Theodoric

THIRTY-FOUR

Striding along Ravenna’s cardo,* Eutharic chuckled to himself as Romans hurriedly made way for him. The fact that they now feared and hated him — who had been but a short time before the most popular man in Italy — bothered him not one whit. That was the trouble with dear old father-in-law: he wanted to be liked, and was hurt and puzzled when his subjects bit the hand that fed them, so to speak. If you were a ruler, the only thing that mattered was to be obeyed; if the price of that was to make those you ruled afraid of you, too bad.

Eutharic had never liked the Romans: an arrogant lot who couldn’t get used to the fact that they’d lost an empire — the Western ones anyway. This fracas with the Jews had given him the chance to rub their long noses in it. Not that he had much time for Jews, either — too devout and cliquish for his liking. But the fact that his own people, the Visigoths, had tramped around the Roman Empire for forty years before being granted a homeland, gave him a sneaking sympathy for a people who had spent the same amount of time wandering the desert before entering their Promised Land.

Hullo, what was this? A man was standing by one of the newly repaired synagogues, painting a message on a wall: ‘Iudaei spurci’.† Delighted to be gifted such an opportunity to make an example of an offending Roman, Eutharic moved up silently behind the graffitor, who was so absorbed in his work that he failed to notice the other’s arrival.

‘Good on you,’ murmured Eutharic. ‘These Yids need keeping in their place.’

‘You’re not wrong there, mate,’ replied the man, adding a crudely daubed skull to his slogan. Then his smirk faded, as he turned and saw who the commentator was. ‘Er. . just a bit of fun,’ he faltered.

‘Lick it off,’ said Eutharic, smiling pleasantly.

‘Sir, y-you don’t mean that,’ stammered the man, his face suddenly white. He laughed nervously. ‘’Course you don’t. I’ll fetch a scrubbing-brush and water. Come off in a jiffy, it will.’

‘I said, “Lick it off” you Roman bastard,’ reiterated Eutharic, his words all the more menacing for being uttered softly. His voice suddenly cracked like a whiplash: ‘Now!’

Trembling with fright and revulsion, the man began to lick, while a silent crowd, fearful and curious, gathered to watch. Fortunately, the paint was still wet enough to come off fairly easily, and within half an hour a faint smudge was all that remained. The culprit, his lips and jaws smeared with pigment, vomited on to the cobbles.

Chuckling, Eutharic walked on in high good spirits.

In the palace kitchens, Amalasuntha, Theoderic’s beloved daughter and wife of Eutharic, supervised the preparation of the evening meal, the cena. Fluent in Greek as well as Latin, well versed in classical literature, the princess was an enthusiast for all things Roman, including cooking. Here, her guide and mentor was the great Apicius, his famous cookery book her bible. It was one of his recipes that she was using now. ‘Sucking-pig in the manner of Frontinus: fillet, brown and dress; put in a casserole of fish sauce and wine, wrap in a bouquet of leeks and dill, pour off the juice when half cooked; when cooked, remove and dry, sprinkle with pepper and serve.’

Smiling fondly, Amalasuntha anticipated her husband’s reaction. Pretending to despise Roman cooking as fussy and pretentious, he had a weakness for any dish which included pork. The dinner-time ritual had become familiar: a show of grumbling, followed by enthusiastic consumption, then (eventually) a compliment on a delicious meal, expertly prepared. Following patriarchal German custom, he preferred to eat alone (seated at a table: none of this effeminate Roman nonsense of lounging on couches).

‘The master’s ready. You may take this in to him,’ Amalasuntha told Prosper, her new young scullion, whom she had taken on after he had repeatedly turned up at the palace asking for kitchen work. Keen and quick to learn, he had emerged with flying colours from a trial period, and was now a valued addition to the kitchen staff.

En route to the triclinium with a steaming bowl of ‘Frontinus’ Speciality’, Prosper took a phial from his belt-purse, emptied the contents into the bowl, then proceeded on his way.

