Read Online Theodoric by Ross Laidlaw - Free Book Online Page A

Goth’ll score a hit. Just one would finish Timothy.’
    Which is what almost happened. With his opponent’s next rush, Timothy fractionally mistimed his avoiding action and the sword-tip flickered down his rib-cage. A scarlet thread tracked the point’s passage, widening instantly to a ribbon pouring blood. Timothy staggered, flung himself clear as a second blow parted the air inches from his head.
    A collective sigh, like wind in a cornfield, rippled round the audience, followed by a gasp of horror from the Isaurians as Timothy appeared to slip on grass made treacherous by dripping blood, to measure his length on the ground. With a roar of triumph his adversary swung the great sword above his head.
    Suddenly, in a sequence almost too rapid for the eye to follow, Timothy doubled forward from the hips, tucked his legs beneath him, then sprang upright with the speed of a striking adder. His knife, a wicked-edged Anatolian
sica
, insignificant to look at but deadly in close-quarter fighting, flashed across the other’s throat. The Goth, sword still raised aloft, blood jetting from a severed artery, swayed, then, with a look of surprise, collapsed, shuddered, and lay still.
    The ensuing silence, born of shocked amazement, seemed to stretch out interminably, then was broken by a storm of cheering. Rough and violent they might be, but the Goths admired two virtues above all others, even when displayed by an enemy: martial skill, and valour.
    â€˜Farewell, then – for the present,’ Strabo told his namesake at the monastery gate. ‘You turned the tables on me,’ he admitted, a note of wry respect entering his voice. ‘This time. When next we meet – as the Norns who weave the web of men’s lives have surely decreed we shall – Theoderic Thiudimer will be the one to lose.’

SIX
    In the banqueting hall . . . these bold fighting-men took their seats. A servant . . . performed the office of pouring out the sparkling beer. From time to time a clear-voiced poet sang
    Anonymous,
Beowulf,
seventh century(?)
    Five days after crossing the boundary between the empires into Pannonia (nominally a province of the West, but long abandoned by a weakening Rome first to the Huns then, following their collapse and dispersal after the death of Attila, to the Ostrogoths), Theoderic and Timothy, having parted with their escort at the border, approached Thiudimer’s ‘capital’. This was a straggling
baurg
, or townlet of thatched huts, in a forest clearing north of that great inland sea the Lake of Balaton.
    Thanks to the presence of Thalassios’ Excubitors, the remainder of the journey, from the Succi on, had been comparatively uneventful. Isaurians had a formidable reputation far beyond their homeland, and the sight of a well-armed band of these ferocious hillmen was sufficient to deter all but the most foolhardy of marauders. Only once did they encounter any trouble, when a party of mounted warriors sallied forth from Singidunum * and attacked them. This imperial city had recently been taken by one Babai, a Sarmatian petty warlord who fancied himself a second Alaric or Attila. Stripped of most of its garrison to replenish the distant field army, the place had fallen to a surprise attack in which luck had played a greater part than skill. Those assailing Theoderic’s group had paid dearly for their temerity, being swiftly put to rout, leaving several of their number dead on the ground.
    Word of the party’s coming had preceded them; Theoderic and Timothy were still some distance from the baurg when a richly attired figure on horseback, accompanied by two retainers, appeared round abend in the path. Theoderic’s heart swelled; apart from greying hair and beard, Thiudimer was just as he had been all those years ago: tall, broad-shouldered, with a strong yet kindly face.
    Father and son embraced with exclamations of joy. ‘What a fine young fellow you’ve grown