Theodoric

TWENTY-NINE

Rumours concerning the Sirmium expedition reached Timothy (who, hoping for a change of heart on the part of Theoderic regarding his banishment, had spun out the date of his departure for Byzantium) at Brundisium, as he was about to board a trading-vessel bound for Corinthus. Thanks to the powerful state-sponsored guild of shippers, the navicularii, which, because of the benevolent and conservative administrations of Odovacar and Theoderic, had survived the passing of the Western Empire to maintain trading links with the Eastern, and even with southern Gaul and parts of Spain, the voyage back to Constantinople had posed no problems. As the ship sailed down the coast of Epirus and on into the Sinus Corinthiacus,* Timothy had time aplenty to consider his future plans.

Since his dismissal from the king’s service, he had felt slack and useless — like an unstrung bow. What would he do now? The future stretched before him, grey and drab, like those mist-shrouded flatlands of the Padus valley round Ravenna. For the first time in his life he felt old. At sixty-three — twelve years older than Theoderic — he was old, he supposed. Old enough to draw his pension as an agens of the Eastern Empire when he returned to Constantinople — assuming that his commission from Leo, granted all those years ago, was still valid. He had some money saved; and the funds allocated to him for the voyage had been generous, enough to leave a healthy surplus after he had paid his passage. Perhaps he would make a down-payment on a little wine-shop near the Iron Gate? On reflection, he found the prospect less than enthralling.

The shock of his abrupt dismissal had given way to a great sadness and concern regarding Theoderic’s state of mind. Hadn’t some Greek philosopher once said, ‘Those whom the gods destroy, they first make mad’?* Assuming it was true, the news that Theoderic had sent troops to Sirmium to take the city and occupy Pannonia was ample confirmation of his fears. Unless they could be changed or ended, Theoderic’s ambitions, which now seemed to include recovery of Western imperial territory, would surely end in tears — conflict with the East and dissension in Italy. Anastasius could hardly be expected to look favourably on his vicegerent’s plans first to take over and revive a Roman province in an area which the Eastern Empire had come to regard as its own preserve, and second to realize his ultimate dream of being crowned Western Emperor. In Italy, the Romans would never accept a German as their imperator, while the Goths would surely resent their beloved ‘Dietrich von Bern’ changing his title ‘King of the Goths’ to ‘Emperor of the Romans’. Yet Theoderic seemed blind to all of this — as though, simply by believing them, he could bring about his hopes’ accomplishment.

By the time he stepped ashore at the Golden Horn (after a short overland journey from Corinthus to Athenae, the voyage had continued from Piraeus to the Bosporus), Timothy, without being consciously aware of having done so, had arrived at a momentous decision. Alone, he could do nothing to help save his old friend and master from himself. But there was a man, probably the only one in Europe, who perhaps could: the Eastern Emperor. Somehow, he would arrange an interview with Anastasius. He would endeavour to make the emperor fully aware of his, Timothy’s, concerns about Theoderic’s imperial ambitions, while at the same time pleading the king’s cause: emphasizing the efficiency of his administration and his essential loyalty towards the emperor. A difficult balancing act? That, for sure. Timothy felt rather like the Colossus of Rhodes, whose legs were said to have straddled the harbour’s entrance. (Not, perhaps, the most comforting of similes, he reflected: the mighty statue had been toppled by an earthquake.)

*

Ushered by a silentiarius into the reception chamber of Constantinople’s Great Palace, Timothy found himself in the same vast colonnaded hall where, thirty-four years earlier, he had been quizzed about Theoderic by Emperor Leo. At the far end of the great space sat an elderly diminutive figure, clad not in imperial robes but in a simple dalmatic. In a most unimperial gesture, Anastasius rose, advanced towards Timothy and, taking him by the shoulders, greeted him warmly. ‘Welcome, Timotheus Trascilliseus. My Master of Offices informs me that you have travelled all the way from Ravenna with information concerning King Theoderic, my vicegerent in Italia.’ Seating himself on a chair, he waved Timothy to another, and with his own hand poured wine for them both. He glanced at Timothy’s uniform of an agens in rebus (seldom worn but carefully preserved): pillbox cap, broad military belt, undyed linen tunic with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder. ‘I see you’re dressed as an agens of the Eastern Empire,’ he observed. (No royal ‘we’, Timothy noted, warming to him.) ‘I thought I knew all my agentes by sight; you must have been absent from the capital since before my succession to Zeno.’

