdom, believes a great struggle is coming, one that will either see the Empire restored in full or cast down, at last, in utter ruin. In that final battle, the Prince would have the might and splendor of the Gutthilda at his side. This is why I have come to you, bearing this token."

Alexandros watched the subtle play of emotions on the faces of the old
reik
and Geofric. He had thought a long time about these words. Relations between the Eastern Empire and the Goths had always been strained, for they had been blood enemies before the coming of the Huns. The West, in comparison, had given them a new home. Like many of the tribes north of the Danuvius, the Goths were a moody and violent race, steeped in a long tradition of mutual slaughter and heroic death. Alexandros had listened carefully to the tales the Gothic boys told around the fire. Much like the Macedonian tribesmen of his youth, they longed for an epic final battle in which all would be decided and both the living and the dead, simply by taking the field of battle, would gain undying renown.

Rage—bright goddess, sing to me of Peleus' son Achilles...
Old words, long dear to the Macedonian, came to his mind, and he knew the same yearning was in his own heart.
Murderous, doomed, he that cost the Achaeans so many men, hurling down to the House of the Dead countless souls...

Only Theodelinda seemed unmoved, but Alexandros had already marked her as the one he must truly convince. She reminded him far too much of his own long-dead mother.

"The day will come," he continued, "and far too soon, I fear, when the Empire will call upon you for your full strength of arms. On that day, the Prince would have the Gothic people stand forth, showing their true mettle and might, unafraid of any enemy, well garbed and armored, staunch in the defense of their honorable vows."

"The Prince," Theodelinda said in a wry voice, "must be a miracle worker to conjure up this army of myrmidons. Honor and valor drive the heart to battle, but cold iron and steel do the dreadful work. Your dear Prince may dream of these sixty thousand, but can he feed the mouth of war from his purse?"

Alexandros smiled coldly at the woman and placed the packet in the
reik's
hand. Theodoric took the message, caressing the creamy surface of the parchment, and unbound the twine.

"My lord, these letters of credit, insured by Gregorius Auricus himself, will provide the funds to equip, train, garb and supply an army of forty thousand men. The funds may be drawn from accounts in Aquilea, Thessalonica and Salonae. There are also the names of men in those cities who can supply weapons, wagons, grain and livestock to support such an effort."

Alexandros did not mention that the noble senator did not, in fact, know the ultimate destination of the funds he—and the Imperial exchequer—were pouring into the private games now under way in Rome. Some Imperial estates, held in the name of Prince Maxian, were mortgaged to the hilt by Gaius Julius, acting as the Prince's agent. In time, these things would be discovered, but Alexandros did not care. It was on the old Roman's head to deal with such matters.

"This is a writ from the hand of
Caesar
Maxian himself." Alexandros drew a second letter from his cloak. Theodelinda was watching with great amusement, while Geofric stared in sudden avarice at the letters in his brother's lap. To his credit, Theodoric was actually reading the papers, eyes flickering over the close-set lines of text. "It duly appoints the formation of a Gothic
auxillia
to assist the Legions in the defense of the public peace. An
equites comitatus
is appointed to command this formation, which of course will comprise these forty thousand men. While in the general course of campaign this
comes
will be under the authority of the Emperor, he may also undertake independent action, if warranted by circumstance."

"You've some papers then," Theodelinda said, leaning forward on the arm of her chair, "giving a thin veneer of respectability to raising a mercenary army within the Empire, one that would certainly be viewed with grave suspicion by the Emperor himself. Theodoric, this seems a short road to rebellion and the violation of your ancient oaths. We will all be a head shorter!"

Alexandros shook his head. "My lord, there is no rebellion here, no intrigue. Prince Maxian would
never
raise arms against his brother." The honesty in the Macedonian's voice was plainly apparent.

"What is this, then, if not a maneuver for the Purple?"

Alexandros kept his eyes on the
reik
, ignoring the baiting tone in the woman's voice. "This is what I have said, my lord.
Caesar
Maxian has arranged to finance and field an
auxillia
for the defense of the Western Empire. A formation that will fight together, that will not be broken up, that will not be parceled out until no man knows his tentmates and no one sees his deeds."

Theodoric folded the letters of credit back together and took the writ from Alexandros' hand. He considered it for some time, reading the letter twice, and then he raised his bright old eyes up and squinted at Alexandros.

"Who," he asked, "will command this army?"

"I will," Alexandros said.

"What is this foolishness?" Geofric could not contain himself any longer. He gestured violently at his older brother. "So much talk of a Gothic army, but they send a foreign boy, a Greek, no less, to command us? This is an insult!"

Theodelinda placed a hand on her husband's arm and caught his eye. He glared at her for a moment, then subsided. Alexandros watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye. The
reik
was looking upon him with a musing expression.

"You have seen war, then, Alexandros." The
reik
made a bald statement, not a question, so the Macedonian remained quiet, hands clasped behind his back. "What do you want of the Goths? Why are you here, and not another?"

