handles of the reservoirs containing a mixture of bitumen, sulphur and naphtha. The leading Goths swarming up the ladders propped against the sea-walls were engulfed in a fiery blast. Human torches, they dropped, screaming, to the beach; water flung on them by their horrified companions had no effect. Relentlessly, the flames continued to burn — through skin and muscle to the very bone.
The success of the new weapon was instantaneous and total. Witnessing the fate of the first to scale the ladders, the Goths — individual warriors who, unlike Roman troops, couldn’t be ordered into battle against their will — refused to press on with the attack, and the fleet retreated to the Asiatic shore. Soon afterwards, Theoderic called off the investment of the city, and marched his host back to their Moesian heartland.
‘Well, thanks to your new weapon, this “Greek fire”, as the Goths are calling it,’ Zeno reluctantly conceded to Julian, ‘we’ve now got a breathing-space from the attentions of Theoderic. For the moment.’ The pair, together with Thalassios (now
‘Serenity, let’s not keep on appeasing Theoderic,’ declared Julian. Playing up to his nickname of ‘Alexander’, bestowed on account of his uncanny resemblance to the famous Macedonian, Julian was tricked out in Ancient Greek-style armour, which had the effect of making him appear both formidable and faintly ridiculous. ‘The Goths, after all, are just barbarians. If we were to mobilize a big enough Roman army, we could take him on and destroy him.’
‘And risk another Adrianople?’ sneered Zeno. ‘I think not. I suspect that, if pushed, Theoderic might prove to be as effective a tactician as Fritigern.’
‘What we need is another Strabo,’ put in Thalassios. ‘Pitting one barbarian against another — that’s a game the Romans have long been masters of.’
‘“
‘But
Alone in a reception chamber, Zeno rose from his throne as Theoderic entered. ‘Greetings, my dear old friend,’ he declared, with a warmth that was only half simulated. Despite the bad blood that now flowed like a river between them, he liked the tall German with the frank blue eyes and thoughtful, slightly troubled expression — this man who, in the past, had proved himself a loyal Friend of Rome, and to whom, indeed, Zeno owed his throne. ‘We have a proposition which may interest you,’ he continued, waving the other to a chair.
‘Your “propositions” I have heard before, Zeno. I would remind you that my bodyguard of loyal Goths is just outside this palace, and ten thousand of my warriors are encamped beyond the city walls.’
‘Well, no one can blame you for taking precautions.’ Dropping the imperial ‘we’, Zeno continued, ‘I confess that in our dealings in the past, I may sometimes have allowed myself to be swayed by wrong advice. But let’s try to put such misunderstandings behind us. I need someone to take over in Italy as my vicegerent. Who better than my friend and former ally Theoderic Amalo?’
‘But, Odovacar-’ exclaimed Theoderic, stunned.
‘-has shown himself to be a renegade, threatening to send warriors to help Illus in Isauria, against me. Why, I can’t imagine, except that power must have gone to his head. Granted, he’s made a reasonable fist of running things in Italy, but he can’t be allowed to flex his muscles in the East. He must therefore be removed. The last claimant to the imperial throne in the West, Julius Nepos, died eight years ago.* So, this is where you come in. Interested?’
Theoderic felt himself drowning in a tide of conflicting emotions. Vicegerent of the Eastern Emperor! It was a heady thought — next to the purple and the diadem, no higher role existed in the Roman world. His ambition to be accepted by the Roman state, an ambition which had been cruelly manipulated and thwarted in the past, would be fulfilled beyond his wildest dreams. And why had Zeno thrown in that remark about Julius Nepos, unless to suggest to Theoderic that the imperial throne was still vacant, and that therefore. .? Resolutely, he banned his thoughts from pursuing such intoxicating speculation — for the moment, anyway. Then, inside his mind, Theoderic seemed to hear the voice of Timothy urging caution: ‘He’s using you, Deric, employing the old, old trick of setting barbarian against barbarian — finally to rid the Eastern Empire of those troublesome Ostrogoths. Odovacar’s just an excuse; the Scirian’s posture over Illus is little more than sword-rattling, a reminder that, in the sphere of power politics, he can’t be overlooked. Anyway, what’s the vicegerency? An empty title which it costs Zeno nothing to bestow. A fiction devised to preserve the comforting illusion that the “one and Indivisible Empire” still continues in the West, under the aegis of the Eastern Emperor. Remember, Deric, the ABC I taught you when dealing with the Romans. A: accept nothing; B: believe nobody; C: check everything.’
But the pull of Rome (which also held out a solution to the problem of his remaining within the empire, which Severinus had pointed out to him) proved too strong. Seduced by glittering images of semi-imperial status — riding in state through the venerable City; saluted by senators from ancient noble families; acclaimed by throngs of cheering Romans. . He heard himself reply, ‘I accept.’
Then, unbidden, the opening words of Myrddin’s prophecy rang in his head: ‘A horse comes from the land of the live eagle to that of the dead one, where he fights and kills a boar that has come there before him.’ The meaning was suddenly clear. The eagle, the enduring symbol of Rome. The live one — the Empire of the East; the dead, the now defunct Western Empire. A horse, long the totem of the Ostrogoths. A boar, the motif of the royal house of the Sciri. The Ostrogoths would come from the Eastern Empire to Italy, where they would defeat Odovacar. Wonder tinged with dread swept over Theoderic.
The sheer immensity of the enterprise to which he was now committed began to dawn on him. The task was staggering in its implications: the migration not just of the warrior host, but of a whole people, to the number of two hundred thousand souls, involving the organization of transport, food supplies, equipment, planning and following a route of nearly a thousand miles through sometimes hostile tribal territory and difficult terrain. The challenge called for someone with the vision and authority of a Moses. Thus far in his career, he had proved himself a successful warlord: good at plundering, sacking cities, holding his own (just) against rival Goths, and Romans — hardly a glittering record. Now, at thirty-four, the call upon his leadership was of uncharted, infinitely greater dimensions. Would he prove equal to the test?
* ‘Fire!’ (Literally, ‘Hurl!’; orders in the East Roman army were still given in Latin.)
* In 480 — i.e.,
PART II
FIFTEEN
Cold is the way to Miming, hidden and perilous, and it lies over icy mountains and frozen seas
