Theodoric

THIRTY-THREE

‘Delicious, Serenity,’ pronounced Boethius, after taking a bite from the pear Theoderic handed to him. ‘Truly delicious. I congratulate you; creating a successful orchard in Ravenna, with its fogs and marshy exhalations, seems a near-miraculous feat.’

‘Well, it was not without problems,’ allowed the king, flushing with pleasure at the compliment. ‘I had to grub up the original stock and replace it with quince for grafting. Then trenching and draining, building a wall to absorb and reflect heat, judicious pruning from the second year. Hard work, but worth it in the end, though I say it myself. But, coming to fruition, I have another crop than pears I would discuss with you, Anicius.’ The king’s hand upon the shoulder of his Magister Officiorum, the pair began to stroll beside the fruit trees.

Now approaching seventy, the king was not the man he once had been, thought Boethius. His hair had changed from gold to silver; aided by a stick, he walked with a stoop, and his health, formerly robust, had deteriorated; he was periodically troubled by stomach pains and bouts of chronic diarrhoea. Also, it seemed to the newly appointed minister that Theoderic’s mind was losing its sharpness and clarity, becoming susceptible to illusion and irrational suspicion.

However, there was no denying that at this moment Theoderic was happy. Buoyed up by the glorious hopes of Eutharic’s consulship, and by assurances regarding the succession, Theoderic was in a mood of expansive optimism, though Boethius felt it had a slightly manic edge.

‘I have put back together much of the Western Empire,’ declared the king. ‘Italy, Spain, Pannonia and much of Gaul are now a single realm. Only one thing is lacking.’

‘Serenity?’

‘What is an empire without an emperor? A building without mortar, which will crumble under stress. I intend to be that mortar; the time has come for me to don the purple and the diadem. Am I right to do so, Anicius?’

Strangely affected by the note of appeal in the king’s voice, Boethius felt a rush of concern and sympathy for the tired old warrior. For Theoderic to declare himself emperor would prove, Boethius was sure, to be a step too far. The Hispano-Romans and the Gallo-Romans might (grudgingly) accept a German emperor; but the Romans of Italy, the centre and power base of the resurrected ‘empire’? Never. And, from what he had so far gleaned about his character, neither would the emperor-in-waiting, Justinian.

Boethius, however, had no intention of trying to dissuade the king from taking that step.

Much though he liked and respected Theoderic, and appreciated the honour done himself by the appointment as Master of Offices, Boethius’ commitment to the Cause overrode his loyalty to the king. If that meant giving the nod to anything that might de-stabilize Ostrogothic rule, so be it — even if what Theoderic proposed could have appalling consequences. Little over a century before, resentment over growing German influence* in the army had spilt over into a terrible massacre of federates’ families, and for similar reasons Constantinople had witnessed a bloody pogrom of the Goths.

‘I applaud your decision, Serenity,’ declared Boethius, feeling like Brutus delivering the final dagger-thrust to dying Caesar. ‘“Theodericus Augustus”, the first in a glorious new dynasty of Western emperors.’

‘“Theodericus flamin’ Augustus?”’ shouted a burly cobbler. Crowds had gathered in the forum of Terracina,† to witness the unveiling of an inscription commissioned by Senator Caecina Decius. ‘’Oo the bleedin’ ’ell does ’e think ’e is?’ He spat vigorously on the cobbles.

‘You ain’t ’eard nuthin’ yet, mate,’ called a man in a blacksmith’s apron. ‘The buzz in Rome says ’e’s to be crahned emperor.’

‘A Jerry emperor? Over my dead body!’ bawled the town drunk.

A storm of boos and catcalls erupted from the crowd. A mudball splattered the gleaming white marble of the plaque, swiftly followed by a barrage of missiles pillaged from the cart of an unfortunate fruit-vendor.

The discontent spread like wildfire throughout Italy. Disturbances broke out in many major cities,* taking the form of serious rioting in Rome and Ravenna. Afraid, perhaps, of the consequences of openly expressing anti-German feelings, the mobs discovered in a half-forgotten piece of legislation a useful screen for their actions.

Earlier in his reign, Theoderic had issued an Edict of Toleration for all faiths.† In practice, this meant freedom of worship for the Jews, ‘toleration’ being hardly applicable to Nicene Catholicism, the religion of the vast majority of the population. The Gothic conquerors — Arians, and therefore technically heretics — did not need the protection of an edict, since no one in their right mind would dream of persecuting them, for fear of armed and instant retribution. An unfortunate consequence of this humane and enlightened decree had been the creation of a smouldering resentment among the Catholic Romans (for whom heresy was an abhorrent aberration) against Jews and Goths alike, the two peoples being vaguely lumped together in the collective consciousness.

Now the Romans had a perfect cover for their anti-German rage. They dared not openly attack the Goths, but the Jews were a different matter. Wealthy and defenceless, they were a convenient (and lucrative) target on which the mobs could safely vent their fury. All over the country an orgy of Jew-baiting exploded, accompanied by robbery, house-breaking and the burning of synagogues.

‘Why?’ exclaimed an anguished Theoderic to Eutharic. ‘Surely I don’t deserve this? Throughout my reign I have tried my best to rule justly and well. I have bent over backwards to be even-handed in treating my own people and the Romans alike. What should I do, my son?’

‘They must be punished severely, these ungrateful dogs of Romans. Perhaps, father, you’ve been too soft with them in the past. Set up a legal enquiry immediately, so that the perpetrators can be brought to justice. Here, in Ravenna, which saw some of the worst of the rioting, let me make an example of the ringleaders.’

‘Very well, my son. Do as you think fit. I put the whole matter in your hands.’

Directed by Eutharic, retribution was swift and harsh. Failure to identify individual offenders resulted in the imposition of collective fines on whole communities, so that damage to Jewish property could be repaired. In Ravenna a significant number refused to pay the fines, and accordingly were whipped through the streets by the executioner — immediately becoming ‘martyrs’ in the eyes of the populace, their stand applauded from three hundred pulpits throughout the length and breadth of Italy. In Verona, in the chapel of St Stephen, a statue of Our Lady, commissioned by Theoderic, for no apparent cause toppled and shattered. Public jubilation over this ‘miracle’ soon turned to fury and dismay when the chapel, in consequence, was ordered to be demolished. As a reminder that violence would not be tolerated, an edict was issued forbidding all Romans to carry any arms whatsoever except a small knife for domestic use.*

Among the Romans of Italy, a spirit of sullen hostility and passive resistance replaced the rejoicing and euphoria that only a few short months before had accompanied the inauguration of Eutharic as consul. Secluded in his palace in Ravenna, the old king, his imperial dreams shattered, surrendered to a black mood of bitterness and indignation.

In the basilica of St Peter, outside Rome, Pope Hormisdas, Theoderic’s loyal friend and colleague, sadly locked away in a vault the robe and diadem for the coronation that would never now take place.

* See Notes.

† A town on the Appian Way between Rome and Naples.

* Especially Naples, Rome, Ravenna, Milan and Genoa.

† In deference to constitutional sensibilities, Theoderic issued edicts rather than promulgating laws — an imperial privilege. The effects, however, were the same.

* Reviving a law passed in 364 by the emperor Valentinian I.