Theodoric

TWENTY-THREE

Observing the awe on Theoderic’s face as they came in sight of Aurelian’s mighty walls surrounding Rome,* Timothy’s heart sank. Moments later his fears were confirmed when, making the sign of the cross (an unheard-of gesture on the part of an Arian), the king murmured, ‘Behold: the Mistress of the World.’

Assembled before the Flaminian Gate, the city’s main entrance from the north, the vast throng — senators in togas, leading citizens in brightly coloured dalmatics, robed clerics, plebs in working tunics or holiday attire — burst into spontaneous cheering. As the royal party approached the great arch flanked by white marble-clad towers, two men stepped forward. One was toga-draped, ancient, stooped and bald, but with an air of stern authority; the other was youngish, almost effeminately handsome, with the face of an Adonis carved by Praxiteles, and clad in floating, diaphanous robes of coloured silk. The first would be Festus, the Caput Senatus, Timothy thought. But the second? With a shock, he realized that (assuming the briefing was correct) this must be the new Pope, Symmachus.†

‘The Senate and the People of Rome, together with His Holiness the Monarchical Bishop of the See of St Peter,’ announced Festus in a voice trembling with age and dignity, ‘give greeting to Theoderic Amalo, king of the Ostrogoths and vicegerent of Italy in the name of His Serenity Anastasius, Emperor of the East Romans.’

Dismounting, Theoderic made an appropriate response, then, with his bodyguard and chief councillors, accompanied by the senatorial and papal parties and surrounded by exuberant and noisy crowds, entered the Eternal City by the Flaminian Way. ‘Remember thou art only a man,’ murmured Timothy with a grin; it was the ancient caution that a slave whispered in the ear of a Roman general entering Rome to celebrate a triumph.

But the jest fell on deaf ears. ‘I believe the Romans love me,’ said Theoderic, turning a rapt face to Timothy as they passed beneath the arch of Marcus Aurelius. ‘They seem to be accepting me as one of their own — perhaps even as their emperor.’

This was extremely bad news, thought Timothy, muttering something vague but tactful in reply. Staring at the man who was his friend as well as master — also still, in some unaccountable way, his charge — Timothy decided that Theoderic looked ridiculous. To please his own people, whose identity was at risk of being swamped, living as they were among the numerically far superior Romans, the king — in contrast to his previous short Roman-style haircut and clean-shaven face — had grown his hair long in the German fashion, and allowed a moustache to adorn his upper lip. The image accorded ill with the robes of imperial purple he had affected for the occasion. In consequence, he looked neither Goth nor Roman, more a freakish hybrid. Things had changed in the time since Theoderic, by eliminating Odovacar, had made himself undisputed ruler of Italy. Timothy’s mind drifted back over the past seven years.

They had been years of astonishing, solid achievement, Timothy reflected, resulting in an Italy that was (to all outward appearance) well run, stable and prosperous — as in the best days of the Caesars. Faced with the daunting and immensely difficult task of providing for his people in a foreign and potentially hostile land, and doing so without antagonizing the new Italian subjects over whom he must establish his rule, Theoderic had, thought Timothy, risen superbly to the occasion. Administered by one Liberius, a senator, a careful sale and redistribution of land had satisfied the great majority of Ostrogoths without bearing too hard on their Roman ‘hosts’, a settlement facilitated by the fact that the Romans vastly outnumbered their ‘guests’. The two peoples were to live strictly under their own laws as separate communities, with distinct functions: the Goths (concentrated mainly in the strategically important north-east of the country, between Pavia and Ravenna) to man the army, the Romans ‘to cultivate the arts of peace’, and to run the administration. This last, purged of corruption for almost the first time in its long history, functioned efficiently under the Master of Offices and the Praetorian Prefect, assisted by a shadowy tribe of ubiquitous officials known as agentes in rebus.

