Promised Land

By Roger Booth

Promised Land opens in AD 413, centred on the Roman town of Burdigala (Bordeaux). Led by their King Athaulf, the town is occupied by the Visigoths who, for almost four decades, have travelled the Empire seeking a place to settle. Too weak to defeat the Roman Empire but too strong to be defeated themselves, the Visigoths under their previous king, Alaric, had briefly even captured Rome without resolving the stalemate over their future. 
In Rome the Visigoths captured the Princess Galla Placidia, half-sister to the Emperor Honorius. She has travelled with them as hostage ever since. In Burdigala there begins a relationship between Roman Princess and Visigoth King based on a heady cocktail of romance, political calculation and genuine idealism culminating in marriage and the birth of a son. Honorius has no children. King and Princess believe their personal union, and in time their son, will unite Romans and Visigoths so changing the then world – and, quite possibly, the world in which we live today. 
Except the world is not so easily changed. A Princess seldom lacks for competing suitors. And many are the men who would be King or have their son become Roman Emperor.  
Promised Land is a novel. The Dark Ages already throw a long shadow. Invention is necessary sometimes for the book to work and sometimes because that darkness swallowed the facts. For all that, the tale of Athaulf and Galla Placidia is a tale deserving to be told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Dec 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781800468771

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Copyright © 2021 Roger Booth

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Contents

List of Place Names

Principal Characters

List of Place Names

Principal Characters

I

The month of May in the year of our Lord 413: at the town of Valentia in southern Gallia.

Hollow the echo of cautious hooves; under war helmets pitted and scarred the tall men rode silent.

But the eyes spoke loud their unease. Ahead they peered down the cobbled street, roved to either side, took in the dusty alley and doorways draped, to all appearance innocently, in the shades of a spring evening. Twisting in the saddle, one after another they glanced back over shoulders covered in heavy leather, mail or armour. Yet still the town gates lolled harmlessly open; all as empty below as up on the unguarded walls. The leader slowly raised his right hand and the little column reined in.

Harduric, he said softly, pointing to one of the rear guard. Take a handful of the men and watch those gates. Not a place I want to die in, this dried-up piss-pot of a town.

His answer a grim smile on thirty faces, faces belonging to men of his clan, the Ruthi; all men who would fight at need until the last desperate sword slash or shrieking swing of battle-axe.

Just then what they had been half expecting; through the silence came the smallest creak, the window on the first floor and almost level with the leader’s head. Thirty pairs of eyes bored at that same spot and hands reached as one for spear, throwing axe or bow. For the briefest instance the leader saw a pair of eyes which locked with his own; wide eyes, curious eyes, a child’s eyes. Then they disappeared at once as if they had never been; to the sounds of clacking shutter, a woman’s muffled angry voice and the child’s painful wail.

Out on the street nervous grins; throwing axes went back to the belt, arrows to their quiver.

Hold the gate, the leader repeated.

Aye, Wallia.

The man Harduric dismounted and slapped the legs of the men who would join his watch. No Roman bastard as’ll get within thirty paces, he thumbed in the direction of the walls.

The leader, the man he had called Wallia, gave a curt nod, his mind already elsewhere. A piss-pot of a town Valentia might well be, but many the alleyways and shuttered windows to hide a man.

Uncle?

Aye, Nephew, he murmured without turning to the youth, who rode on the right of the first little rank behind.

If they won’t fight, Jovinus’ll hide the safest place he knows.

Wallia blinked.

The safest place, the young voice continued, is the biggest church, Uncle. That’s where he’ll be.

Church? scoffed one of the men. What good’s a church, Herfrig?

Under the others’ laughing eyes the lad Herfrig held his ground. It’s the one place he knows we won’t kill him.

Throughout the short exchange Wallia had remained on guard, ears pricked for the hint of softly stalking feet; or the death-rattle grate of steel unsheathed. Then he allowed himself the first hint of a smile since earlier that afternoon; when the gates of Valentia had suddenly swung open – and he had to find out why.

Stupid bugger, he finally spoke. But, Herfrig? he nudged his mount. You might be right.

His retainers three abreast behind him, he resumed the cautious advance. Up ahead a cross roads; a mule sidled out. The old peasant following on behind scarcely honoured them with a glance. Not easy to say; whether the old man was leading the animal or the other way about. But this was either the best laid ambush he had ever seen, or Herfrig had it right. The fight was out of them like melting ice in spring. Not much ice here to start with, though; not like the lands of his boyhood – there the winter ice was thick enough to ride on.

