Siscia, Magna Gothica
Alexandros rode beside a swift river, sun shining in his golden hair. Along the bank, glossy-leaved willows drooped over the current. Great flocks of birds roosted in the trees, chattering like a storm cloud as he passed. The air was crisp and the Macedonian felt relieved to escape the dreary tomb of Rome.
The old Roman road turned through a break in the hedgerows and cut across a great field. Red flowers produced a riot of color against the dark hedge. Alexandros shouted, face lighting with joy when he saw horses browsing in the stubbly field. The herd, hundreds strong, drifted slowly across the side of a hill.
"They're beautiful," he called back to Ermanerich. "Do your people value horses?"
"Above all else," the Goth shouted back, light blue eyes twinkling. Ermanerich cantered up the hill. The Macedonian craned his neck, looking out over the valley. The horses had shied away, thundering down the far slope before turning and resuming their grazing. "What man can call himself a man without a horse?"
Alexandros nodded, feeling a subtle shock of recognition. Horses consumed fodder, effort and gold, but mounted men were the foundation of victory. Only Rome ignored this truth, relying on massed formations of heavily armored infantry.
But their lands are not well suited for horse herds, he reminded himself. And they have been victorious for a long time.
The Gothic prince pointed south, down the valley. A haze of gray wood smoke lay over the trees. "Our capital lies just there, friend Alexandros. You will see that it is a fine, modern city!"
Alexandros smiled to himself, hearing pride and insecurity mix like wine and water in his companion's voice. He had watched and listened, while they rode up out of Italia, crossed the snow-capped Alps and descended into the Pannonian basin. The Goths were a proud race, weaned on battle, and for a long time they had tested their strength against Rome, devastating the frontier. The greatest Roman defeat in modern history, at Adrianopolis, had been inflicted by Gothic arms.
A dark storm rushing out of the east had broken the death-struggle between the two nations. Ermanerich had labored through a long epic song to describe the war against the "ugly men." Tears had streaked his cheeks as he chanted the names of all the captains and heroes who had fallen at Olbia, where Attila had shattered the might of the Goths.
Trapped between the relentless Huns in the east and Rome in the west, the Goths had been forced to enter the Empire as penitents. At that time a Romanized Scythian named Flavius Aetius had been Emperor of the West. Despite a dubious ancestry, Aetius had, by constant and vigorous effort, restored the West and gladly accepted the Goths as a feoderata, or "settled tribe." The description of the Gothic chiefs swearing fealty to the Western Emperor had raised the hackles on Alexandros' neck.
It was far too similar to the Legion oath Maxian had found in Khamun's old book. Even the memory stirred unease in the Macedonian, knowing that each recitation of the story would bind the Gothic tribes ever closer in the service of the Empire. It had been enough, then, to stop the Huns, with Aetius throwing back Attila's invasion of Gaul in a cataclysmic battle at Argentorate on the Rhenus. Extolling that victory, where the Goths had reclaimed their lost honor, occupied an entire evening. Again, Alexandros listened closely, picking out details of interest. The core of the Hunnish army, which crushed so many nations, was a host of heavily armored knights wielding a long, heavy spear called the kontos. Supported by masses of exemplary mounted archers, they had obliterated two Eastern Roman armies, as well as the Goths and Sarmatians, before breaking apart against Aetius' Legions.
Since those heroic days, the Goths had held the Danuvius frontier from Carnuntum in the north to Sirmium in the south. From the evidence of his own eyes, Alexandros knew that it was a rich land, well watered and blessed with plentiful fields and easy-rolling hills. Under the tutelage of Roman engineers the Goths had reoccupied the fortresses along the river and repaired roads and bridges fallen into disuse during the Great Invasions. Even Siscia was relatively new, only sixty years old. The Goths were a strong, powerful people.
But they still knew, in their hearts, that Rome was the master. Alexandros could see it in Ermanerich's companions, a brash young lot, and in the boy himself. They knew they were strong, easily the equal of any Roman, yet this corrosive sense of inferiority bridled them. They were stepchildren of the Empire, and their hearts were filling with bile.
"This seems a rich land, Ermanerich. Is every man blessed with a fine horse?"
The Goths laughed and swirled around him, their faces bright. "That is so," they shouted, and two of the younger boys galloped down the hill towards the road. Ermanerich clucked at his horse and turned, following at a slower pace.
"Only the poorest men cannot ride. This land was empty when we came and we have yet to fill it up. Though some try, I warrant!"
