Chapter 43
A Change in Priorities
August, 1973 AD
Constantinople, Rhoman Empire
Roderic jostled his way through the crowd, using his shoulder as a wedge as he pushed through the attendants. “Excuse me,” he said is badly accented Greek, “Excuse me.” After what seemed the millionth time, he felt as if he would be repeating that very same plea in his sleep. Not for the first time, he was happy that he had studied Greek in University; it wasn’t his first language, or even his second, but it had served him well over the years. [FN1]
“Excuse me,” he said again, waving his hand at a burly and well dressed security guard. “Can you point me to the press docket?”
The guard cast his cold eyes upon the smaller man, and Roderic sheepishly flashed his press pass. “I seem to have, uh, gotten turned around the in the crowd.”
Without saying a word, the guard pointed and, following his finger, Roderic was able to just make out the enclosure. “Thank you,” he said and tipped his hat, happy both for the directions as well as the opportunity to say something else in this damned language. And then he was pushing his way through the crowd again.
By the time he reached the press docket, he was sweaty and feeling irritated. “Why can’t they hold these diplomatic events during a better time of the year,” he found himself thinking, not for the first time. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he showed his credentials to the guard at the gate; a man, he was happy to note, was not nearly as surely as his cocompatriot.
“Have fun,” the Guard said in Gothic.
“Oh, always. Nothing more engaging than two statesmen shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries,” Roderic responded in his native tongue, the barely disguised sarcasm dripping him his lips.
“Ha!” the guard exclaimed and smiled even broader. “From my point of view, I will take boredom over excitement any day of the week, God be praised!”
“Well,” Roderic said, “I suppose I can’t argue with that. But, from my point of view, excitement sells papers. For your sake, friend, I will pray for your satisfaction and not my own!”
Still laughing, he made his way into the press area and found his seat, helpfully marked, and a complimentary bottle of water waiting for him. “Would have preferred some Gaelic Water of Life,” he muttered, “but this will do.”
Roderic had been sent to cover the meeting between the Rhoman and Gothic prime ministers. Relations between the two nations had steadily declined in the decades following the collapse of the Sigisthiuda Party and the with drawl of the Gothic military from many of its annexed holdings. The Rhomans, apparently, had not taken kindly to their brother-in-arms sudden embrace of reality. The cooling of relations was well known to Roderic as he had spent the last seven years on the Constinople beat for the Wopjan, Ravenna’s most prestigious newspaper.
It was the type of assignment one picked up from a double major in Journalism and Greek from University. A moderately prestigious one but Roderick was always telling his family that if the Wopjan really treasured his contributions, he would have been assigned to the Rhoman parliament or the Imperial Palace where true power lay. Instead, he was shuffled off to report on the daily goings on of Constantinople and was only lucky to get a political assignment when one of the members of the main journalism corp couldn’t make an engagement. Which, of course, is what happened today; a sudden boubt of stomach flu (or Sunday Morning Flu, Roderic thought with a smile) had knocked the Wopjan’s primary reporter out and left an opening for this event and he was more than willing to fill.
“This should be interesting,” a pretty redheaded reporter next to him said in a thick Duetshe accent. From her expression she really meant it, and Roderic was sure that this must be one of her first assignments; she couldn’t be over 22. He flashed her a smile “Probably not, but we can both hope, right?”
Any efforts to further the conversation, and maybe get a dinner parter for the night, was interrupted as Achillios Alexopoulos, the old and pudgy Prime Minister of the Rhoman Empire, and leader of the Aftokratoría tou Christoú Party emerged on the stage from behind a curtain. As if choreographed, and it probably had been, Athaulf Malan strode out; a man in his early fifties, his hair held just a shock of grey at the temples and the good looks one would expect for a leader from a media-obsessed age.
The two shook hands, and Rodric suppressed the desire to roll his eyes. He may not be one of the top ranked reports for the Wopjan but he had reported all segments of Constantinoplean society from the gutter to the mansions and, if it had taught him only one thing, it was to look at a man’s eyes. What he saw there didn’t surprise him at all; the smiles of Alexopoulos and Malan didn’t reach either of their eyes, and their handshake was stiff and formal. Apparently the efforts of the Rhomans to enlist Gothic help in suppressing the Egyptian separatists and Israeli rebels hadn’t gone as well as Alexopoulos had wanted. This wasn’t a shock, but it bore watching.
