Raptor (90 page)

“God’s will, eh?” he said bitterly. “To take a blameless life? To deprive me of my loving consort? To deprive two children of their mother? That was God’s will, was it?”

I said, “According to the Bible, God once deprived even himself. He gave his only begotten son—”

“Akh, balgs-daddja!” Theodoric snarled, and I was taken aback to hear him call the Holy Scriptures “nonsense.” Even more blasphemously, he ranted on, “The mealymouthed mendacity of that particular Bible story is the reason why I refuse to revere Jesus Christ—or praise him—or even admire him.”

“What are you saying?” I had never sounded Theodoric’s views on the subject of religion in general, or of Christianity in particular, and I was profoundly astonished to hear the king speak such sacrilege.

“Consider, Thorn. We are told that, to atone for the sins of us mortals, Jesus gallantly suffered unspeakable agonies on the cross. But Jesus knew that on his death he would go straight to heaven, to share the celestial throne, to enjoy eternal life and the worship of all Christendom. Do you not see? Jesus risked nothing. The paltriest mother dares much more than he did. To give life to just one child, she endures the same agony. But if
she
should die in that torment, she has no knowledge of what fate awaits her, no assurance that her sacrifice will earn her heaven. Ne, ni allis. She is far braver than Jesus was, far more selfless, immeasurably more deserving of praise and exaltation and reverence.”

“I think perhaps you are overwrought, old friend,” I said. “Yet it may be that I agree with you. I never thought to ponder that comparison before. I wonder if any other Christian ever did. Nevertheless, Theodoric, I devoutly hope that you do not make a practice of proclaiming such things anywhere except among your closest—”

“Of course not,” he said, with a rueful laugh. “I myself have no yearning for suicide. I am the king of a Christian nation, and I must publicly respect my people’s beliefs, whatever may be my private opinion of them.” He breathed a gusty sigh. “A king must ever be politic. I must even forbear from kicking old Saio Soas when he suggests—as he already has—that Aurora’s death may have been for the best.”

“For
the best?”
I exclaimed. “Why, that heartless, leather-hided, unfeeling old—”

“For the best, as regards my people’s interests. The royal succession, that is. Soas suggests that a new consort—or better, a legitimate royal wife—might give me a male heir instead of only daughters.”

I had to concede, “Ja, there is that to consider.”

“In the meantime, just in case this latest daughter should turn out to be my last offspring, I have named her in honor of our nation. She will be christened Thiudagotha. She of the Gothic people.”

“A really royal name,” I said. “I am sure she will live up to it.”

“But
akh,
I am going to miss dear Aurora. She was a comfortable woman. And a quiet one. There are not many like that. I doubt that Soas will find such another for me, but he is already making lists of eligible princesses. He hopes to find one whose marriage to me would mean for the Ostrogoths an advantageous alliance with some other strong monarch. However, to effect that, I myself really ought to be monarch of more than I am. Certainly, I and my people ought to be something more than Zeno’s obedient watchdogs.”

I cleared my throat and said guardedly, “On my way here, Theodoric, I was thinking. It has been quite a while since you—or I—have made any conquest of consequence. You used to say, ‘Huarbodáu mith blotha!’ but lately…”

“Ja, ja,” he muttered. “I have not even bestirred myself to lead my men in the putting down of Strabo’s three or four contumacious pesterings. I know, I know.”

“Nor did either of us go with the men,” I reminded him, “when they marched to subdue that unruly tribe of Suevi that I reported rampaging about the Isere plains. Is it possible, Theodoric, that both you and I have been—as you also used to say—corroded by the rust of peacetime?”

“Or of domesticity,” he said, heaving another deep sigh. “But now that Aurora is no longer here… Well, some of my other speculatores report that Strabo threatens now to make a rather greater nuisance of himself. They say he is attempting to forge an alliance with an estimable force of dissident Rugii from the north. If that occurs, Thorn—ne, ne,
when
that occurs—there will be battle enough to satisfy us both.”

“Before that happens, then, I would like my king’s permission to go abroad, to whet my blade and limber my muscles and furbish my old fighting instincts. They have all been too long unused. Except for my random reportings from my idle wanderings, Theodoric, I have performed no mission on your behalf since my coming hither from Scythia.”

