‘There will be other sons for that, my dear,’ murmured Bigleniza, gazing adoringly at her sleeping infant. ‘For this, our firstborn, life holds other ends than tilling the soil.’
Bigleniza, a strong-willed woman of some education, was, so she claimed, partly of ancient Thracian stock, with links to the same family that had produced Spartacus. Valaris — a Goth and former field slave belonging to a wealthy Roman — had been granted his manumission, plus a sum sufficient to buy a peasant holding, after bravely rescuing his master’s wife and child from a house fire. An ill-matched couple, many thought, unaware of the strong bond of love and mutual regard that united the pair.
Beyond the confines of Dardania, impinging not at all upon the lives of its inhabitants, the tides of history rolled on: Julius Nepos, the last claimant to the West’s imperial throne, died, finally legitimizing the German Odovacar as king of Italy; between East Rome and Persia, a current truce was ratified, and held, precariously; the Visigoths, soon to be challenged by the Franks, secured their hold in Gaul and Spain; within the Empire, a formidable leader, Theoderic, united the two great branches of the Ostrogoths, then, as vicegerent of Emperor Zeno, led them into Italy, there to depose and murder Odovacar; Zeno died (interred alive by accident according to the rumours, his cries within the tomb ignored on account of his being a hated Isaurian), to be succeeded by the elderly Anastasius; in Africa, the harsh barbarity of Vandal rule began to soften, as a hot climate and Roman luxury slowly sapped the original tough fibre of the conquerors.
Meanwhile, Uprauda grew into a tall, strong lad, strikingly good-looking, with large grey eyes and golden curling hair (‘my beautiful angel,’ Bigleniza never tired of saying), quietly self-contained, but pleasant and polite to all. Though chafing against the grinding monotony of peasant life, Uprauda proved a dutiful son, helping his parents on their little plot, at first minding the livestock, then, as soon as he could manage implements, joining his father in the back-breaking labour of raising crops of wheat and millet. It broke Bigleniza’s heart to see her boy trudge back at sunset from the fields, his hands all cracked and blistered from the plough or scythe. True to her original vow, despite the fact that she bore no further sons, she remained unwavering in her resolve that Uprauda’s life should follow a more fulfilling path. ‘If nurtured, upright stock* will make its way,’ she affirmed. To this end, she maintained contact (via letters carried by obliging travellers or traders en route to Constantinople) with her brother Roderic, a rising soldier based frequently in the imperial capital, entreating him to help provide the boy with a sound education, with a view to entering a career — in the civil service or perhaps the army.
‘Flamin’ heat,’ grumbled Crispus, as the squad marched in open order along the narrow roadway, hewn out of the mountainside by Trajan’s engineers four centuries before. Crispus was one of the pedites in a detachment from the Legio Quinta Macedonica — the Fifth Macedonians — sent to investigate a remote region of northern Dardania, following complaints by local villagers of raids by Sarmatian brigands. Untying the laces securing the cheek-pieces of his helmet beneath his chin, Crispus removed the headpiece and tied it to his belt. ‘That feels better,’ he sighed, as his sweat-soaked scalp began to cool — ‘a whole lot better.’
‘Put it on, you idiot,’ cautioned the man next to him. ‘We’re supposed to be in a combat zone, remember? The biarchus’ll have your guts for garters if he finds out.’
‘And how’ll he do that?’ sneered the other. ‘You gonna report me? Oh Christ!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as his helmet — carelessly secured, detached itself from his belt and tumbled free. Dropping his spear, Crispus made a frantic grab for the helmet as it rolled to the side of the road. Too late; it toppled over the edge and bounced a hundred feet, before coming to rest in the branches of a shrub sprouting from a crevice in the near-vertical slope.
Delighted by the unscheduled break, the column halted, while the biarchus or corporal strode up the line from the rear to find out what was causing the hiatus.
‘Well, well — Pedes Crispus; who’d have thought it?’ murmured the biarchus silkily, shaking his head in mock surprise. He peered over the edge. ‘Oh dear — lost your helmet, I see. Well now, Pedes,’ he continued, looking round at the ring of grinning faces which had formed at the scene, ‘we’d all be interested to learn what you propose to do about it. Suggestions?’
‘Well, we could form a human chain I suppose, Biarchus,’ mumbled Crispus.
‘A human chain,’ repeated the biarchus, nodding sagaciously. ‘Congratulations, Pedes. But if you think,’ he added, his voice changing to a sarcastic snarl, ‘that I’d risk the necks of any of your mates to save your worthless skin, you must be even stupider than I thought. If you get your brains knocked out by a Sarmatian sling-shot because you’ve got no helmet, it’ll serve you damn well right.’ He thrust his face to within an inch of the other’s. ‘You horrible little man!’ he shouted. ‘What are you?’
‘A horrible little man, Biarchus,’ growled Crispus, fully aware that any other response would land him in even greater trouble than he was in already. This would almost certainly include being on a charge for disobeying the order to wear helmets.
‘Listen up, Pedes; here’s what we do. Once back at base, you will put in a requisition for two helmets, chargeable against your pay.’
‘But — that’s not fair, Biarchus! I only lost one.’
‘So you did, soldier. So you did,’ purred the other. He went on, with irrefutable military logic, ‘You draw a helmet from the stores to replace the one you lost, see. Then you pay for another to replace the one from the stores. Got it?’ He turned to the others. ‘Right lads, show’s over. Let’s be having you. Into line. Forward, march!’
One summer Sunday, when Uprauda was approaching his fourteenth birthday, two of his companions — named Atawulf and Wamba — sought him out; both were bursting with excitement, clearly over some news or secret they couldn’t wait to divulge. (Despite never putting himself forward, Uprauda’s imposing physique and something about his air of calm self-possession, had led him to be chosen as their leader by boys his own age in Tauresium. Though invariably the planner and organizer of youthful escapades, strangely, Uprauda was never the one to be caught or to incur the blame whenever such activities miscarried.)
‘Hey Raudie, you won’t believe what we’ve found!’ exclaimed Atawulf, the bigger of the tow-headed pair. ‘It’s a helmet — a real soldier’s helmet. Only trouble is, it’s stuck halfway up a cliff.’
Uprauda smiled. ‘Lead on, then,’ he invited, sparing the two from having to plead with him to accompany them.
It being a Sunday, when only essential tasks such as milking (which anyway was girls’ and women’s work) were carried out, the boys were free until supper-time. Keeping a lookout for wild animals, and also Sarmatian bandits, bands of whom had recently been sighted in the vicinity, the trio set out along woodland trails. There was in fact little risk. Hunted for centuries by gangs of professional venatores to supply the Roman Games, large animals such as bear, lynx, elk, and bison had been driven to the verge of extinction, and had only recently begun to make a comeback following the collapse of the Western Empire twenty years before. As for Sarmatians, they were after cattle, goods, and specie, not half-grown youngsters. And even if they were attacked, like all Dardanian boys who had grown up minding livestock, the three were expert slingers, able to give a good account of themselves. A blow on the snout from a round river-pebble delivered with terrific force was usually enough to deter even the most aggressive assailant.