Theodoric

As we know to our cost.’

‘Makes you wonder how a people who could raise a thing like that could lose an empire,’ murmured Connal, awestruck. (A combination of skill, strength, stout mail protection and a modicum of luck had enabled him to survive the battle unscathed, barring a few contusions and minor cuts.)

At Petriana, a fortress near the western end of the great Wall, they requested shelter from the ‘commandant’. He was a chieftain of the Selgovae who, with his war-band, occupied the fort, continuing a tradition established by Cunedda, a Romano-British leader who had maintained a military presence on the Wall after the departure of the legions. Myrddin was known by repute among the Britons everywhere. Following the disclosure of who he was and what his mission, the welcome given him and his companions was warm indeed. (As a result of Connal and Cella staying to help Artorius, a strong bond of friendship had developed between them and Myrddin, leading to the pair deciding, for reasons of comradeship and mutual security, to accompany the medicus on his mission to the Votadini.)

‘Let me see that hand,’ Cella said sharply to Myrddin, as the three companions prepared to bed down in one of the fort’s old dormitory blocks, which they were to share with members of the war-band. ‘I noticed you’ve been favouring it — at supper you used your left hand to hold your spoon.’

‘It’s nothing,’ murmured Myrddin, holding out his bandaged right hand. ‘Caught it on the barb of a javelin I removed from a patient’s thigh, during the battle.’

‘Infected,’ pronounced Cella, after removing the bandage. He shook his head at the sight of the puffy, inflamed flesh that surrounded a ragged gash below the thumb. ‘It’ll need regular cleaning and dressing — as if you didn’t know that. Lucky I’m here to do it for you.’

Next day, the trio headed through the Wall via the fort’s North Gate, and pressed on in that direction across open heathery moorland, until intersecting a considerable river flowing to the south-west. This Myrddin pronounced to be the Isca.* Over the next three days they followed the stream to its head, travelling through a desolate landscape of great rounded hills, and sleeping rough at night wrapped in their thick woollen robes. The weather kept fine and dry, which was as well, since the condition of Myrddin’s injured hand continued to deteriorate, despite constant washing, rebandaging and treating with salves, a supply of which the medicus had in his scrip.

From the headwaters of the Isca, they crossed a watershed to pick up a young river flowing north and east, the Tuesis,* according to Myrddin. His hand was now grotesquely swollen, with an ominous red line ‘tracking’ steadily up his arm. Urgent medical attention was called for, but in this wilderness of moors and barren hills that was a forlorn hope. There was nothing for it but to press on and hope soon to reach a settlement, where rest, and the ministrations of persons skilled in the arts of healing, combined with the patient’s own medical lore, might effect recovery.

But it was not to be. After two days following the course of the Tuesis, Myrddin was delirious and could go no further. Making him as comfortable as possible, his companions laid him down on a bed of bracken. For a time he tossed, and muttered incoherently, then he fell into a slumber. When he awoke a short time later, the fever seemed to have left him, for he began to speak in a faint but clear voice. ‘My friends, you must complete my mission for me. The way is not hard to find. Follow this river for a further two days; it will take you to Trimontium, a fortress of the Romans beneath a three-peaked hill. There you will meet the great road Agricola built, which will lead you north through a range of hills. From the summit you will see the plain of Lothian stretching to the Bodotria Aestuaria, and in its midst a huge eminence shaped like the shell of a tortoise. That is Dunpender, crowned by a mighty hill fort, the capital of the Votadini.† You know what you must tell them.’

‘But we cannot speak the British tongue,’ Cella pointed out, his voice breaking.

‘You both acquired a smattering when we travelled through the Cambrias. It will be enough for your purpose. Besides, some may have a little Latin. The Votadini were always Friends of Rome, and maintained contact with the empire to the end. You will manage, that I know. And now, my friends, I must say farewell, for the sands of Myrddin’s life have run their course.’

Weeping, they clasped his left hand in their own, and in a little space he breathed his last. With their knives they scraped a shallow grave, and gently laid him to rest.*

* Near the site of the present Penrith, north-east of Ullswater.

† West Wales or Cornwall as opposed to North Cambria, Wales.

‡ Whithorn in Galloway and Downpatrick in Ireland, where the shrines of, respectively, SS Ninian and Patrick were located.

* The Derwent in Cumberland, then part of the Confederacy of the Britons, which was bounded to the north by Dalriada (Scots) and Alban (Picts).

* From ‘Cambroges’, fellow countrymen.

* The Humber and the Wear.

† Reged corresponded roughly to the old county of Cumberland. ‘Cumbria’ covered a far greater area than the present county, extending well into what is now Scotland.

* Belle Isle on Lake Windermere.

* The Esk.

* The Tweed.

† The three-peaked hill is the Eildon range; Agricola’s road (named Dere Street by the Angles) is now the A68; Bodotria Aestuaria is the Firth of Forth; Dunpender is Traprain Law in East Lothian.

* And he lies there to this day, at Drumelzier by the Tweed, his resting-place marked by a notice stating simply, ‘Merlin’s Grave’.

THIRTY-SIX

No man of high and generous spirit will flatter a tyrant

Aristotle, Politics, V, c. 322 BC

‘Paul!’ exclaimed Timothy, answering his door to a new gerulus or oddjob-man cum janitor for the household guards. ‘Last time I saw you, you were a silentiarius in the palace. What happened?’

‘Creeping Germanization, that’s what happened,’ replied Paul bitterly, setting down his laundry basket. ‘First he got rid of the protectores domestici, the Roman palace bodyguard, now it’s the turn of the silentiarii, both of them replaced by Goths. Gothic gentlemen-ushers — an oxymoron, if ever there was!’

Timothy invited Paul into his cubiculum or bedroom, while he looked out dirty tunics and bed-linen to be replaced by the clean items the gerulus handed him. The conditions of his house arrest were not oppressive. He had been assigned a small suite in the guards’ compound — part of the civitas barbara — and shared the soldiers’ facilities. This was the zone of Ravenna occupied by the Goths along the platea maior,* which also included the palace, court church and Arian episcopal complex. His bodily needs were amply catered for, and, though forbidden to leave the compound, he was permitted to move freely within its spacious confines, and make use of amenities such as the baths and gymnasium.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,’ observed Paul, rolling up the sheets Timothy passed him, ‘you seem to have come down a bit in the world yourself.’ His refined face registered concern. ‘You used to be Theoderic’s right- hand man, as I recall.’

‘Past tense is correct,’ confirmed Timothy, gesturing Paul to take the room’s only chair, then seating himself on his cot. Suddenly, activated by the Roman’s sympathy, a tide of anger, frustration, and resentment — for too long bottled up — welled up, clamouring for outlet.