Theoderic himself fulfilled a double role. To the Goths, he presented the assiduously nurtured image of the successful war leader — not difficult, considering his proven record as victorious hero-king, Timothy told himself. To his German compatriots in the Ostrogothic heartlands of Venetia et Histria, Aemilia and Flaminia et Picenum, Theoderic was ‘Dietrich von Bern’ — Theoderic of Verona (his favourite residence). To the Romans, he tried to appear a worthy successor to the best of their emperors, wise, strong, and even-handed: a stance which seemed to work, as the Romans increasingly compared him to Trajan or Valentinian I. As for the Church, Theoderic was content to act as impartial arbitrator when disputes arose, a position traditionally adopted by emperors from Constantine on; here, his Arianism was actually an advantage, his judgements being perceived as unbiassed. The fact that the Churches of the West and East were in schism also benefited Theoderic by allowing him to appear, if only to a limited extent, as the champion of Rome versus Constantinople.

Preoccupied with implementing these demanding policies, prior to this first visit to Rome Theoderic had had little time to speculate about his constitutional position. The status quo he had achieved would have satisfied the ambition of most rulers — men of, say, Odovacar’s stamp, Timothy reflected. And yet he sensed that for Theoderic it was not enough. The Amal king’s dream of becoming accepted by the Romans as one of them had never been abandoned, only put on hold while he dealt with the pressing practicalities of getting his people to Italy and establishing his rule there. The recent, tardy confirmation of his status as vicegerent by Anastasius had wrought an immediate (and, to Timothy, misplaced) change in Theoderic’s priorities. Hence the visit to Rome.

To Timothy, the king’s re-awakened ambition was an unfortunate development. He had seen it all before with successful gang leaders. They acquired delusions of grandeur, craving acceptance by respectable society, striving for status, titles, above all that most Roman of accolades, civilitas.* Almost invariably with such climbers, pride came before a fall — exposure and disgrace by contemptuous members of the class they aspired to join, a knife in the back by an ex-colleague in crime with a score to settle. Take Zeno, a perfect example of a small fish swimming in a big pond: his Roman subjects had despised him as a barbarian who had got above himself. If he’d stuck to being warlord of a tribe of savage hillmen, instead of vying for the purple, he would never have endured that most horrible of deaths. Would Theoderic make the same mistake? Was he capable, Timothy wondered, of seeing himself as he really was: a barbarian leader who, by an extraordinary combination of luck, personality and circumstance, had made it big on the world stage? For his own well-being and peace of mind, he would do well to put aside any dreams of becoming Roman. That way lay disillusion.

The Romans, Timothy believed, were an arrogant and fickle race, with long and unforgiving memories stretching back to the massacre of Varus’ legions by Arminius, the German freedom fighter. In the infancy of some ancients yet alive, one of the greatest of Rome’s generals, Stilicho, debarred from the purple by reason of his Vandal blood, had perished at the hands of a Roman executioner. For all his Roman upbringing, Theoderic was still German, a fatal barrier to acceptance by the Romans. He should remember that. But would he? As much chance of that happening, Timothy admitted gloomily, as of a camel going through the eye of a needle.

With the vast expanse of the Campus Martius, studded with theatres and great public edifices such as the Pantheon, stretching away to the right, the procession proceeded beneath the huge aqueduct called Aqua Virgo, passed the Forum of Trajan, skirted the Forum Romanum overlooked by the Capitol, crossed the Tiber by the Aemilian Bridge, left the city by the Aurelian Gate, and ascended the hill called Vaticanus to the Basilica of Peter, built by Constantine over the apostle’s grave. Here, Theoderic went into conclave with the Pope, to settle an ongoing and furious controversy arising from a challenge to the papal succession, and the questionable status of lands gifted to the Church. Timothy found himself wondering how a people who had raised such mighty works, could have allowed themselves to be conquered by illiterate barbarians.