Alexandros felt his eyelid twitch despite an effort to show nothing to these vipers.

"This is what I know. I am not a man of peace. I do not dig in the earth or till the fields. I love the feel of a swift horse under my thighs, but I could not devote my life to them. I was sent to you because there is no other place that I could imagine being."

Theodoric laughed softly, tucking the letters away in the folds of his robe. The
reik
looked upon his two colleagues and his eyes grinned though his face did not.

"I know your mind, Geofric. Dear Theodelinda, what think you of this?"

The woman smiled coyly and inclined her head. Her fingers smoothed the line of her gown. Alexandros realized, watching her and the two men, she was not a Goth. The planes and angles of her face were subtly different from theirs, her hair a different shade and thickness.

"The young men trouble me, my lord. Something must be done to fill their hearts. If they remain at home they will only cause strife amongst the clans. They are idle and this breeds trouble. Those who wish to cut new farms from the forest or become tradesmen have already done so. You see them, restless, watching from the steps of their houses. If you do not choose a war for them, they will start one themselves. This, I know."

The woman's voice was heavy with hidden pain and hard-won knowledge. Alexandros felt for her. Once he had been a troublesome, bloodthirsty youth, desiring only strife to fill his cup of glory. Theodoric turned to Alexandros, a thin finger brushing his mustaches.

"You bring us no gift, young man. You are a heavy cost, with these pretty letters and bold words. How many young men will die if you lead them to war? Thousands?"

The
reik
seemed old then, exhausted by a long life. Alexandros knew the Goths had spilt oceans of blood—their own and their enemies'—to hold the frontier against the Huns and the Vandals and every other tribe which had come against them.

"My lord, send no man against his will. Let those that are restless, those that would cause trouble amongst the clans, let them choose their own way. If they seek war and glory, they will have it in plenty. But do not command men to follow me."

Alexandros watched Geofric and Theodelinda out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed puzzled by this turn, but the woman was laughing silently. Theodoric was no fool either; that was clear from the calculating expression on his face. Alexandros prayed silently for the old king's acquiescence. Things would be much more difficult if the King were directly involved in this. Let him keep his hands clean; leaving Alexandros' hands free.

"Perhaps." Theodoric made a gesture and Ermanerich rose, touching Alexandros' arm. The Gothic youth's face was stricken, but he obeyed his father's will. Theodelinda smiled as they walked away. Geofric watched with ill-disguised bile.

The bowyer was named Angantyr and he lived in a long, high-ceilinged building by the river. Two drying sheds and a laminating workshop formed a rough dirt square with his hall. After inquiring in the main building, which they found filled with craftsmen busy over their workbenches, the two men trooped down to the riverside. A long archery butt had been cleared along the bank, aimed at a great mound of dirt faced with logs.

"Master Angantyr!" Ermanerich called as they approached a man standing at the near end of the butt. The bowyer was whip thin. Unlike the usual run of Goths, he had narrow, dark features and quick black eyes. As they came up he was testing the pull on a heavily ornamented self-bow—a single curved stave of wood. Angantyr pressed it away from him, letting the corded horsehair string reach its full draw. Seemingly satisfied, he placed the stock against his shoe, bent the stave and unshipped the string. Without acknowledging them, he curled the string up and put it in a jeweled pouch strapped to his waist. The ornamentation on the purse matched that of the bow.

"A beautiful piece of work, master." Alexandros indicated the bow with his chin.

Angantyr looked up, his face tight with suspicion. "It is a passable device," he said, slipping the stave into a tubular leather case. Like the bow, the case was velvety leather with gold fixtures and an embroidered hunting scene. "The pull is sufficiently light."

"A gift, then, to a lady?"

Angantyr nodded, passing the case and purse to a servant standing behind him. The slave hurried away up the hill. Alexandros rested the foot of his own bowcase on the ground. It stood nearly as tall as he did himself.

"Master Angantyr, this is Alexandros of Macedonia. He is a guest of my father."

The bowyer ignored Ermanerich and jutted his chin at the bowcase. "You've something you need me to fix, then? Break a top ear?"

"No." Alexandros grinned. He had dealt with craftsmen before, many times and in many places. "I've come about a consignment—you're well respected in these parts—but I'd like to know if you can fill a large order."

Angantyr laughed wheezily. "We're not some Roman
fabrica
to count success in job lots of a thousand, lad! I specialize in fine bows, in works of art!" His thin hand indicated the buildings and the jeweled bow just departed.

"My pardon, master. I need a copy of this bow and I was informed you could make one. However, if you no longer make
working
bows, then I will search elsewhere. Good day."

Alexandros turned, picking up the bowcase, and began walking up the hill. Ermanerich, startled, hurried after. The bowyer's mouth dropped open and no sound came out.

"Wait, Alex! I thought you needed another bow for yourself!"

The Macedonian smiled, turning so Angantyr could hear him clearly. "I need more than one, and they are very difficult to make. I have heard, though, there is a man in Sirmium who might be able to help me."