Theodoric

THREE

‘Timothy of Tarsus, Your Serenity — guardian of Prince Theoderic, son of Thiudimer Amalo, joint king of the Ostrogoths,’ announced the silentiarius — one of the tribe of gentlemen-ushers who ensured that the elaborate machinery of court procedure in the Imperial Palace functioned smoothly. Bowing, he showed Timothy into the reception chamber, then withdrew.

Timothy found himself in a vast colonnaded hall, at the far end of which were two figures: enthroned, an elderly man swathed in purple robes which somehow created the effect of diminishing his slight form; and, sprawled on a bench, a colossal individual wearing undress military uniform: round pillbox cap, undyed linen tunic (somewhat soiled and worn) with indigo government roundels at thighs and shoulders. These were, respectively, Emperor Leo and his top general, Zeno, a tough Isaurian chieftain who had changed his name from the barbarous-sounding Tarasicodissa to the more euphonious Zeno in deference to the sophisticated ears of the capital’s citizens.

Making what he hoped were the correct obeisances, Timothy advanced towards the pair, halting with lowered head several paces from the throne. ‘Serenity, General, your humble servant is honoured to receive your summons, and awaits your pleasure. . er, is desirous to know how best he may be of service.’ Despite having been on the palace staff for years, this was the first time Timothy had been in the imperial presence. He was, as he admitted to himself, making up the rules of etiquette as he went along; he just hoped he wasn’t committing any major gaffes.

‘Tarsus, eh?’ chuckled the general. ‘A fellow Isaurian then. But I could have told that from your accent.’ He surveyed the other’s muscular frame appraisingly. ‘There’s a place in the Excubitors, my crack corps of Isaurians, if you’re interested — good pay, easy service, generous donatives. Isaurians always welcome.’ He turned to Leo. ‘Sorry — bad form to be speaking ahead of my emperor.’ He grinned in mock contrition. ‘Over to you, Serenity.’

‘Thank you,’ snapped Leo, a flush of annoyance spreading up his neck. Addressing Timothy, he stated, ‘We have just received a message from Theoderic’s father, requesting the return of his son. You’ve had the boy daily in your sights for the past nine years. In your opinion, would you say the time is, ah, appropriate, for the young barbarian to rejoin his tribe?’

Timothy thought carefully before framing his reply. ‘Appropriate’ was code for ‘suitable on account of the subject’s posing no threat’. In other words, had nearly a decade of exposure to the civilizing influence of Roman culture been sufficient to dilute the warlike instincts natural to any Goth, while inculcating respect and loyalty for Rome, thus rendering him more likely to prove a useful ally than a dangerous foe of the empire? The ‘Cambyses incident’ two and a half years ago had, in order to avoid awkward consequences for all involved, been kept a strict secret. So no one suspected that the shy, studious persona that the young Goth presented to the world concealed a spirit both courageous and determined. It was best, Timothy decided, that Leo remain in ignorance of this side of Theoderic’s nature. (As a result of the boar-hunt, persecution of Theoderic by Julian and his gang had stopped immediately; though shunned, he was treated with wary respect. Schooldays had ended soon afterwards, some of his classmates going, like Julian, into the army, others entering the civil service, one or two the Church. Theoderic himself continued his studies at Constantinople University, founded by Theodosius II just forty-four years previously, attending classes in philosophy and Latin grammar.)

‘Theoderic’s a quiet lad, Secrenity,’ Timothy pronounced. ‘Mild, inoffensive, a conscientious student. Overall, rather timid and ineffectual, I’d say.’

‘Timid and ineffectual?’ ruminated Leo. ‘Excellent, excellent. Well, assuming what you say is true, I think we can safely let our young barbarian go. Probably to sink without trace. Theoderic — a name written on water, it would seem.’

‘Doesn’t sound like any Goth I’ve ever encountered,’ snorted Zeno. ‘“Timid and ineffectual”’? You must be joking! Alaric himself could come over all sweet reason when it suited — and look what he did to Rome.’

Leo shook his head impatiently. ‘Spare us the history lesson, Zeno. Sometimes we have to go with our instincts and take a chance on things. I’ll have the release order made out straight away.’ He glanced at Timothy. ‘Our thanks for your advice. On your way out, tell the silentiarius to send for my scribe.’