Alexopoulos turned to the crowd and smiled, stepping forward. “Prime Minister Malan and myself had a vibrant and lively chat today,” he said. Roderic thought that the forced levity did not suit the dough-like older man in the least. “Although we do not always see eye to eye, we both agree that the time has come to rekindle the warm relations that once existed between the Gothic and Rhoman peoples.”
Roderic winced, already knowing how well those words would play to the international audience. The last time the Goth and Rhomans had possessed warm relations, Gothic tanks had rolled through much of Western Europe and the Rhomans had reclaimed their mastery of the Levant. From the frown that pursed Malan’s brow, the significance of those words were not lost on him either. [FN2]
Still Malan strode forward, his eyes flashed and he seemed to relax into a genuinely warm stance once he realized all of the cameras were focused safely upon him. “However, much work remains to be done,” he said, “though our peoples have a long history of friendship, we cannot overlook some of the more shameful episodes of that past. Although the Gothic people wish to welcome the Rhomans with the arms of friendship, we will not do so in such a way that would undermine the peace and stability of the world.”
Now it was Alexopoulos’ time to frown; less photogenic than Malan, he was also less able to hide his evident displeasure. “In the spirit of that friendship, I have been asked by his Imperial Majesty Heracles XVI to offer this gift on behalf of the Rhomans to the Gothic people and their King, the most noble, Alaric IX.”
Motioning to the side, the curtain parted and and two aids came forth holding what appeared to be a large bust of marble. Now it was Malan’s turn to appear surprised.
Showing that he was prime political animal after all Alexopoulos turn down the opportunity to continue speaking in the face of Malan’s shock. “It is a bust of Saint Amalamir, one of the greatest Emperors who ruled during the Restoration and gave his life to help save his brother-emperor during our darkest hour. We give you this bust to remind you of the history that exists between our peoples and pray for our continued brotherhood in years to come!” [FN3]
Roderic noticed the discomfort in Malan’s face as he smiled, “We, of course, accept such a generous gift,” he said and walked towards the bust.
At that moment, chaos broke out. Roderic noticed the sound of commotion coming from the crowd just outside the fenced off press area. He turned to look and saw that a scuffle had broken out. Suddenly a cry of “In the name of Christ the Most Divine!” pieced the air.
Whether he was moved by the noble creeds of days gone by, or his military training took over, but Roderic turned towards the redhead next to him and screamed at her to get down, and then threw his body over her. What happened next must have lasted mere seconds, but seemed to last an eternity. Roderic and thrown himself over the young girl and looked up in time to see the screaming man in the crowd throw a black object at the stage.
“Grenade,” Roderic thought, recognizing the shape of the thing from his own time in the Gothic military.
The Grenade sailed through the air and landed right at the feet of the Rhoman Prime Minister and then … did nothing. It just lay there for a short time; long enough for Alexopoulos to step back, grin and wave at the crowd and yell “Don’t worry! It’s a du-“
He never finished those words. The grenade, obviously sensing that there was truth to the saying that "it was better late than never", exploded, sending a fiery blast and shrapnel across the stage. Alexopoulous’ lower half simply ceased to exist. One second it was there and the next it was … many places. Malan’s guards had descended upon him the second the grenade was thrown and they shielded him from much of the blast, but he was still gravely injured.
“Shit,” Roderic said as he lept up from the weeping girl (Wilda, he would later learn. And, as it turned out, she most certainly wanted to have dinner with him.) He lept onto the stage in a single bound and was immediately tackled by the descending security forces. “Get off me, you idiots, I was a medic in the war!”
Something about his voice convinced them, and they let him up. Roderic scrambled to Malan’s side. The Prime Minister was bleeding from multiple wounds and, Roderic began to bark orders to the nearby guards who gaped, stunned with shock. And that is how Roderic Armswinths met the love of his life, saved the the Gothic Prime Minister and gained the scoop of the century in the process. It had, it turned out, been an exciting day after all. [FN4]
July, 617
Field outside of the vicinity of Vicus Leudicus [OTL: Leige, Belgium]
Amalamir, King of the Goths and Emperor of the Romans, smiled as he looked over the field of battle. The Frankish forces, what were left of them, stood organized against him. He took a deep breath, savoring the early morning air. It had been a long campaign, but Amalamir wouldn’t have had it any other way; long months with his army was far preferable to spending time cramped up in Ravenna or, worse yet, Rome. He had escaped captivity years earlier, or thought he had; being forced to hear the whining of his courtiers when he held court often made him wonder if he hadn’t had it easier in that Roman cell.
