Theodoric

THIRTY

To Theodericus Amalo, king of the nation of the Ostrogoths and our vicegerent in Italia, greetings.

Whereas it has come to our attention that within the months of Iulius and Augustus of this year present you did knowingly and without permission from ourselves both capture the city of Sirmium and occupy the disputed territory of the civitas of Bassianae, commonly known as Pannonia Sirmiensis, being the eastern sector of the former Roman province of Pannonia Secunda, and moreover thereafter did proceed without just cause or provocation to enter under arms into our imperial province of Moesia Prima, and did there, in alliance with a proscribed outlaw and criminal, to wit, one Mundo, make war against our imperial forces commanded by our Magister Militum per Illyricum, we now desire and demand that immediately upon receipt of this communication. .

Timothy looked up from the scroll and in a strained voice asked, ‘Do you really want me to go on, Deric? Why don’t I cut to the chase and tell you in my own words what Anastasius wants? Then we can decide how best to respond.’ His mind flashed back to the meeting with Anastasius, and the plan that, for a brief moment, had seemed to offer a happy resolution to the crisis with Theoderic.

Until, that is, arriving from the blue like a ballista-bolt, the news from Julian (now a mature and hardened veteran) had smashed the plan to smithereens. Privately, Timothy had felt the situation was not past saving. He was convinced that the ‘invasion’ of the empire had not been intended by Theoderic, and would peter out as soon as the leaders of the host managed to talk the men out of their madness. He sensed, however, that it would be useless to try to make the emperor and his general see that; Anastasius’ attitude had hardened, and Julian was clearly determined to teach Theoderic a lesson. Here was a marvellous opportunity to be revenged on the youthful prince who, thirty years ago, had shown him up at the hunting of the great boar Cambyses, and who later had made him look a fool by countermanding his order to shoot, when charged by Zeno’s Excubitors. Recognizing Timothy even after such a lapse of time, Julian had shot him a look of pure malevolence, stemming, the Isaurian had no doubt, from the slap he had administered at the boar-hunt — a blow clearly neither forgotten nor forgiven. Timothy knew that, should Julian ever find the opportunity, he, too, would be singled out for vengeance.

‘“Deric”? I know no “Deric”,’ replied Theoderic in coldly sneering tones. The two men — Timothy standing, Theoderic enthroned — were in an audience chamber in the king’s palace in Ravenna. ‘You will address me as “Regnator” or “Your Majesty”. And do not presume to suggest that “we” respond to Anastasius. As far as you and I are concerned, Trascilliseus, there is no longer a “we”. You arrive from Anastasius — a vir spectabilis,* no less, and his official nuntius. No, let all be done according to correct form; then there can be no misunderstanding. Pray proceed.’

Timothy ploughed on wretchedly:

. . delivered and announced by our trusty and well-beloved servant Timotheus Trascilliseus, you hereby withdraw all troops from our imperial territory and from the other regions aforesaid (a state of war now prevailing between the Regnum Italiae and our Imperium Romanum), which action will suffice to signify the cessation of hostilities, and hereinafter do solemnly swear and promise to limit your activities solely to those proper to the remit of the office of vicegerent, on pain of forfeiture of the said office.

Given under our seal and hand, the Most Holy the Most Serene Anastasius, Augustus of the Romans, at the Great Palace of Constantinopole, IV Kalends October in the year of the consuls Sabinianus and Theodorus.*

‘You have betrayed me, Trascilliseus,’ accused Theoderic. ‘The very fact that you come from Anastasius tells me you have spoken to him concerning myself.’

‘I would never betray you!’ cried Timothy, hurt to the quick. ‘It is true that I spoke of you to Anastasius, but only in your best interests, in an attempt to remedy the misunderstanding that has developed between yourself and the emperor. A dangerous misunderstanding. As things stand at present, you could be in peril, Majesty. Anastasius’ senior general is Julian, whom you must remember from your youth. He is to raise an expedition to enforce the withdrawal of your troops from Moesia and Pannonia. Don’t tell me he won’t exploit his command as an opportunity to settle old scores. For your sake, Majesty, it’s vital he be given no excuse to do so.’

‘Your concern is touching, Trascilliseus. First treachery, now a warning. You would do better to consider your own position. No doubt you’ll be expecting to return to Anastasius bearing my reply. Instead, you will remain here in Ravenna, as. . let us say as my “guest”, pending further developments.’

In other words, a hostage against any tricks that Julian might play, thought Timothy, grim foreboding growing like a cold lump inside him.

