Justinian

SIXTEEN

On an October evening of the same year that Belisarius celebrated his triumph, Cassiodorus — silver-haired elder statesman, Praetorian Prefect of Italy, and Secretary of the Ostrogothic Council — greeted his fellow Roman Cethegus,* the Caput Senatus as, from different directions, they entered Ravenna’s Platea Maior: the main thoroughfare of the city’s civitas barbara, or Gothic quarter.

‘Ave, Rufius. You too have had a royal summons. . sorry — invitation — to this feast?’ enquired the prefect.

‘I fear so, Magnus,’ replied Cethegus, whose homely features bore a striking resemblance to those of the Flavian emperor Vespasian. ‘The royal bratling must have something important he wants us to hear, to have dragged me all the way from Rome. And insisted on senatorial dress.’ With a wry grin, he indicated the archaic toga in which he was enshrouded. ‘I see you too are required to wear your robes of office. I guess Athalaric likes to have the odd tame Roman to show off to his Gothic friends.’ And chatting amicably, the pair made their way towards the guards’ compound, which the young king (in a gesture of defiance against his mother, the regent Amalasuntha**) had chosen as a venue for his feast, in preference to the royal palace.

The two old friends had risen to high office under Theoderic, the great Ostrogothic leader who (officially as vicegerent of Italy for the Eastern emperor) had proved a model ruler for most of his long reign. His designated heir, Eutharic, husband of Amalasuntha, had predeceased him, leaving Athalaric — son of Eutharic and Amalasuntha — to become king at the tender age of ten, his mother ruling for him until he should come of age.

‘Remind me what’s happening at court,’ requested Cethegus, as the two strolled through the neat little city, studded with fine new Arian churches built under Theoderic. Protected by its ring of lagoons and marshes, Ravenna had replaced Milan as capital of the Western Empire at the start of the barbarian invasions over a century before. Now, situated in the Ostrogothic heartland of the Padus* valley, it was the administrative centre of Amalasuntha’s government. ‘As head of the Senate,’ went on Cethegus, ‘I have to be in Rome for most of the year, so I tend to lose touch with what’s going on in the corridors of power up here.’

‘Things are pretty tense at present, Rufius,’ sighed the prefect, his fine patrician features pursed in cogitation. ‘There’s a ding-dong power struggle going on between Amalasuntha and the leading Ostrogoths for control of Italy, with young Athalaric a pawn in the game. Basically, the problem boils down to this: Amalasuntha’s a woman; she’s a Romanophile; she wants — or rather did, until the matter was taken out of her hands — Athalaric to be given a Roman education.** All of which is total abomination to the Gothic nobility. To fierce, patriarchal-minded German warriors, rule by a female is anathema. To them, Romans are an effete and cowardly race, so a Roman education is the last thing they want for their king. Accordingly, they removed young Athalaric from his Roman tutors and switched him to a German education. In other words: no more books, no more cane, just learning how to fight, and, unfortunately — drink. Thanks to their enlightened tutelage, the boy, who’s now seventeen, has become a drunken wastrel. Round One to them.’

‘Somehow, Magnus, I can’t imagine Theoderic’s daughter taking all this lying down. She’s inherited her father’s strength of will, I believe.’

‘That, my friend, would be an understatement. She got her three chief opponents appointed to frontier commands to get them away from court, then had them murdered. Also, as an insurance policy, she sent her personal fortune across the Adriatic to Dyrrachium in the Eastern Empire, just in case she had to cut and run. It never came to that of course; now, with her three main enemies out of the way, and some leading Goths deciding to back her, she’s managing to cling to power — just. So, Round Two to her. However, should Athalaric die — and with his health wrecked by drink, that could happen sooner rather than later — her position, without a man to legitimize her rule, would become parlous. As you can imagine, law and order’s rather gone to pot, with the duces and saiones* openly flouting the authority of a female regent they resent, and a boy-king they despise.’

‘Altogether, a situation you could describe as interesting,’ mused Cethegus. ‘With Justinian waiting in the wings to take advantage of any crisis that develops. Now that Africa’s been brought back into the Empire, Italy has to be his next target.’

‘A racing certainty, I’d say.’ Cassiodorus shook his head and chuckled. ‘As you so rightly observe, the situation’s — “interesting”. Well, here we are — the old imperial barracks.’ And he pointed to a grim Roman building looming ahead, an uncompromising stone box with a massive tower at each corner. Here were housed the protectores domestici, the household guards. These were now all Goths, their Roman predecessors having been phased out ten years previously in accordance with Theoderic’s principle that only Goths should man the army, leaving Romans to run the administration.

