Theodoric

THIRTY-SIX

‘Paul!’ exclaimed Timothy, answering his door to a new gerulus or oddjob-man cum janitor for the household guards. ‘Last time I saw you, you were a silentiarius in the palace. What happened?’

‘Creeping Germanization, that’s what happened,’ replied Paul bitterly, setting down his laundry basket. ‘First he got rid of the protectores domestici, the Roman palace bodyguard, now it’s the turn of the silentiarii, both of them replaced by Goths. Gothic gentlemen-ushers — an oxymoron, if ever there was!’

Timothy invited Paul into his cubiculum or bedroom, while he looked out dirty tunics and bed-linen to be replaced by the clean items the gerulus handed him. The conditions of his house arrest were not oppressive. He had been assigned a small suite in the guards’ compound — part of the civitas barbara — and shared the soldiers’ facilities. This was the zone of Ravenna occupied by the Goths along the platea maior,* which also included the palace, court church and Arian episcopal complex. His bodily needs were amply catered for, and, though forbidden to leave the compound, he was permitted to move freely within its spacious confines, and make use of amenities such as the baths and gymnasium.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,’ observed Paul, rolling up the sheets Timothy passed him, ‘you seem to have come down a bit in the world yourself.’ His refined face registered concern. ‘You used to be Theoderic’s right-hand man, as I recall.’

‘Past tense is correct,’ confirmed Timothy, gesturing Paul to take the room’s only chair, then seating himself on his cot. Suddenly, activated by the Roman’s sympathy, a tide of anger, frustration, and resentment — for too long bottled up — welled up, clamouring for outlet.

‘The man’s paranoid,’ he heard himself cry, ‘obsessed with crazy notions about becoming emperor. The Romans would never wear it. More to the point, neither would Justin — for which read Justinian, if what I hear’s correct. I did the king a favour, pointing out that he was making a big mistake. And what did I get for my pains? Clapped in this hole, with a lot of sweaty Goths for company.’

‘How much do you know about what’s going on in the outside world?’

‘A fair amount. I take my meals in the mess hall with the soldiers; no one’s told me I can’t use my ears.’

‘Then you’ll have heard about the riots?’

‘Yes, also the death of Eutharic, the succession crisis, the defection of the Vandals, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Common knowledge, sir. There’s something else — much bigger — which only a few are privy to. Something which could bring hope to a man in your position. Of course, it’s only rumour.’

‘Tell me,’ demanded Timothy, feeling a stirring of excitement.

‘Only if you promise not to breathe a word, sir. If anything got out, it wouldn’t just be my job on the line. It would be my neck.’

‘You can trust me, Paul. It’s the same axe we’re grinding.’

‘Very well, sir. Some of us silentiarii have contacts in the Senate, most of whom would welcome a change of regime. That, of course, could only happen through the intervention of Justinian, a step which some leading senators are urging him to take.’

‘Then power to their elbow!’ declared Timothy. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say it — I who used to count myself Theoderic’s friend — but for his own good and that of Italy it’s time his rule was ended, hopefully without bloodshed. Honourable retirement with a consulship would be a kind end to a career which in many ways has been a great one.’

‘Unfortunately, that isn’t the Roman way,’ said Paul, shaking his head sadly. ‘More likely, he’d share the fate of Stilicho.’

‘Better that, perhaps, than dragging out the remainder of his days in discord and disappointment.’

‘That’s true.’ Paul rose and picked up his basket. ‘Well, I must be on my rounds; would you mind opening the door for me? Keep your spirits up, sir. Change may happen sooner than you think.’ And with a smile, he slipped out and was gone.

Struggling muzzily from sleep in response to the knocking on his door, Timothy glanced at the window; grey dawn light was filtering through cracks in the shutters.

Opening the door, he found himself confronted by Fridibad, the saio* in charge of messages between the palace and the military compound.

‘My apologies, Herr Timothy, for waking you at such an hour,’ said Fridibad, a tough-looking Goth of middle years. ‘You are to come with me.’

‘What’s all this about?’ asked Timothy, alarm churning in his stomach as he donned leggings, tunic and shoes. A dawn call could only betoken bad news.

‘My orders — from the king himself — are that you be taken under escort to Ticinum† and lodged in that city’s tower.’

‘On what charge?’ Timothy seemed to feel a cold hand squeeze his heart. The Tower of Ticinum! That was one place you didn’t want to end up in. It had a sinister reputation as the final destination of those who had offended against the state.

‘I was not told, Herr Timothy,’ replied the saio with gruff sympathy. He shifted his stance awkwardly, and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. Timothy had been a popular ‘guest’ in the compound, his store of racy anecdotes going down well with the Gothic soldiery at meals in the mess. Whereas, in similar circumstances, Romans would have shunned him as persona non grata, the Amal had taken Timothy to their hearts as a fellow warrior and teller of stirring tales, his status enhanced by their Teutonic respect for grey hairs.

As he accompanied Fridibad across the compound’s great quadratum towards the guard-room, it was suddenly clear to Timothy what had happened. Paul had been a ‘plant’, sent by Theoderic to sound out Timothy for his real views about the king. How could he have been so gullible as to fall for such a ruse? Timothy asked himself with bitter self-recrimination. It seemed that, like a thief in the night, his dotage had crept up on him, eroding his customary guardedness. No fool like an old fool, somebody had once said. Well, they certainly got that right, he thought savagely, all at once feeling every one of his eighty-four years. This would never have happened with Timothy the gang-leader of Tarsus, Timothy the prince’s minder in Constantinople, Timothy the king’s resourceful friend and right-hand man of the great migration and the glory days in Italy — before everything turned sour. Like the leader of a wolf pack past his prime who finds his supremacy usurped by a younger rival, he had lost his edge and must therefore pay the price.

A few hundred yards away, his mood alternating between rage and sorrow, Theoderic wandered the pathways of his orchard, trying to come to terms with the information that Paulus, silentiarius turned informer, had brought to him concerning Timothy. In his mind he had rehearsed, with joyful anticipation, the scene when he and Timothy (freed from house arrest following a little test of loyalty — which surely would prove no more than a formality) would at last be reconciled. Instead, there had come the revelation that his once loyal friend and mentor had turned against him. Wounded to the heart, his mind clouded by fits of fury followed by depression, the old king had blindly paced the palace corridors and grounds — none daring to intervene — finally coming to himself as the shapes of his beloved fruit trees emerged slowly in the first pale rays of dawn. Timothy’s rejection meant that he was now alone, Theoderic told himself, the storm of his emotions resolving itself into an overwhelming sadness.

No, wait; there was still Boethius, his loyal Roman servant and adviser. The description could also apply to Symmachus and Cassiodorus as well, but Boethius was more than that. He was a true friend, whose unfailing sympathy and understanding had helped the king before in many a pass. Now, in this time of trouble and distress, he would surely prove a strong staff on which to lean. Comforted, his steps now steady and assured, Theoderic began to make his way back towards the palace.

* Now the Via Roma. The ‘court church’ is S. Apollinare Nuovo.

* Crown agent (see Notes).

† Pavia.