Theodoric

‘And Germans have been a thorn in Rome’s flesh ever since.’ Paulus shrugged and drained his goblet. ‘Seems that Varus has a lot to answer for.’

Trailed by his bodyguard (a necessary precaution, given his status as a royal hostage), a tough Isaurian called Timothy, Theoderic wandered disconsolately through the streets of the capital. This morning’s incident was the latest in a long campaign of petty spite waged against him by Julian. The other boys were not really hostile, Theoderic knew, just willing to follow the lead of a character stronger than themselves. He was not afraid of Julian; should it ever come to a straight fight between them, he suspected he would beat the Roman easily. But that would be to betray his father’s counsel, given him at eight years old on his departure for Byzantium.

‘You are too young, my son, fully to understand my words now,’ Thiudimer, king of the Ostrogoths, had said, ‘but in time, you will. Learn all you can from the Romans — they are a great and clever people, and have much of worth to teach you. But do not forget you are a Goth — a Goth of royal lineage, who will one day be a king. That means trying to live by three things. Never use your strength against those weaker than yourself, but spend it freely for those who need your help. Deal justly with friend and enemy alike. Think long before you give your word, but, once given, do not break it. You will find these precepts hard at times to keep. Succeed, and you will return to our people a man fit to rule them.’ His father had embraced him then, and he had set out for the Great City with a lump in his throat, but a heart beating faster with excitement and high hopes.

As ever, wandering among the capital’s great buildings soothed Theoderic’s troubled spirit. Around him, in abundance, were beauty, strength and permanence — all qualities which spoke of Rome: the mighty Walls of Theodosius before which even Attila had quailed; the stupendous dome of Hagia Sophia; the aqueduct of Valens with its soaring tiers of arches. .

Then, finding himself in the Forum of Arcadius, his mood changed suddenly to one of puzzled sadness. In the middle of the great square rose a tall marble column, its surface wonderfully carved to depict an ascending spiral of figures in action. On closer inspection, however, the frieze took on a sinister aspect. The figures were fugitives fleeing, falling, dying, before the frenzied onslaught of a mob armed with staves and cudgels. Long and short hair differentiated Goths from Romans, respectively. The scene represented the great Expulsion of the Goths from the city, sixty years before. It was beautiful — and horrible.

Why do they hate us? Theoderic wondered. From his reading of history (written, of course, by Romans — Polybius,* Caesar, Tacitus, Suetonius, Ammianus) he knew that even the fiercest of her foes — Spaniards, Gauls, Illyrians, Dacians — had yielded in the end to Rome. Only the Caledones and the Germans had refused. Therein, perhaps, lay the reason.

‘Jerry bastard!’

Theoderic wheeled. There, twenty paces off, stood Julian, at his back half a dozen of his followers holding eggs or fruit which they were clearly intending to throw.

Theoderic began to move off; the best method of dealing with such confrontations was to avoid them, he had found.

‘That’s right, run away,’ the group chanted. ‘Yellow as his own hair. Yellow! Yellow!’

An overripe pomegranate burst on the paving beside the young Goth, splattering his legs. Theoderic halted, as something seemed to snap in his brain. This was where it ended. He would throw down a challenge, something testing, with an element of danger. What form could such a challenge take? He had barely asked the question in his mind when the answer came to him. But perhaps that idea was a bit too dangerous. He hesitated, but only for a moment. If that was the only way to gain their acceptance, by proving that he was their equal — in courage, at the least — so be it.

Feeling strangely calm, he walked up to the group. Something in his bearing made them fall silent and lower their throwing arms.

‘If you are all so brave,’ he said, ‘I will give you the chance to prove it.’

‘It speaks. Ooooh, I’m quaking in my shoes,’ responded Julian, his scoffing tone not quite concealing a hint of uncertainty. ‘Hear that, boys? He’s going to set us a dare. Wonder what it’ll be? Climbing the Golden Gate? Pinching peaches from the palace orchard?’ The others sniggered dutifully, but it sounded somewhat forced.

‘Come with me to hunt Cambyses.’

‘Cambyses?’ Julian laughed disbelievingly. ‘You can’t be serious.’ A pause, then Julian continued, his face paling, ‘My God, you are serious.’

Cambyses. The legendary wild boar that had killed or maimed not only several unwary passers-by but more than one hunter who had sought to make him their quarry.

‘Well?’

Heads bowed, two of Julian’s followers slunk away. The rest stood firm.

‘We accept.’ All trace of bluster had gone from Julian’s voice, replaced by a note almost of wondering respect.

Theoderic’s heart gave a leap. He had, he felt, just crossed some sort of Rubicon.

* The Sea of Marmara.

* He was actually a Romanized Greek.

TWO

With loud shouts, Herakles dislodged from a thicket the Erymanthian Boar

Pisander, c. 650 BC

Returning to his spartan little suite in the palace, Theoderic found himself confronted by Timothy. Standing with folded arms in the middle of his charge’s tablinum or study, the bodyguard — stocky, muscular, nose flattened in some ancient brawl — looked exactly what he was: a self-reliant bruiser.

‘Timothy! You wish to speak with me?’

‘Indeed I do, young Deric, indeed I do. This Cambyses business. .’ He shook his head and chortled softly. ‘Lucky for you I’m an Isaurian — agin the government. What I should have done is report your plan to the Master of Offices. Then you’d have been confined to barracks, as it were, and I’d have been commended.’

‘But. . how did you know?’

‘To see but not be seen, to hear but not be heard — all part of my job. A gaggle of schoolboys taking on Cambyses on their own. I can think of simpler recipes for suicide.’

‘I suppose it was a stupid idea,’ Theoderic admitted, reddening. He shuffled his feet, his expression downcast.

‘Now there you’re wrong. It has the makings of an excellent idea. All it lacks is a bit of planning, preparation and expert assistance. That’s where I come in.’

‘You’d help us?’ Theoderic’s face lit up.

‘I must be crazy even to be thinking of it,’ murmured Timothy wryly, ‘but the answer’s yes. Having grown up in the back streets of Tarsus, I know how important it is to establish your status in a peer group. If you don’t, they’ll kick you to the bottom of the heap, and that’s where you’ll stay. So old Timothy understands that you need to even the score with your schoolmates. Lucky it’s me you’ve got to lend a hand. Isaurians aren’t just streetwise; most of us, and that includes yours truly, are expert woodsmen to boot. The Taurus mountains are our backyard, and they’re teeming with bears, wolves, deer, wild boar — you name it. There’s scarcely a cottage in Cilicia without its bearskin on the floor or pair of horns on the wall. Right, listen, young Deric, this is how we’ll go about it. .’

As arranged, the six boys — Theoderic, Julian, and the four of Julian’s circle who had accepted the challenge — met Timothy outside the Charisius Gate at the second hour,* soon after the opening of the gates in the Theodosian Wall. It was the feast day of St Euphemia (so no school), a celebrated local martyr, credited with