The adjacent high ranges of Haemus and Rhodope leave between their swelling hills a narrow pass, which separates Illyricum from Thrace *
Theoderic and Timothy spurred to the front of the column, where Julian had halted the escort.
‘Nock arrows and draw,’ ordered a white-faced Julian in a voice which trembled. ‘Loose on my-’
‘No!’ roared Timothy. ‘Can’t you see — they’re Isaurians; that’s Zeno in the van. It’s just a bluff to test our nerve.’
But Julian, clearly in the grip of panic, wasn’t listening. He opened his mouth to give the order.
‘Do not shoot,’ Theoderic heard himself say. Unbidden, the command — uttered with quiet authority — seemed to have come from someone else. It was the first time he had ever given an order, he thought, wondering. Even his bold stand against Julian over the Cambyses business had been carried through as a result of suggestions, not commands, on his part. It was Timothy, not he, who had organized the hunt, the boys unquestioningly obeying the Isaurian’s behests. And afterwards? He had happily slipped out of the limelight back into obscurity, content to be left alone to pursue a life of study and contemplation. But his countermand, however out of character, was, it seemed, effective. The archers were letting down their bows, thumb release-catches already off the strings.
Meanwhile, the ground began to tremble as the approaching cavalry thundered ever closer — a terrifying frieze of yelling warriors, flashing hooves, and wicked spear-points. Theoderic felt his bowels loosen and his palms begin to sweat. The urge to flee became almost overpowering.
‘Steady, Deric,’ murmured Timothy beside him. ‘Hold your nerve.’
With cries of fear, the escort — including Julian — broke and scattered, leaving Theoderic and Timothy alone facing the charge. Just when it seemed that nothing could halt their headlong career, the Isaurians, in a stunning display of horsemanship, reined in only paces from the pair, then, with a shout of acclamation, raised their lances in salute.
‘A true Isaurian, a true Goth,’ declared Zeno with an approving grin. He kneed his horse forwards to join them. ‘I’ve brought you some of my Excubitors to see you safely to Pannonia.’
‘I heard that,’ cried Julian, returning with a shamefaced band. He rode up to Zeno, confronting him. ‘How dare you challenge my authority? I have orders from the emperor.’
‘That’s all right, sonny. Just turn around and take yourself and your toy soldiers back to barracks. I’m relieving you.’
‘But my orders-’
‘-are from the emperor. I know; but not to worry. I’ll take full responsibility.’ Zeno smiled and continued in patient tones, as though explaining to a not-too-bright child. ‘You see, to all intents and purposes I
Julian, his face a mottled red, opened his mouth as though to make an angry retort, then clamped it shut. He paused, glared at Zeno, then barked an order and departed with his troop.
‘Gilded popinjay,’ chuckled Zeno to Theoderic and Timothy, who had been listening dumbfounded to the exchange. ‘You don’t know what to make of me, right? I’ll explain. It’s bandit country where you’re going. Security’s broken down all along the Upper and Middle Danube frontier, with bands of Alan and Sarmatian raiders looting and destroying everywhere. No one to stop them, what with the Danube fleet stood down these twenty years, and the field army of Dacia confined to base except when called upon to deal with a major crisis.’
Timothy whistled. ‘Things as bad as that? I hadn’t realized. But what about the
‘Been pulled back to reinforce the field armies decimated in the wars with Attila. All things considered, I’d not have bet a brass obol on your making it through to Pannonia, not with that lot who’ve just left us. Don’t get me wrong; the Fifth Macedonians are a good bunch. It’s just that they’ve been trained to fight pitched battles in the field, not take on shadowy marauders using hit-and-run tactics — the sort of people you’ll be up against. As for their their boy decurion, he’s a callow green-horn who’d likely lose his head in a crisis and get you all killed. With my Excubitors, it’s an altogether different story; when it comes to dirty fighting, they’re the ones who wrote the book.’