Anastasius’ ancient and careworn face displayed only kindly curiosity. All at once Timothy felt unmanned, close to disgraceful tears. His whole life he had fought and striven, surviving against hard circumstances and harder men, through skills learnt as a boy in the tough school of the Tarsus back streets. It was a contest he had relished all his life. But no more, he realized abruptly. His strength was ebbing; his joy in pitting his wits against others and prevailing had lost its savour. It was this knowledge, combined with the other’s unforced cordiality and kindness, that had somehow got to him, filling him with an unfamiliar gratitude mingled with self-pity. No more of this maudlin weakness, he told himself in shame, taking a sharp pull at his morale. If he would help Theoderic, let alone himself, he must stay collected and positive.

‘So, my friend,’ prompted Anastasius, ‘what have you to tell me?’

Timothy held nothing back: his job as Theoderic’s bodyguard during the young prince’s schooldays; the long journey back to Theoderic’s homeland in Pannonia; the migration to Moesia and the years of struggle alternating with alliance, between Zeno and the nation of the Ostrogoths; the rivalry with Strabo; the great exodus to Italy; the wars with Odovacar, and the success of Theoderic’s administration following the former’s defeat; finally, his dreams of becoming Roman emperor in Italy and — if the rumours were true — of reviving the Western Empire itself. ‘When I confided my concerns to him, Serenity, he took it amiss, I fear,’ concluded Timothy. ‘Hence my presence here.’

Anastasius, who had listened in silence to the long recital, refilled their beakers and murmured, ‘Well, we can perhaps turn a blind eye to Pannonia for the moment. After all, it was a Western province once. Before, that is, it became homeland to the Huns, then the Ostrogoths, followed by the Gepids, and now, it seems, returning to its original owners, the native Roman inhabitants. Orestes — Attila’s secretary and father of Romulus, the West’s last emperor — was Pannonian, you know. Poor little Romulus — pensioned off to Lucullus’ villa in Campania. Still alive, I hear.’ Anastasius gave a wry chuckle. ‘And that could complicate any plans Theoderic may be entertaining to have himself made emperor.’ He shot Timothy a keen look, one of unexpectedly steely authority. ‘That we simply can’t allow. There can only be one Rome, and it is Constantinople — which sounds like an oxymoron, I know.’ He smiled, and continued, ‘Theoderic is my vicegerent. Nothing more, nothing less. He must, in no uncertain terms, be reminded of that fact — if necessary, by the threat of forced removal from office should be remain obdurate. But hopefully it need not come to that.’ He glanced at Timothy appraisingly. ‘I am most grateful, Timotheus, for your confiding in me. Knowing what I now do, it may not be too late to mend fences with Theoderic. Perhaps with gentle persuasion he can be made to see where his attitude errs, while being reassured that he remains a valued servant of the empire. It strikes me that you Timotheus, knowing Theoderic better, I suspect, than anybody else, would be the ideal person to take a message to him from myself, couched, of course, in terms of exquisite diplomacy, and peppered with compliments. We could even offer him a second consulship. It would have to be honorarius not ordinarius,* but it would demonstrate that we hold him in high esteem, and would welcome his co-operation. Perhaps, as with Paul on the road to Damascus, the scales would then drop from his eyes. Will you consider my suggestion?’

‘How could I refuse, Serenity?’ Timothy replied, momentarily overcome. He felt a great surge of hope and gladness. The emperor’s proposal offered real hope that Theoderic would be brought to see sense, with the bonus that the rift between himself and the king might be healed. ‘My commission from Zeno has never, to my knowledge, been revoked, which hopefully makes me still an agens in the service of the Eastern Emperor.’

‘It does indeed, my friend. If you still have the document, we will have it updated with our seal, any increments of pay to be made up in full. If not, I will give the order to my Magister Officiorum that a fresh commission be-’

He broke off as the door crashed open and a figure in gilded armour burst into the room.

‘Julianus!’ exclaimed the emperor in surprise and displeasure. ‘We assumed our Magister Militum per Orientem to be in Persia. What is so urgent that it causes you to enter unannounced?’

‘A thousand pardons, Serenity,’ declared the other, ‘but what I have to tell cannot stand on ceremony. A truce with Persia was the reason I returned post-haste to the capital, to seek your ratification of a provisional treaty. A short time ago, as I was disembarking at the harbour of Phospherion, grave news came in about the latest actions of Theoderic. Not content with taking Sirmium and occupying Pannonia, he went on to invade the empire and has just defeated a Bulgar army commanded by Sabinianus. This, Serenity, is war!’

* The Gulf of Corinth.

* It was actually Sophocles. (‘Whom Zeus would destroy, he first makes mad’, Antigone, c. 450 BC.)

* Unlike that of a consul ordinarius, the name of an honorary consul, such as Clovis became, did not appear in the Fasti (state records, especially consular lists). Western consuls, their appointments subject to ratification by the Eastern Emperor, were nominated by Theoderic.