Reaching the cross-road he raised again his gloved hand. He watched a while peasant and mule, the eternal pairing. Ahead two women left the shelter of the houses, came sauntering towards them, baskets of washing between hip and arm; the bolder ones or, there again, the ones with not enough to care.

You, Smiler, he pointed back at a horseman whose scar ran from the line of his helmet down to the side of his mouth. Get word to camp. We know where Jovinus is hiding himself, this with a nod towards his nephew. No fighting to be had. But some of the lads might join us, he said. ’Less they’ve better things to do. Then to the front rank: Follow me. The rest of you, hold here till more men come up.

The armoured head of his war charger leading the way, he whistled a tune from his father’s camp fires, alert but at ease in the saddle. A ripple of shutters swung open as they passed, as if the townsfolk had come to the same conclusion; neither much danger to the other.

The roads in Valentia ran straight and true, he thought – unlike the people, that is. They were crooked as green oak. One minute they were cheering Jovinus to the rafters; the length and breadth of Gallia Hail Emperor! the cry. A battle and a few weeks of aimless siege later, they couldn’t wait to be shot of the man.

Then that was Romans for you.

The street emptied into the paved square of the forum and he spat as he completed the panorama on show. Broad steps, stone balustrades, green-coppered domes; and everywhere pillars in the different styles he had often seen before. More than once he had learnt their awkward names; and then promptly forgotten them. Pillars and domes, brick and stone, a typical Roman town; mortar and concrete to set firm a wavering gut.

Their arrival had brought out the beginnings of a crowd. The townsfolk on the far side of the forum only had eyes for the Basilica; high as twenty Goths standing head to toe.

Red brick peeked through the powdery white walls.

I think…

No doubting it, Nephew. They might as well chant the name and point.

Nimbly he slid down the sleek chestnut-coloured flanks of his charger, lovingly patted the hair, better kept than his own.

Mind the horses, he ordered the escort. Anyone comes within fifty paces, blow this, and he untied a horn from his belt.

A glance up at the mass of wall, towering above him into the sky: Come, Nephew.

Then he pushed open the Basilica’s studded wooden door, right hand resting on the well-worn pommel of his great sword. A step inside and the nostrils flared like his horse when it smelt danger. Only here thick wafts of incense struggled to cloak the stench of fear. Windows set high by the rafters; their pale yellow-blue light was joined by the flicker of the giant altar tapers, in the dancing shadows two men.

The one stood calm, hands folded; a priest, from the purple cloak perhaps a bishop. The other had been sitting, head bowed. The priest stooped to whisper some words and he stood to face them, chest out and hands slipping to where, only that morning, there would have been weapons strung to his belt.

Followed by his sister’s son, Wallia slowly trod the length of the single chambered hall, his leather boots heavy on the terracotta tiles; eyes making a swift tally of side doors from which might rush death on a sharp blade. Within sword’s reach of the two Romans he came to a halt.

Tell ‘em, he grunted.

Slim and tall, his sister’s son took a half pace forward and planted his feet wide. In near perfect Latin, far better he knew than his own, the Goth voice rang to the rafters within that holy Roman cavern.

"I am Herfrig. At my side stands Wallia, reiks of our clan. We come in the name of Athaulf, King of the Visigoths. And in the name of Honorius, his nephew thought to add. The true Emperor of Rome."

At mention of Honorius, the priest’s eyes narrowed and sweat broke out on Jovinus’ face. So different from the last time he had come to seize a Roman, Wallia thought. Then he had marched in full battle gear through Rome’s Imperial Palace; only to find the Princess Galla Placidia sat calmly on her throne, dressed in travel cloak and surrounded by her slaves and coffers.

He smiled to himself, while the priest prated meaningless words. He’d nearly apologised for keeping Her Imperial Highness waiting.

Meanwhile: Jovinus must come with us, Herfrig was saying in reply. You cannot deny your own Emperor and his law.

And what assurance do we have? asked the priest, face puckered in scorn. That you barbarians ever obey Rome’s laws?

Wallia stirred impatiently while his nephew answered calm as the evening air. Were it otherwise, my Lord Bishop, Jovinus would already be dead.

You… you would defile this place of God?

My Lord Bishop, God’s house we honour everywhere. But the forum of Valentia; it is wide enough for many deaths.

The Roman pulled up short, clasped tight the cord about his waist; the full meaning not lost on him. Taking Jovinus by the shoulder, he led him to behind the altar.