In the Senate House, old Festus, the Caput Senatus, banged his staff on the floor and called the next speaker: ‘Publius Quinctilius Junius Theotecnius Constantius, Praefectus Urbis Romae.’

The City Prefect rose from his place on the crowded marble benches and made his way to the rostrum. He was a red-faced, paunchy individual, whose sweating face betrayed his nervousness at addressing the august assembly of ‘his betters’. (Oh yes, he’d overheard some of the snide put-downs whispered behind his back by these snobs of Roman senators. Just because they’d all got pedigrees stretching back to Romulus and owned a few farm-middens in the sticks. .)

‘One of Theoderic’s “new men”,’ whispered Faustus albus to Rufius Cethegus seated beside him. ‘Jumped-up arriviste — a nobody from Liguria. No family cognomen, so makes up for it by giving himself a string of impressive-sounding names. Who does he think he’s fooling?’

‘He’s not one of us, that’s for sure,’ Cethegus concurred. ‘“Us”, I fear, being very much personae non gratae with our Dear Leader in Ravenna. Have you noticed that, ever since we stood up to him over the Laurentius v. Pope Symmachus affair, not a single member of an old Roman family’s been given a key appointment? Barring, that is, the Three Wise Men,* whom, for some reason, he seems to trust.’

‘You’re right. It must go back to that do in Domitian’s Palace, where he handed out those silly medals.’ Faustus chuckled; ‘Mine comes in handy as a paperweight. As I recall, your father got bawled out on that occasion — shocking bad form. Better shush: our country cousin’s about to grace us with his views.’

‘Honourable Members of this ’ouse,’ Constantius began, speaking in a broad north-western accent with a hint of Gallic, ‘it is my ’umble opinion that you may not be fully aware of the danger in which our fair City stands.’

A buzz of puzzled speculation rippled round the benches. ‘Danger?’ whispered Faustus to Cethegus. ‘What on earth’s he on about?’

‘As you all know,’ the Prefect continued, ‘Theoderic ’as pulled back ’is troops from Moesia and Pannonia to Ravenna, so as to be able to counter possible threats from two directions. Threat number one.’ He held up a forefinger. ‘In Gaul, Clovis is waiting to pounce on the Visigoths — which ’e can’t risk doing for the nonce, because Theoderic, their ally, is too close. Threat number two.’ Up came the forefinger again, joined by a thumb. ‘A great sea-borne expedition from the Eastern Empire, commanded by General Julianus, Master of Soldiers for the Diocese of Oriens, is presently patrolling off the coast of south-east Italy. Result: Theoderic’s in a bind. If ’e marches south to protect the ’eel of Italy, Clovis will attack the Visigoths. But if ’e ’eads for Gaul to ’elp King Alaric, that would leave the Eastern expedition free to strike.’

‘But where’s the threat to Rome in all of this?’ one senator called out, in tones of mild exasperation.

‘From the Adriatic coast to Rome is no great distance.’

‘With the Apennines between — good God, man, you’d think this Julianus was a second Hannibal!’ exclaimed another senator. ‘The expedition’s only there as sword-rattling. Basically, to remind Theoderic to behave himself.’

‘Well, in my ’umble opinion, we can’t afford to take no chances. The walls of Rome need strengthening in places. ’Appen Julianus should besiege the City, I wouldn’t like to bet we’d keep ’im out.’

A chorus of sardonic groans greeted this observation.

‘The man’s panicking,’ Faustus murmured to Cethegus. ‘Either that or he’s hoping to curry favour with Theoderic by a flag-waving gesture.’ He stood up and called, ‘And where’s the money coming from, I’d like to know? You can be sure the Public Purse in Ravenna’s not about to cough up, and, thanks to the Church lands settlement, most of us are pretty strapped for cash.’

‘We must all do our patriotic bit. A spot o’ belt-tightening’s ’ardly going to kill us. ’Sides, Theoderic wouldn’t be impressed if ’e ’eard we was too mean to defend our noble City.’

‘Might have known it would come to that,’ Cethegus whispered disgustedly to his friend. ‘Fellow’s got the ear of you-know-who, unfortunately. We can’t afford to hand the king another stick to beat us with.’

And so (reluctantly) the vote was passed to strengthen Rome’s defences.

