holds? If it didn’t. .
Well, there was only one way to find out, he thought, grimly. Reaching up, his groping hands encountered cracks and roughnesses — enough to provide a grip. Face against the rock, he began to haul himself up, holding himself to the chockstone partly by hand- and foot-holds, partly by the friction of his tunic against the rough stone. Now his eyes were almost level with the outermost bulge of the boulder. This was the moment when he must commit — or abandon the climb. But to disappoint Raudie, and return to Tauresium empty-handed? That was unthinkable. Firmly, he pushed the temptation to give up to the back of his mind.
His scrabbling left hand found a knob of rock, providing a secure anchor. Letting go his hold with his right hand, Atawulf groped upwards — above the bulge. There was only smooth stone. Desperately, he moved his hand to right and left to the limit of his reach; still no hold. He began to retract his right hand — and made an appalling discovery. He could not bring it down again without losing his balance! Fighting panic, he froze against the boulder.
‘Wulfie’s stuck!’ Wamba cried, pointing to where, high above them, Atawulf’s immobile form was spreadeagled against the cliff. He turned a worried face to Uprauda. ‘What are we going to do, Raudie?’
Uprauda made to answer, found he could not think; his brain seemed paralyzed. The moments crept past. Faint with distance, a cry for help floated down from above.
‘Raudie?’ Wamba’s voice now held a note of desperation.
Uprauda’s mind suddenly seemed to unblock itself. He must form a plan — and quickly. He studied the cliff. Not far above Atawulf’s position, a ledge (the same whence sprouted the bush supporting the helmet) ran along the cliff face. If he or Wamba could somehow reach that ledge and lower an improvized line to Atawulf. . One look at Wamba’s ashen face and trembling lip told Uprauda that he, not the other, would have to meet the challenge. The prospect was terrifying. Uprauda was no cragsman. Any attempt to scale the cliff in the stretch that he could see was out of the question; it was far too steep — a recipe for disaster. He would have to move along its base and hope to find a point at which the incline sloped sufficiently for him to climb it — assuming that the ledge above extended that far.
‘Give me your belt and sling,’ he told Wamba. ‘Bring men with ropes from the village. Hurry!’
‘Try to hold on,’ Uprauda shouted up as Wamba set off at a run. ‘Help’s on its way; I’ll try to reach you from above.’ It was unlikely that Atawulf could make out his actual words, but just to be able to hear him call would provide some reassurance. But for how long could Atawulf maintain his precarious hold?
After running at his top speed for perhaps a quarter of a mile, Uprauda noticed that the cliff face was beginning to slope back. Within a further hundred yards, to his huge relief, the angle had lessened to the extent that grass grew on what had now become no more than a steep incline — mercifully looking as though it needed no special mountaineering skills to climb. While regaining his breath, Uprauda tied his own sling to Wamba’s then joined them to both their belts secured end to end. Now he had a stout line, hopefully of sufficient length and strength to reach Atawulf from the ledge (which still ran above the point now reached by Uprauda), and help him to safety.
A punishing scramble took Uprauda to the ledge — a wide shelf of rock along which he was able to walk in perfect security. Now, in the distance ahead, he could see the bush with that wretched helmet shining like a beacon in the sun. And there, only yards below it, was Atawulf, clinging to a huge boulder projecting from a fissure in the cliff. A tide of euphoria swept over Uprauda. He shouted, to let the other know he was coming, heard an answering cry — then stopped, his elation draining away.
Directly in front of him, the shelf ended suddenly — continuing a short distance further on. Between the two sections was a gap no more than three feet wide, bridgeable by a single bold stride. Uprauda stared at the yawning drop beneath the breach, and shrank against the cliff in terror. With palms sweating and mouth dry with fear, he approached the Bad Step — only to hesitate, then stop, on the very lip. He told himself that there was no risk, that at ground level he could perform such a trifling feat without a second thought. But it was no good; after making several aborted attempts, he knew he could not do it.
He tried to shut his ears to Atawulf’s calls — at first of hope, finally of despair. At last there came the terrible moment when he saw his friend, unable any longer to maintain his hold, begin to slip. Then, with a cry of terror the boy fell, his body twisting and tumbling as it plunged into the void. .
In grim silence, the little procession carrying Atawulf’s broken body on a makeshift litter returned to Tauresium. After the grieving and the funeral would come a reckoning. But no direct blame would be laid upon Uprauda for what, after all, had resulted from a collective enterprise. According to his statement, he had tried to save Atawulf, who had fallen before he could be reached. Which was, insofar as it went, a not untrue account, merely an incomplete one. In Uprauda’s dreams however, the helmet often reappeared — both a symbol of ambition, and a reminder of his cowardice.
In the branches of a bush growing from a cliff, a pair of nesting falcons made a fortunate discovery: a round hollow object, ideal for their home. It even sprouted a ridge of hair — perfect material with which, along with moss, to line their new abode. As, over the years, their dwelling changed in colour from gleaming gold to bluish green, it witnessed the fledging of many generations of falcon chicks.
* Arianism: the form of Christianity adopted by Germans; it differed from Orthodox Catholicism in denying the Divinity of Christ.
** Born 31 August in the year of the consuls Trocondus and Severinus. (i.e. 482; see Notes.)
* A play on the names
PART II
EMPEROR-IN-WAITING
AD 500-527
TWO
He who has lost honour, can lose nothing more
‘. . so in conclusion,’ pronounced Olympius, holder of the Chair of Law at Constantinople University, ‘our judge, having heard all the evidence for the defence and for the prosecution, must make his judgement. How is he to do this?’ Inviting a response, his gaze swept round the crowded tiers.
‘The Law of Citations would require him to consult the findings of the
Olympius nodded approvingly. ‘Correct — as far as it goes. But let us speculate the following: Gaius and Papinian pronounce a guilty verdict, Ulpian and Paulus one of innocence, with Modestinus abstaining. A tie, in other words. What then?’
The low buzz of speculation that followed, accompanied by shrugs and head-shaking as students conferred, gradually petered out. Then the silence was broken by a tall young man with calm grey eyes. ‘Papinian would have the casting vote,
‘Well done, young Petrus!’ enthused the other. ‘You’ve been reading up your
