The Crown Of Amalric
A warm breeze, heavy with the scent of lavender and a briny sea tousled the yellowing grass of a knoll overlooking a garden of ornate Hellenic splendour; diminished somewhat by the passage of time.
The figures of Greek heroes, immortalised in marble, stood sentinel over picturesque mosaic pathways, frozen in dispassionate countenance. Gazing out to the eastern horizon, the Adriatic, awash in brilliant azure melded with a blue sky, shimmering like diamonds in the sun. Thae hazy shoreline of Thrace could be discerned some way off after that, a ghostly apparition.
In the shade of a white columned pergola, two men sat; a study in incongruity. One, withered by advanced age and full of a dignity far greater than his stature. The other, young, and bristling with incandescent vitality. The elder figure, wrapped in a linen toga, held court on a wooden stool casting a searching look at his companion. The younger of the two reclined on a luxurious divan like a panther at rest, emanating an air of disdain for the opulence he observed in the garden. Preferring instead the wooden structures of his own peoples’ dwellings. The forests and hills were their gardens, not these pompous Roman handiworks wedged into teeming cities. The identity of the heroes standing vigil over the garden eluded him, and what warrior would go into battle in such a state of undress baffled his sensibilities. He had already relegated their importance to the realm of Roman conceit and book learning. He knew well that great renown must be won by great deeds, not the senseless scrawling’s upon parchment, or the art of sculpting.
He wore a light blue linen tunic beneath a coat of iron ring mail. To go about armed was the habit of these peoples, and so he was girded with a leather-bound longsword, unwieldy for Roman tastes. His long brown hair was tamed by a bronze circlet of Byzantine manufacture, adorned with a gleaming jewel. Doubtless looted during the ravaging of the ancient Greek cities by Visigothic raids some years past. He finally let his own questioning blue eyes settle upon his host stolid host.
‘Have you summoned me here to look upon fine gardens?’ the marauder queried at length, his steely gaze levelling with the calm comportment of his associate. This stern figure looked not too dissimilar from the busts of the statues that lined the garden walkways the warrior thought.
No need for pleasantries with these people the elderly figure acknowledged inwardly.
‘I have a task for you.’
‘A task? Who are you to assign me anything old fool.’ The savage bolted up, fire burning in his blue eyes.
These Goths are quick to anger he reprimanded himself, I must be more careful.
‘An endeavour which shall benefit the both of us greatly, I assure you,’ he continued warily.
Placated somewhat, he settled down gesturing for the elder man to continue while he drained a brimming cup of wine. The wine, as opposed to the naked statues, he could appreciate.
‘My masters know of where the sacred burial tomb of Alaric is located,’ the barbarians eyes widened at this statement. ‘Moreover, this tomb, as you well know, was concealed with a great diligence. The scared iron crown of your people was thus veiled in shadow. Lost to the Visigothic tribe.’ He stopped for effect, awaiting the impact of his words. Yes, he thought, he will be a fine instrument, this leader of bandits. It must be him.
‘Tell me, how did you stumble upon such information?’ His voice crackled with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. ‘The slaves who toiled to erect that tomb were put to the sword. Legends spoke of a river diverted from its natural course, all to keep the burial ground hidden from prying eyes.’
‘My masters possess arcane powers of divination, Amalric,’ the elder man replied cryptically, relishing the shiver that ran down the marauder’s spine at the utterance of his true name. ‘They have seen a future where you, a mighty Gothic warrior, claims the crown, establishing your dominion over Roman lands. And in return for their aid, all they request is service at a future date — a token of your gratitude, if you will.’
‘So, sorcery then. And I will be bound. Typical of one such as you,’ Amalric snorted in disgust. He mulled over the sorcerers’ words while he emptied another cup of dark sweet wine. ‘You profess much power old wizard, why then do you need my services in any matter?’
‘The powers you call sorcery are governed, like any cosmic force, by the laws of nature. And like many affairs, need the agency of man to see matters through to their conclusion,’ he replied impatiently.
‘Meaning — you have need of a sword arm. Tell me then, why this endeavour is in my benefit and why I should believe the vague promises of a weathered old man.’ He reclined again, assuming a guise of mock interest, ‘You are no-doubt longwinded, as are most dabblers in sorcery, so I will make myself comfortable.’
To guide the fate of peoples is a laborious task, reflected the elderly man, and he was tired and old. However, the important enterprise of ensuring providence occurred in the favour of mankind must be sustained. And so, he told his tale.