Alexandros responded with a grin. The Goths viewed large families as a right. In comparison to the Romans, they bred like rabbits. For the moment this meant more land fell under the plow every year and the towns along the river grew by leaps and bounds. It also meant there was still open land for horses. To Alexandros, Gothica promised everything he desired.
So many younger sons, filled with this desire for glory and honor won in battle… O Fates, I see your hand guiding me! I will sacrifice a white bull at your shrine, Ares, when I look upon dear Macedon again!
"Your people ride into battle, then." Alexandros let his horse turn onto the road. Poplars and beeches crowned the lane, making a dappled green tunnel. The smell of wood smoke filled the air, reminding the Macedonian they had not yet eaten a midday meal.
"No," Ermanerich scowled. "We fight on foot, behind our great shields, in line as the Romans direct. Some serve a-horse, scouting and covering the flanks of the army."
"You fight Roman-fashion?" Alexandros did not bother to disguise his surprise.
"Yes, the reik bids us do so and his advisers agree. It has always been this way."
"Why? Surely, if you and your cousins are any guide, you are fine horsemen!"
"Of course!" Ermanerich's sour mood lightened. "But that is not the Roman way. We follow the Emperor; his wisdom guides us and bids us fight in massed formations on foot, behind our round shields, axes and spears."
Alexandros frowned, but they were nearing the city, so he let the matter drop.
– |Siscia sat on the banks of the Savus, surrounded by a high wall of dressed stone studded with square towers. As they approached, Alexandros could see a gatehouse and towers flanking two gates, one set behind the other. A broad ditch ran at the base of the wall and a good hundred yards of space had been cleared out between the city and the forest. Oxen and kine grazed on the short grass filling the open meadow. To the left, a bastion rose on the bank of the river, easily double the width of one of the other towers. The Savus was thick with barges, skiffs and shallow-draft coasters.
They entered the gate, joining a steady stream of men and women in plain gray, brown or black homespun. Burly men with conical helmets and shirts of leaf-shaped mail under madder-dyed red cloaks eyed them as they passed into the shadow of the gate. Horsetail plumes hung down from their helmets and their faces were hard. Alexandros judged them to be veterans, not just city militia sent to police the gate. They were armed with long, plain-hiked swords in tooled-leather scabbards.
Within the walls, broad, regular streets, surfaced with fitted stone, marked the city. As in a Roman city, there were no wagons in evidence during the day, but there was a thick press of men on horses and every kind of citizen on foot. Two- and three-story wooden buildings lined the streets, most overhanging the avenues.
Despite the press in the streets the city did not seem festive. Many of the passersby flowing around Alexandros seemed tight-faced and quiet. Everyone moved with purpose. Occasional dashes of color revealed merchants or traders from the south.
Not a Greek city!
"Here is the house of my father," Ermanerich said, raising his voice over the mutter of the crowd. "You are our guest, so while you are with us, he will feed you and see that you have wine and beer in plenty to drown your thirst. Ho, Olotharix!"
Alexandros looked up as they rode through an arched doorway into a stableyard. The house was three stories high, with a sharply angled tile roof and red-painted wooden columns making a portico on one side of the yard. What seemed to be a stone barn sat to his right, where servants in plain white tunics came out to greet Ermanerich and his cousins. Alexandros slid down from the horse and patted its nose affectionately. It was no warhorse, but it had a pleasant disposition and hadn't complained all the way from Rome.
Two boys descended steps from the house, carrying flagons of wine and rounds of cheese. Ermanerich, having seen his own horse into the stable, joined Alexandros and motioned for his guest to join the boys on the portico.
"This is our custom, which came with us from the Salt Sea," he said, raising one of the flagons. With gusto, he drank deep, letting the wine spill red on the ground. This done, he tore a hunk of thick white cheese from the round and chewed it down.
Alexandros took the greeting cup himself and drained it dry. The wine was sweet and thick, hardly watered at all. It burned in his throat like an old friend and he ate the cheese with relish. It was heady with flavor, and sprinkled with tart seeds. It was light work to pretend hunger in front of these men.
"Greetings, Alexandros, son of Phillip, friend of the house of Theodoric!"
"Greetings, Ermanerich," the Macedonian replied, gripping the youth's arm with his own. "son of Theodoric, third of that name, reik of the Goths. Well met, I say, and I accept your welcome with a warm heart."
