Theodoric

The wagons pushed westwards beside the narrowing Savus, the distant blue mass of the Alpes Juliae looming larger by the day. A week after rendezvous-ing with Timothy, they arrived at a great side valley coming in from the left, above which, in the distance, dominating the surrounding sea of snow-capped mountains, rose a vast and snaggled peak: Tridentium,* the Three-Fanged One, the highest summit of the Alpes Juliae.

Ordering the word to be passed down the line for the wagons to halt, Theoderic, accompanied by the Boiarian guides, entered the mouth of the valley to reconnoitre the route which the guides had already recommended as offering the most direct passage through the range. The prospect presented by the valley was a daunting one indeed: a vast stony trough, its upper slopes a field of scree and boulders, leading steeply up to a narrow col. This connected, on the left, the beetling cliffs of Tridentium’s north face, with, on the right, a ferocious line of sawtoothed crags ascending to a dramatic peak, Spica.

‘Es geht nicht — impossible!’ exclaimed Theoderic, aghast, immediately regretting his choice of route.

‘Not so, Herr Konig,’ demurred the guides’ leader. ‘With care, and preparation, and perhaps a little luck, it can be done. You see that stream?’ He pointed to a barely discernible rivulet bisecting the great cirque. ‘There is a track beside it, just wide enough for a wagon, which will lead us to the summit of the pass.’

At first, the going was fair — far easier than it had seemed during Theoderic’s inspection the day before. The wagons rocked and rolled along the stony trail, with grassy patches and stands of stunted beech and larch relieving the monotony of the ubiquitous bare limestone. At one point the track passed beneath a waterfall spouting from an overhanging crag — an unforgettable phenomenon. All too soon, however, such pleasant sights were displaced by a grim testing-ground of unforgiving rock. From a point where the stream mysteriously disappeared, presumably flowing underground from its source far above, the trail steepened brutally, becoming increasingly littered with boulders, which had to be laboriously manhandled out of the path of the wagons. As they gained height, slippery scree and lying snow combined to create a serious problem, denying traction to the wagon wheels with their smooth iron tyres. Drag-ropes, hauled by everyone except the very young, had to supplement the efforts of the oxen, folk and beasts labouring for breath in the thin mountain air. Others strained to push the wagons at the rear, ready at a moment’s notice to jam boulders beneath the rear wheels should they start to slip, brakes alone being insufficient to stop the heavy vehicles sliding backwards.

Halting further progress, nightfall found the leading wagons well below the summit, a long, long snake of vehicles winding back down the corrie and along the valley of the Savus. What with the effects of cold at such high altitude, and anxiety lest their vehicles start to slip on the steep upper slopes, those in the foremost wagons spent a sleepless night. But dawn brought no relief.

As the wagons began to move again, dark storm-clouds rolled up from the south, discharging volleys of hailstones as big as sling-shot, accompanied by cracks of thunder, and lightning bolts that struck the mountain all around, leaving dark smoking patches in the snow. The oxen panicked, becoming almost unmanageable, taxing the drivers’ skill to the uttermost to prevent the wagons overturning and tumbling to destruction. Then, as suddenly as it had worsened, the weather cleared; the oxen quietened, the train proceeded without further incident, and by noon the first wagons were trundling through the pass.

Riding beside his wagon as it started the descent, Theoderic felt a surge of relief and euphoria. Thank God, he told himself, that he had after all made the right decision as to the route; and thanks to Fortuna for sending him Callisthenes, without whose advice the expedition would probably not have got this far. Further lightening his spirit, the terrain on the far side of the pass was a welcome contrast to what had gone before: grassy slopes, dotted with trees and grazing chamois, dropped gently to a fast-flowing stream of the purest aquamarine blue, the Socus.

With the most critical part of the route now pioneered, an endless line of wagons rolled over the pass and down to the Socus valley. The train followed the winding river through a landscape of stunning beauty — grassy meadows studded with stands of pine, beech, and rowan, with a backdrop of dramatic snow-capped peaks, their flanks seamed by gorges, waterfalls and precipices. Parting at last from the Socus as from an old friend, an easy traverse took the column to the headwaters of the Sontius, which they followed to the river-crossing at Pons Sontii, above which the Sontius emptied its waters into the Terginus Sinus.* Beyond the far bank, all seemed strangely quiet and deserted: no ranks of tents nor smoke of cooking-fires, no stir and bustle of a mighty host.

Feeling a little like Moses who had brought his people to the Promised Land, but, unlike the patriarch, not forbidden entry thereto, Theoderic rode across the bridge — and into Italy, where surely Destiny awaited him. The freshly trampled earth and squares of bleached grass told their own story. Learning of his rival’s unexpected advance from the north, Odovacar, his army not yet fully mustered, had withdrawn, to await confrontation at some later date.

* The Carinthian Alps.

† Bavarians.

‡ The River Sava

§ The Julian Alps.

* The River Sora, near Ljubljana, in Slovenia (see Notes).

† Isonzo Bridge.

* Triglav (see Notes).

* The Gulf of Trieste.

TWENTY-ONE

Have pity on me!

Cry of Emperor Zeno from within his tomb, allegedly reported by citizens of Constantinople, 491

Zeno stirred, as his mind returned to consciousness. He opened his eyes: blackness. He tried to sit up; his head banged against an unyielding surface. He extended his hands, which encountered what felt like cold stone. Where was he? With mounting alarm, he recalled his last memory: himself lying on a sick-bed surrounded by courtiers and physicians, the Patriarch of Constantinople leaning over him, intoning the last rites.

Terror engulfed the emperor as he realized the awful truth. Through some appalling misdiagnosis, perhaps while in a cataleptic state, he had been pronounced dead, then entombed — alive! Filling his lungs with stale and fetid air, he began to shout for help.

‘Simmer down, you ghastly bunch!’ bellowed the choirmaster with mock severity. The choirboys, high spirits coming to the fore on being released from rehearsing the paean for the new emperor, desisted from larking about. They were inside the vast church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. ‘That wasn’t bad,’ the choirmaster conceded. ‘Not bad at all.’ The choirboys grinned at each other smugly. ‘Not bad’ was high praise from their preceptor. ‘Early night, remember; tomorrow’s the big day. Off you go, now.’

‘Listen!’ called one chorister urgently, holding up a hand for silence. ‘I think I heard someone calling.’ All froze, straining their ears.

Faint but distinct, there came a muffled cry from the direction of the apse, ‘Help me, for pity’s sake!’

‘It’s coming from the sarcophagus,’ whispered one of the boys.

The group hurried to the great marble tomb resting on its catafalque where, only the day before, Zeno had been laid to rest. From within, the cry — desperate, terror-filled — was repeated.

‘We’ll get you out, Serenity,’ called the choirmaster, placing his mouth to the crack between the lid and the walls of the great stone coffin. ‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, yes!’ came the reply, charged with anguished hope.

‘I’ll get help, Serenity,’ the choirmaster assured the imprisoned emperor, after he and the twelve boys had