Theodoric (4 page)

A tall, stylishly dressed youth stood up. His chiselled features bore a remarkable resemblance to those of Alexander the Great when a boy. So much so that his classmates had nicknamed him ‘Alexander', a soubriquet he played up to by cultivating long, carefully disordered locks.

‘Perhaps the old fool hoped to hide from the Goths among his oak-trees,' drawled Julian with a smirk. ‘And if they found him, well, he could always pelt them with acorns. Couldn't he, sir?'

A delighted titter greeted this sally, not on account of any humour it contained but because it laid down a challenge to the master's authority.

‘Sit down!' snapped Demetrius, a spurt of anger bringing red to his cheeks. Arrogant young lout. It had been a mistake to ask him, of course – he'd simply handed the boy a chance to show off. With his wealthy family connections, subversive attitude and air of cool confidence, Julian was, unfortunately, something of a hero to many of his classmates. Aware that he must rescue the situation before it slipped out of control, Demetrius turned towards his favourite pupil, Theoderic Amalo. Though shy and awkward, the young Gothic prince could usually be relied on to come up with an intelligent answer. ‘Theo, perhaps you could shed some light where all seems darkness?'

Stooping slightly, as if to avoid drawing attention to his great height, Theoderic rose. In his mind, he reviewed the lines Demetrius had
quoted. The message that Claudian was trying to get across was surely to do with familiar memory. Unbidden, a vision from his Pannonian homeland flashed into his mind, filling him with a sudden, sharp nostalgia: Bakeny Forest with its scented glades of noble trees – oaks, pines and cedar; the air filled with the plash of hidden waterfalls and the cooing of rock-doves. All at once, he knew what that old man had felt: affection for the trees, contemporary with himself; and fear that he might lose them through depredation by the Goths – his, Theoderic's, own kinsmen, he thought with a pang of guilt.

‘Those trees were planted as acorns at his birth,' he said, speaking slowly and with a kind of passionate conviction, something he had never before expressed. ‘He had grown old with them, as they matured. They had become part of his life. Almost friends. I think he . . . loved them. So he was anxious in case the barbarians should carelessly destroy them.'

The class sat up, visibly impressed. Who'd have thought old Yellowknob could hold the floor like that? Suddenly self-conscious, Theoderic shuffled and looked down.

‘Well done, Theo,' declared Demetrius warmly. ‘There's nothing I can add to that.' He breathed a mental sigh of relief. With the class now quiet and receptive, the lesson could proceed on an even keel.

Then Theoderic clapped a hand to his cheek as something struck it a tiny, stinging blow. A wax pellet dropped to the mosaic floor and rolled to the foot of the master's throne-like chair.

‘All of you, hold up your tablets –
now
!' thundered Demetrius. Cowed, the class promptly obeyed. Their genial master could, if pushed too far, change in a flash to a terrifying autocrat. A brief inspection exposed the culprit: Julian's
codex
showed a hollow where a lump of wax had been gouged out. Rolled into a ball and flicked from the flattened erasing end of Julian's flexible ivory stylus, it had made a highly effective missile. Punishment was duly meted out with a bundle of birch twigs, then, with discipline restored, the lesson resumed.

‘I hear your pet barbarian showed up your young Roman charges,' Paulus remarked to Demetrius. The two schoolmasters were in a
taberna
off the Mesé, the capital's main thoroughfare.

‘The cream of Byzantium – thick and rich,' Demetrius chuckled wryly. Nothing stayed secret for long in the palace. Probably one of
the
paedagogi
– slaves who accompanied pupils to school, and who waited for them at the back of the classroom to bring them home – had spread the story. ‘At times, I feel I'm casting pearls before swine.'

‘Don't we all. Your Goth – a bright lad, I hear.'

‘He's that all right. Somehow, having just one pupil of his calibre in a class makes it all seem worthwhile. Doesn't make him popular, unfortunately. The others tend to pick on him; that oaf Julian's the ringleader. Poor little beggar; I speak figuratively – he must be several inches taller than I am.'

‘Then why doesn't he give Julian a good thumping? The rest would soon leave off.'