In the name of the Invincible Augustus the Most Sacred Leo, four times Consul, Emperor of the Eastern domain of our One and Indivisible Empire, his Master of Offices requests that within the Prefectures of Illyricum and the East: the vicars of the Dioceses of Thracia and Dacia, and the governors of the Provinces of Europa, Haemimontus, Thracia, Moesia Secunda, Dacia Mediterranea, Dacia Ripensis and Moesia Prima, together with all officers and servants acting in their names, allow to pass freely without let or hindrance, affording him such assistance and protection as may be necessary, Prince Theoderic, the son of Thiudimer Amalo, king (jointly with his brother Vidimir) of the Ostrogoth nation which currently resides within the provinces of Pannonia Secunda, Valeria, Savia and Pannonia Prima, by gracious permission of the Invincible Augustus of the West, the Most Sacred Anthemius. Issued at the Imperial Secretariat within the Great Palace of Constantinopolis, and given into the hand of our trusty and well-beloved emissary Timotheus Trascilliseus, guardian of the aforesaid Theoderic. Pridie Kalendas Junii, in the year of the consuls Leo Augustus (being his fourth consulship) and of Probianus.*

With disbelief tinged with awe, Timothy finished reading this portentous document, Theoderic’s safe-conduct, with which he had been entrusted. ‘Trusty and well-beloved emissary’! Could that really refer to him, Timothy the brawler, Timothy the small-time crook, Timothy the humble bodyguard — a nothing, an invisible presence lurking in the shadows? But that was yesterday. Today, by some miraculous stroke of administrative alchemy, he had been transformed into a government official entrusted with an important mission, and holding the impressive title of agens in rebus, a catch-all job description covering anything from spy to diplomat. It felt good. With the commission in his satchel, and wearing the same undress uniform as Zeno (having semi-military rank, agentes were entitled to wear uniform, though not armour), he found himself walking with an extra swagger and confidence. Now palace underlings made way for him with respectful expressions, whereas formerly they had treated him with indifference or easy familiarity. All immensely gratifying.

Next morning at the first hour, mounted, accompanied by a small train of spare horses and pack-mules carrying luggage and supplies in the charge of a groom, Timothy and Theoderic arrived at the Golden Gate, where they were to be joined by the armed escort assigned to accompany them on their journey. They hadn’t waited long when, with a clatter of hooves and jingle of accoutrements, a dozen horse-archers plus remounts and supply wagon approached along the Mese. With their highly polished cuirasses of overlapping iron scales and red-crested Attic helmets of gleaming bronze, they made a brave show.

‘Legio Quinta Macedonica,’ observed Timothy; ‘note the sunflower motif on their shields.’ He groaned in sudden consternation. ‘Oh no! Look who their decurion is — our old friend Julian, no less.’

A splendidly mounted young officer, scarlet cloak billowing, pulled up before Theoderic.

‘You!’ exclaimed Julian. His expression of shocked amazement swiftly changed to one of calculating malice. ‘Well, Goth, this should be an interesting trip. It’s a long way to Pannonia.’ He shook his head in simulated concern. ‘You’ll need to watch yourself; a lot can happen in a thousand miles. Well, there’s the gate opening. Shall we go?’

Headed by the escort, the cavalcade proceeded through the second of the triple arches in the Golden Gate, the chief entry into the city through the Theodosian Walls at their southern end. Turning in the saddle, Theoderic looked back at the city that had been his home for the greater part of his young life: the mighty double rampart of the Walls studded with massive towers, before which even Attila had quailed, and beyond them the roofs of churches, palaces, baths, and gymnasia without number, the statues crowning the columns of Constantine, Arcadius and Marcian, the topmost tier of arches of Valens’ aqueduct. .

A wave of nostalgia and sadness engulfed the young Goth. He was leaving, probably for the last time, all the things that had shaped his life and that he held dear — Roman art and architecture, Roman thought, Roman poetry and learning, Roman law with its noble aspirations linked to equity and justice. Through his education as a hostage, in outlook he had become fully Roman. Yet because of his German blood and Arian faith Rome rejected him — as Julian had once so cruelly reminded him. (It was ironic as well as unfortunate that fate had decreed their paths should rejoin, if only for a limited period. He supposed there were worse alternatives to being saddled with Julian for several weeks: a long sea voyage, for instance, tedious, uncomfortable, perhaps even dangerous. As for the young Roman’s thinly veiled threat, he dismissed that as the empty rhetoric of a spiteful mind.) He should be glad, he knew, to be returning home. But what was home? A dimly remembered land of plains and forests peopled by warlike farmers, ignorant, illiterate, scratching a living from the soil, eked out by plundered goods and livestock. A world without culture, barren and violent, where enjoyment was equated with fighting and feasting, and personal worth with loyalty and courage: noble qualities, to be sure, but hardly the compass of a man’s full measure. How would he be judged when back among his own people? Would he measure up? One thought alone sustained and comforted him: the memory of his father. Strong, wise and loving, Thiudimer would surely help him to make the transition from Roman to Goth.

The group had travelled only a few miles along the Via Egnatia, the great artery linking the empires of the East and West, when Theoderic and Timothy, in the rear, were alerted by a distant pattering behind them. Turning, they saw a dense mass of galloping horsemen, some way off but closing fast. Splitting into two wings, the pursuers, a wild-looking lot whooping and brandishing weapons, raced past on either side to join up again some hundreds of paces to the fore. Then, swiftly wheeling round, they charged towards the other group with levelled lances.

* 31 May 471 (see Notes).