performing a miracle at the Council of Chalcedon seventeen years previously. For several miles they followed the River Lycus north-west on made roads, taking turns to wheel the handcart containing a long bundle, which Timothy had brought. Arriving at the confluence of the Lycus and a small tributary, they followed the latter north along a farm track, gradually leaving behind villas and cultivation to enter an area of rough pasture climbing towards woods. Reaching an isolated farmhouse the party halted; Timothy went off to find the farmer, while the boys flopped on the ground, exhausted by the trek in the warm September sun. After quarter of an hour Timothy returned, with four rangy mongrels on leash.
‘Not much to look at,’ he said, ‘but the best boar-hounds this side of the Bosphorus. If any get killed, your dads’ll pay the bill — except Deric’s, for obvious reasons. Understood?’ He looked round the circle of tense young faces; all nodded. ‘Right, gentlemen, what I’m about to say I’ll say just once, so listen good. In a mile or so we’ll be entering Cambyses’ parish. Follow my instructions and you’ll be all right. Ignore them and you could end up dead or maimed —
Exchanging the leashes with Julian, the Isaurian unwrapped the bundle on the cart and handed a short spear to each boy, retaining the last for himself. They were workmanlike affairs, with sturdy hafts and broad, vicious- looking blades with a cross-bar below where the blade joined the handle. ‘Tempered steel with razor edges; extra-wide for maximum damage. The guard’s to stop the quarry getting close, if spitted. A boar’s weapons are its tusks — sickles that’ll rip you open from crotch to breastbone. Now, we don’t want that to happen, do we, lads? So here’s the plan. When we track down Cambyses’ lair — which’ll be in dense undergrowth — the first task is to persuade him to come out. That’ll be my job. You lot stand back in a semicircle, weapons at the ready. When he comes, he’ll do so in a rush. A charging boar’s a scary sight, and Cambyses is a lot of boar. It’s vital to keep your nerve and hold your ground; he won’t charge the blades. Let the dogs distract him, then, when I give the word — and not before — move in for the kill. Above all, no heroics. There are old hunters, and bold hunters, but no old, bold hunters. Remember that. Questions, gentlemen? No? Then let’s be having you.’
Deep in a thicket, Cambyses slept. At twenty years, too old for sows to feature in his reveries, he dreamt of sunlit glades carpeted by acorns, with juicy tubers just below the surface waiting to be grubbed up. Suddenly he started twitching, as something intruded on these pleasant visions. Blinking awake, he became aware of of what it was that had disturbed his rest: a familiar, hated scent. Man. His inch-thick hide seamed with scar tissue bore witness to past encounters with hunters, some of whom had suffered death or mutilation from his tushes. The scent grew stronger, stirring memories of pain and danger. Quivering with fury, the old boar raised his vast bulk from the ground and prepared to give battle.
‘They’ve got the scent, lads. Let ’em go,’ Timothy called to the three who, besides himself, had held the hounds in leash while they quartered the terrain — a soggy plateau stippled with bushes and stands of dwarf timber. Unleashed, the hounds — silent until now, streaked off, barking with excitement. They halted before a patch of dense under-growth, their baying, an eerie chiming sound, rising to a frenzied crescendo.
Lining up the boys in a wide semicircle behind the hounds, Timothy took a handful of pebbles from a pouch at his waist, and proceeded to pelt the patch of brush. For a full minute nothing happened. Then the bushes began to shake, and a moment later the quarry burst from shelter. He was a terrifying sight: huge body covered in blackish bristles streaked with yellow, tiny red-rimmed eyes blazing with hate, long foam-flecked snout, pair of wicked tusks curving from the lower jaw.
Faced with this apparition, Theoderic was seized with paralyzing fright. The urge to run was overwhelming, but, recalling Timothy’s advice, he stood firm, spear levelled — as, to their credit, did the others.
Confused by the hounds, Cambyses halted in full career, then charged first one, then another. But his tormentors were old hands at the game, and backed away from his furious rushes. At last, bewildered and exhausted, flanks heaving, the old boar stood at bay.
Julian, next in line to Theoderic, broke ranks and rushed forward, spear raised to deliver the coup de grace.
What happened next, though lasting only seconds, seemed to Theoderic to pass as though time had slowed down. Julian tripped on a tree-root and toppled forward, to lie extended on the ground. Spotting one of his enemies prostrate, the boar, like an ox turning a mill-wheel by its pole, wheeled slowly round and made for Julian, its short legs rising and falling no faster than a galley’s oars.
Then the moment passed, and the enraged brute was hurtling towards the boy like a bolt from a
Timothy, his face suffused with anger, struck the boy a ringing slap across the cheek. ‘Glory-hunting fool!’ he roared. ‘You nearly got yourself killed. Worse, you put your mates in danger. If it hadn’t been for Deric here. . Now, apologize and make up.’
Trembling as reaction set in, his emotions in a tumult, Theoderic extended his hand to his erstwhile enemy. His chief feeling was exaltation: surely now they would accept him as an equal and, more importantly, a Roman.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Julian stiffly, Timothy’s handprint livid on his face. ‘I behaved stupidly. I owe you my life. For that I thank you.’ He looked at the other’s open hand, then turned his head away. ‘But I don’t shake hands with Germans. You’re brave, I grant you that, but then so are all your race. For all your courage, Goth, you’ll never be one of us — Roman, that is.’
Theoderic’s euphoria drained away, replaced by a terrible feeling of failure and frustrated longing. Now he knew how Moses must have felt when, having led his people to the Promised Land, he alone was not allowed to enter.
* About 7 a.m. (see Notes).
THREE
That noble sentiment, love for Rome
‘Timothy of Tarsus, Your Serenity — guardian of Prince Theoderic, son of Thiudimer Amalo, joint king of the Ostrogoths,’ announced the
Timothy found himself in a vast colonnaded hall, at the far end of which were two figures: enthroned, an elderly man swathed in purple robes which somehow created the effect of diminishing his slight form; and, sprawled on a bench, a colossal individual wearing undress military uniform: round pillbox cap, undyed linen tunic (somewhat soiled and worn) with indigo government roundels at thighs and shoulders. These were, respectively, Emperor Leo and his top general, Zeno, a tough Isaurian chieftain who had changed his name from the barbarous-sounding Tarasicodissa to the more euphonious Zeno in deference to the sophisticated ears of the capital’s citizens.
Making what he hoped were the correct obeisances, Timothy advanced towards the pair, halting with lowered head several paces from the throne. ‘Serenity, General, your humble servant is honoured to receive your summons, and awaits your pleasure. . er, is desirous to know how best he may be of service.’ Despite having been on the palace staff for years, this was the first time Timothy had been in the imperial presence. He was, as he admitted to himself, making up the rules of etiquette as he went along; he just hoped he wasn’t committing any major gaffes.
‘Tarsus, eh?’ chuckled the general. ‘A fellow Isaurian then. But I could have told that from your accent.’ He surveyed the other’s muscular frame appraisingly. ‘There’s a place in the Excubitors, my crack corps of Isaurians, if
