That night they camped in a forest glade, the Goths issuing their captives blankets and strips of dried meat. Next day the trail led high into the mountains, past tarns, rushing streams, remote villages and occasional stone keeps, to enter a strange and silent world of sandstone pinnacles carved by wind and water into fantastic pyramids and columns. Once, they passed a line of figures performing a processional dance, dressed bizarrely in the skins of animals surmounted by the heads — bears, wolves and bison.
Not long past noon, a turn in the path suddenly revealed to Theoderic an arresting view. Ahead, the terrain fell steeply away to a verdant cup enclosed by tall spruce-clad mountains rising to spires of naked rock and seamed by silvery waterfalls. In the middle of the hollow rose an extraordinary building, or rather a complex of connected structures — something between a fortress and, with its peristyle and outer courtyard, a typical Roman villa. There followed a difficult descent, the path continually looping back on itself to accommodate the gradient. The great doors in the gateway of the surrounding wall swung open and the column entered a courtyard hung with long wooden galleries and dominated by a massive tower. Grooms led away the horses and baggage-mules, and Theoderic’s party were conducted through an open colonnaded square into a long hall. This was filled with noisy Goths, seated on benches or reclining on pallets, drinking, furbishing gear, playing dice or board games. At the chamber’s far end, seated, very still, on a throne-like chair, was a young man perhaps six or seven years older than Theoderic. In contrast to the others in the hall — they were bearded and attired in belted tunics, some with cloaks fastened at the shoulder with chip-carved fibulae — he was clean-shaven and wore a Roman dalmatic of fine but plain material. The most singular thing about him, and the obvious source of his nickname, was a marked squint in one eye, which however did nothing to detract from his air of authority and calm self-confidence. A hush spread throughout the great chamber as Theoderic’s group was led towards him.
‘Welcome to the monastery of St Elizabeth the Miracle-Worker, Theoderic, son of Thiudimer,’ the young man said in a quiet voice, beneath whose apparent friendliness there was an edge of hostility. ‘The monks have graciously granted us the temporary use of the cloisters and this refectory. I am Theoderic Strabo, son of the great Triarius and king of the Thracian Goths; also Magister Militum, Master of Soldiers, of the diocese on behalf of the emperor. When we heard that you were on your way, we thought it only proper to arrange that you be met by a reception committee at the Succi.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ responded Theoderic. ‘Then why do we find ourselves treated as prisoners? Before we left Constantinople, I was assured that we would be given safe passage through Thrace, under your protection.’
‘And so you would have been,’ replied Strabo equably, ‘had the situation in the capital remained unchanged. Events, events,’ he murmured. Then, casting aside the mask of mocking affability, he said with icy menace, ‘The Isaurian troops in Constantinople, no doubt jealous of what they see as preferential treatment of his Goth soldiers by General Aspar, have risen in revolt. In the course of the disturbance, Aspar and a number of his Goth bodyguards were murdered by order of his rival, General Zeno. Natural justice demands some evening of the score. Do you not agree?’
Theoderic’s heart seemed to turn to a block of ice. This was appalling news. Strabo, as a barbarian leader, could not afford to let such a situation rest. To avoid a loss of prestige which would inevitably endanger his position as monarch, he must act overtly to avenge the deaths of his fellow-Goths, and of Aspar, his people’s protector and champion. ‘Some evening of the score’: the words had an ominous ring which hardly bode well for Theoderic or his companions.
‘What happened is regrettable — extremely so,’ Theoderic conceded. ‘But surely no blame can attach to my Isaurian escort. The things you mentioned happened after our departure from Constantinople.’ Even as he uttered them, the words sounded hollow in his ears. In a barbarian society’s simple code of justice, someone always had to pay — if not the transgressor, a member of his kin or following.
‘I could have your party slaughtered on the spot,’ declared Strabo. ‘My men here would certainly approve. But I am not quite the lawless savage some Romans no doubt think me to be. As perhaps do you, being Roman-bred. Nine Goth soldiers were slain by Zeno’s men. Therefore nine of your Isaurians must die. You yourself will remain here as my. . ‘guest’, shall we say, until the situation in the capital resolves itself. Your men will now draw lots to decide who are the ones to die. Sentence to be carried out immediately thereafter.’
Theoderic’s brain seemed to spin. Nine deaths — that was half his entourage! Their deaths would be for ever on his conscience. Moreover, the chances of his party completing the journey to Pannonia safely would be thrown into jeopardy, even should he be released. And that was unlikely to happen any time soon. As Strabo’s hostage, he would be far too valuable a bargaining chip in any negotiations with Leo (or rather with Zeno, his puppet-master) to be readily set free. Perhaps he was destined never to succeed his father. And that would mean the ending of a cherished dream, Theoderic, the Friend of Rome. These reflections flashed through his mind in seconds, to be succeeded by a sudden thought which offered, perhaps, a ray of hope.
‘Wait,’ he cried. ‘There is another way.’
Strabo smiled indulgently. ‘Convince me.’
Raising his voice so that all in the chamber could hear, Theoderic declared, ‘Single combat, a duel between a champion of yours and one of ours. The condition: should your side lose, my party be permitted to continue our journey unmolested.’ The suggestion stemmed from Theoderic’s recollection of something he had learnt at Constantinople University. The institution boasted two famous chairs of law. Although the subject was not one for which he was formally enrolled, Theoderic had sometimes attended law lectures, especially those touching on the laws of Germanic nations, as contained in tracts such as Lex Gothica, Leges Visigothorum, and the recently enacted Codex Euricianus. Written statutes known as leges scriptae or belagines often referred to the time-honoured practice of settling disputes by combat, with God (or, in the recent pre-Christian past, gods such as Thor or Odin) the arbiter: a tradition with which even kings meddled at their peril.
A charged silence throughout the great hall followed Theoderic’s words, witness to the interest they had aroused. An enthusiastic murmur arose among the assembled Goths, gradually swelling to a roar of approval, with weapons being banged on the floor or benches. Watching Strabo’s face intently for any sign of reaction, Theoderic hoped against hope that the other would be swayed by his followers’ mood. A German king — reiks in the Gothic tongue — was not like a Roman emperor whose orders commanded unquestioning obedience. A reiks ruled strictly by consent and force of personality. Once perceived to be weak, unsuccessful, or acting against the interests of his people (or at least of those that counted), he would swiftly be replaced. The Goths present were probably Strabo’s andbahtos, his personal following of armed retainers. Such men would belong to the top rank of Goth society, frijai or free men, the other orders being freedmen, then slaves. Should they approve the duel (something members of a warrior society in which a man’s status was linked to his prowess as a fighter might be expected to endorse), could Strabo, as no more than primus inter pares, afford to ignore their collective will? Theoderic had read in the Histories of Ammianus Marcellinus, that eminent Roman soldier-turned-historian, that German kings often found great difficulty in controlling the martial ardour of their warriors.