‘Not in his nature – a gentle giant if ever there was. But if he chose to he could thrash the lot of them I'm sure. Most people tend to dismiss him as a passive ox, but I admire the lad. I feel he has an inner strength, also that he's looking for something – trying to find his destiny, perhaps?' Demetrius paused and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I must sound like Aristotle on the subject of the young Alexander.'

‘No, you intrigue me. What do you suppose it is he's looking for?'

‘I believe it's Rome. I think he wants to identify with her, be accepted by her.'

‘Rome? What's that?' Paulus grinned and refilled their wine-cups. ‘After the North African fiasco, the West's finished. There won't be a second rescue attempt; Gaiseric's stronger than ever, Basiliscus terrified for his life, has taken sanctuary in Hagia Sophia, the Treasury's empty, Anthemius no longer has a role. The Franks and Visigoths'll grab what's left in Gaul and Spain, and Ricimer could well take over Italy. Anthemius might turn out to be the last Augustus of the West. What would that leave? The Senate and the Papacy. Augustus and Constantine would turn in their graves.'

‘But Rome's more than just a physical empire. Rome's an
idea
. And even if the West goes down, the East's still there to pick up the torch.'

‘And so the race goes on,' intoned Paulus with mock solemnity. ‘Apologies; you're right, of course. And who knows? Even if it falls, the West might one day be re-occupied. But back to your young hostage. What is it about Rome that he so admires?'

‘Think what an impact Constantinople must have made on him when he arrived six years ago. To an impressionable youngster from a primitive
shame-and-honour society geared to a dreary cycle of petty feuds and subsistence farming, the city with its statues, paved streets, and great buildings, buzzing with cosmopolitan life and colour – it must have seemed wondrous beyond words. From the first, he showed an interest in the examples of Roman culture to be found everywhere around him: sculpture, architecture, literature, philosophy, science, law – things conspicuously lacking among his own people. He picked up Greek in no time, and was the first in his class to master Latin. He actually
enjoys
reading the classics. How many fourteen-year-olds can you say that of?'

‘Sounds, then, as though he could be in for a big comedown when he returns to his own people.'

‘Sadly, I have to agree. I sometimes wonder if our policy of civilizing German hostages isn't misplaced kindness. We give them a taste of something they can never really be a part of. Anti-German discrimination's rampant: intermarriage with Romans illegal, German clothes like furs and trousers banned, Germans barred from elevation to the purple . . . I could go on. Perhaps Rome only feels at ease with those she's conquered. That never happened with Germania.'

‘Didn't a general called Varus try, back in the time of Augustus?'

‘Yes. Got wiped out, along with his three legions.'

‘And Germans have been a thorn in Rome's flesh ever since.' Paulus shrugged and drained his goblet. ‘Seems that Varus has a lot to answer for.'

Trailed by his bodyguard (a necessary precaution, given his status as a royal hostage), a tough Isaurian called Timothy, Theoderic wandered disconsolately through the streets of the capital. This morning's incident was the latest in a long campaign of petty spite waged against him by Julian. The other boys were not really hostile, Theoderic knew, just willing to follow the lead of a character stronger than themselves. He was not afraid of Julian; should it ever come to a straight fight between them, he suspected he would beat the Roman easily. But that would be to betray his father's counsel, given him at eight years old on his departure for Byzantium.

‘You are too young, my son, fully to understand my words now,' Thiudimer, king of the Ostrogoths, had said, ‘but in time, you will. Learn all you can from the Romans – they are a great and clever people,
and have much of worth to teach you. But do not forget you are a Goth – a Goth of royal lineage, who will one day be a king. That means trying to live by three things. Never use your strength against those weaker than yourself, but spend it freely for those who need your help. Deal justly with friend and enemy alike. Think long before you give your word, but, once given, do not break it. You will find these precepts hard at times to keep. Succeed, and you will return to our people a man fit to rule them.' His father had embraced him then, and he had set out for the Great City with a lump in his throat, but a heart beating faster with excitement and high hopes.

As ever, wandering among the capital's great buildings soothed Theoderic's troubled spirit. Around him, in abundance, were beauty, strength and permanence – all qualities which spoke of Rome: the mighty Walls of Theodosius before which even Attila had quailed; the stupendous dome of Hagia Sophia; the aqueduct of Valens with its soaring tiers of arches . . .

