The Storm of Heaven (37 page)

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 Aëtius had been Emperor of the West. Despite a dubious ancestry, Aëtius 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 Khamûn'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 Aëtius 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 Aëtius' 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?"