No matter. Ever since he was a young man, he had dedicated himself to stopping the eternal raids of the Franks upon the Empire. Today, he was about to complete his ambition, once and for all. Chlodmer, son of the late King Clothar, had finaly been cornered, and this was the day that he would finally submit to the Empire. Amalamir cupped his hands to his eyes to block out the morning sun and stared at his foes; off in the distance he could see the King readying his own men for battle. The Emperor smiled: today was going to be a good day, indeed.
Emperor of the Shadows: Ambiguity at the Heart of Gothic Remembrances of Emperor Amalamir
By: Gumaric Armswinths
“Journal of Restoration Era Europe” [Ravenia, Gotland], 2003
It has become almost a cliché to say that Amalamir’s twelve reign was one of contradictions in the minds of many Goths; both at the time and those of later generations. In many ways he represented the Gothic vision of an ideal Emperor. He was happiest in the field, fighting with his men, and most seemed to have been loyal to the death. Amalamir was often noted for being magnanimous towards his friends and foes alike. Not only had he spared the life of his nephews and sister in law, he also showed pity for many of those foes he bested on the battle field. Despite having spent much of his adult life campaigning against the Franks, Sigisbert the Frothiband tells us that, after Amalamir’s defeat of the Frankish King Chlodmer “he showed pity on the young man and invited him to dine in the royal tent. There they exchanged vows of brotherhood and became fast friends. Never again would the Franks trouble the Goths during the reign of Amalamir, and so to the Goths did not press the yoke of servitude down upon the Frankish people.”
In other words, Chlodmer agreed to become a brother of the Amalamir. We don’t know if this was done with an exchange of family members, but it seems has if the Gothic Emperor did not take the opportunity to enforce a harsh peace upon his vanquished foe, and simply agreed to exchange vows. What’s even more surprising, is that this seems to have worked. Sigismund the Frothiband records no further Frankish raids against the Gothic Emperor until the very worst of the Family Wars that would follow Amalamir’s reign. [FN5]
The question remains, why? Of course, its difficult or impossible to tell. The only full source we have detailing the life and the reign of Amalamir is Sigisbaihrt the Frothiband’s history, and a few short, and not flattering, descriptions in the work of Gilbairht Strongarm. Sigisbaihrt, of course, wrote years after Amalamir’s own death, although he appears to have based his work on sources which have since been lost to us; but even here his attention seems to be focused mainly on Amalamir as the catalyst that began the Fourth Punic War. After this, he becomes largely overshadowed in Sigisbaihrts’ telling of the Family Wars. A smattering of Rhoman sources also discuss Amalamir, but these largely hagiography in nature, or only focus on his death.
In other words, any modern historian attempting to unrap the enigma of Amalamir’s personality doesn’t have much to go on. Others had pieced the picture together and concluded that the Emperor suffered from bouts of depression, which does not seem to be unrealistic, although the cautious scholar must take such claims with a grain of salt. However, it seems safe, based on the evidence that has come down to us, to say that Amalamir was a deeply emotional man and capable of acting on a whim. He could grow dark and suspicious, such as when he banished his eldest son whose paternity he aways questioned, and yet show the greatest kidness to a vanquished foe.