"Come inside," Ermanerich said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Later there will be a great feast and endless drinking, so my father wanted to meet you now, while he can still see your face."
Bales and boxes of goods occupied the portico, and women in dark tunics were working at looms set up under the eaves. These were tall wooden structures, fitted with copper and bronze guides, and the clack-clack of their shuttles filled the air. Ermanerich led Alexandros through a series of rooms occupied by women and children working at long plank tables. A great deal of industry, both to make and repair clothing and to devise ornamental brooches and clasps, seemed to be under way. Beyond these rooms was a second courtyard, this one larger and planted with fruit trees.
Alexandros, passing through the rooms, was struck by the degree of industry in the house of the King. Memories from his youth came to mind, and he again felt a shock of recognition. This was not the highly specialized environs of Rome, where every man devoted his life to one or perhaps two tasks. There, in that sprawling metropolis, the city functioned as a whole. Here, in this thriving city on the edge of the barbarian frontier, each household was responsible for the goods that they would use, wear or wield. Some specialized items, like swords or fired pottery, would be constructed at a dedicated building, but everything else was in each man's hand. This was the Pella of his youth, not the Babylon or Persepolis where he had ruled as a god-king.
Well, he thought as they walked up a short flight of steps into a high-ceilinged hall, in every woman's hand, at least.
The feasting hall was two stories high, with a balcony running around three of the four walls. The fourth wall faced the south and was pierced by high, narrow windows with sharply pointed tops. On a clear, sunny day like this, light flooded the southern end of the hall, illuminating a raised dais holding a long plank table and high-backed chairs. Other long tables ran the length of the hall, flanked by smooth-planed benches.
A white-haired man was sitting in the high seat, deep in conversation with two companions. Alexandros and Ermanerich approached slowly, giving the elders time to see and acknowledge their presence. The rest of the hall was empty at this hour. Alexandros breathed deep, savoring the smell of old smoke, wine, urine, fear, sweat and intrigue permeating the air, wood and long, rectangular tapestries hanging from the plastered walls.
This is Pella, he reminded himself, settling his face into a calm mask. Here is a ruler like my father. I am not king here!
Ermanerich knelt on one knee and Alexandros followed. Paying the lord of the house courtesy did honor to any man and cost nothing. Besides, in his youth, the Macedonian had ordered men slain for failing to render him due greeting.
"Ermanerich, you pup, stand and face me."
Theodoric's voice was gravelly and strong, though when the Gothic king rose Alexandros saw his cheeks were hollow with age and his eyes bright under bushy white eyebrows. Here was a chieftain who stood tall in his youth, his voice bellowing out over the battlefield, wheaten hair streaming behind him in the wind. Age had stolen his strength but not his great heart or the quick intelligence hiding behind the bushy white beard and the glowering nose.
Ermanerich stood, smiling, and clasped hands with the man and the woman who sat beside the reik. Alexandros waited to see how he would be introduced.
"My new aunt, Theodelinda," Ermanerich said, indicating the woman sitting at the reik's left hand. Alexandros inclined his head and the matron nodded back. Her deep blue eyes gleamed like the winter sea, and she was richly dressed, but not in Roman fashion. Instead of plain wool, her gowns were embroidered with a dizzying array of scenes and bright colors. Pale hair was tied back behind her head by a jeweled fillet of gold. Heavy rings were on her fingers.
"I am honored, Lady Theodelinda," Alexandros said.
"My old uncle, Geofric, who has lately wed, as you can see." There was subdued laughter in Ermanerich's voice, but neither guile nor hate. Alexandros took note of this. In time everything he learned here would be critical to his success. He made a half-bow to the elderly Geofric, recognizing him from the house of Gregorius Auricus in Rome. The uncle was a man of middling height, not yet bowed with age, with a raspy voice and a short-cropped brown beard.
Geofric raised an eyebrow and returned Alexandros' greeting. The Macedonian did not miss the moment of recognition in the man's eyes. So, he knows me. Or has seen me before. Good.
"Lord Geofric, well met."
"Father," Ermanerich said, turning to the reik, "this is Alexandros, who comes to us from Rome as a friend and ally. He hails from the East, from old Macedon."
"Welcome, Alexandros." The reik's voice settled into a low, rumbling boom. "Sit with my son, here, and tell us why you have come. My son thinks well of you, or so his letters say. He feels you do your venerable name honor."
