Theodoric

known as leges scriptae or belagines often referred to the time-honoured practice of settling disputes by combat, with God (or, in the recent pre-Christian past, gods such as Thor or Odin) the arbiter: a tradition with which even kings meddled at their peril.

A charged silence throughout the great hall followed Theoderic’s words, witness to the interest they had aroused. An enthusiastic murmur arose among the assembled Goths, gradually swelling to a roar of approval, with weapons being banged on the floor or benches. Watching Strabo’s face intently for any sign of reaction, Theoderic hoped against hope that the other would be swayed by his followers’ mood. A German king — reiks in the Gothic tongue — was not like a Roman emperor whose orders commanded unquestioning obedience. A reiks ruled strictly by consent and force of personality. Once perceived to be weak, unsuccessful, or acting against the interests of his people (or at least of those that counted), he would swiftly be replaced. The Goths present were probably Strabo’s andbahtos, his personal following of armed retainers. Such men would belong to the top rank of Goth society, frijai or free men, the other orders being freedmen, then slaves. Should they approve the duel (something members of a warrior society in which a man’s status was linked to his prowess as a fighter might be expected to endorse), could Strabo, as no more than primus inter pares, afford to ignore their collective will? Theoderic had read in the Histories of Ammianus Marcellinus, that eminent Roman soldier-turned-historian, that German kings often found great difficulty in controlling the martial ardour of their warriors.

‘Very well,’ at last pronounced the Squinter, his face impassive. ‘It shall be as you suggest.’ He leant forward, yellow hair swinging about his shoulders, to look intently into the other’s face. The squint was unsettling, disconcerting, and lent a chilling weight to the king’s next words. ‘However, by your terms, should my champion win we would have no advantage over and above the status quo. That is hardly fair. I therefore add this rider: should your champion lose, all your party, yourself excluded, will suffer death.’

The thunderous applause that greeted Strabo’s verdict made Theoderic’s blood run cold. The ingenious ‘solution’ he had sprung upon his namesake had backfired, creating a situation with implications too nightmarish to contemplate.

* I hesitate to differ from the great Ammianus, but Dacia, not Illyricum, is the diocese adjoining Thrace on the west. Perhaps he is using the term ‘Illyricum’ in a loose sense for the area known as ‘Illyris Graeca’, the western Balkans, Greece and Macedonia.

* Plovdiv.

FIVE

A Goth, Valaris by name, tall of stature and most terrifying. . challenged all the Romans, if anyone was willing to do battle with him.

Procopius, History of the Wars, c. 550

A tense hush spread throughout the mass of Goths packing the cloister’s pillared walkways. Facing each other across the grass-covered central enclosure, stripped to the waist, were the rival champions: the Goths’ a flaxen-haired giant armed with a great two-handed sword; Timothy, the choice of the Isaurians, with a slender knife. (Thalassios had reluctantly given way to Timothy, who had persuaded the rest of Theoderic’s party that his background of no-holds-barred street fighting gave him the edge.) On the face of it the pair were unevenly matched. The Goth’s huge stature, powerful physique and formidable weapon appeared to give him a distinct advantage over the short, stocky Isaurian with his puny blade.

The umpire stepped into the middle of the arena. ‘No gouging, no backstabbing,’ he announced, ‘the contestants to fight until one is killed or surrenders, in which event his life is forfeit.’ He glanced at Strabo, who was seated on a specially erected dais. The king nodded, whereupon the umpire called, ‘Begin,’ and exited the courtyard.

His sword a whirling silver blur, the Goth charged at Timothy, who waited till the man was nearly on him then skipped nimbly aside, just avoiding a ferocious cut which, had it landed, must have split him from neck to navel. Forged by master-swordsmiths and edged with razor-sharp steel, such blades were lethal. Time and again the Goth repeated the manoeuvre, on each occasion Timothy’s deft footwork proving his salvation.

‘I see what Timothy’s game is,’ Thalassios murmured to Theoderic’s party, huddled in a tense knot apart from the Goths. ‘He’s letting the big chap wear himself out, then he’ll go in for the kill.’

‘Risky,’ demurred another Excubitor. ‘If he spins things out too long, chances are the Goth’ll score a hit. Just one would finish Timothy.’

Which is what almost happened. With his opponent’s next rush, Timothy fractionally mistimed his avoiding action and the sword-tip flickered down his rib-cage. A scarlet thread tracked the point’s passage, widening instantly to a ribbon pouring blood. Timothy staggered, flung himself clear as a second blow parted the air inches from his head.

A collective sigh, like wind in a cornfield, rippled round the audience, followed by a gasp of horror from the Isaurians as Timothy appeared to slip on grass made treacherous by dripping blood, to measure his length on the ground. With a roar of triumph his adversary swung the great sword above his head.

Suddenly, in a sequence almost too rapid for the eye to follow, Timothy doubled forward from the hips, tucked his legs beneath him, then sprang upright with the speed of a striking adder. His knife, a wicked-edged Anatolian sica, insignificant to look at but deadly in close-quarter fighting, flashed across the other’s throat. The Goth, sword still raised aloft, blood jetting from a severed artery, swayed, then, with a look of surprise, collapsed, shuddered, and lay still.

The ensuing silence, born of shocked amazement, seemed to stretch out interminably, then was broken by a storm of cheering. Rough and violent they might be, but the Goths admired two virtues above all others, even when displayed by an enemy: martial skill, and valour.

‘Farewell, then — for the present,’ Strabo told his namesake at the monastery gate. ‘You turned the tables on me,’ he admitted, a note of wry respect entering his voice. ‘This time. When next we meet — as the Norns who weave the web of men’s lives have surely decreed we shall — Theoderic Thiudimer will be the one to lose.’

SIX

In the banqueting hall. . these bold fighting-men took their seats. A servant. . performed the office of pouring out the sparkling beer. From time to time a clear-voiced poet sang

Anonymous, Beowulf, seventh century(?)

Five days after crossing the boundary between the empires into Pannonia (nominally a province of the West, but long abandoned by a weakening Rome first to the Huns then, following their collapse and dispersal after the death of Attila, to the Ostrogoths), Theoderic and Timothy, having parted with their escort at the border, approached Thiudimer’s ‘capital’. This was a straggling baurg, or townlet of thatched huts, in a forest clearing north of that great inland sea the Lake of Balaton.

Thanks to the presence of Thalassios’ Excubitors, the remainder of the journey, from the Succi on, had been comparatively uneventful. Isaurians had a formidable reputation far beyond their homeland, and the sight of a well- armed band of these ferocious hillmen was sufficient to deter all but the most foolhardy of marauders. Only once did