‘What’s this, flamingoes’ tongues with mullets’ livers, or some such Roman trash?’ sighed Eutharic, as Prosper ladled out a small portion onto a plain pewter dish. (No fancy gold or silver Roman plate for a Goth with simple tastes, thank you.)

‘Go on, Sire, try some,’ coaxed Prosper. ‘You’ll like it. The Domina prepared it specially.’

‘Mmm, not too bad,’ conceded Eutharic, after sampling a spoonful. He signalled Prosper to fill the dish.

Two days later, Eutharic took to his bed, complaining of violent stomach cramps. Prosper, meanwhile, had disappeared, never to be seen again.

‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ said Cethegus to the four Anulars awaiting him in Symmachus’ house in Ravenna: Boethius, Symmachus, Cassiodorus and, fresh back from Constantinople, Priscian. ‘This year of the consul Maximus* bids fair to be an exceedingly auspicious one — an Annus Mirabilis indeed. For the Cause, that is, though not, I fear, for our esteemed lord and master. Quintus,’ turning to Symmachus, ‘let us for a change, begin with the Falernian. There being nothing to discuss, merely items to report, a toast to Fortuna is in order, I believe. Even the heavens, it would seem, are on our side; a comet, that portent of the death of kings, has appeared in the sky.

‘This year has seen three highly desirable deaths,’ Cethegus announced when all were seated comfortably in the tablinum, goblets brimming with ruby wine. First and most important, Eutharic died recently from a mysterious sickness-’ He broke off, when he caught Cassiodorus’ eye. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Magnus. You can’t think I had anything to do with it, surely? Heaven forfend! Plenty of disgruntled Romans in Ravenna willing to do the deed. Anyway, who’s to say he didn’t die from natural causes? But back to what I was saying. Don’t expect to hear the news officially for some time yet. The palace is desperately trying to hush it up — and for good reason.’

‘The succession?’ suggested Boethius. ‘That’s bound to be thrown into chaos.’

‘Absolutely right, Anicius. The next heir is a child, Athalaric, son of Eutharic and Amalasuntha. Among Germans, for a minor to succeed is unacceptable. Already, powerful Gothic nobles are lining up to try to usurp the throne. Best of all, Justin has refused to recognize the succession.’

‘But he seemed only too happy to recognize Eutharic as Theoderic’s heir,’ protested Symmachus. ‘What’s happened to make him change his mind?’

‘Justinian is what’s happened,’ put in Priscian, his dark, African face thoughtful. ‘Understand that the empire never happily went along with Theoderic’s grand pretensions; just made the best of what it undoubtedly saw as a bad job. Remember that when Zeno persuaded him to go to Italy as his vicegerent, it was really a cover to get rid of a dangerous nuisance who was troubling his realm. Granted, Theoderic’s turned out better than anyone expected, but the emergence of a Gothic super-state cum Western-Empire-reconstituted on its doorstep was hardly going to be welcomed by the East. Fortunately, Justin — simple, good-hearted old soldier that he is — has had enough sense to let Justinian now take over and make the decisions.’

‘And the other deaths?’ queried Symmachus.

‘Pope Hormisdas — next to you, Anicius Boethius, Theoderic’s most loyal and valued colleague,’ said Cethegus. ‘Undoubtedly, his death will have come as a severe blow. Finally, Thrasamund, the Vandal king, Theoderic’s ally, who was married to his sister, Amalafrida. Thrasamund’s successor’s yet another ancient monarch, a spineless nonentity called Hilderic. Very odd ancestry.’ The senator grinned, looking more than ever like a craftier version of Emperor Vespasian. ‘Grandson, would you believe, of the Western Emperor Valentinian III, whose daughter Eudocia, Hilderic’s mother, was part of Gaiseric’s booty from the second Sack of Rome.’