As Clovis’s mighty host grew daily greater on the north bank of the Liger, so Alaric’s appeals to Theoderic became ever more frequent and urgent. Torn between the desire to help his Visigothic kinsmen, and the need to keep watch from Ravenna on the Eastern war-fleet, Theoderic set in train a massive warship-building programme. A fleet of sufficient strength would neutralize the threat posed by Julian’s naval expedition, and the king would then be free to march to Alaric’s aid. The shipyards of Arimimum, of Classis* and Tergeste, rang to the thump of adze and mallet as a steady stream of galleys slid down the ways and into the holding-docks. But before enough could be built, news arrived that Clovis had crossed the Liger and was pushing south, carrying all before him.

In rage and desperation, Theoderic despatched Duke Mammo and Count Ibba with the host, to succour his beleaguered allies. Too late. Before the Ostrogoths reached Gaul, terrible intelligence began to filter through: the Visigothic host had been destroyed* — King Alaric being among those killed — the population scattered and in flight. And to compound a sorry situation, the Burgundians, despite prior friendly overtures from Theoderic, now switched their allegiance to the Franks, laid siege to Arelate, sacked Tolosa and, led by Gundobad, their king, took Barcino† in Hispania.

When Julian (aboard his flagship) heard that Theoderic’s host had marched for Gaul, his glee and satisfaction knew no bounds. Now his cup of vengeance would be filled to overflowing, and he would drink deep thereof. Anastasius’ orders regarding the expedition’s rules of engagement had been specific: it was there purely to make sure that Theoderic adhered to the terms laid down in the official warning conveyed to him by the Isaurian, Trascilliseus. Unless provoked, Julian must not commence hostilities. But what else was Theoderic’s warship-building initiative but provocation? Julian knew, of course, that it was nothing of the sort: instead, a desperate measure taken in self-defence, which circumstance had forced upon the king. However, with judicious editing, the facts in his report to Anastasius could be presented in such a way as to constitute a damning indictment of Theoderic, making him, not Julian, appear as the aggressor. With anticipation and excitement rising inside him — like sap in spring within a tree, the general snapped a command to his navarchus. The shipmaster relayed the order to the nautae — the sailors who tended the sails and rigging, as opposed to the remiges who manned the oars. Up to the masthead crept a long red pennant — the signal for the fleet to attack.

*

Tending his flock on the foothills of Mons Garganus* in northern Apulia, Marcus the shepherd selected a dry stone on which to sit while eating his midday prandium of bread and olives. The early autumn sunshine was warm, his sheep were grazing contentedly within easy eyeshot, so Marcus awarded himself a short nap. .

Awaking, he looked out to sea — and gasped. Emerging into view around the mighty headland was a mass of sails. Ship after ship hove into sight; by the time the last had cleared the promontory, Marcus had counted two hundred — some were big-beamed transports, others sleek dromons. Abandoning his charges (he could safely leave them for an hour or two; no wolves had been sighted in the area for many weeks), he began to run down the hill to spread the news to the villagers of Bariae bringing in the harvest in the fields below.

In wonder tinged with apprehension, the harvesters watched the ships drop anchor in the bay fringed by a scatter of lime-washed cottages. Soon, streams of soldiers from the transports and marines from the dromons were wading ashore. Orders in familiar Latin (‘Non vos turbatis sed mandata captate’†) carried faintly to the workers’ ears. A party of several hundred formed up on the beach (only a small proportion of the total force, judging from the numbers watching from the decks) and began to tramp up the hillside in open order, laughing and chatting as though on a spree.

‘What lingo’s that they’re talking?’ one young harvester wondered aloud, stopping work to rest on his scythe. ‘Not Latin, that’s for sure.’

‘It’s Greek, you ignoramus,’ muttered a greybeard, shaking his head in disgust. ‘When I was your age, everyone still understood some of the old tongue, even if they didn’t speak it much. Why do you think this part of Italy’s called Magna Graecia? Settled by our ancestors from across the Mare Ionium‡ centuries ago.’

‘Weird-looking bunch,’ someone observed, as the strangers drew near. ‘Like ancient legionaries.’ And indeed, with their scale-armour loricae* and classical Attic helmets, and commanded by an officer in muscle-cuirass, they needed only long rectangular shields to resemble Roman soldiers from the time of Trajan or the Antonines. Apart from swords, they were equipped with strange cylindrical bundles which they held in their right hands.

After testing the wind direction, the officer led his men to the upper margin of the fields, along which the soldiers formed a line.

‘The bastards are going to fire the crop!’ exclaimed a middle-aged harvester. ‘See the flashes from their strike-a-lights.’ And he raced uphill to confront them. ‘Stop!’ he shouted, planting himself before their officer.

With a grin, the officer unsheathed his sword and, almost nonchalantly, drew the tip across the other’s cheek. With a cry of shock and pain, the harvester clapped a hand to his face to stem the blood pouring from the wound.