‘May I ask a question, sir?’ enquired Theoderic, patting his horse’s neck to calm the animal, grown restless.
‘Ask away.’
‘Why are you willing to help us? I don’t wish to seem offensive or ungrateful, but some in my position might ask, “What’s in it for you?”’
‘A fair point, young man. Your question shows a Roman cast of mind: logical, rational, weighing up pros and cons, gains or losses. But I’m not Roman, I’m an Isaurian. My people have always been fiercely independent, and were never really conquered by Rome. Oh, to keep them off our backs we made a show of accepting Roman rule. In return, they’ve had the sense to leave us pretty well alone so long as we don’t cause too much trouble. Also, we provide some of the best fighting men for their legions. But back to your question. Isaurians are ruled by their hearts not their heads — the opposite of Romans. Let’s just say I’ve taken a liking to my fellow Isaurian Timothy here. As I’ve taken a liking to yourself; there aren’t many would have held their ground in face of a charge by Excubitors. I admire that. A pity, I thought, should either of you come to grief because of poor protection.’
‘And the real reason?’
Zeno stared at Theoderic, then let out a delighted whoop. ‘By the bones of St Euphemia, there’s more to you than I was led to think.’ Shaking his head, he shot Timothy a rueful glance. ‘All right, I’ll come clean. Nothing personal, young Theoderic, but I’m no great lover of your people. Ever since they wiped out our army at Adrianople nearly a century ago, they’ve been a thorn in the empire’s flesh. Most, thank goodness, have now moved on — the Visigoths to a new homeland in Gaul, the Ostrogoths to theirs in Pannonia. But here in Thrace, too close to the capital for comfort, a large contingent of Goths have been permitted to settle, officially as federates. Their leader’s your namesake: one Theoderic Strabo, known as “the Squinter”, a formidable young man who’s got the emperor’s ear, thanks to General Aspar — my rival for the top army job. He admires the Goths, by the way, and to my way of thinking has allowed far too many Goths into the army. Complicated?’
Theoderic and Timothy looked at each other. ‘Just a bit,’ admitted Timothy.
‘Bear with me. The Squinter’s federates are getting restive; seems they’re afraid that me and my Isaurians might displace them in the emperor’s favour. To keep them in check I need a counterbalance — a group powerful enough to take them on should they become a danger to the Eastern Empire. Unless your uncle Vidimir blocks the succession, which is unlikely, you, Theoderic, are set to take over from your father eventually as king of the Ostrogoths. Given that you’re willing,
Theoderic’s head whirled. Things were moving almost too fast for his mind to grapple with. At seventeen, a retiring student with no experience of ordering the lives of others, he was being invited to enter the heady world of power politics, to hold the balance between, on the one hand, the huge might of the Roman Empire — or at least of its Eastern half — and, on the other, the immense and dangerous energies of volatile barbarian nations. A challenge at which the most experienced of statesmen might surely balk. Hopefully, though, his father would reign for many more years yet, years in which his son would learn from him the arts of statecraft and the management of men. And being a Friend of Rome, well, that at least represented a form of acceptance by that glittering world of power and beauty which he admired and loved, but, as a barbarian, could never fully enter.
‘What is there to say?’ rejoined Theoderic. ‘When the time comes for me to rule the Ostrogoths, I’ll gladly take up your offer.’
‘Splendid,’ pronounced Zeno, making his horse perform a cara-cole. ‘If we had wine, I’d drink a toast to that. I’ll leave you now, in the care of my Excubitors. That’s their captain, Thalassios.’ He indicated a villainous-looking individual with a leering, scarred face. ‘He’ll see you safe and sound to Pannonia. You’ve nothing to worry about till after the Succi — that’s the pass between Dacia and Thrace. Thrace being the Squinter’s fief, and the Squinter being Aspar’s ally, no one’s going to bother you this side of the diocesan border. Well, good fortune, and may the gods-sorry, God, be with you.’ And with a wave and a grin, Zeno wheeled his mount and galloped back towards the
