Theodoric

down the slope and drove through the Saxon host as a sledge-hammer smashes through a rotten door. Reforming on the valley’s farther side, the horsemen charged again, before the Saxons could recover and form a defensive shield-wall. Time after time the tactic was repeated, until at last the Saxons broke and fled, to be cut down almost to a man, by the pursuing Britons.

Learning of their fate, the other column, putting discretion before valour, retreated to the east. Britain to the west of Vectis* was safe, for another year at least.

Looking out to sea from one of the towers surmounting the gatehouse of Anderida, Meurig experienced a twinge of concern. A shimmering wall of white obscured the coastline — perfect cover for a Saxon sea-borne attack. His anxiety was groundless, he told himself. Since Artorius’ great victory at Mons Badonicus† three years before, the Saxons had lain low, licking their wounds presumably. And yet. . All Meurig’s instincts suggested that this spell of inactivity was but the calm before the storm. By nature ruthless and persistent, the Saxons were not the sort of people to be permanently knocked back by one defeat, however costly. Well, whatever happened elsewhere on the island, Anderida was secure. Nothing could penetrate these massive walls — ten feet thick by thirty high, of solid concrete faced with stone, reinforced by twelve great bastions from which a deadly enfilading fire could be directed against any enemy who reached the curtain. The fort was utterly impregnable. Wasn’t it?

What was that? Straining his ears, Meurig picked up a faint sound, a low susurration which slowly grew in volume. Suddenly, as was wont with these seasonal sea-frets, the mist began to thin and shred, then in a twinkling had dissolved away. The commander stared in consternation at the sight that met his eyes: a forest of sails bearing down upon the beach. Beneath the towering squares of canvas, banks of oars dipped and rose — the source of the sound that he had heard. This was no ordinary raid, such as Anderida had seen off scores of times in the past. This was a full-scale offensive which bore the hallmarks of concerted planning. All at once, the fort’s invincibility seemed less assured.

Before the longboats grounded on the beach, the garrison had manned the walls. The great ballistae — new when Theodosius was emperor a century ago, but kept in good repair — were rushed from store and hastily assembled on the bastions. Meanwhile, the Saxons, pouring from their craft, formed up, thousands strong, on the narrow beach. Then, giving a savage roar, they rolled forward in massed formation.

‘Jacite!’ The order to shoot rang out from the ballista platforms on the nearest bastions. Their connecting cords released by a trigger mechanism, the arms of the huge catapults, powered by the enormous stored-up energy of their springs of twisted sinew, flew forwards. A storm of iron-headed bolts smashed into the Saxons, tearing great gaps in their ranks. These were immediately filled up, the enemy advancing without pause to the foot of the walls, to be subjected to a deadly hail of javelins and arrows. Despite incurring terrible losses, the Saxons pressed on. Scaling-ladders were raised, sent crashing to the ground, scattering their human loads; but more and more thudded on to the parapet until at last the Saxons gained a growing foothold on the walkways, and the balance swiftly tilted in their favour. Knowing no quarter would be given, the garrison, by now reduced to a shrinking knot of limitanei, fought on grimly in the fort’s great courtyard until the last man was killed.

‘Let us leave their bodies for the kites and crows,’ said Aelle to his fellow leader.

‘No,’ replied Cissa, resting on his bloodstained sword. ‘They were brave men. We will give them honourable burial.’

So disappeared from Britain the last reflected rays of Rome’s imperial sunset.

* Straits of Dover.

† Pevensey.

* Prehistoric tracks along the crests of the chalk downs of southern England. Parts of some of them are popular with walkers today.

† Ilchester (see Notes). The Roman road is the Fosse Way, connecting Exeter and Lincoln.

‡ The Weald.

* The Long Man of Wilmington (for this and other features mentioned in Myrddin’s itinerary, see Notes).

† Cadbury Castle/South Cadbury hill-fort (see Notes).

* Silchester and Winchester.

* ‘Gwyn’ is Welsh for ‘white’ (hence ‘Gawain’?).

* The Isle of Wight.

† Mount Badon (see Notes).

TWENTY

The gods favour the bold

Ovid, Metamorphoses, c. 5 AD

Suddenly the mist, which had plagued the Amali almost from the moment of striking winter camp ten days before, began to thin. In moments it had gone, revealing a world utterly changed from the one in which they had wintered. The Dravus, then a wide and placid river flowing gently through a fertile valley, had become a rushing torrent confined by steep slopes, where stands of pine and hazel alternated with slabs of naked limestone. Ahead, a jagged wall of mountains loomed on the horizon. ‘Das Karnthen Gebirge,’* the guide (one of several Boii,† hardy mountaineers recruited for their knowledge and experience) informed Theoderic. ‘Tomorrow we change route, head south towards the Savus.‡ All right, Herr Konig?’

Theoderic concurred, mentally reviewing the plan. They would cross from the Upper Dravus to the Savus where, at a prearranged spot, they would rendezvous with Timothy. The Isaurian had gone ahead, a) to reconnoitre a possible southern route into Italy via the Vipava valley, through the foothills of the Alpes Juliae§, and b) to discover, if possible, what Odovacar’s movements were. Depending on what Timothy reported, a decision would have to be taken as to which route to follow: the southern, longer, but almost certainly much easier; or a short cut straight across the Alpes Juliae, which was bound to prove difficult, possibly dangerous to boot.

Next morning, the wagons, heading south and a little west, began to crawl round the southern flanks of the Karnthen Gebirge, on the tenth day descending to the Savus river at its junction with the Sorus,* the rendezvous. Here, they found Timothy awaiting them.

‘The Vipava valley route’s an easy one,’ Timothy, gratefully chewing a slice of roast chamois, told Theoderic in the latter’s wagon. ‘Broad, well-used trail, no gradient steep enough to cause a problem for wagons. I followed it right through to the Italian border, which is demarcated by the River Sontius. Posing as a trader, I crossed the river at Pons Sontii† and did some snooping. Odovacar’s there, waiting for you. Clearly, he expects you to come via the Vipava, the route favoured in the past by almost all invaders. According to the gossip, he’s mustering an army “from the kings of all the nations” — whatever that means; but so far, not that many have turned up. If there is a viable route directly over the Alpes Juliae, I’d say take it. You’d then have the element of surprise, and likely catch Odovacar before he’s had time to assemble all his force.’

Theoderic spent the next few hours agonizing over which route to take. If he opted for the short cut, he might end up losing half his wagons, or getting stuck in the mountains — when his people would be faced with slow starvation. But, if he chose the longer route, he might find himself eventually facing an Odovacar to whom he had gifted time sufficient to assemble an army of such overwhelming strength as to prove invincible. He thought of holding a council of war, but rejected the idea immediately; this responsibility belonged to him alone. That night he fell into an exhausted sleep, the problem still unresolved. Before unconsciousness claimed him, he found himself hoping that perhaps in dreams a sign might manifest itself.

When he awoke he discovered that, although no sign had come, his mind was made up: the short cut it would be.