And here, I believe, we have found the problems at the heart of the Gothic ambiguity to their Emperor. All of the Gothic sources which deal with his reign treat Amalamir as a troubling figure. One one hand he was to be lauded for his heroic accomplishments, but he was never to be fully trusted either. Furthermore, it was those same strengths that seemed to lead to Amalamir’s failings. His own quest for glory on the battlefield seems to have caused him to overlook the administration of his own realm. This absentee landlordism would have dire consequences for the Gothic Empire in the years to come. Amalamir made no movement to limit the growing power of the Roman Senate and the Consuls which had been empowered, by kept restrained, by previous Emperors. He also did not heed the growing power of the Reiks and Governors in Jaile, Hispania and other provinces; although it may have been difficult for him to do so in the early years of his reign. So too, Amalamir would often forsake the management of his own family, to the detriment of all. It was under his nose that Adela, his brother’s wife and former Empress, began to maneuver herself and her children back into a position of power. Finally, as has been discussed, Amalamir’s banishment of his eldest son deprived him of an heir who was ready to take the throne following his own death. All of this would have dire consequences for the Empire for years to come. [FN6]
…
It is perhaps ironic that it is the Rhomans who hold Amalamir in such esteem, having gone so far as to declare him an Orthodox Saint, despite the fact that Amalamir remained an Arian of dubious dedication throughout his life, and we all over members of the Amalingian dynasty. It would be his willingness to come to the aid of his brother Emperor when the East needed him most that would win this esteem, as well as his pivotal role in turning the tide of the war against the Persians. And this, likely, was done less due to religious fervor, or even a loyalty to the Eastern Empire, than the chance to once again take to the field of battle and escape the responsibilities of ruling the West.
[FN1] A new character! I’ve toyed around with introducing characters from a more ‘modern’ era. We have Pękosława, of course, and here is another. I can’t say that my conception of Europe in the ATL 20th century is fully fleshed out, but I do have enough of an idea that I can introduce nice vignettes from time to time. I know this one ran exceedingly long, but I hope you enjoyed it. It gave me the opportunity to write in a different style, and I hope you appreciate my lame attempts at humor as well.
[FN2] An astute reader might conclude that Byzantine hegemony over the Middle East, especially over Israel and Egypt is a more modern event than might initially be expected. The truly astute reader might even note that I’ve been sprinkling tidbits about the history of Israel throughout this timeline, and that it is a drastically different kind of state than the one present in OTL. Don’t worry, the history of the Jewish people will take some interesting twists and turns and will be explained in depth in later posts. But not for a while!
[FN3] How did a Gothic Emperor, who was presumably an Arian, come to be seen as a Saint by the Byzantine Church? Especially an Emperor whose reputation in his own homeland is a mixed bag? Don’t worry, all shall be explained in time.
[FN4] This section is really a deviation from my normal style of writing, as I’m sure you can tell. I tried to be a bit more cynical, hard-boiled and comedic. Hopefully it didn’t fall flat. One can only write Heroic style literature before so long before wanting to try something else.
[FN5] Foreshadowing!
[FN6] Amalair’s eldest surviving son was born roughly 9 and a half months after his imprisonment. You may remember, in a previous chapter, Adela mocking him with this fact and questioning the faithfulness of his wife. This jab stuck closer to Amalamir’s heart that it should have, and he grew to distrust his son (a young man who often seemed to take more after Amalamir’s brother, in any case; a fact which stirred up further dark thoughts and memories). Finally, when the boy was a teenager, the two began to quarrel and Amalamir banished him from court. His heir eventually traveled to the land of the Lombards, still a Gothic vassal, and attempted to prove himself in the art of war. Sadly, he took ill and died. Amalamir has two other sons, as we shall see, but they are much younger and ill experienced.
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This was a somewhat different chapter than those I am used to writing. First of all, due to the extended 'modern' section towards the beginning, as well as the different writing style, and the focus of the post itself. Truthfully this is because Amalamir, although important, doesn't have the huge impact that the previous Emperors did. I had always planned on him being successful against the Franks and to get involved in the East due to his personality (which shall be explored in more detail in the next few posts), but, truthfully, not every Emperor can be dynamic, nor can everyone be entirely successful as their position. I had always seen Alamamir as a deeply warlike man who would forsake most of the duties of his office in order to win glory on the battlefield. He's complicated and interesting, but not the type of Emperor that is going to cast a long shadow (except in the form of his absence, which certainly will!)
I hope that I have done some justice to Amalamir and the situation in the Empire as I have seen it. It was nice to turn my attention back to the Goths, even just briefly, after tangent threads dealing with Britain and the East. I sometimes feel,as an author, that I've left numerous threads open, completely know the tapestry they are meant to be woven into, and am now just in the position of trying to remember what goes where! Luckily, after we turn out attention back to the East for the Byzantine-Persian War and its aftermath, I will be left with a much cleaner slate.
I hope everyone enjoyed this and, as always, any questions, concerns or suggestions are always welcome!
I am indeed very fond of my students, and I can relate very well on everything you write.