En route, he had been amazed by the numbers of infatuated women who had crowded round the Pope, calling out endearments and fondling his garments — attentions which Symmachus appeared to enjoy, or at any rate did nothing to deter. Particularly brazen was the behaviour of one young female whom the others called ‘Spicy’,* whose propositions to the Holy Father bordered on the obscene.

Next on the royal itinerary was the Senate House, where Theoderic had been invited to speak before the august assembly. Approaching the rostrum, the king had a sudden, unexpected and extremely disconcerting attack of nerves. Confronting the rows of white-clad senators, their faces for the most part hard, proud and fiercely critical, Theoderic quailed. These Romans were men whose ancestors had ruled a goodly portion of the known world for the better part of a thousand years. And here was he, a mere barbarian, presuming to address them; the purple robe he wore all at once felt like the garb of an imposter. The scene swam before his eyes, and for a terrible moment his mind went blank. Fighting for control, he gripped the rostrum’s edge in an effort to restrain the trembling of his hands.

The moment passed; the interior of the great hall came back into focus, the faces of his audience were no longer threatening but politely attentive, if slightly puzzled by the long pause. With confidence flowing back, Theoderic announced, ‘Senators of Rome, I am honoured to be asked to speak to you in this historic spot.’

The speech progressed smoothly, consisting essentially of a routine confirmation in office of the great posts of state — the Praetorian Prefect, the Prefect of Rome, the Quaestor, the Master of Offices, the Private and Public Purses, et al. (with compliments about the holders’ diligence in carrying out their duties), and the announcement of the names of their successors when the present holders’ terms of office should have run their course.

‘Furthermore,’ declared Theoderic, sensing that his speech had so far gone down well, ‘I am pleased to express my complete confidence and satisfaction in the Synod’s choice as to who should occupy the Bishop’s throne of Rome: Symmachus. In consequence, the rival candidate, Laurentius, must abandon his claim to the See of St Peter, but in recognition of his good service he will be permitted to retire from his present post of Bishop of Nocera to a villa on the estates of Festus, which the Caput Senatus has graciously made over to his use.* In conclusion, I see no reason to reverse the grants of land formerly made to the Patrimony of St Peter.’

Mistaking the frosty silence that followed for a respectful hush, Theoderic again thanked the Senate for inviting him to speak, and departed from the building.

As soon as the great bronze doors had closed behind the king, uproar broke out. In vain Festus banged the floor with his rod and called for silence, while angry exchanges (the vast majority hostile to Symmachus) flew back and forth among the benches: ‘The man’s a disgrace — a womaniser who consorts with females of the lowest sort.’ ‘Symmachus squanders the wealth of the Church on the plebs, to be sure of mob support.’ ‘Most of those grants were never legally ratified — we’ve as much right to that land as the Church.’ ‘My estates in Gaul and Spain were lost to the Franks and Visigoths. If I can’t recoup my losses from Saint Peter’s Holdings, I could face ruin.’ ‘He can’t even get the date of Easter right.’ ‘The only reason the Synod chose him was because he was able to back his claim with forged documents.’†

At length, the senators having shouted themselves out, Festus was able to make himself heard. Calling the assembly to order, he declared, ‘Clearly, our new lord and master has no conception of the problems arising from confirming Symmachus as Pope, especially that concerning land grants to the Church. As you all know, I myself, like most of you, am strongly opposed to any settlement which favours Symmachus. Quite apart from the man’s being morally unfit to sit on the throne of St Peter, the lands that might have been set aside, for the purpose of alleviating the distress of many of you who have lost estates to the barbarians, are to remain in Church hands. That situation is compounded by the compensation we’ve all had to pay out for Odovacar’s soldiers and Theoderic’s Ostrogoths. We must therefore make the king aware of our dilemma and, if possible, get him to reverse his decision.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ called a florid-faced senator, Faustus niger, known to be Symmachus’ main champion. This Faustus was a member of the powerful Anicius clan, and notorious for intrigue and shady dealings. ‘Surely Theoderic’s edict settles the matter? I’d have thought the subject closed for good.’