No one interfered, as the soldiers flung burning torches into the standing corn. Cowed and silent, the villagers watched in helpless fury as the fruits of that year’s labour disappeared in roaring flames.

Their task completed, the soldiers returned to the fleet, which continued its progress down the coast to select fresh targets. The seaboard of Apulia and then Calabria came to be defined by a lengthening wall of smoke from burning crops as the fleet moved south, sacking Sipontum† en route. Rounding the heel of Italy into the Sinus Tarentinus,‡ it prepared to assault the city of Tarentum. But the Tarentines were made of sterner stuff than the Sipontians. Inspired, perhaps, by the defiant spirit of their forefathers, who had broken an alliance forced on them by Rome (to side instead with Hannibal), they made ready to resist. In this they were assisted by topography.

The harbour to the east of the port was sheltered by the twin islets of the Choerades, while the town itself, situated on an island, was connected to the mainland by a bridge and aqueduct — all features which militated against a concerted onslaught. Booms, formed from vessels chained together and joining the Choerades to each other and the mainland, made a defensive necklace across the harbour mouth. This forced Julian to split his offensive into two separate attacks, one by land, the other from the sea. While the dromons, harrassed by archery from the islets and the shore, attempted to sink the booms by the time-consuming method of ramming each vessel and leaving it to founder, Julian’s eight-thousand-strong force of soldiers and marines fought its way slowly along the bridge and the narrow channel of the aqueduct, the Tarentines grimly contesting every hard-fought yard. The end, however, could only be delayed, not prevented. After several hours of bloody hand-to-hand combat as Roman battled Roman, the city fell. It was then subjected to an orgy of pillage and destruction.

The capture of Tarentum marked the culmination of the raid. Getting wind that Theoderic’s fleet was now almost strong enough to match his own, Julian, well satisfied with his campaign of retribution, gave the order to make sail for Constantinople. He had paid back Theoderic a hundredfold. As for the Isaurian, the fact that nothing had been heard from him before the expedition left the Golden Horn suggested that the king had detained him as a hostage — preferably in some dank and noisome gaol. How true the saying was that revenge was a dish best eaten cold.

In Ravenna, a mood of black depression settled on Theoderic. Fortune seemed to have deserted him: his dreams of reviving the Western Empire lay in ruins; he had been humiliated by Anastasius — forced to return his conquests in Illyricum, and watch impotently while the south of his kingdom was ravaged by an Eastern fleet. His rival, Clovis, had triumphed in Gaul, destroying the kingdom of his friends and kinsmen, the Visigoths. The Vandals and Burgundians had thrown off their allegiances, the Burgundians by siding with the Franks against the Visigoths, the Vandals (who had a powerful fleet) by withholding aid against the Eastern expedition. Hardest of all to bear, perhaps, was the knowledge that Timothy — who had once been more a trusted friend than a servant — had played him false. To rub salt into his wounds, Anastasius had chosen to honour Clovis, awarding him an honorary consulship — along with the title of Augustus — while his own consular nominee,* Venantius, had been turned down. All this was clearly intended to serve as a reminder that such titles were in the gift of Anastasius, and as a calculated snub designed to put a presumptuous monarch in his place.

In this dark hour, only the counsel of his three Roman advisers, Boethius, Symmachus and Cassiodorus, provided a modicum of comfort. Rational and positive, they encouraged him to maintain his self-belief, pointing out that his present setbacks weighed less in the balance than his achievements, which were numerous and great. The darkest hour was followed by the dawn, he told himself; then angrily dismissed the thought. A king should be above seeking consolation in such hoary saws.

* One of the high-ranking titles in the gift of the emperor: vir illuster, vir gloriosus, and so on.

* 28 September 505.

* Symmachus, Boethius and Cassiodorus. Cassiodorus, although a scion of an old Bruttium (toe of Italy) family rather than a Roman one, was very much a part of the senatorial establishment and, as such, definitely ‘one of us’.

* The port of Ravenna.

* Perhaps at Vouille, near Poitiers.

† Arles, Toulouse, Barcelona.

* Mount Gargano, a vast, isolated peak on the promontory that forms the ‘spur’ above Italy’s ‘heel’.

† Roughly translated, ‘Take it easy, but don’t forget you’re under orders.’

‡ The Ionian Sea.

* Cuirasses.

† Now Manfredonia, founded in 1261 from the ruins of ancient Sipontum, by Manfred, king of Sicily and regent of Apulia.

‡ The Gulf of Taranto.

* For the year 507.