Alexandros felt a momentary chill, feeling the intense scrutiny of the three sitting on the dais. He suppressed an urge to run his hand through his hair. This is Pella! Remember that! These were barbarians, true, but that did not mean they could not read the classics, or reason, or draw conclusions from the evidence of their own eyes.
"I make no heroic claims," he said. "What I have done, I have done. Your son speaks well of you, my lord, and through him I see the greatness of the Gutthilda."
"Haw!" Geofric barked in laughter. "You flatter us, Greek. You see our woolly-headedness, you mean."
"I do not flatter," Alexandros said in a flat voice, catching the reik's eye. "I am an impatient man and have never found time for anything but honesty. Ermanerich is young, true, but in him I see the strength and the weakness of your people."
"This may be so," Theodelinda said sweetly, cutting off her husband. Geofric looked pained but kept his peace. "But you have not said why you have come. Our dear nephew tells us that you come from the house of Gregorius Auricus, our close friend and confidante. What do you bring us from him?"
Alexandros drew a folded packet from the pocket of his cloak. The letter was on a rich, creamy parchment, newly made, and tied with purple twine. He held it in his hands, still watching the face of the reik.
"Though I have been favored with the hospitality and grace of Senator Gregorius, I do not speak for him, nor do I come with his words on my tongue. To give my message legs, I wish to remind the reik of an offer made by the Gothic people to the Empire two years ago. At that time, with the Eastern Empire on the verge of collapse, the senator went before the Emperor and proposed no less than sixty thousand Gothic fighting men could be placed in the service of the Empire, should the Emperor but allow such a thing to happen."
"That offer," Geofric interjected, his tone verging on insult, "was rejected out of hand. It has been withdrawn. If the Western Emperor does not require anything of Gothic honor but policing the river, then that is all he will get!"
Alexandros ignored the outburst, turning the letter over in his hands. "Emperor Galen is a Roman. He believed Roman arms could succor the East and he was right. Lord Geofric may take exception to the Emperor's decision, but the honor of the Gutthilda has not been impugned. Many Goths fought in the army that broke the back of Persia. They gained great wealth and honor by those means. Their songs will be heard around many a campfire."
Alexandros raised the letter to the reik, holding it out to him. "My master is Caesar and Prince, Maxian Atreus, co-regent of the West."
This was technically true, though no one had seen the Prince in months. Still, Gaius Julius had proved a dab hand at forgery, and the scrawl on this letter could not be distinguished from the Prince's own. As the old Roman had said smugly, it was what the Prince would have wanted to say, if only he were around to write it down himself.
"He is a friend of the Gothic people. He knows the strength of the Gutthilda and their numbers. He knows these sixty thousand would be a royal gift. He knows the young men yearn to find glory of their own, glory which can only be won on the field of battle, in the company of their peers and under the eyes of their own chieftains."
Ermanerich, his eyes shining, nodded sharply to his father as Alexandros said this. The old reik watched and listened intently, gnarled old hands clasped in his lap.
"The Prince, in his wisdom, believes a great struggle is coming, one that will either see the Empire restored in full or cast down, at last, in utter ruin. In that final battle, the Prince would have the might and splendor of the Gutthilda at his side. This is why I have come to you, bearing this token."
Alexandros watched the subtle play of emotions on the faces of the old reik and Geofric. He had thought a long time about these words. Relations between the Eastern Empire and the Goths had always been strained, for they had been blood enemies before the coming of the Huns. The West, in comparison, had given them a new home. Like many of the tribes north of the Danuvius, the Goths were a moody and violent race, steeped in a long tradition of mutual slaughter and heroic death. Alexandros had listened carefully to the tales the Gothic boys told around the fire. Much like the Macedonian tribesmen of his youth, they longed for an epic final battle in which all would be decided and both the living and the dead, simply by taking the field of battle, would gain undying renown.
Rage-bright goddess, sing to me of Peleus' son Achilles… Old words, long dear to the Macedonian, came to his mind, and he knew the same yearning was in his own heart. Murderous, doomed, he that cost the Achaeans so many men, hurling down to the House of the Dead countless souls…
Only Theodelinda seemed unmoved, but Alexandros had already marked her as the one he must truly convince. She reminded him far too much of his own long-dead mother.
"The day will come," he continued, "and far too soon, I fear, when the Empire will call upon you for your full strength of arms. On that day, the Prince would have the Gothic people stand forth, showing their true mettle and might, unafraid of any enemy, well garbed and armored, staunch in the defense of their honorable vows."