***
The castella lay silent as a grave, nestled atop the highest of three hillocks in the peaceful tree dotted hinterland of Costanza, along the bed of the Busento river. A summer fog hung low to the ground, carried inland with a light breeze — a cooling gift from the Mediterranean. If any watchman had been paying due diligence, they would have observed a brawny figure with long brown hair and a bright strong face emerge from over the crenulated brick wall, muscles undulating with the efforts of the climb. But far from the frontier wars, these vexillationes had grown complacent in their duties.
Hustled behind the looming broad shoulders, after their own arduous clamber up twine ropes, stood a motley assortment of Herules, Gepids, legionary deserters, thieves, and slaves. Every creed anathema to the Roman sensibility and order of things — from the corners of uncivilised barbarity to the crime ridden gutters of Roman cities.
How this had happened had occurred in almost imperceptible steps that began in the mind of Amalric — the figure at the head of these marauders — as he sat on a tree observing the compound for some number of days. To the misfortune of his foes, he had done more than watch. He had been at work amongst the oppressed and malcontents of the surrounding countryside, whom he had recruited for his small band of Gothic warriors. A chance to plunder the castrum that had repressed the hinterland unremittingly had been promised to them in return for their service.
In this interval he had had perpetrated many deeds that earned him well the appellation of Barbarian by the Romans; and hero by the denizens of a countryside ravaged by the marches and counter marches of war. For the Western Roman Empire buckled under the strain of barbarian raids and civil wars.
At a signal from the broad warrior, the band dashed into the specula at the entrance gate, manned by only a few men who were senseless with wine.
It was an odd affair this, assaulting a gate from within a fortress, rather than from without. An irony that was not lost on this leader of warriors.
Slipping through the heavy wooden doors they sliced the throats of the hapless sentries, who fell before uttering so much as a whimper. The formerly oppressed lent to this task an ardent zeal that further enflamed their lust for battle. This pleased their new chief, who knew they would have need of this passion in the coming hours.
‘Amalric!’ Thorismund hissed, ‘now what?’
‘Be silent a moment,’ Amalric hissed back at the burly blonde giant, ‘And I will tell you.’ He scanned the courtyard from his vantage point. Across from the wooden specula, along the far wall, sat three barracks housing six score vexillationes drawn from around the crumbling remnants of the empire. The garrison went about its business unawares of the interlopers within the walls. Across from that at about twenty paces, a whitewashed stone columned bath house straddled the western most wall. Beside the eastern most barrack lay Amalrics prize, a temple of sun-dried brick and limestone in the Roman fashion.
‘What makes you believe so utterly that King Alaric’s tomb his hidden beneath that accursed temple? Even when these fools know it not,’ Thorismund growled in his companion’s ear, ‘And there had better be loot other than a skeleton — King or otherwise.’ Badwila, the axe wielder, who seldom spoke, nodded heartily in agreement.
They were accoutred in furs and ring mail, lacquered shields now unfastened from backs and handled from the forearm.
The sounds of revelry could be heard under the soft glow of braziers from the courtyard.
‘I have never yet given you reason to doubt me Thorismund,’ the warrior named Amalric made answer, exuding confidence. ‘They have
pillaged the surrounding land for years, there will be loot in abundance,’ he added. He yet again checked the condition of his weapons, as was the habit of a seasoned fighter. ‘Yonder temple is without doubt the death abode of our late king, deep beneath it — I have it on good authority. And these fools know not what they stand picket over. Yet, there is a hindrance.’ He nodded towards the lively camp bellow.
‘What enterprise alongside you is ever without hindrance,’ chuckled Thorismund. Badwila nodded in earnest. Steadfast companions these, humour before battle being their custom.
Huddled into the watchtower, some three score warriors watched him keenly, waiting for his next command. Amalric turned to address his band of misfits’, being sure of himself in the leadership of hosts.
‘Do not fear the enemies’ numbers, for we will be three to one in disadvantage,’ Amalrics fervour rose like a windstorm in his eyes. ‘But they are a band of hirelings from distant lands, with no loyalty other than to so many gold pieces — where we are a people fighting for our ourselves. Nor do they expect battle this night. Thus — it is we who hold the advantage. Do not take flight should the issue go against us at the outset, for to do so would ensure destruction in any case. For they will seek reprisal upon your homes and families if we fail. If we press hard our advantage, and the assault is willing, these jackals will not long stand against wolves. Win or die here; know that you will never again need use of arms under my protection.’ His own desire for victory had kindled a yearning for battle in his warriors. ‘Your only labour is to endure the battle until I re-emerge from the depths of yonder temple.’
