Theodoric

TWENTY-FOUR

During the next few weeks, Theoderic endeavoured assiduously to restore his image, which had been seriously damaged by his outburst at the palace reception. Such displays of unrestrained fury were, like drunkenness, regarded with indulgence (sometimes even admiration) by his own people, but among the Romans could result in a serious loss of dignitas — the very quality that distinguished Romans from barbarians.* Dignitas implied self-control, living according to a code in which passions were always subordinated to reason — a code (according to Roman received opinion) conspicuously absent among barbarians.

Acceptance by the Romans (and ultimately any prospect of becoming their emperor) depended, Theoderic knew, on his being accepted by their representative assembly, the Senate. Despite the Senate’s apparent lack of political power, Theoderic knew it would be a grave mistake to dismiss it as a merely passive body, whose only function was to legitimize the policies of whatever ruler was in power. In the past, emperors who had continued to flout the accepted mores of SPQR† never died in their beds. The outrages of a Nero, a Caligula, a Commodus, a Heliogabalus, or a Valentinian III, ensured their violent removal. Even in the empire’s dying days, the Senate’s disapproval was enough to ensure the execution not only of Arvandus and Seronatus, Prefect and Deputy Prefect of Gaul respectively, but of Emperor Avitus, for the crime of making terms with the barbarians — the very people about to take over the Western Empire.

As ruler, Theoderic could not apologize for his loss of temper at the tricennalia, nor for depriving the Laurentian senators of Church lands. But he did the next best thing: made himself regularly attend sessions of the Senate, where he comported himself with respectful attentiveness bordering on meekness. (Shades of Theodosius I doing penance before Ambrose, Bishop of Milan.) And, employing a tried and tested gesture guaranteed to attract popularity from plebs and patricians alike, he decided to hold Games in the Flavian Amphitheatre.* (Normally, this would have been the dubious ‘privilege’ of the Western consul, but this year both consuls were Eastern appointees.)

Compared to the ‘good old days’ of high empire, Games had become a rarity in Rome. Disruption of trade routes resulting from barbarian invasions, centuries of depletion of wildlife stock, with shrinkage of state and aristocratic wealth, had made the capture, transport and maintenance of large animals an extremely difficult and prohibitively expensive business. Nevertheless, the recent thawing of relations between the Vandal and Ostrogothic kingdoms, combined with substantial disbursements from Theoderic’s treasury, ensured ships laden with crates, containing savage beasts from north Africa, unloaded at the quays of Ostia.

Outside the amphitheatre, a huge and noisy crowd was building up. ‘Ticket-holders only,’ bawled a burly security guard, whereupon those fortunate enough to possess a bone slip marked with seat, tier and entrance numbers poured into the great building through seventy-six of its eighty entrances. (Of its remaining four, two were for royalty and aristocracy, the other two, which opened directly into the arena, were the Doors of Life and Death, for the entry of contestants and the removal of dead bodies respectively.) Once the ticket-holders had been shown by locarii, ushers, to their seats in the lowest three of the four tiers of stands, divided horizontally by flat walks and vertically by flights of stairs, the guards at the entrances stood aside, and non-ticket-holders dashed in to find a seat in the aisles or a standing-place in the topmost tier. Directly below the lowest tier, encircling the arena, ran a fifteen-foot wall, its smooth marble surface topped with revolving cylinders of bronze, denying purchase to any beast attempting to climb it.

Inside, a soft glow filled the stadium — sunlight diffused through the awning which covered the vast oval’s open top. This was the responsibility of nautae, sailors, who alone possessed the skills necessary for securing the enormous sheet by means of a complex system of ropes and pulleys to a ring of masts projecting from the topmost tier. Now the aristocracy — almost all senators in their traditional togas, accompanied by their wives — filed into the first thirty-six rows of seats reserved for the upper classes. Next came the privileged guests — Pope Symmachus surrounded by a coterie of leading clergy and female admirers; members of Rome’s top families: the Symmachi, Decii and Anicii. These seated themselves in the podium on curule chairs, movable to allow their occupants to get up and stroll at will. Finally, with a flourish of trumpets, the royal party, consisting of Theoderic with his bodyguard, accompanied by Symmachus and Boethius, now his chief advisers, and the editor of the Games, Probinus, entered the royal box raised above the podium, from the rear. In a gesture of appeasement to the Laurentian senators, Theoderic had invited their leader to become the Games’ organizer, a position which carried enormous prestige, but also normally enormous cost — however, in this instance it was being borne by the king as munerator or producer.