"The Prince," Theodelinda said in a wry voice, "must be a miracle worker to conjure up this army of myrmidons. Honor and valor drive the heart to battle, but cold iron and steel do the dreadful work. Your dear Prince may dream of these sixty thousand, but can he feed the mouth of war from his purse?"
Alexandros smiled coldly at the woman and placed the packet in the reik's hand. Theodoric took the message, caressing the creamy surface of the parchment, and unbound the twine.
"My lord, these letters of credit, insured by Gregorius Auricus himself, will provide the funds to equip, train, garb and supply an army of forty thousand men. The funds may be drawn from accounts in Aquilea, Thessalonica and Salonae. There are also the names of men in those cities who can supply weapons, wagons, grain and livestock to support such an effort."
Alexandros did not mention that the noble senator did not, in fact, know the ultimate destination of the funds he-and the Imperial exchequer-were pouring into the private games now under way in Rome. Some Imperial estates, held in the name of Prince Maxian, were mortgaged to the hilt by Gaius Julius, acting as the Prince's agent. In time, these things would be discovered, but Alexandros did not care. It was on the old Roman's head to deal with such matters.
"This is a writ from the hand of Caesar Maxian himself." Alexandros drew a second letter from his cloak. Theodelinda was watching with great amusement, while Geofric stared in sudden avarice at the letters in his brother's lap. To his credit, Theodoric was actually reading the papers, eyes flickering over the close-set lines of text. "It duly appoints the formation of a Gothic auxillia to assist the Legions in the defense of the public peace. An equites comitatus is appointed to command this formation, which of course will comprise these forty thousand men. While in the general course of campaign this comes will be under the authority of the Emperor, he may also undertake independent action, if warranted by circumstance."
"You've some papers then," Theodelinda said, leaning forward on the arm of her chair, "giving a thin veneer of respectability to raising a mercenary army within the Empire, one that would certainly be viewed with grave suspicion by the Emperor himself. Theodoric, this seems a short road to rebellion and the violation of your ancient oaths. We will all be a head shorter!"
Alexandros shook his head. "My lord, there is no rebellion here, no intrigue. Prince Maxian would never raise arms against his brother." The honesty in the Macedonian's voice was plainly apparent.
"What is this, then, if not a maneuver for the Purple?"
Alexandros kept his eyes on the reik, ignoring the baiting tone in the woman's voice. "This is what I have said, my lord. Caesar Maxian has arranged to finance and field an auxillia for the defense of the Western Empire. A formation that will fight together, that will not be broken up, that will not be parceled out until no man knows his tentmates and no one sees his deeds."
Theodoric folded the letters of credit back together and took the writ from Alexandros' hand. He considered it for some time, reading the letter twice, and then he raised his bright old eyes up and squinted at Alexandros.
"Who," he asked, "will command this army?"
"I will," Alexandros said.
"What is this foolishness?" Geofric could not contain himself any longer. He gestured violently at his older brother. "So much talk of a Gothic army, but they send a foreign boy, a Greek, no less, to command us? This is an insult!"
Theodelinda placed a hand on her husband's arm and caught his eye. He glared at her for a moment, then subsided. Alexandros watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye. The reik was looking upon him with a musing expression.
"You have seen war, then, Alexandros." The reik made a bald statement, not a question, so the Macedonian remained quiet, hands clasped behind his back. "What do you want of the Goths? Why are you here, and not another?"
Alexandros felt his eyelid twitch despite an effort to show nothing to these vipers.
"This is what I know. I am not a man of peace. I do not dig in the earth or till the fields. I love the feel of a swift horse under my thighs, but I could not devote my life to them. I was sent to you because there is no other place that I could imagine being."
Theodoric laughed softly, tucking the letters away in the folds of his robe. The reik looked upon his two colleagues and his eyes grinned though his face did not.
"I know your mind, Geofric. Dear Theodelinda, what think you of this?"
The woman smiled coyly and inclined her head. Her fingers smoothed the line of her gown. Alexandros realized, watching her and the two men, she was not a Goth. The planes and angles of her face were subtly different from theirs, her hair a different shade and thickness.
"The young men trouble me, my lord. Something must be done to fill their hearts. If they remain at home they will only cause strife amongst the clans. They are idle and this breeds trouble. Those who wish to cut new farms from the forest or become tradesmen have already done so. You see them, restless, watching from the steps of their houses. If you do not choose a war for them, they will start one themselves. This, I know."
