Theodoric

Bypassing Singidunum (scene of Theoderic’s youthful victory against Babai), whose massive ramparts were defended by a strong Roman garrison, the Goths pressed on towards Margus, where a shameful treaty had been imposed by Attila on the East Romans more than sixty years before. Near the latter city, as the Goths were pitching camp for the night, Pitzia’s scouts (detached from the small body of cavalry accompanying the host) came posting in with the news that a Roman general, Sabinianus, was approaching at the head of a large force of Bulgar mercenaries.

‘This Sabinianus, what do we know of him?’ queried Pitzia, as the two leaders conferred in the commander’s tent.

‘Only that he’s one of the East’s top soldiers,’ replied Cyprianus. ‘Son of a famous general of the same name, who once ambushed a column led by Theoderic’s brother Thiudimund, capturing all his wagons.’

‘And the Bulgars?’

‘A Turkic tribe of mounted nomads, originally from Central Asia. Not, thank God, horse-archers like the Huns. The only saving grace is that, with the East’s field armies fully committed on the Persian front, we won’t be facing a Roman force.’

‘We should be all right, then.’

‘Should we now?’ snapped Cyprianus, infuriated by the other’s groundless optimism. ‘May I remind you that our army amounts to the grand total of two thousand men on foot plus five hundred riders. We’ll probably be facing a much larger force made up of Bulgar cavalry — among the finest in the world. There’s only one way to see off cavalry: forming a defensive shield-wall. And that, my dear Pitzia, calls for steadiness and iron discipline, qualities which even you must admit the Goths conspicuously lack. Oh yes,’ he concluded bitterly, ‘we should be all right.’

‘What do we do?’ Pitzia now sounded sober and concerned.

‘Well, we can’t retreat, that’s for sure. Being cavalry, they’d soon overtake us. So we have to offer battle. That means choosing a defensive position with as many advantages of terrain as possible. Ideally, a narrow front on rising ground between woods or marshes, so that we can’t be outflanked, while they’re prevented from bringing their full strength to bear. After that, as I’ve said, everything depends on discipline — our Achilles’ heel, unfortunately.’

‘We’re going to lose — is that what you’re saying?’

‘Not necessarily,’ mused Cyprianus, as he recalled a codicil to their orders. It granted them permission to ally with Mundo, a renegade warlord whose stronghold, Herta, was only a few miles distant, at the confluence of the Danube and a large tributary, the Moravus.*

‘Mundo? That leader of thieves and cut-throats?’ exclaimed Pitzia in horror, when the other had reminded him of this option. ‘We can’t possibly accept help from such scum.’

‘Then we’ll probably all die!’ shouted Cyprianus, losing patience. ‘Wake up, man. This is war. We don’t have the luxury of choice. If the Devil himself offered to help us, we’d have to accept. Mundo’s a nasty piece of work, I don’t deny it — boils his prisoners alive, I’ve heard. But, as far as we’re concerned, the only thing that matters is: will he make an effective ally? You can see that, can’t you?’

Chastened, Pitzia nodded.

‘Good. Now we have to move quickly. Herta’s less than ten miles from here; if I set off now on a fast mount, I can be there by sundown. Assuming I can persuade Mundo to join us, we should be back here sometime in the morning — hopefully before Sabinianus shows up. Mundo and his followers are Huns and therefore almost certainly cavalry, which is where we’re weakest. They’re a remnant of Attila’s horde. Stayed behind when most of the tribe drifted back to Asia, following the collapse of Attila’s empire. Right, I’d best be on my way.’

‘Just one thing: why would Mundo want to help us?’

Cyprianus groaned to himself. Getting through to Pitzia could be hard work at times. ‘Because the man’s living on borrowed time. At present, Anastasius has bigger fish to fry — Isaurian rebels and a hostile Persia. But Mundo knows the day of reckoning is bound to come. And that day could dawn very soon. After ourselves, Sabinianus’ next target — being conveniently close — would almost certainly be Mundo, who’s become a serious challenge to the maintenance of local law and order. By joining us, he’d be helping to keep Sabinianus off his back. And now, I really must be off.’