Then, finding himself in the Forum of Arcadius, his mood changed suddenly to one of puzzled sadness. In the middle of the great square rose a tall marble column, its surface wonderfully carved to depict an ascending spiral of figures in action. On closer inspection, however, the frieze took on a sinister aspect. The figures were fugitives fleeing, falling, dying, before the frenzied onslaught of a mob armed with staves and cudgels. Long and short hair differentiated Goths from Romans, respectively. The scene represented the great Expulsion of the Goths from the city, sixty years before. It was beautiful – and horrible.

Why do they hate us? Theoderic wondered. From his reading of history (written, of course, by Romans – Polybius,
*
Caesar, Tacitus, Suetonius, Ammianus) he knew that even the fiercest of her foes – Spaniards, Gauls, Illyrians, Dacians – had yielded in the end to Rome. Only the Caledones and the Germans had refused. Therein, perhaps, lay the reason.

‘Jerry bastard!'

Theoderic wheeled. There, twenty paces off, stood Julian, at his back half a dozen of his followers holding eggs or fruit which they were clearly intending to throw.

Theoderic began to move off; the best method of dealing with such confrontations was to avoid them, he had found.

‘That's right, run away,' the group chanted. ‘Yellow as his own hair. Yellow! Yellow!'

An overripe pomegranate burst on the paving beside the young Goth, splattering his legs. Theoderic halted, as something seemed to snap in his brain. This was where it ended. He would throw down a challenge, something testing, with an element of danger. What form could such a challenge take? He had barely asked the question in his mind when the answer came to him. But perhaps that idea was a bit
too
dangerous. He hesitated, but only for a moment. If that was the only way to gain their acceptance, by proving that he was their equal – in courage, at the least – so be it.

Feeling strangely calm, he walked up to the group. Something in his bearing made them fall silent and lower their throwing arms.

‘If
you
are all so brave,' he said, ‘I will give you the chance to prove it.'

‘It speaks. Ooooh, I'm quaking in my shoes,' responded Julian, his scoffing tone not quite concealing a hint of uncertainty. ‘Hear that, boys? He's going to set us a dare. Wonder what it'll be? Climbing the Golden Gate? Pinching peaches from the palace orchard?' The others sniggered dutifully, but it sounded somewhat forced.

‘Come with me to hunt Cambyses.'

‘Cambyses?' Julian laughed disbelievingly. ‘You can't be serious.' A pause, then Julian continued, his face paling, ‘My God, you
are
serious.'

Cambyses. The legendary wild boar that had killed or maimed not only several unwary passers-by but more than one hunter who had sought to make him their quarry.

‘Well?'

Heads bowed, two of Julian's followers slunk away. The rest stood firm.

‘We accept.' All trace of bluster had gone from Julian's voice, replaced by a note almost of wondering respect.

Theoderic's heart gave a leap. He had, he felt, just crossed some sort of Rubicon.

 

*
The Sea of Marmara.

*
He was actually a Romanized Greek.

With loud shouts, Herakles dislodged from a thicket the Erymanthian Boar

Pisander,
c.
650
BC

Returning to his spartan little suite in the palace, Theoderic found himself confronted by Timothy. Standing with folded arms in the middle of his charge's
tablinum
or study, the bodyguard – stocky, muscular, nose flattened in some ancient brawl – looked exactly what he was: a self-reliant bruiser.

‘Timothy! You wish to speak with me?'

‘Indeed I do, young Deric, indeed I do. This Cambyses business . . .' He shook his head and chortled softly. ‘Lucky for you I'm an Isaurian – agin the government. What I
should
have done is report your plan to the Master of Offices. Then you'd have been confined to barracks, as it were, and I'd have been commended.'

‘But . . . how did you know?'

‘To see but not be seen, to hear but not be heard – all part of my job. A gaggle of schoolboys taking on Cambyses on their own. I can think of simpler recipes for suicide.'

‘I suppose it
was
a stupid idea,' Theoderic admitted, reddening. He shuffled his feet, his expression downcast.