The woman's voice was heavy with hidden pain and hard-won knowledge. Alexandros felt for her. Once he had been a troublesome, bloodthirsty youth, desiring only strife to fill his cup of glory. Theodoric turned to Alexandros, a thin finger brushing his mustaches.
"You bring us no gift, young man. You are a heavy cost, with these pretty letters and bold words. How many young men will die if you lead them to war? Thousands?"
The reik seemed old then, exhausted by a long life. Alexandros knew the Goths had spilt oceans of blood-their own and their enemies'-to hold the frontier against the Huns and the Vandals and every other tribe which had come against them.
"My lord, send no man against his will. Let those that are restless, those that would cause trouble amongst the clans, let them choose their own way. If they seek war and glory, they will have it in plenty. But do not command men to follow me."
Alexandros watched Geofric and Theodelinda out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed puzzled by this turn, but the woman was laughing silently. Theodoric was no fool either; that was clear from the calculating expression on his face. Alexandros prayed silently for the old king's acquiescence. Things would be much more difficult if the King were directly involved in this. Let him keep his hands clean; leaving Alexandros' hands free.
"Perhaps." Theodoric made a gesture and Ermanerich rose, touching Alexandros' arm. The Gothic youth's face was stricken, but he obeyed his father's will. Theodelinda smiled as they walked away. Geofric watched with ill-disguised bile.
– |The bowyer was named Angantyr and he lived in a long, high-ceilinged building by the river. Two drying sheds and a laminating workshop formed a rough dirt square with his hall. After inquiring in the main building, which they found filled with craftsmen busy over their workbenches, the two men trooped down to the riverside. A long archery butt had been cleared along the bank, aimed at a great mound of dirt faced with logs.
"Master Angantyr!" Ermanerich called as they approached a man standing at the near end of the butt. The bowyer was whip thin. Unlike the usual run of Goths, he had narrow, dark features and quick black eyes. As they came up he was testing the pull on a heavily ornamented self-bow-a single curved stave of wood. Angantyr pressed it away from him, letting the corded horsehair string reach its full draw. Seemingly satisfied, he placed the stock against his shoe, bent the stave and unshipped the string. Without acknowledging them, he curled the string up and put it in a jeweled pouch strapped to his waist. The ornamentation on the purse matched that of the bow.
"A beautiful piece of work, master." Alexandros indicated the bow with his chin.
Angantyr looked up, his face tight with suspicion. "It is a passable device," he said, slipping the stave into a tubular leather case. Like the bow, the case was velvety leather with gold fixtures and an embroidered hunting scene. "The pull is sufficiently light."
"A gift, then, to a lady?"
Angantyr nodded, passing the case and purse to a servant standing behind him. The slave hurried away up the hill. Alexandros rested the foot of his own bowcase on the ground. It stood nearly as tall as he did himself.
"Master Angantyr, this is Alexandros of Macedonia. He is a guest of my father."
The bowyer ignored Ermanerich and jutted his chin at the bowcase. "You've something you need me to fix, then? Break a top ear?"
"No." Alexandros grinned. He had dealt with craftsmen before, many times and in many places. "I've come about a consignment-you're well respected in these parts-but I'd like to know if you can fill a large order."
Angantyr laughed wheezily. "We're not some Roman fabrica to count success in job lots of a thousand, lad! I specialize in fine bows, in works of art!" His thin hand indicated the buildings and the jeweled bow just departed.
"My pardon, master. I need a copy of this bow and I was informed you could make one. However, if you no longer make working bows, then I will search elsewhere. Good day."
Alexandros turned, picking up the bowcase, and began walking up the hill. Ermanerich, startled, hurried after. The bowyer's mouth dropped open and no sound came out.
"Wait, Alex! I thought you needed another bow for yourself!"
The Macedonian smiled, turning so Angantyr could hear him clearly. "I need more than one, and they are very difficult to make. I have heard, though, there is a man in Sirmium who might be able to help me."
"Wait." Angantyr's voice carried easily in the cool air. The afternoon sun was westering and the air was growing chill. "Let me see that bow."
The Macedonian turned. "Are you sure? I need a large number. Doubtless more than your shop can make."
Angantyr glowered. "Let me judge that."