To Theoderic’s shocked amazement, a barrage of rude comments was hurled by the plebs at the patricians in the podium and privileged seats: ‘Hi, there, Spicy. What’s the Holy Father like in bed?’ ‘Antonia, is it true you’ve worn out three new boyfriends, and you old enough to be their grandmother?’ ‘Basilius, you old goat, that little slave-girl keeping you warm at night?’ The recipients of the taunts, though doubtless raging inside, made no response, for to do so would be a breach of dignitas.

A trumpet-blast announced the entry of the venatores or huntsmen, lean, muscled men, armed variously with spears, daggers, swords, nets, and bows. Animal-fighting alone survived of the arena’s blood sports: gladiatorial combats had been ended by Emperor Honorius ninety-six years previously, after a frenzied mob had torn to pieces a monk, Telemachus, for intervening in a fight; and a generation prior to that, Valentinian I had stopped the practice of condemned criminals, noxii, being savaged to death by wild beasts. Nevertheless, the venationes or wild-beast hunts still provided enough gore and excitement to whip the mob into a frenzy of blood-lust. After circling the arena to wild applause, the procession formed up before the royal box and saluted Theoderic and Probinus in turn, before departing.

A moment’s hush, then again the trumpet sounded, and a tide of wild animals began to pour into the arena. Until this moment, they had been kept in cages deep in the bowels of the amphitheatre; the cages were hauled by a system of lifts and pulleys to passageways leading to the arena, then opened.

Thrasamund, king of the Vandals, had done him proud, thought Theoderic, looking in wonder at the multicoloured mass of swarming animals: antelopes, jackals, hyenas, ostriches, leopards, lions, cheetahs, buffaloes, a rhinoceros, even several elephants. The marriage alliance he had forged with the Vandal widower (just one example of the good relations established with other barbarian leaders in the West) — sending him his widowed sister Amalafrida as prospective bride — had paid off handsomely. Thrasamund’s Berber and Moorish hunters had done a magnificent job; they must have penetrated deep into the continent’s interior to have been able to bring back such an astonishing variety of wildlife. Fights continually broke out among the animals, but the arena was so crowded that the contestants were swept apart as the stampeding throng frantically sought for means of escape.

At a signal from Probinus, the trumpet sounded and the venatores rushed into the arena through the openings the animals had used. The air filled with brays, roars and bellows as the huntsmen set to work, despatching their quarry with incredible speed and skill, some leaping from back to back delivering fatal thrusts in motion, or loosing volleys of arrows, each shaft finding its mark. The mighty elephants were among the easiest to slaughter — killed instantly by a chisel hammered between the cervical vertebrae, or hamstrung to immobilize them, then their trunks slashed off when they quickly bled to death. When at last the crowd of animals began to thin out, the trumpet sounded for the end of the hunt. The venatores now made way for the bestiarii, animal-handlers. These, armed with lead-tipped flails and blazing torches, drove the surviving beasts back into the passageways, whose gates had been opened, with basins of water placed inside to attract the exhausted animals. When the carcasses had been dragged out through the Door of Death, and with the arena once more empty, the crowd hushed in anticipation of the next show. Word had got around that this was to be something special. .

A team of slaves carrying a long stake hurried to the middle of the arena. Some scraped away the covering of sand to reveal the planking beneath, a section of which was removed, disclosing a hole into which the stake was fitted. Two more slaves led out a struggling young woman and chained her by the waist to the stake. A huge, heavily muscled man was then conducted to the spot, and released. Shaking his mane of red hair, he glared defiantly around at the vast audience.

Probinus moved his curule seat to be directly behind Theoderic. ‘The woman’s a murderess,’ he murmured. ‘Stabbed her master when he tried to rape her. The man’s a Celt, a runaway slave from the sulphur mines. When he was recaptured he disabled three men so badly that they’ll never work again. It should be interesting to see how long he can protect her against the assault of wild beasts.’

‘Damnata ad bestias!’ exclaimed the king. ‘But that’s unlawful, surely?’

Probinus shrugged. ‘Technically, perhaps, Your Majesty. However. .’

He was interrupted by the trumpet’s brazen clang. Into the arena walked a huge white bull with massive forequarters and long, wickedly pointed horns. The creature’s skin slid and rippled like silk above its muscles as it moved. This was Europe’s great wild ox, which the Romans called Urus and the Germans Aurochs, noted for its implacable ferocity when roused.

A gasp of excited admiration arose as the great beast trotted round the arena, establishing its territory. Spotting the woman and the huge Celt, he turned to face them and began to paw the sand. Immediately, the woman started shrieking and struggling — her cries and frantic movements providing the very stimulus to trigger an attack. With shocking suddenness the aurochs launched itself towards her.

