by Ross Laidlaw
Feeling a little like Moses who had brought his people to the Promised Land, but, unlike the patriarch, not forbidden entry thereto, Theoderic rode across the bridge — and into Italy, where surely Destiny awaited him. The freshly trampled earth and squares of bleached grass told their own story. Learning of his rival’s unexpected advance from the north, Odovacar, his army not yet fully mustered, had withdrawn, to await confrontation at some later date.
* The Carinthian Alps.
† Bavarians.
‡ The River Sava
§ The Julian Alps.
* The River Sora, near Ljubljana, in Slovenia (see Notes).
† Isonzo Bridge.
* Triglav (see Notes).
* The Gulf of Trieste.
TWENTY-ONE
Have pity on me!
Cry of Emperor Zeno from within his tomb, allegedly reported by citizens of Constantinople, 491
Zeno stirred, as his mind returned to consciousness. He opened his eyes: blackness. He tried to sit up; his head banged against an unyielding surface. He extended his hands, which encountered what felt like cold stone. Where was he? With mounting alarm, he recalled his last memory: himself lying on a sick-bed surrounded by courtiers and physicians, the Patriarch of Constantinople leaning over him, intoning the last rites.
Terror engulfed the emperor as he realized the awful truth. Through some appalling misdiagnosis, perhaps while in a cataleptic state, he had been pronounced dead, then entombed — alive! Filling his lungs with stale and fetid air, he began to shout for help.
‘Simmer down, you ghastly bunch!’ bellowed the choirmaster with mock severity. The choirboys, high spirits coming to the fore on being released from rehearsing the paean for the new emperor, desisted from larking about. They were inside the vast church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. ‘That wasn’t bad,’ the choirmaster conceded. ‘Not bad at all.’ The choirboys grinned at each other smugly. ‘Not bad’ was high praise from their preceptor. ‘Early night, remember; tomorrow’s the big day. Off you go, now.’
‘Listen!’ called one chorister urgently, holding up a hand for silence. ‘I think I heard someone calling.’ All froze, straining their ears.
Faint but distinct, there came a muffled cry from the direction of the apse, ‘Help me, for pity’s sake!’
‘It’s coming from the sarcophagus,’ whispered one of the boys.
The group hurried to the great marble tomb resting on its catafalque where, only the day before, Zeno had been laid to rest. From within, the cry — desperate, terror-filled — was repeated.
‘We’ll get you out, Serenity,’ called the choirmaster, placing his mouth to the crack between the lid and the walls of the great stone coffin. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, yes!’ came the reply, charged with anguished hope.
‘I’ll get help, Serenity,’ the choirmaster assured the imprisoned emperor, after he and the twelve boys had vainly tried to shift the massive lid. Clearly, nothing short of a team of workmen armed with crowbars and lifting-gear was going to move that heavy slab. ‘Try to stay calm — you’ll soon be out of there.’
Dismissing his charges with a strict injunction not to breathe a word to anyone, the choirmaster hurried to the palace.
‘The poor man!’ exclaimed Anastasius in horror. The Master of Offices had repeated the choirmaster’s news to him and his bride-to-be, Ariadne — not, after all, Zeno’s widow, but, it transpired, still his wife. Aged sixty-one, an undistinguished if conscientious palace official, Anastasius had, for want of a more suitable candidate, been chosen to succeed Zeno, who had expired (it had been thought) suddenly, following a massive stroke. ‘We must get him out at once.’ He turned to the Master of Offices. ‘Summon the palace masons.’
‘Wait,’ said Ariadne. A woman of overweening ambition and iron will, she had agreed to marry Anastasius in the event of Zeno’s death, expected since the emperor’s being taken gravely ill, some weeks before. Such a wedding between May and December was acceptable to both, allowing, as it did, Ariadne to maintain her imperial status and Anastasius to inherit royal lineage through marriage to the emperor’s widow. The arrangement was not without precedent. Zeno himself, an Isaurian outsider, by marrying Ariadne, daughter of the emperor Leo, had thereby acquired membership of the royal line, as had Marcian, forty years ago, by marrying the Augusta Pulcheria, sister of Theodosius II.
‘Think carefully,’ continued Ariadne. ‘What would be the consequences were my husband to be resurrected? You, Anastasius, would of course relinquish any claim to the purple. Worse, you would be marked for death — or blinding, at best.* The throne can prove a damnosa haereditas. Through no fault of your own, you would have become a rival for the diadem, a potential usurper who must be eliminated. Such, unfortunately, have always been the rules of the imperial game. As for myself, it’s no secret that my marriage to Zeno has been one strictly of convenience; his death means little to me. Were he to return, his days would anyway be numbered, given his health of late.’ She looked hard at Anastasius. ‘But you, alas, consigned to prison or condemned to die, would no longer be my suitor. I confess I value my role as Augusta too much to relinquish it willingly.’ Addressing the Master of Offices, she continued, ‘You too, Magister, should have a care. Implicated, as inevitably you would be, in what, I imagine, might become known as “the Lazarus Affair”, you would be tainted by association and suffer a fate similar to Anastasius’. All totally unjust and unreasonable, of course; but that’s what would happen.’ She looked enquiringly at the two men. ‘Well?’