"Very well." Alexandros stopped and laid the bowcase on the grass. He wiped both hands on his woolen leggings. It would be an insult to get this weapon dirty. He knelt and opened the case. Inside was a bow covered in soft cloth, with another item bundled below it. Padding made from raw wool filled the case, keeping the objects from rattling. Alexandros stood, unwrapping the bow. As he did so, he watched Angantyr's face, which suffused first with delight and then, just as swiftly, fell back into anger.
"You're a fool," he barked as Alexandros held up the bow for his inspection. "No one can make a bow like that, much less in quantity!"
The bow was a little over five feet long, with a sharp C-shaped curve. The stave itself was made of a wooden core with laminated sinew covering the inside of the C and the outside burnished with horn. In addition, the long, tapering ears ended in square knocks for the string, reinforced by two bone plaques, one on either side of the ear. Three bone plaques also reinforced the handle, where a man would place his hand. The top ear was very long and straight, while the bottom ear was short and curved. Alexandros unwound the horsehair string looped around the long top knock and reversed the bow so the knock rested on the tip of his boot. With a smooth motion, he laid the string along the back of the bow stave and drew it to the short knock. The end of the string threaded into a laminated bone hook on the square knock. As he strung the bow, the C shape reversed, straightening and curving back against the original orientation. The weapon gleamed in the sun, filled with subtle beauty.
"Master?" Alexandros reached down and drew a long flight arrow from the case. He presented the weapon to Angantyr, who was looking at the bow with a sick expression.
The craftsman shook his head and raised a hand. "No, there's no need for me to torture myself."
Alexandros turned to Ermanerich, who was looking back and forth between the two men in puzzlement. "Would you care to take a shot?"
The Gothic youth nodded and took the bow in his hands. With sure fingers he knocked the arrow to the bow and then tried to draw the string back towards him. It resisted him, stiff and solid as a log. Ermanerich grunted, muscles bunching in his shoulder, his fingers, cocked around the string, turning white.
"Lad… not like that. This is a Hunnic bow; you push the stave rather than drawing the string."
Alexandros took the bow back, slotted the arrow to the string and then laid the shaft along his left hand. With a simple pushing motion he pressed the stave away from him, drawing the head of the arrow to his finger. He turned, sighting across the river at a passing barge. It flew a blue flag ornamented with gods and sea serpents. The bargemen were lounging on the deck, watching the shore slide by as the current carried them down the river.
"Careful!" Angantyr barked, but Alexandros had already sighted, lifted the bow and loosed the arrow.
The arrow snapped away. It curved in a high arc, flashing out over the river, and then disappeared in the sky. Instants later, there was a cracking sound and the flagpole on the barge toppled over. The bargemen leapt up, staring about in alarm. Alexandros laughed.
"Gods! What a shot!" Ermanerich stared out at the river. The barge was at least four hundred feet away. "Can you teach me to shoot like that?"
"I can," Alexandros said, while Angantyr blurted out, "He can't!"
Alexandros caught the bowyer's eye. The man flushed.
"You mean," the Macedonian said, "you can't make a bow like this one, for the Prince to shoot. Or, should I say, you don't know how to make a bow like this."
Angantyr's lip curled up in a half-snarl, but he was at heart an honest man. After an obvious and almost comical struggle, he said: "This is the truth. I do not know how to make the Hun bow."
Alexandros smiled warmly at the man. Not many craftsmen would have been so honest.
"Why?" Ermanerich stared at the bow in his hands. "It looks like most any bow."
"True enough," Alexandros said, holding the weapon reverently. "In fact, I have in the case a written step-by-step description of how one builds such a weapon. From the selection of the proper woods and bone and horn, down to the mixture necessary to make the laminating glue. A Roman fabrica, in fact, could churn out hundreds of these, all looking much alike. But they would not be this bow."
"It's the tuning," Angantyr muttered, staring at the ground and grinding his teeth. "A delicate matter. It takes months to make the bow shoot properly. And the glue…" He eyed Alexandros with suspicion. "How did you get the formula for the glue?"
Alexandros grinned and wrapped the bow back up.
"Rome is filled with all manner of people and foreigners. It's been that way for centuries. Master Angantyr, with what I have in this case, you can make these bows yourself-the same materials, the same design. But you are right, it will take months to tune each bow for optimum performance, for the longest flight, the straightest shot. That will take endless trial and error."
Angantyr shook his head violently. "It's impossible! How would I make a living, if all my time were spent fiddling with these damned Hun bows? What about my other commissions?" He paused, squinting at Alexandros. "What do you want these bows for, anyway?"
