Alaric sent back a curt message, of the kind beloved once by the Spartans, and now by the tough Germanic peoples. ‘The thicker the hay,’ he said, ‘the more easily mown.’
And he increased his demands. Now he wanted all the gold in the city, and all the silver, and the handover of all slaves of barbarian blood. The demands were outrageous, and the Senators said as much. ‘What then will we be left with?’ they asked indignantly.
Again the reply was laconic. ‘Your lives.’
Nevertheless, although in the open field there was none to stand against Alaric and his horsemen, the barbarian king knew he had no skill in siege warfare. Rome might withstand them for months, and the besiegers, as is so often the case, would soon be every bit as trapped, malnourished and diseased as the besieged. So, instead, Alaric turned his men away from the walls and made down to Ostia, the port of Rome, where the great grain-ships came from Africa and Egypt. And they sacked Ostia, and laid it waste, and burnt the massive grain-houses, and sank the huge, clumsy ships in the harbour. And Rome began to starve.
Alaric returned to camp outside the walls of Rome and waited for the inevitable surrender that must come soon.
The tall, fair-haired warrior leant on his spear outside his tent and shielded his eyes from the sun. Across the shimmering fields came a man, unarmoured, unarmed, on a fine grey horse. Little plumes of dust arose from the horse’s hooves as it trod delicately down towards the Gothic encampment.
Lucius looked neither to left nor to right. Over his head he could feel the sign that the hermit on the rock had made in the mountains by moonlight. His heart was as steady as his hands. He walked on between the first felt tents of the Goths, towards the walls of Rome.
More and more spearmen emerged from their tents to stare. Some of them called out angrily, some hesitated, some even laughed.
‘You have a message for us, stranger?’
‘What is your business?’
‘Speak, man.’
Lucius rode on through the camp. Outside these tents, the wives of warriors sat cross-legged before campfires, stirring pots or nursing infants at their breasts. Children ran about in the dust, or stopped to stare at the strange man on the grey mare. One little boy ran across almost under Tugha Ban’s hooves, and Lucius reined in to let him pass unscathed, then rode forwards again. At last the road ahead was blocked by four mounted men who lowered their spears towards him.
‘ Hva? at waetraeth? ’
He drew up in front of them. They eyed him easily, unafraid, their spears held loose but firm at their sides. Their blue eyes never wavered. These were no bandits who could be brushed aside with a swordstroke. Besides, he had thrown his sword away.
‘Do you speak Latin?’
The horseman to his right nodded. ‘Some.’ He swiped his hand over his mouth. ‘Enough to tell you to depart.’
Lucius shook his head. ‘I’m not departing. I have business in Rome.’
The horseman grinned. ‘We too.’
Another horseman, his mount restive and his eyes burning at this Roman’s impertinence, pulled up tightly on his reins and said angrily, ‘ Tha sainusai methtana, tha! ’
The warrior to the right, with the easy smile but the firm and steady eyes, leant forwards. He rested his muscular forearms, banded with bronze arm-bands, on the pommel of his saddle, and said conversationally, ‘My friend Vidusa here is growing angry. He says you must go. Otherwise…’
‘I am unarmed.’
‘Then we will pull you from your horse and knock your teeth out. But you will not ride into Rome through this camp without-’
‘I will ride into Rome,’ said Lucius, his voice quiet and steady. ‘I have business there that cannot be denied.’
A sound of furious galloping approached, and Lucius’ back and neck shivered with readiness for the cold bite of sword-blade or arrowhead. But none came. Another warrior skidded to a halt at his side. From the way the first four sat up and looked respectfully into the far distance, Lucius judged that the newcomer was a nobleman. He glanced to his left. The new arrival wore cross-gartered trousers, and was naked to the waist. His biceps bulged as he wrenched back the reins. His hair was long and fair and his eyes burnt keenly into Lucius’. He wore no sign of his rank, but the air of authority and power was unmistakable. He bellowed at his four inferiors and they answered sheepishly. They lowered their spears. The newcomer then turned his attention fully on Lucius. His Latin was basic but adequate.
‘You are Roman? Answer.’
‘I was.’
The newcomer frowned, his horse curvetting skittishly in the dust. The warrior wrenched the reins so fiercely that its head was pulled round almost to touch his legs, and the skittishness subsided.
‘Was?’ he rasped. His voice was deep, hoarse with dust, but powerful. ‘Can a man change his tribe? Can Roman become not Roman? Can Goth become Saxon or Frank? Can man disown father and mother, even people? Answer.’
‘My name is Lucius,’ he said. ‘I am from Britain.’
‘Britain,’ repeated the newcomer. ‘It rains.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Often. Always. But grass is green. Answer.’
Lucius nodded. ‘Grass is green.’
The warrior grinned suddenly from under his bushy moustache. He sliced his hands at the walls of Rome. ‘After Rome burns,’ he said, ‘we come to Britain. We graze our horses where grass is green.’
Lucius shook his head. ‘The grass of Britain for my people. Our land.’
The warrior’s grin vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. He rode in alongside Lucius and stared at him closely. ‘You not afraid, Was-Roman?’
Lucius shook his head again. ‘Not afraid.’
‘Why not afraid? We kill you. Answer.’
Lucius remembered the words of the Greek philosopher: ‘How marvellous it must be for you to have as much power as a poisonous spider.’ But Lucius was not a man to borrow another man’s words. He spoke his own words, simple and true.
‘I am not afraid, because I am not your enemy. You will not kill me. I will ride into Rome. I have business there. Then I will sail home to Britain.’
‘Where the grass is green.’
‘Where the grass is green.’
The warrior stared into Lucius’ eyes a little longer. Lucius returned his gaze without blinking.
‘You are strange, Was-Roman,’ said the Goth at last.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Lucius.
Then the warrior wheeled away and threw his arm out wide to his men, roaring at them in the Gothic tongue. They parted, and Lucius rode on between them.
Several hundred yards separated the perimeter of the Gothic camp from the walls of Rome, well out of missile range for both. Lucius rode up under the shadow of the Porta Salaria and shouted for entrance. No questions were asked, and there was only a brief delay before the door in the centre of the great oak gates was opened. He dismounted and stepped through it, leading Tugha Ban behind him. He wondered why it had been so easy, but when he saw the guard on the gate he wondered no more. He was starving. His eyes were hollow and red, and his hair had fallen out in clumps from his white scalp. Spittle had dried and crusted round his mouth, and his lips had almost shrunken away with starvation. In such a condition, a man can barely think straight. The city was in a desperate situation.
Lucius led his horse up the street, and everywhere there was the stench of starving, unwashed and, even worse, unburied bodies. He saw people huddled along the edges of the streets or in the shadows of the darkened alleyways, sometimes holding out a clawed hand in beggary. He stopped only once, when he came upon the body of