‘Your silence implies consent that we take no steps to liberate my unfortunate husband,’ Ariadne pronounced when, after a lacuna lasting many seconds, no one had spoken. ‘Good. This, then, is what we do. In case he should start circulating awkward rumours, that choirmaster must be told that Zeno was rescued, but unfortunately succumbed to shock. The cathedral must be locked immediately, for, let us say, a week. Long enough for. .’ She paused, and shrugged. ‘Even though it means postponing the coronation, it will be easy enough to fabricate a convincing reason — urgent repairs to a weak wall, say.’
‘It’s done, Serenities.’ Via a silentiarius, the Master of Offices set in train the machinery for closing the cathedral.
‘It’s monstrous — monstrous,’ whispered Anastasius, his mild face furrowed in distress.
‘Dreadful,’ concurred the Master of Offices. ‘But have we any choice? Of course, we may not be able to keep a lid on things. There’s no way of guaranteeing that those choirboys will keep quiet.’
‘Isn’t there?’ murmured Ariadne. ‘We can take steps to ensure their silence.’
‘Enough!’ roared Anastasius, suddenly red with uncharacteristic fury. ‘Good God! This is Constantinople, not Ravenna — let us behave like Romans, not barbarians. With the utmost reluctance, Augusta, and to my eternal shame, I am prepared to go along with your proposal as to Zeno. But I draw the line at anything more. If I hear that one hair of those boys’ heads has been harmed. .’ He glared at the empress.
‘Oh, very well,’ conceded Ariadne. ‘Even if the story gets out, it probably won’t matter much.’
‘How so?’ objected Anastasius. ‘Zeno’s been a most effective emperor. The way he’s played off the Goths against each other has been masterly. And at last, by persuading Theoderic to go to Italy, he’s finally got rid of the barbarians. He’s succeeded, where every other emperor since Adrianople has failed.’
‘True, no doubt. But there’s one thing you’re forgetting: Zeno’s an Isaurian.’
Ariadne had a point, Anastasius admitted. The inhabitants of Isauria — wild mountain tribesmen, always ready to raid their neighbours or rebel against the government — were deeply unpopular with almost all East Romans. Sadly, the reaction of those same Romans, should they learn of Zeno’s fate, would more likely be indifference than consternation.
When he heard the distant, muffled clang of the church’s great bronze doors closing, Zeno knew no help was going to
come. Alone, in the blackness of the tomb, despite having abandoned hope, the emperor began to scream. .
* Serious disfigurement was held to debar accession to the purple. Hence blinding, or amputation of the nose, was sometimes inflicted, as an alternative to execution, on those deemed unacceptable as Eastern Emperor.
TWENTY-TWO
Where is God?
John of Antioch (quoting Odovacar’s protest as Theoderic prepared to murder him, 15 March 493), Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, seventh century
‘We who are Rome pledge our lives for her peace, our strength for her own, and our honour for her citizens.’ With the other standing senators, dignified in their archaic togas, Magnus Aurelius Cassiodorus chanted the words of the oath — old, old words which had echoed here down the long centuries of the republic, then the empire, and now, even when the empire was no more, in these strange new days of the Regnum Italiae under German kings. Barbarians might reign, but without the co-operation of the Senate — that repository of power, expertise and influence — they could not rule.
Recently enough elected to the august assembly to be awed by the atmosphere of Rome’s Senate House, Aurelius, young for a senator, resumed his seat. This building was charged with the weight of history: it had witnessed speeches which had changed the course of world events. Here, in Rome’s darkest hour, the Senate had resolved to carry on the fight against Hannibal even when the flower of her manhood had perished on the field of Cannae. Here had been voted the funds enabling Rome’s legions to build an empire extending from Hispania in the west to Persia in the east, from Caledonia in the north to Aethiopia in the south. In this spot, Christianity had been confirmed as the official creed of Rome. In the days of chaos and uncertainty following the murder of the great Aetius, who had held the crumbling fabric of the West together, the Senate alone had kept the machinery of state functioning. And now, with the fate of Italy being decided by rival barbarians in far-off Ravenna, this same assembly must decide which of the two to support.
