Theodoric

suffragium* from Gaiseric. Each day, an emissary from the Vandal king would appear on the rocky fore-shore and be rowed out to Perseus. In addition to assurances that Gaiseric now wished to become a Friend of Rome with federate status in the empire, the messenger would bring a bag of gold. So the longer he allowed Gaiseric to hope that his olive branch might be working, the more he, Basiliscus, benefited. Where was the harm in that?

‘What if the wind should change?’ demanded Iohannes, his patrician features flushed with anger. ‘We would lose our present great advantage of the wind-gauge. We could even be driven on to a lee shore.’

‘You worry too much, Iohannes. As every skipper knows, at this time of year the south-easterly is practically guaranteed not to change. Why else do you think that, in the old days of a single empire, the corn fleets used to sail from Egypt to Ostia between June and September? Because delivery was always on time. An emperor’s popularity, therefore security, depended on the bread dole being regular.’ Basiliscus rose, stretched, and poured wine. ‘Here, have some vintage Nomentan — help you relax.’

‘No, thanks,’ snapped the other. ‘One of us needs to keep a clear head.’

‘All right, all right.’ Basiliscus raised his hands placatingly. Iohannes’ concern was, perhaps, he conceded to himself, not unjustified. It might be wise not to tempt Providence too much. A pity to forgo his little ‘bonus’, courtesy of Gaiseric; but all good things had to end sometime. ‘We’ll do as you suggest. Anyway, in the five days we’ve been here, the fleet’s been made pretty well shipshape. Tomorrow, I’ll give the order to weigh anchor.’

Surfacing from a heavy sleep, Basiliscus was dimly aware that someone was shaking him. He sat up in his bunk, pressed hands to a throbbing head — the price of punishing that vintage Nomentan. He made a mental note to add more water next time.

‘Captain asks if you could come on deck, sir.’ His pilot’s voice held a note of urgency.

Hastily pulling on shoes and tunic, Basiliscus became aware that Perseus was rolling violently. He followed the pilot topside up a short companionway, gasped as cold spray peppered his face and a buffet of wind slammed the breath back down his throat. The sight that met his eyes in the grey light of dawn was disturbing. In the night the wind had changed; a near-gale, blowing from the north-west, was whipping the sea into a field of tossing whitecaps, with everywhere ships plunging and wallowing as they strove to point their bows into the wind. Several transports, their anchors dragging, had been taken in tow by dromons, which, with their banks of crawling oars, resembled strange monsters of the deep.

Enveloped in a hooded smock of heavy wool, the navarchus, or sailing-master, approached the commander.

‘The ships need sea-room, sir,’ he shouted above the howling of the wind. ‘We need to get clear of that.’ He pointed to the towering rampart of Mercurii Promontorium looming darkly above the anchorage. ‘No problem for the dromons, even in this sea. Harder for the transports, though — means sailing closer to the wind than they can comfortably manage.’

Driven on to a lee shore — next to fire, the mariner’s worst nightmare, thought Basiliscus. The great headland which, until a few hours ago, had formed a natural breakwater could now become their graveyard.

With storm lanterns hoisted to her mast-head and boom-tips signalling other ships to follow, Perseus weighed anchor and began to creep jerkily away from the coast, her oars, first on one side then on the other, biting air instead of water in the choppy seas. As the light strengthened, Basiliscus breathed a sigh of relief; the fleet was slowly clawing clear of danger, the transports rolling wildly as they angled sideways to the wind to make seaway.

‘Sail ho!’ The cry of the lookout in the crosstrees came faintly to Basiliscus. Peering into the distance, he made out a dancing white speck, then another, and another, as the sea became stippled with sails. The Vandal fleet!

Fighting for calm, Basiliscus told himself that his command was not at serious risk. With their vastly inferior numbers, the Vandal ships, despite having the wind in their favour, could only harry, not destroy, the Roman fleet. Then his mind seemed to freeze, as a row of glowing dots sprang up along the Vandal van. Fireships!

Basiliscus watched, horrified, as the blazing hulks swept down-wind upon his ships. Fire was the worst thing that could happen at sea: canvas, sun-dried timbers, tarred cordage — so much tinder waiting for a spark. Within minutes, all cohesion in the Roman fleet was lost, as vessels strove to flee the danger. Valiantly, the dromons tried to secure cables to the fireships to drag them clear but, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, could make little difference to the outcome.

Ship after Roman ship exploded into flame as the fireships got among them, becoming in their turn agents of destruction. Soon chaos reigned, with vessels piling up on the rocky shore, or scattering wildly in their efforts to escape. Now, like a wolf pack closing on a helpless flock, the Vandals struck. With the wind-gauge allowing them to manoeuvre as they chose, they picked off single vessels with several of their own. Then, boarding, they swamped the defenders with a tide of yelling warriors. After vainly trying to repulse one such onslaught, Iohannes, shouting defiance, leapt into the sea rather than surrender, his armour pulling him instantly beneath the waves.

Only a battered remnant of the mighty war-fleet that had set sail with such high hopes limped back to the Golden Horn. As news of the disaster spread throughout the Roman world, the Western federates breathed a collective sigh of relief. With the treasuries of both empires exhausted, no further rescue of the West could be attempted. Gaul, Spain and Italy were theirs for the taking.

In that same fateful year, the twelve hundred and twenty-second from the Founding of the City, a fourteen- year-old hostage was receiving the education of a Roman aristocrat in Constantinople. The boy was the son of Thiudimer, king of the Ostrogoths, a Germanic tribe settled in Pannonia.* His name was Theoderic.

* Cape Bon, Tunisia.

* Payment of a ‘backhander’ accompanying a transaction; in effect, a covert bribe.

* An abandoned West Roman province in the Upper Danube region.

ONE

The poor Roman imitates the Goth, the well-to-do Goth the Roman

Aphorism of Theoderic, c. 500

The poor Roman imitates the Goth, the well-to-do Goth the Roman

Aphorism of Theoderic, c. 500

‘“Ingentem meminit parvo qui germine quercum

Aequaevumque videt consenuisse nemus”,’

declaimed Demetrius to the semicircle of (mainly bored-looking) schoolboys. ‘He remembers the great oak as a small acorn, and sees the grove, planted when he was born, grown old with him.’ The class, sons of aristocrats, generals and top civil servants, mainly from the Eastern Empire with a few from Italia and Gaul, was being held in a room of Constantinople’s Imperial Palace, a jumble of splendid though ill-assorted buildings that sprawled downhill towards the Propontis.* The schoolmaster was expounding the ideas contained in Claudian’s poem On the Gothic War.

‘Bearing in mind that Alaric’s barbarians had crossed the Alps and were rampaging down through Italy,’ continued Demetrius, ‘what do you think Claudian was trying to tell us about this simple old man from Verona?’ He