Gripping the arms of his curule seat, Theoderic leant forward in an agony of suspense, willing the Celt to try to save the woman. But surely it could only be a doomed attempt. An unarmed man, no matter how powerful, could be no match for an enraged bull. As the ton of white destruction hurtled towards its victim, the Celt ran forward to meet it and grabbed its horns by their tips. At first he was borne along helplessly by the creature’s impetus. Gradually, however, his churning feet found purchase on the sand, until, yards from the stake, he managed to bring the monster to a halt. Legs braced like tree-trunks, biceps bulging with titanic effort, he strained to twist the creature’s horns.

A roar of incredulous delight burst from the spectators. Almost imperceptibly, the great bull’s head was beginning to turn. The movement gradually accelerated — now the neck was sharply angled to the body; an agonized bellow, a loud crack! like a snapping branch, and the animal slumped to the sand.

For a moment the audience was silent, then it broke into wild, sustained applause.

‘They await your decision, Majesty,’ prompted Probinus.

Startled, Theoderic collected himself. From his readings of Roman history, he knew the correct response. Rising to his feet, he extended his right fist. To ecstatic cheering from the crowd, he raised the thumb. Turning to Probinus he commanded, ‘Have him brought to me.’

‘You are a brave man,’ declared Theoderic, his voice warm with admiration, when the Celt — chest heaving as he fought for air, body dripping sweat — stood below the royal box. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am Conall Cearnach, a Scot from Dalriada in Caledonia. But my forebears came from Hibernia; that’s the island-’

‘-to the west of Britannia,’ finished Theoderic with a smile. ‘I am not entirely ignorant of geography, you see. The Scots are a brave and loyal race, I’ve heard. My bodyguard could use such men. What would you say to joining them?’

‘Anything is better than the sulphur mines.’

‘Have this man taken to the palace,’ Theoderic told Probinus, ‘with instructions that he be fed, allowed to wash, then clothed.’

‘The man is still a slave, Your Majesty,’ objected the senator. ‘A slave, moreover, who has inflicted grave injury on several men.’

Fury filled Theoderic. About to roar a reprimand to the editor, he remembered — just in time — to check himself. Dignitas. ‘See to it,’ he snapped.

‘Very well, Majesty.’

A growing impatient buzz alerted the king to the fact that the crowd was growing restive. Looking up, he was amazed to see the woman still secured to the stake.

‘Why has she not been freed?’ he demanded. ‘I raised my thumb.’

‘Surely, Majesty, your gesture indicated that mercy be shown to the man alone,’ Probinus pointed out.

Again, rage threatened to overwhelm the king. Was he to be balked at every turn by this arrogant aristocrat? With a huge effort, he controlled his anger. ‘Free her,’ he ordered, forcing himself to speak evenly.

Seated to his right, Symmachus turned to speak. The great senator’s face was furrowed in concern and sympathy. ‘Serenity, would that be wise?’ he cautioned. ‘Your instinct is a noble one; it does you great credit. But to free the woman would be to disappoint the crowd. That might be’ — he paused, searching for the right word — ‘let us say, impolitic.’

‘Impolitic?’

‘Serenity, seditio popularis is easily aroused and can have terrible consequences.’ The patrician’s voice held a note of urgency. ‘Only last year the Pope himself was injured in a riot, and several priests were killed. And many present can remember the lynching by an angry mob of the emperor Petronius Maximus.’

All Theoderic’s nature, with its German sense of honour and reverence for women, rose in revolt against the idea of having to appease the Roman mob. Now he could see clearly what that snake Probinus’ game was: to box him into a corner, forcing him to act against his nature, in a demonstration that it was the Senate, not the king, who held the reins of power. Well, he was Theoderic, the warrior king of a heroic race, who ruled by right of conquest. He would show these Romans who was master. Then something tugged at his memory, cooling his indignation. Symmachus had addressed him as ‘Serenity’, a title used for emperors alone! Conflict raged within the king: desire to act honourably, according to his principles and conscience, versus a new emotion, a heady exaltation that his dream, acceptance by the Romans as their emperor, could be on the point of being realized. But that acceptance was conditional, he knew; an emperor must please his people.

Meanwhile, the clamour of the crowd had risen to a rhythmic, thunderous chant: ‘Ad bestias! Ad bestias! Ad bestias!’

Like an enormous weight, Theoderic seemed to feel the force of fifty thousand wills pressing against his own. Guilt and shame welled up within him — to be suppressed by the promptings of ambition. Again, his fist came forward, but this time the thumb turned down, in the gesture of pollice verso. A roar of triumphant approval burst from the throats of the mob.

A great spotted cat padded into the arena.

* See Appendix III: Romans and Barbarians.

†Senatus populusque romanus — The Senate and people of Rome.

* i.e., the Colosseum — a popular name, bestowed not on account of the building’s size but because of its propinquity to a colossal statue of Nero.