‘And the great thing as far as we’re concerned,’ remarked Priscian, waving a pink-palmed hand in emphasis, ‘is that Hilderic has ended the Vandal-Ostrogoth alliance and become — perhaps because of his part-Roman descent — a poodle of Justinian. He’s even rumoured to have named him as his heir. If so, Africa could revert to Roman rule without a blow being struck. And just to prove to Justinian that he’s really finished with Theoderic, he’s clapped Amalafrida in gaol and murdered all her Ostrogothic retinue, who came over with her when she married Thrasamund.

‘It gets better,’ the African went on. ‘In this same year of the consul Maximus, Justin — Justinian, really — has passed a law declaring Arians to be heretics. Of course, it’s only enforceable in the empire, but the implications for Theoderic are enormous. It amounts to the most colossal snub, announcing to the world that Theoderic and his Arian Ostrogoths are spiritual outlaws. In effect it’s a rejection of Theoderic by Rome — id est, Constantinople — implying that his vicegerency is now held only on sufferance.’

‘And there’s more,’ said Cethegus, rubbing his hands in gleeful satisfaction. ‘Theoderic’s empire is disintegrating. In Hispania, the honeymoon has soured, thanks to the Ostrogoths behaving to their Visigothic cousins more like conquerors than allies. Encouraged by Justinian, Theudis, a powerful noble, has declared himself king and split Hispania off from Gaul and Italy. In Gaul, the Franks and Burgundians are once again resurgent, threatening the security of Theoderic’s outer ring of buffer states: Thuringia, Rhaetia* and Noricum. Even in Italy Theoderic’s authority is crumbling. Together, Justinian and Hilderic have dealt him a massive blow. And once a barbarian leader’s seen to be weakened, he’s in real trouble with his followers. As a result, his nephew Theodahad and a certain Count Tuluin have carved out for themselves huge personal fiefs, virtually independent of central government control. If they’re seen to get away with it, others will begin to try it on, and Theoderic’s hold on his nobility will slip.’

‘I wonder if that’s why he’s building a fleet?’ pondered Cassiodorus. ‘Here, down in Classis, and elsewhere, the shipyards are busy night and day turning out vast numbers of dromons. Seeing his rule everywhere challenged, perhaps this is his response to a perceived threat. If so — unless he’s somehow got wind of plans for the Day of Liberation, which anyway is hardly imminent — it’s totally irrational and surely points to mental instability. But maybe we shouldn’t be surprised. If pushed too far, this is how barbarians behave.’

‘Personally I can’t help feeling sorry for Theoderic,’ murmured Boethius, shaking his head sadly. ‘He’s always treated me with kindness and consideration, and he’s done his best for Italy, according to his lights. It must be terrible for him to see everything he’s worked for collapse like an arch whose keystone is removed. I think of a sick old lion surrounded by jackals and hyenas circling for the kill. Rather than pull him down, perhaps we should try to help him.’

‘You’re not going soft on us I hope, Anicius?’ said Cethegus with mock sternness. ‘Especially not now. Support for the Cause is growing by the day, with increasing calls from senators, both in Rome and in Constantinople, for Italy to be reunited with the empire. Leading the charge in Rome is a very influential and persuasive senator, Albinus — a name to reckon with, I think we’ll find. And talking of sick old lions’ — he paused, looking round at the others — ‘don’t forget they can be dangerous and unpredictable, lashing out when you least expect it. So no loose talk, gentlemen. Our lives could be at stake. Well, enough of politics.’ He turned to Symmachus with a smile. ‘If you’re feeling kind, Quintus, I think we’d all appreciate another flagon of Falernian.’

It had been shipped — with huge difficulty — across from Istria on the other side of the Adriatic. Now, hauled by a double span of two hundred oxen, on a massive sledge moving on rollers, the enormous marble dome, really a capstone of titanic size, approached its destination. This was a vast limestone structure consisting of two cylinders one atop the other, the lower, larger one pierced by arches. Adjoining a section of the building’s curving face was an enormous sloping ramp of earth and timber, on to which the dome was eased by a complex block-and-tackle system. This was worked by teams of men astonishingly few in number, thanks to the mechanical advantage obtained from multiple pulleys. Slowly, under the watchful eyes of architects and engineers, the great mass, all five hundred tons of it, crept up the ramp; as it slid home to crown the building, a cheer of triumph (and relief) burst from the workmen and professionals.

