went deep into his side, and the old fighting man was at rest for
ever.

And then came a strange peripeteia for the Amal. Zeno, we know not
why, sent instantly for him. He had been ravaging, pursuing,
defeating Roman troops, or being defeated by them. Now he must come
to Rome. His Goths should have the Lower Danube. He should have
glory and honour to spare. He came. His ideal, at this time, seems
actually to have been to live like a Roman citizen in Constantinople,
and help to govern the Empire. Recollect, he was still little more
than five and twenty years old.

So he went to Constantinople, and I suppose with him the faithful
mother, and faithful sister, who had been with him in all his
wanderings. He had a triumph decreed him at the Emperor's expense,
was made Consul Ordinarius ('which,' saith Jornandes, 'is accounted
the highest good and chief glory in the world') and Master-general,
and lodged in the palace.

What did it all mean? Dietrich was dazzled by it, at least for a
while. What it meant, he found out too soon. He was to fight the
Emperor's battles against all rebels, and he fought them, to return
irritated, complaining (justly or unjustly) of plots against his
life; to be pacified, like a child, with the honour of an equestrian
statue; then to sink down into Byzantine luxury for seven inglorious
years, with only one flashing out of the ancient spirit, when he
demanded to go alone against the Bulgars, and killed their king with
his own hand.

What woke him from his dream? The cry of his starving people.