‘Yes, that would suit you splendidly, wouldn’t it?’ retorted Probinus, next to Festus the leading opponent of Symmachus. ‘I expect you’ve come to a cosy little arrangement with the Pope whereby some of that nice Church land devolves miraculously to yourself.’

After a few more recriminations had been hurled against the numerically insignificant pro-Symmachus party, Festus declared the session closed, with, for the moment, no decision taken as to further action re the Church lands controversy. The assembly broke up in an atmosphere of rancorous bile, knots of senators muttering ill-temperedly among themselves as they left the Senate House.

‘In this year of the consuls Patricius and Hypatius and from the Founding of the City the twelve hundred and fifty third, being also the five hundred and first from the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ,’ intoned the Master of Ceremonies, ‘His Majesty Theoderic, king of the Amal and vicegerent of Italy, bids you all welcome.’ In the great audience hall of Domitian’s Domus Augustana on the Palatine were assembled, together with their wives, the great and good of Rome at a reception hosted by Theoderic. Senators and scholars mingled with bishops, senior civil servants, and the papal entourage; the vast chamber was ablaze with polychrome marble and adorned with enormous statues. Slaves bearing trays of delicacies or flagons of wine wove among the throng from which arose a buzz of animated conversation.

Theoderic circulated among his guests, chatting easily in excellent if rather rusty Latin, and even being given the chance to air his Greek when introduced to two scholar-aristocrats, young Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius (son of the recently deceased Marius Manlius Boethius, City Prefect and Praetorian Prefect), and Quintus Aurelius Memmius Symmachus, a senator from Rome’s most distinguished family. With these two the king felt an immediate rapport, also a rekindling of interest in intellectual pursuits which, of necessity, had been forced into abeyance since his youth in Constantinople. He decided there and then to invite them to join his inner circle of councillors and advisers. He felt instinctively that these were soul mates who would be of use not only in helping him to frame his policies, but also in realizing his dream of being accepted as a Roman — perhaps even (Tell it not in Gath) in taking the ultimate step of becoming Roman emperor. Then he remembered: seven years ago, Symmachus and the father of Boethius had been among those voting for Odovacar. Well, at least that spoke of courage and loyalty, qualities especially admired by his own people, and rarely enough found among today’s Romans. He would not hold the past against them. Excited and happy, Theoderic continued to mingle. After the long years of struggle and hardship, his ambitions seemed at last to be moving smoothly towards fulfilment.

The climax of the evening arrived: the presentation to his guests of medallions to celebrate his tricennalia, the thirty years that had elapsed since his capture of Singidunum from Babai, king of the Sarmatians. The beautiful discs, each a triple solidus in weight, showed on the obverse a frontal picture of Theoderic with long hair and moustache, clad in imperial robes, right hand half raised, the left holding a globe surmounted by a figure of Victory. On this side, the legend round the edge read: ‘REX THEODERICUS PIUS PRINC I S’.* The wording had been chosen with the utmost care, so as not to offend his Roman subjects. Theoderic was ‘Rex’ only to the Goths, the title still anathema to Romans a thousand years after they had rid themselves of their own kings. ‘Princeps’, the title chosen by Augustus in preference to ‘Imperator’, implied (by a polite fiction designed by Rome’s first emperor to soothe republican sensitivities) first among equals, rather than absolute ruler.

The distribution of the medallions proceeded amid exclamations of surprise and pleasure from the recipients. However, with some senators — those most bitterly opposed to Symmachus over the issue concerning Church lands — this was a mere facade behind which, taking care not to be overheard, they expressed their true feelings among themselves, in whispers: ‘Barbarian locks and moustache, yet he has the effrontery to have himself represented wearing an emperor’s robe.’ ‘Pius Princeps indeed — who does he think he is, another Hadrian perhaps?’ ‘If he thinks a pretty bauble’s going to shut us up, he can think again.’