“But those reports have always been accurate—and eminently useful. Your initiative has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated, Saio Thorn. Indeed, your dependable usefulness has already inspired me to conceive another mission for you. Something of a quest, actually. I bethought myself of it when I decided on that name for my new daughter—Thiudagotha. And when Saio Soas spoke of my seeking a bride.”

“Eh?” I said, dumbfounded. “You wish me to go and appraise the prospective princesses?”

He laughed with real humor for the first time that day. “Ne, I wish you to go in quest of history. I believe that my new daughter, she of the Gothic people, ought to know all about her forebears. And if I am to secure a bride of the highest royalty, I must be able to prove to her that I too am of unimpeachable lineage. Not least, my people ought to know whence they came and how they came to be Ostrogoths.”

Still puzzled, I said, “But you and your people already know those things. All the Goths everywhere are descended from a god-king named Gaut. Your daughter Thiudagotha, like yourself, is a descendant of a long-ago King Amal.”

“But what was that Amal king
of,
and
how
long ago? And was there ever
really
any being named Gaut? You see, Thorn, all that we Goths have, by way of history—all we have ever had—is an assemblage of legends, myths, conjectures and old folks’ reminiscences, none of that ever even written down. But here, let me call in one of those reminiscent old folks—your fellow marshal, Soas. He can better explain what you are being asked to do.”

So old Soas joined us and, as usual, used no more words than absolutely necessary.

“Our certain knowledge of Gothic history goes back only a bit more than two centuries, to the time when all the Goths lived on the lands north of the Black Sea. From the times before that time, we have nothing more reliable than the saggwasteis fram aldrs, and those songs-from-old are notoriously untrustworthy. They all make mention, however, of an original Gothic homeland, called Skandza. They claim that the Goths emigrated from Skandza, crossed the Sarmatic Ocean into the Wendic Gulf and landed on the Amber Coast. From there, over some incalculable span of time, they made their way to the shores of the Black Sea.”

“What I propose, Thorn,” said Theodoric, “is that you retrace the Goths’ migration, but backward. Start from the Black Sea and follow their trail northward, as far as you can find any evidence of there being a trail. You are an experienced and intrepid traveler. You have admirable facility with foreign languages, so you can question the people you find living now along the migration route. You are an accomplished scribe, so you can make notes of everything you learn, and later compile those into a coherent history. I should like you to track those long-ago Goths all the way to the Amber Coast where they ostensibly landed. And beyond—all the way to that Skandza homeland, if the Goths really came from there, and if you can find it.”

Soas spoke up again. “Roman historians have made vague mention of an island called Scandia, somewhere far north in the Sarmatic Ocean. The similarity of name cannot be coincidental. But that island may be as fanciful as those other islands the Romans believe in, Avalonnis and Ultima Thule. Even if Scandia does exist, it is terra incognita to this day.”

“Or at least, until you find it, Thorn, terra
nondum
cognita,” said Theodoric. “Also I ought to warn you—should the faint old trail lead you only as far as the Amber Coast, you must be careful there. That is the native land of those Rugii that Strabo is reportedly inciting to join him in making war against us.”

I said, “I understood that the Rugii are all wealthy from trading in the amber found thereabouts. Why would they suddenly be so unhappy that they are ready to abandon trading and go to war?”

“Akh, the amber
merchants
are wealthy, ja. But the drudges who
collect
the amber do not earn anything from it, and must subsist by farming and herding, and the land up there is wretchedly infertile. So, like any other plebecula, they are impoverished and resentful of their lot and ripe for revolt in any direction that offers.”

Soas resumed, “Our Gothic forebears, from their first landing on the continent of Europe, seem already to have differentiated themselves—into the Baltings, who later called themselves Visigoths, the Amalings, who became Ostrogoths, and the Gepids, who are still known only as Gepids. That name would appear to derive from our word ‘gepanta’—slow, torpid, sluggish—though I have never perceived any Gepid to be any more sluggish than anyone else.”

Theodoric smiled and said, “Perhaps, Thorn, in your quest in search of history, you may also find for us an explanation of that curious name.”