Herfrig stood tall, waiting, Wallia quietly proud. Firm, reproachful; his nephew carried himself well. A sister’s son was a holy bond, holier to his mind than weasel words from a flaccid priest. The sister herself gone, coughing up blood beside the stone highway, wife taken by the fever, a daughter married far away; and then Herfrig – all the years had left him.

Though the Romans had turned their backs, scraps of words carried back off the echoing walls.

My son; and the priest was speaking to Jovinus with regret but no doubts. Honorius commands… our people…

He coughed time on the little conference and the Romans rounded the altar to face them again.

The church of Valentia obeys the call of its Emperor, said the priest grandly. Perhaps he still thought he had a choice.

Then to Jovinus: Go with these men, my son, the priest intoned. And go with my blessing; under the protection of the Lord.

The chest sagged. Jovinus opened his mouth as if there was something important he must say. Then, meekly, he followed as Herfrig took him by the arm, led him outside. Squinting against the evening sunlight, Wallia saw: the crowd of onlookers had doubled in size but kept its distance, still as cattle.

Taking back his horn, he nodded towards the Roman. Tie his hands and put a sack over his head. Then get him on a horse. Maybe the horse’ll smell better.

Half way across the forum, silent shadows eating at the flagstones, something, the slightest shiver, made him glance back. At a distance and against the backdrop of his Basilica, the priest was following them, hands folded in prayer; mumbling lips and staring eyes. Wallia looked at the riding sack that was the captive Jovinus, again at the priest. Then, in rhythm to the deliberate swaying of his charger, he began to chant into the stone stillness; the verse he had lived by ever since he could first remember.

Sudden the iron strife, steadfast the warrior,

Loud cries his heart, life’s secret knowing;

Grim the dawn break, whose day without glory.

The escort and his sister’s son joined in, the last words still known to the youngest of the people.

Red heaven’s shining, his hoard twisted gold,

When blooded in battle, the bravest of men.

II

One week later in the same month of May: beside the main highway leading south from Valentia to Arausio.

In the eastern sky the first smudges of light; and Flavius Constantius was enjoying himself. Not many the mornings he could honestly say that. These last years more often he woke to the cold-marbled whisper of palaces.

He still considered himself a soldier. Regular lines of tents, the shuffle amongst tethered horses, the otherwise quiet of darkness on the brink of day – such were the things he had always enjoyed about the life.

They had kicked their heels in Arelate, waiting on news from the barbarians. Now the waiting was nearly over. Later today the usurper Jovinus would be delivered to the just vengeance of Honorius – who gladly played at Emperor behind his marshes in Ravenna but, anywhere else, would shake like grass in the wind.

As Supreme Commander, and after the Emperor, he was the most powerful man in the Western Empire. Except if he failed. His predecessor, Stilicho, he had seen callously deposed and just as casually slaughtered. On that day of deceitful death he had resolved; such would never be his fate – which, for all his love of the simple joys of soldiering, was the real reason he had joined the IVth Palatine on its gallop north.

He breathed in deep draughts of the cool air, a bouquet of dew-damp canvas and sweet musk of horse. Dangerous such thoughts. Clasping his hands firmly behind his back, he strode on.

Well he understood the conceit; how every man considers unique his own short time on earth. But Rome’s situation really was worse than it had been in centuries, more precarious than he would admit to anyone; even to the Emperor Honorius – especially to the Emperor Honorius.

The barbarian invasion on that accursed New Year’s Eve seven years ago had cost many of their best men. Britannia and Hispania were both already good as gone. Now, Roman fighting Roman, the few troops left in Gallia had been frittered away. His fists clenched and the blood surged. The Ancient Greeks, pagans though they were, had made no mistake: those whom the Gods wish to destroy, first they make mad.

Sir?

The voice came from nowhere.

He stiffened; willed himself back under control.

Oh, Lucellus, didn’t hear you coming.

Just wanted to check you were alright, Sir.

Kind of you, Lucellus. No, I just like the early morning in a camp, he said. Always have; boosts the spirits, I find.

While Aemilius Lucellus fell into determined step alongside, he did his level best to pretend that he was still alone. From out of the rows of tents a steady stream of dawn wraiths made for the latrines. Engrossed, he observed the centuries old ritual of a regiment’s wakening; the clattering of pots, the snarls, grunts and yawns.

Sir?

A silent sigh: Yes, Tribune?

Sir, forgive me, said Lucellus and sounded ill at ease. But the men, Sir, they’re troubled. Barbarians laying siege to a Roman town, capturing our traitors, while we simply stand by and watch. It doesn’t feel right. Like washing our dirty linen in public, Sir.