Alexandros smiled again and nodded to Ermanerich. "The Prince and his friends are going to use them, mounted, from horses."
"What?" Both Ermanerich and Angantyr exclaimed at the same time.
"Goths don't fight like slaves or brigands!" Ermanerich said.
"No one can draw a bow and fire with accuracy from a running horse!" Angantyr seemed outraged at the very thought.
"The Huns do," Alexandros said with equanimity.
"Nonsense!" Angantyr expressed himself violently. His eyes bulged with the force of his emotions. "The Huns are born and bred in the saddle! It's in their blood!"
"That is nonsense," Alexandros said quietly. He looked around and saw the sun was close to setting. A deep purple gloaming settled over the river. A huge flock of wading birds rose and flapped past overhead, black-and-white wings flashing with the last rays of sunlight. Night crept out of the east, covering the far hills and valleys. It was peaceful, listening to the soft murmur of the river. "Let's go in, it's getting dark."
– |The feasting in Theodoric's hall lasted late into the night, but the Macedonian watched considerable business being done at the reik's table. Of course, once the singing started, it was impossible to hear anything more than a foot away. Despite this, Alexandros observed the manner and custom of the men and women around him, taking note of their speech and deportment. After two hours he felt he roughly understood most of the politics in the kingdom. Or at least the portion which had been under way here, tonight, in the feasting hall.
A skald was summoned and instructed by Theodoric to recite one of the ancient lays. This was a sign, for the few remaining men and women at the lower tables now rose, paid their respects to the reik and departed. Theodoric motioned to Alexandros, indicating a seat now vacant at his side. There were four other men, each richly dressed, sitting beneath the high seat. Theodelinda and Geofric remained as well.
"Honored guest," Theodoric rumbled, "I have discussed this matter with my close advisers. We are blessed by Caesar Maxian's friendship. We are flattered by his offer of assistance. The honor of the Goths is well known-how can we refuse such a request? Our strong arm has always been the bulwark of the Empire. We thrive under the Emperor's guidance."
Alexandros nodded, catching an undertone of bitter respect.
"I am sure," continued the reik, "many loyal Goths will be eager to join you. However, my advisers express concern over this business. We too have towns and cities to protect. Our own people cannot be left defenseless by this levy. Therefore I put upon you these strictures: no man may join you who holds land in our name; no man may join you who is married; no man may join you who owes a debt of blood or coin; and no man may join you who already serves as the huscarl of a lord. Within these strictures, you have my permission to undertake the Caesar's task."
Alexandros rose from the chair, feeling the weight of these men's eyes upon him. He felt a little giddy, for he could not have asked for a better outcome. He bowed to the reik.
"You are a generous king," he said, "and your renowned wisdom is shown in full. May I ask whom you will entrust with the execution of the letters I placed in your hand today?"
Theodoric smiled, eyes wrinkling in amusement. He was a king. Where coin lay, there was power.
"I am minded," Theodoric mused to himself, "that my youngest son, Ermanerich, should learn such business. It will do him good to grasp this thistle and hold it tight. He will see to the execution of these letters." The reik reached into his cloak and handed them to Alexandros. The Macedonian kept his composure, for two letters of credit were returned where three had been given.
As Gaius Julius had expected, Alexandros thought. The honesty of the Goths was like that of other men. A third of the planned funds would be diverted into the pockets of the reik. No matter, no matter… I will take the rest from enemies of the Empire.
"Go about this business, then, Alexandros of the Macedonians. Know that my eye is upon you and with you. My son, in this matter, will speak with my voice. I expect that you will do all honor to the Gutthilda and to Rome."
"I will, reik, you have my pledge on it."
Alexandros bowed deeply to the old king and then descended the steps to the lower tables. He needed to void the cold, leaden bread in his stomach, now bloated with wine, and he needed to write Gaius Julius a letter. Some matters had come clear and some remained obscure. Ermanerich was waiting, watching him with hopeful eyes. "Come, my friend, let's get poor Angantyr home to his workshop."
The Gothic prince nodded, glancing over his shoulder at his father. The old king was listening to the skald, seemingly asleep, a thin, blue-veined hand covering his face. Alexandros put a hand on the youth's shoulder, beckoning with his head.
"Leave them; your father has given us what we need. Let him rest. His time is passing swiftly enough."
Together, they went out of the hall and into the night.