‘Shall we go to the rescue of this Roman and his beleaguered Goths?’ boomed Mundo to his chief retainers, assembled in the praetorium of Herta — an abandoned Roman fortress perched on a bluff above the Danube. Cyprianus smiled to himself, prepared to indulge this game of saving face. Although Mundo needed the help of the Goths as much as they needed his, he must be allowed to appear to be conferring a favour, in order to maintain his status among his followers.

The scene had a kind of barbaric splendour, Cyprianus reflected, the great chamber’s Roman austerity relieved by colourful tribal rugs, and weapons plus trophies of the chase hanging on the walls. Mundo was a mountain of a man, whose slitted eyes, deep-sunk in the beardless Mongol face, betrayed his Hunnic origins. His huge head showed the curious flattening and elongation caused by binding the skull to a board in infancy, a characteristic deformation practised by the tribe.

The chief and his kaftan-clad retainers conferred noisily for a time in Hunnish, then Mundo turned to Cyprianus and declared, ‘We agree to help you; but our help will not come cheap. Twenty solidi apiece for my warriors, twice that for my captains, and let us say a hundred for myself. In addition, I desire to take the foedus.* If I am a foederatus of your king, Theoderic, he and I will have a mutual obligation to aid each other should the need arise. Those are my terms, Roman. Take them or leave them.’

The demands were, of course, preposterous, thought Cyprianus. As well as acquiring, at a stroke, a fortune which would otherwise take years to garner, as a federate Mundo would change his status from outlaw to respected ally under the protection of western Europe’s strongest ruler. Well, needs must when the Devil drives, as Augustine (or was it Jerome?) said. And the deal was not all one-sided: the financial payout could probably be adjusted later to a more realistic level; also, as a federate Mundo could be a useful buffer against the East, should a state of war develop.

‘I accept,’ said Cyprianus, whereupon the pact was sealed by mutual toasts of kumiss, a beverage concocted from fermented mares’ milk.

‘Friends and fellow warriors,’ Cyprianus — mounted, in order to be seen and heard more easily — addressed the Gothic host, ‘today we face a Bulgar army commanded by a Roman general. Let us not deceive ourselves: the odds are great. They outnumber us; they are well-led, brave and skilled, mounted while we must fight on foot. But we can win — of that have no doubt. Only, however, if we behave as Theoderic would wish us to. You remember the Ulca where you defeated Thrapstila, the Addua where you turned the tide against Odovacar? Those victories were won because of discipline, because you allowed your warlike ardour to be tempered by obedience to the orders of your king. Though he cannot today be present in the flesh, Theoderic will be watching you in spirit from Ravenna. Remember that, and we shall win the day.’ The thunderous banging of spear-butts on shields that followed his speech told Cyprianus it had gone down well. But would it prove enough to make them hold the line?

Shaking with reaction, his tunic below the padded cuirass soaked with sweat, the Roman stood down the host, with instructions to eat and rest until the enemy was sighted. To his credit, Pitzia had, without demur, allowed his second-in-command to supersede him as regards the ordering of the coming battle — no doubt conceding that the Roman’s ability to persuade the Goths to accept discipline was superior to his own. Cyprianus had chosen the ground carefully: a declivity, flanked by great stands of oak and chestnut, and sloping down to a flat grassy expanse, the Plain of Margus.

Early in the afternoon, scouts reported that the Bulgars, numbering, they estimated, some five thousand horsemen, were close at hand and should arrive within the hour. Soon after, a growing cloud of dust on the horizon heralded the approach of the enemy van. The Gothic war-horns boomed and, following prior instructions, the host took up position along the ridge, a three-deep line of warriors bearing shields, and armed with spears plus various subsidiary weapons — daggers, throwing-axes, javelins, etc. The Bulgars, big, swarthy fellows armed, to Cyprianus’ relief, with lances and sabres, not with bows, drew up a few hundred paces in front of the Gothic line. To one side, surrounded by his staff, Sabinianus, resplendent in muscle cuirass and crested Attic helmet, sat his horse.