Then one of them floated an idea: ‘Why don’t we take the opportunity to put him straight about the Church lands? He’s in a good mood — we may never get a better chance than now. Probinus, you’re the best one to put our case; would you approach him on our behalf?’

Emboldened by collective resentment, the others, after minimal discussion, agreed to the suggestion, Probinus volunteering to be spokesman.

‘Majesty, a moment of your time, if it pleases you to spare it.’

Theoderic turned, to find a tall, distinguished-looking senator smiling at him.

‘Speak.’

‘It’s this business of Church lands, Your Majesty. Perhaps you may not be fully aware of all aspects of the matter. If I may be permitted to elucidate?’ Taking Theoderic’s silence for assent, the other pressed on. ‘When our ancestors made these grants, in many cases before the invasions of a century ago, it was not intended that they should belong to the Church in perpetuity. They were merely temporary loans to enable the Church to raise money by short-term leases or the sale of produce. Unfortunately, many of the documents which would prove this have been, ah. . “lost”, as Pope Symmachus maintains. Others, we think, have been deliberately falsified. If Your Majesty would care to review the facts behind the case, you would be assured of our most heartfelt gratitude.’

‘And who are “we”?’ Theoderic enquired, his tone deceptively mild.

‘Almost all the senators of Rome, Your Majesty. Hardly one of us but has lost lands to the barbarians — to the extent that many of us are struggling to survive.’ Probinus’ heart sank, as he suddenly realized his gaffe in using that charged word ‘barbarians’.

Theoderic regarded him with rising anger and contempt. Smooth-tongued hypocrite. He knew the type: self-serving aristocrats, like the fathers of his school fellows in Constantinople, whose chief concern was to preserve their privileges, men who would close ranks the moment the interests of their class were threatened. Red rage exploded in his brain.

‘You disgust me!’ roared Theoderic. ‘My edict stands. Get out of my sight!’

‘As Your Majesty commands.’ Probinus bowed coolly and backed away, the great hall suddenly falling silent.

Shaking with fury and humiliation, Theoderic knew that the reception was ruined past repair. He signalled the Master of Ceremonies to make the appropriate announcement.

‘Well, at least we know now where we stand,’ sighed Probinus as his group made its way towards the Forum. ‘For all that he speaks Latin and doesn’t scratch his arse, the fellow’s an out-and-out barbarian.’

‘And an Arian to boot,’ fluted old Festus. ‘Anthemius would never have behaved like that.’ He was referring to the last emperor of any substance whom most of them could still remember.

‘Nor would Odovacar,’ declared Faustus albus, one of the strongest pro-Laurentians, despite his kinsman Faustus niger being Symmachus’ patron. ‘He’d just have laughed in your face, and told you to go to hell. So what do we do now? Ideas, anyone?’

‘We bide our time,’ pronounced Probinus. ‘With Pope Symmachus able to whistle up the plebs against us, and Constantinople playing hard to get, we’ve no choice. For the moment, we keep our heads down and bend with the wind. Our time will come.’

As come it surely would. For these were patient, cunning men, who knew, above all, about survival. Their families, many of which went back to the Republic, had seen imperial dynasties come and go, Rome itself rise and fall, yet were themselves still here. One barbarian ruler more or less was hardly going to make a dent in their long-term fortunes.

* Built in the late third century against incursions of the Alamanni, they stand, for the most part, impressively intact today.

† No relation to the senator of the same name.

* A term defying exact translation. High-minded self-control linked to a sense of justice and respect for law perhaps comes close. The quality was displayed par excellence by the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius; witness his noble Meditations.

* Sic (see Notes).

* See Appendix II: The Laurentian Schism.

† The charge was correct (see Notes).

* Expanded, this becomes: Rex Theodericus pius princeps invictus semper — King Theoderic Dutiful Leader Ever Unconquered.