“And there was one group of persons,” Soas continued, “that totally parted company from the other Goths along the way. According to the old songs, anyhow. It seems there was a body of women who got left alone while their men went off to some battle or another. Then the enemy outflanked the Gothic warriors and fell upon those unprotected women. But the women so ably defended themselves and so thoroughly annihilated all their attackers that, afterward, they decided that they would never again
need
any men. They elected a queen, went off on their own, settled somewhere in Sarmatia and—some say—gave rise to the legend of the Amazons.”

“Not likely,” said Theodoric. “If that were so, then our Gothic history would extend back into dim antiquity—to a time earlier than the Greeks who first wrote about Amazons, some nine hundred years ago.”

“I might add,” Soas said drily, “that no saggws fram aldrs explains how our Amazons managed to reproduce without any men among them.”

I said, “I once heard another account involving Gothic women. That one told how the Goths’ leaders expelled a number of hateful haliuruns women. And those hags
did
manage to reproduce. Wandering in the wilderness, they mated with skohl demons, and their progeny were the terrible Huns. Do you suppose that story and the Amazon story somehow overlap?”

“That is for you to ascertain and then tell us,” said Theodoric, and he comradely clapped me on the back. “By the hammer of Thor, I wish I could go with you! Just think! To breast new horizons, to solve so many enigmas…”

“It does sound like a challenging quest,” I said. “All the same, I would rather not be abroad when you confront Strabo and his allies.”

He said lightly, “If the Rugii move south to join Strabo, you may know it before I do. You can come south
with
them. Or perhaps take some advantage of being in their rear. I should not at all mind having a Parmenio behind my enemy’s lines. Anyway, before you depart, I will send messengers to all points of the compass. They will bid all the outlander monarchs and Roman legati of my acquaintance to open their lands to you and extend their hospitality and do what they can to facilitate your quest. And also to keep you informed, as you go, of what news they may have of occurrences hereabouts. Now, I will of course provide every kind of supplies and escorts and mounts you require. Would you wish an impressive retinue or just a few sturdy warriors?”

“None at all, I think, thags izvis. For such a very special quest, I prefer to be a man alone—especially if I am to do any slinking through hostile peoples. And I will go armed, but not armored. It may be best, in some places, if I am not readily identifiable as an Ostrogoth. I will need nothing but my own good horse, and what supplies I can carry behind my saddle. Ja, I shall go as just what I used to be, a wayfaring woodsman.”

“Habái ita swe!” said Theodoric, the first time in a long time that I had heard him utter to me that magisterial affirmative: “Be it so!”

I went directly from the palace to my own house in the city. There I selected from closets and chests an assortment of my Veleda raiment, cosmetics and jewelry. I dressed myself in some of those things and rolled the rest, with the Thorn garb I had been wearing, into a bundle for carrying. When I left the house, I locked its street entrance behind me and then knocked at the door of the neighboring house. The old woman who lived there had been for some while a nodding acquaintance of Veleda, so she readily assented when I asked her to keep a watchful eye on my place while I was “absent for a time.”

I rode a way outside the city, then off the road and into a copse, where I changed clothes again, so I could arrive back at my farm as its master Thorn. There, in my chambers, I laid all my Veleda garments and accessories ready for packing with whatever else I would be taking with me on my journey. I had in mind no particular use for those clothes; I simply wanted to be prepared for any future situation in which I might better perform as Veleda than as Thorn.

The next two days I spent mostly in consultation with one after another of my tenant freemen. I heard each man’s report on the current state of the farm work that was his responsibility, and his plans for upcoming projects. Some of those I acquiesced in, some I ordered postponed or abandoned. I submitted ideas of my own for the men’s consideration, in some cases gave definite instructions, and eventually was well satisfied that the farm would go on functioning smoothly and productively while I was gone. During those two days, also, I kept thinking of things that might be useful on my journey, and laying them aside to be packed—then usually discarding them as unnecessary. Finally, I rolled together only my Veleda things, extra Thorn garments, some emergency travel rations, fishing line and hooks, a flask and a bowl, a leather sling, flints and tinder—and the glitmuns sun-stone, my last surviving bequest from old Wyrd. And the nights of those two days I spent in bidding farewell, one night to the woman Naranj, the next to the girl Renata.