Down the centre of the great drill-hall flanking the quadratum extended a long line of trestle tables (none of this effeminate Roman nonsense of lounging on couches) at which were seated the king and his guests — all Gothic nobles, apart from the two Romans, Cassiodorus and Cethegus. This latter pair alone wore Roman dress; the others were clad in Germanic trousers and belted tunics, Roman dalmatics being streng verboten. No females were present, for this was to be a warriors’ feast, where men could brag, guzzle, and swill to their hearts’ content, free from the restraining influence of womenfolk. Seated in the middle, the young king, his face blotched and puffy from long acquaintance with the wine-stoup, cut a faintly ridiculous figure. In imitation of what he imagined to have been the garb of his heroic German ancestors, he sported a cloak of wolf-fur, fastened at the shoulder by an enormous enamel-and-gold fibula in the form of an eagle, his head being surmounted by a silvered Spangenhelm. Gone was his original short Roman haircut; in its place, flaxen locks now depended to his shoulders. Less successful had been his attempt to grow a Gothic-style moustache, his upper lip adorned by a mere downy fuzz.

Swaying slightly, Athalaric rose and raised aloft his wine-cup. (In contrast to his favouring all things Teutonic over Roman, he had acquired, in preference to German beer, a liking for the strong Roman vintages, which he drank undiluted.) All followed suit.

‘My friendsh. . friends, fellow Goths and Romans,’ the king announced, in tones already slurred, ‘in three weeks time I shall be eighteen. An age at which my illushtrious. . illustrious grandfather, Theoderic, had already made his name, by capturing the great city of Shingi. . Singidunum. But my mother says I’m not yet fit to rule. The bitch. Well, we’ll see about that. Come my birthday, I intend to tell her she is no longer regent, and musht make way for me. I trust I may count on your support.’ He paused and looked muzzily around the table. ‘I therefore ask you all to drink: to my acsheshun. . accession.’

Goblets were dutifully drained — except by one venerable greybeard, whom the king unfortunately spotted.

‘Hildebrand — you did not drink!’ accused Athalaric, his face whitening. ‘You, who were my grandfather’s cup-bearer. You wouldn’t have refused to toasht. . toast Theoderic, I think.’

‘You, Sire, are no Theoderic,’ declared the old man bluntly.

‘You dare to speak to me like that!’ screamed the king. Turning to Cassiodorus he declared, a note almost of pleading entering his voice, ‘Tell him I am worthy to be king.’

‘Italy is fortunate indeed, to have as ruler a descendant of the great Theoderic,’ replied the other smoothly.

‘You see!’ shouted Athalaric, unaware of the prefect’s careful ambiguity. ‘Even Cashiodorus — a Roman — thinks that I should shit. . sit upon the throne. By God Hildebrand, you will drink, you. . you insolent dotard.’ And moving down the table, he grabbed the elder by the nose. Forced to open his mouth in order to breathe, the old man was unable to prevent Athalaric from spilling some wine into it.

‘Now, leave our presence,’ demanded Athalaric, setting down a half-empty goblet. ‘You are hereby banished from our court — forever.’

Red-faced and spluttering, Hildebrand nevertheless exited the hall with dignity, an embarrassed silence spreading in his wake.

Awkward and stilted at first, conversation gradually picked up as a harpist began to sing of great deeds by Gothic heroes, and a stream of rude plenty — mainly dishes of beef, pork, and venison — flowed in from the kitchens. (Conspicuous by their absence were elaborate Roman dishes such as flamingoes’ tongues with mullets’ livers, or sows’ udders in tunny sauce.) Toast followed toast, in heavy Roman wines unmixed with water. In contrast to the king, who invariably refilled his goblet, most of the guests, after a time, contented themselves with sipping sparingly each time a health was drunk.

After several hours, with the torches guttering in their sconces and several guests slumped asleep, their heads resting on the boards, Athalaric, cheeks flushed and eyes bloodshot, rose unsteadily to propose a final toast. ‘To my beloved mother — Amalashuntha,’ he mumbled incoherently. ‘May she rot in hell.’ Suddenly, he staggered, the goblet slipping from his fingers, and with a loud cry crashed backwards to the floor. Immediately, a doctor was summoned; arriving within minutes, he knelt beside the patient. After a brief examination, he rose and pronounced to the assembled guests, ‘Gentlemen — the king is dead.’

* For the background of these two influential Roman officials, see my Theoderic.

** Amalasuntha was the beautiful and learned daughter of Theoderic, who had died eight years before in 526.

* River Po.

** A Roman education involved liberal use of the cane. In the opinion of Theoderic, this would cow a boy’s spirit, so that when he became a man he would be afraid of battle.

* These two categories of Goths corresponded (very roughly) respectively to barons and sheriffs in mediaeval England. ‘Dux’ was a Roman title for the holder of a high military command, one which Gothic nobles had (rather inappropriately) adopted.