Amalric took up a brass buccina from a dead sentry and let loose a ghostly note to signal the attack. The band filtered out of the watchtower and charged across the courtyard like a strong gale. The hapless garrison peered about themselves in confusion as the belligerent mass heaved towards them out of the low fog.
***
The struggle was desperate as the ambushers fell upon the bewildered Valetes in the typical Gothic fashion of frontal assault. Swords and spearpoints glinted in the moonlight as blows rose and fell. Shields were split and spear shafts broken. In final exertion men drew knives and short swords. It was the fighting of men locked at death grips with one another, where one must slay the other to see another sunrise.
Amid the melee struck Amalric. He came on with such a recklessness and relish of combat that his lesser foemen drew back in dismay. He fought with the inexorability of a jaguar, hacking his way through the melee towards the mausoleum. Gaining the entrance, he ripped open the sandstone doors in a display of strength uncommon to civilised men and disappeared inside.
***
Amalric waited a short interval while his vision adjusted in the inky darkness. He could hear the muffled far-off clamour of ongoing battle. The shouted oaths, curses and the screams of the wounded grew fainter as he descended a stone staircase that spiralled into a black abyss at the centre of the edifice. Hidden under a statue of Ares he had pushed clear. The smooth porous brick was glazed with damp, cold to the touch, as he groped his way ever further into a decent that had begun to feel endless in his spatial disorientation. A musty dampness lingered, growing stronger as he pressed on. Until finally, he could see the flicker of amber flame around a curve of stairs emanating from a sputtering torch. The stairs had led him to a tunnel that Amalric presumed snaked its way beneath the river, as the old wizard had promised it would. He took the torch from its wall mount and stooped to enter, his shadow stretching over the walls that had progressively given way to earthen rock. As he advanced, he came to yet another portal, this one framed with grinning skulls and a script of odd runes that Amalric could make no sense of. He ducked through into a large stone vault, at the centre of which lay a marble sarcophagus. Over this stooped a robbed figure.
Amalric approached cautiously, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. The figure turned slowly, revealing the face of an elderly man, similar in aspect to the old wizard of the garden.
‘Who are you?’ the old man asked, his voice echoing in the vaulted chamber.
‘I am Amalric,’ he replied, his voice filled with authority. ‘And you, old man, who are you?’
The old man straightened, his cloak draped over a spare frame. ‘I am the guardian of this tomb, entrusted with its secrets,’ he said solemnly. ‘I am the last of a lineage dedicated to preserving the legacy and life energy of the great King Alaric.’
Amalrics eyes narrowed. ‘You speak as if Alaric is still alive.’
‘Alaric’s spirit lives on, in a manner of speaking, his presence permeates this tomb. For years, my ancestors have watched over his resting place, awaiting the chosen one who would come to claim the sacred crown.’
Amalrics’ curiosity was piqued. ‘The sacred iron crown… it is here then?’
The guardian nodded, ‘It lies within the casket, waiting for the rightful heir to claim it. But beware, Amalric, for the crown is no mere trinket.
Amalric approached the sarcophagus, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. He reached out slowly to lift the heavy marble cap. The sight revealed within stole his breath.
Resting atop the skull of a long dead warrior King sat an iron crown, resplendent with intricate designs, gleaming with an unearthly aura. Amalrics’ eyes widened as he understood the weight of what lay before him.
‘It is time for a new era, Amalric,’ the guardian said, his voice filled with a blend of hope and sadness. ‘The fate of your people rests in your hands, and my time has come to an end. Will you take up the mantle of Alaric, bane of the Romans, and lead the Visigoths to glory once more?’
Amalric stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed upon the crown. He thought of his people, their struggles, and their dreams of a homeland. A surge of determination coursed through his veins.
‘I will,’ he declared, his voice echoing with conviction. ‘I will take up the crown and fulfil the destiny of the Visigoths. We shall forge a new chapter in history.’ As Amalric placed the crown upon his head, he felt a surge of power unlike anything he had ever experienced. The weight of the crown seemed to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose and strength. He turned to face the old guardian, only to discover he had vanished.
***
Amalric emerged into the chaos of battle, the clash of iron and the battle cries of warriors filling the night. The tide of the conflict shifted as Amalric, now adorned with the crown of Alaric, entered into the fray once again. Victory was within their grasp, and the promise of a brighter future beckoned. Amalric, the Gothic warrior turned king, would lead his people to reclaim their lands and forge a new era of strength and unity. The legends of Alaric and his crown would be revived, resonating through the annals of history once more. But Amalric new that one day, he would be called upon to render service.
End