The family he knew well enough to suspect that Lucellus had never washed a piece of linen in his life. For your ears only, Tribune, for your ears only; there is just the one army in the West that stands between Rome and its enemies and that is?

The Army of Italia, Sir.

Excellent. So, until we can rebuild the army here in Gallia, how would you advise your Supreme Commander? Thinking strategically, Tribune.

Yes, Sir. Lucellus spoke as if on the parade ground. Preserve the Army of Italia. By any means available. Sir.

So the man had a brain after all. And, just then, a shard of light broke the horizon, stabbing the darkness. For a precious moment, he lost himself in that finger of yellow-red flame. Then the voice again.

Sir? There are armies in the East. We are all Romans after all. Surely they will… surely they would…?

The question stuttered to its end and another man he would have damned to hell for so disturbing his morning. But of Lucellus he still had hopes; more to the tribune, he thought, than just blue eyes and a well-connected father. Besides, the army had not enough young officers for him to dim those young eyes with the sober truth; that to the men who mattered in Constantinople, Gallia was just a name on a faded map.

Tribune, he spoke gently, yes, of course, we are all Romans. But of a Roman is it not expected that first he stand his ground; before running to his neighbour for help?

Lucellus seemed to understand. So we really do need the Goths, Sir?

For now, Lucellus, for now.

They walked on towards the stake-lined earth wall that was the camp’s perimeter. A Roman regiment dug in behind earth walls a stone’s throw north of Arelate, by the standards of the Empire itself just a stone’s throw north of Ravenna; he understood Lucellus and his men far better than they could imagine.

The trooper on guard duty struck an ostentatiously vigilant pose; legs sprung and face towards the fields like a dog at hunt. It restored his morning’s good humour.

Lucellus, did I ever tell you why the Goths are so eager to help? he asked, raising his voice just enough that the sentry could follow. No? Well, oddly enough, at first they supported Jovinus. But Jovinus then made a big mistake – he befriended some Goth princeling or other by the name of Sarus, he said in a stage whisper, as if sharing a precious secret. This Sarus and Athaulf, the King of the Goths; they happened to be sworn enemies. Believe it or not; once Jovinus accepted Sarus as an ally, Athaulf switched sides.

I see, Sir, Lucellus nodded. A case of the friend of my enemy is my enemy. And Sarus, Sir?

A dry chuckle: Sarus is dead, Tribune. He and his retainers rode out to meet Athaulf and the whole Goth army; then fought to the death, eighteen or so men against thousands. Hard to credit, I know, but I have it on the very best authority. He peered through the faint glimmer of morning into the square-jawed face. You see, barbarians are different from us, Lucellus, in so many ways. One of those differences is that they do not think like professional soldiers. Often their warriors just seem to want to fight and die.

Do you think they’ll want to fight and die later today, Sir?

Don’t think so, Tribune, he said. But I’ve never been one to take chances. That’s why your regiment’s here.

He nodded towards the sentry; as if, just then, he had noticed him for the first time. You keep a good watch, Soldier.

Yes, General, said the man, coming smartly to attention. Thank you, General.

*

His clerk pushed the scroll towards him.

This one is from the Prefect.

Which Prefect? He could feel the warmth of the sun through the canvas, the smell of crushed grass incongruous amongst the chaos of scrolls spread everywhere he looked. Even by the highroad they knew where to find him. Since the snatched breakfast of olives and cheese he had been sat in the tent; poring over the piles of papers that the messengers brought in a steady stream from Ravenna and Arelate. And he was decidedly not in the mood.

The Prefect of Gallia, General, the clerk explained with exaggerated patience.

Postumus Dardanus; a first-class paper-pusher, he had decided during their meetings earlier in the month. Yes?

He asks, General, and the clerk was beginning to wilt in the face of his determined lack of enthusiasm. I read the dispatch only briefly… but I think he asks, now the rebellion is quashed, what line to take with Jovinus’ supporters. He says Jovinus is well regarded… by the local families of note.

Does he now?

Flattery and indecision, all the papers had brought him the morning long; that and wishful thinking whenever he asked how it stood with the treasury and the army lists. He stood up, headed for the tent flap.

Tell Dardanus, and he spoke softly enough for the clerk to twitch in apprehension. Tell him he must do as he sees fit. He is the Prefect not I. But, he barked, since he is kind enough to ask; better by far the Empire keeps its hold on Gallia than a few foolish nobles keep their heads.

He threw open the tent flap.

Tell him that, and stalked outside.

The guards stood rigid to attention. Attracted by the regiment’s horses, the flies were out in force; between their droning squadrons the waft of cooking fires. On impulse, he strode past