‘Hm,’ murmured Theodoric fondly, his hand to his cheek. ‘Well, then.’ He sat up and returned to the attack.
‘That Christ, he was a great prophet, a blessed one,’ He turned back to Aetius. ‘but to say he was the same as the Aesir, and the power that moves upon the waters of the deep, or that brooded upon eternity in his vast and silent solitude, in the time before time was created… that is folly. No man is God.’
Aetius kept his silence.
‘Christ told his followers to get themselves swords. That is good: he was no milksop!’ Theodoric touched his hand to the hilt of the scabbarded sword that lay on a bench close by, even in this peaceful palace courtyard. It was the king’s hereditary sword, called in the Gothic tongue Tilarids, Attacker, mysterious with runic silver set in beaten iron. ‘That Christ, he said he came to bring fire upon the earth! To burn up the heathen and the unbelievers, and with them the accursed Huns, I would believe. That is good. That Christ, he was no wheyfaced ledger-slave, he despised the things of the counting-house, did he not? He was a man of war.’
Aetius coughed. ‘It is an interpretation that I-’
‘And his Jewish forefathers, certainly, they were great fighters.
As are we. We Visigoths. The Gothic People of the Plains. And I, Theodoric, son of Alaric, have played my part in our people’s battles most royally, have I not? Nor cried out womanishly in the fight? And fought with that still undefeated power, the Most High God. All my fighting is done, but for that unending word-war, that ceaseless strife in the silence of my soul with that one ceaseless and undefeated adversary. Him I still find worthy of my sword-arm, the Lord High God! And may I yet hobble to my bed at evening undefeated.’
He bowed his old grizzled head. ‘But O, my Roman friend, must there be more battles? “Hard is the gods’ will, My sorrows but increase, And I must weep, beloved, That wars will never cease.” That is an ancient rhyme, and an ancient truth. Never have I shirked a man’s duty to fight, nor a king’s, either. But now, must we ride out against the Huns, our oldest enemies? And in alliance with Rome?’ He gave a bear-like rumble. Any moment he might give a bear-like roar. But still he spoke quietly, meditatively. ‘History is against such an alliance, friend Aetius. You know of what I speak.
‘The Huns of Uldin – now of this Attila, whoever he may be – I have no love for them. They drove us shamefully over the face of the world, from east to west, and we fled, not knowing where we should go. Where we should rest our heads each night, nor where to take our stand, disarmed, desperate, pitiful refugees. How could we stand against them? We fled from under their rainstorm of arrows. Any people would have done the same. They were demons of the steppes.
‘Ancient is the enmity between our people and those demons of the steppes.’ Theodoric stroked his long white beard, still streaked with yellow. ‘But enmity with the Huns does not necessarily mean amity with the Romans. My people still remember how we were treated by Rome when we were penniless immigrants, shamefully stripped even of our dignity.’
Aetius said quietly, ‘Rome is not without injustice. No city or empire, no civilisation or people, is perfect. Not even the noble Visigoths.’
Theodoric grunted. ‘The Huns fought against the Goths under Athanaric. “ Ymb Wistlawudu, heardum sweordum ”, In the Vistula woods, with hard swords. That day of sorrow lives on still in the lays of the people. By moonlight the Huns crossed the Vistula upstream, and fell on our flank like wolves. And many were the tall horsemen that fell that day.
‘The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified.’
Aetius listened patiently. He knew every detail of the story, of course. But it was a deep Gothic tradition to recite the lays again and again, until they became holy by repetition. Besides, it was good to sit in this sun-warmed courtyard, in this small haven of peace, and listen to the old king talk, even if the story he told did no honour to the name of Rome. And respite would not be long.
‘Three generations ago it was now,’ said Theodoric. ‘Athanaric and his people fled south – though they were a brave people, do not doubt it.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Aetius. He had seen the Goths fight.