Leaning on his stick, Theoderic watched the scene from the top of the Porta Artemetoris in Ravenna’s north wall. If they remember me for nothing else, the old king thought sadly, at least they will remember me for this, my mausoleum. What had it all been for? he wondered, reflecting on his long career: his boyhood in Constantinople and the beginning of his doomed love affair with Rome; the epic struggle to find a homeland for his people, culminating in his vicegerency of Italy; his dream of empire with himself becoming emperor, so nearly (it had seemed) coming to fruition; finally, the collapse of his ambitions when all he had striven to achieve suddenly seemed built on sand. What hurt the most was that the Romans, to whose welfare he had tirelessly devoted himself, should have turned against him, with their senators, if rumour could be trusted, in treacherous communication with the empire.

What was the final part of the prophecy that Myrddin, disciple of the saintly Severinus, had foretold for him? Strangely, he could recall the words as clearly now as when he first had heard them: ‘After many years the horse dies, to be followed by eight others of his line; the final six of these the eagle of the East attacks, killing the last.’ The horse, the totem of the Ostrogoths, must be himself. The eagle of the East could only mean the Eastern Roman Empire. The meaning of the prophecy was clear: his long reign would be followed by a dynasty of eight successors, in whose reigns, barring those of the first two, the empire would attempt to reconquer Italy, finally succeeding with the death of the last.

The sudden tragic death of Eutharic had plunged the succession into confusion. Little Athalaric would become the next king. Assuming the boy was still a minor when he ascended the throne, that spelt trouble, with greedy and ambitious nobles, like Athalaric’s relative Theodahad, likely to contest his crown. And after Athalaric. . Amalasuntha, perhaps? Although gifted and popular, being a woman she would face the same problems as a minor: trying to impose her authority over fierce and independent warriors. Whether or not the prophecy was true, the outlook for his people was not auspicious.

What was left for him, now that his life was moving towards its close? (The increasing severity of stomach pains and attacks of diarrhoea carried a message as stark as it was clear.) Like stranded flotsam left by an ebbing tide, a few things remained that could with profit be attended to. His faithful Magister Officiorum, Boethius — the only Roman he had ever truly learnt to trust — should be rewarded with wealth and recognition commensurate with his devoted and unstinting service. Connal, the brave and loyal Scot who commanded his bodyguard, should be permitted to retire with a generous pension, commuted to a lump sum if he wished to return to his homeland. In that event, he could perhaps be asked to seek out news of Myrddin, which could be conveyed back to Italy by a travelling companion. Then there was Timothy, lifelong friend and faithful servant, who had tried to warn him about Roman perfidy and been imprisoned for his pains. Reparation must be made before it was too late.

Finally, and most important of all, he had a duty to defend his own poor people, whom, like Moses, he had led out of the wilderness into their supposed Promised Land. They were beset on every hand by enemies: Vandals, Franks, Burgundians, rebels in Hispania, Romans in Italy, the mighty empire looming like a vast and threatening thunder-cloud beyond the Adriatic. The old king’s face clouded momentarily, then brightened. Ships! Ships and yet more ships — great dromons no one dared defy; that was the answer. Who could deny that, barring the Amal, the strongest of the German nations was the kingdom of the Vandals? Why? Because it had a navy. (True, a navy built by subject Romans, but the concept was the rulers’.) Rome had beaten Carthage only when she built a superior navy; and the same held for the Greeks in their wars against the Persians. The Ostrogothic navy would become the terror of the seas. Then, all those peoples who had dared threaten his realm would perceive their error and repent.

His mind restored to equanimity, Theoderic descended (with some difficulty) to the base of the Porta Artemetoris and made his way towards his tomb, to thank the men responsible for its completion.

* Main street.

† Filthy Jews.

* 523.

* Between the rivers Inn and Rhine.