‘They fled south, across the Carpathians to the banks of the Danube. They stretched out their hands to Rome, and the emperor of those days, Emperor Valens, assented. Preparations were made for our many thousands to come into the empire. But then the Romans demanded we surrender our weapons, our swords. Once we were disarmed, they demanded payment. Your frontier lords, and the officers of your rapacious state, how they loved gold.’
Aetius met the old king’s eagle eye steadily.
‘The noblest names among the people, even the red-cloaked Wolf-Lords of the Visigoths, were held at swordpoint. They were bargained with, they were exchanged like cattle. Still they were not permitted to cross the Danube. More came, more refugees from the north and the east. They were invited to sell their dogs, their own wives and children, it is said, to pay their passage into this coveted empire. They were starving and destitute. The bellies of their children sagged like the bellies of old men and women. Their cheekbones stood out from their young faces. Their eyes wept tears.
‘Did you listen to their cries? Though they were not of your tribe, yet their cries were human. They were your fellow men: their children hungered and sorrowed like your children. Did you take them in? You did not. You looked out across the river to these pitiful refugees from the outer darkness, beyond the walls of your fortified Europe. And you saw only… what? Enemies? Demons? Danger? A danger so weak it could barely walk. What danger is that? All men will be brothers. That is an old Gothic saying, and it is what Christ taught. ‘Will be brothers’: note well the future tense. It is prayer, a hope, perhaps a prophecy. It is certainly not a description of the way things are.’
Theodoric took a gulp of wine. ‘Finally my people were pushed to despair, and then war. They seized back their swords and their horses and fled. And then at Adrianople, in the year 378, your Rome sent out a punitive expedition against us, to punish a starving and maltreated people who had dared rebel against Rome’s inhumanity to man. Our generals, Alatheus and Saphrax, commanded our weary and emaciated horsemen and our spearmen, and against all expectation Rome was destroyed that day. Surely Christ fought with us then. Your emperor, Valens himself, was killed on the field, and the flower of the Roman army destroyed by our despised and wretched barbarian cavalry. And I do not think that the legions of Rome have recovered from that day to this.’
Aetius suddenly leaned forward. ‘Join with us now,’ he said with low urgency in his voice. ‘Rome has need of you, the civilised world has need of you. Whatever is past, Christendom has need of you now, the Last Kingdom in the West, and your Wolf-Lords in their red cloaks, with their long ashen spears. Who would you rather have triumphant over the world, the Huns of Attila, or Rome – Christian Rome?’
‘For now,’ growled Theodoric, ‘neither. Let the Goths keep to themselves.’
Aetius would not hear such an answer. He seized the king’s wrist in a steely grip, his grey eyes suddenly burning with that passion which burned like a slow, inextinguishable flame deep beneath the cool, reserved and formal exterior. Now it was blazingly visible, like an equatorial sun appearing from behind cloud.
‘My lord,’ he said urgently, ‘I do not flatter you, you know that. But this will be no ordinary skirmish between Roman and barbarian, I know it in my heart. For I know this Attila. He is the boy I fought with and played with in the camp of the Huns when I was a hostage, long ago.’
‘Ah, I remember. You caught a giant boar together.’ Theodoric reflected. ‘It is strange. And now this boyhood friend of yours leads a hostile army to your borders.’
‘And more,’ said Aetius. ‘I knew him well. I know him still. Thirty years of exile, and now he has returned. I know how he hates Rome and dreams of its destruction.’
Theodoric shook his head. ‘This is sad and strange, like an old ballad.’
Aetius shrugged off Theodoric’s musings impatiently. ‘This is no mere chapter in the long history of Rome. This is the conclusion. Do you not see? Upon this battle, this war, depends the survival of Christian civilisation. I tell you the truth. Upon it depends the long continuity of our institutions and our empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. And if we fail, the whole world, including the Kingdom of the Visigoths, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age.’
Theodoric smiled. ‘You are a fine orator, no doubt, and I know you are a fine commander of men, but no, I will not sacrifice my young people to save old Rome. Nevertheless, I wish you well. I will have my priests and