The Caput Senatus,* Flavius Rufius Postumius Festus, venerable consul from imperial times, and fresh from a mission to Constantinople to argue the legitimacy of Theoderic’s claim, rose stiffly to address the House. Banging his staff of office on the marble floor to command attention, he announced in a reedy quaver, ‘The first and principal motion to put before you, this Nones of Februarius in the year of the consuls Eusebius and Albinus, and from the Founding of the City the twelve hundred and forty-sixth,† concerns the future rule of Italy. Its substance is known to you all: whose cause shall we decide to champion, Theoderic’s or Odovacar’s? Theoderic arrived in Italy with Zeno’s backing, but Zeno’s successor, Anastasius, perhaps because he was preoccupied with insurgency in Isauria, declined to commit himself when I pressed him for his views. Gentlemen, the floor is yours.’
First to speak was Anicius Acilius Aginantius Faustus albus, consul ten years previously, and a member of the powerful family of the Anicii. He, like Festus, had recently returned from a mission to the Eastern capital, ostensibly on behalf of Odovacar. A swarthy individual despite his cognomen, he looked round the packed marble benches with an ingratiating smirk. ‘The choice is obvious,’ he drawled, with the easy confidence bestowed by generations of wealth and privilege. ‘We back the winner.’
‘Do, pray, enlighten us,’ sneered an elderly senator. ‘Clearly you must have contact with the Sibyl — unlike the rest of us benighted souls.’
‘Do I really have to spell it out?’ sighed Faustus, raising his hands in a calculated gesture of exasperation. ‘It’s Theoderic, of course. Anyone with a smidgen of perception can see that. You’ve only to look at the man’s record. Through a mixture of persistence, leadership and sheer guts, he’s managed to unite all the Goths in the Eastern Empire, transforming them from a collection of squabbling marauders to the most powerful nation in Europe. As the hereditary monarch of an ancient royal house — one, moreover, with the backing of the late Eastern Emperor — Theoderic has the sort of influence and personality that attend success. What does Odovacar amount to? An adventurer from a minor tribe whose rise owes more to luck them ability, elected king by a rabble of rebellious soldiery, whose allegiance is precarious at best. His rule was never recognized officially by Zeno, just not contested, as being the least bad option. Then there’s the question of age. Odovacar’s a worn-out old man in his sixties; not yet forty, Theoderic’s in his prime. If you’ve any sense, like me you’ll vote for Theoderic.’
A ground-swell of approving murmurs — loudest from the Anicii and another leading family, the Decii (normally their rivals, but in this instance allies) — arose from all across the benches, drawing angry protests from those supporting Odovacar.
A tall senator with patrician features rose to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at the Anician. This was Quintus Aurelius Memmius Symmachus, Roman patriot, one-time consul and City Prefect, from the most illustrious family of Rome, whose great-grandfather had in this very Senate House led the campaign against the removal of the (pagan) Altar of Victory by Bishop Ambrose of Milan and his Christian zealots. That fight might have been lost, but the honour of the family had gained immeasurably, the name of Symmachus coming to stand for freedom of speech and thought, against bigotry and intolerance.
‘Shame on you, Faustus!’ declared Symmachus. ‘You went to Constantinople to plead Odovacar’s cause. Now you stab him in the back and tell us we should do the same.’
Faustus smiled, and shrugged. ‘Political necessity,’ he murmured.
‘Cynical expediency, more like!’ shouted Symmachus. His gaze swept round the assembly, now tense and expectant. ‘Has it come to this: that we, the Senate, the very voice of Rome, stand for nothing more than cowardly self-interest? There was a time when senators were not afraid to speak out for what was right. Odovacar has proved himself a good and just ruler — a great deal better than many of our emperors. He rewarded his soldiers, which he was compelled to do, with public land as far as possible, keeping confiscation from Romans to a minimum, something for which we should be eternally grateful. We owe him loyalty, not betrayal.’
‘Hear, hear!’ This from Marius Manlius Boethius,* another former consul from a rich and famous family, who had risen from a sick-bed to attend the meeting.
Speaker after speaker rose to express their views, most siding (some shamefacedly) with Faustus. When the vote was taken, it was overwhelmingly in favour of Theoderic. The names of those who, like Boethius and Symmachus, supported Odovacar were noted, as were those abstaining. Among the latter was Cassiodorus, who was genuinely confused. Instinctively, he sympathized with Symmachus’ stance defending Odovacar, yet he was reluctant to believe that so many of Rome’s great and good could be wrong.
Exactly a month later, the Porta Aurea, Ravenna’s main gate, opened to admit Theoderic. Bishop John, his features gaunt with hunger from the long siege, came forward, smiling and uttering assurances that Odovacar now wished only to be friends with the Amal king and hoped that, from this moment on, they could rule jointly in amicable concord. Kissing the bishop’s hand, Theoderic gladly concurred, telling himself that this was perhaps the best possible outcome of the bitter four-year struggle.
It had been a hard war, Theoderic reflected as, accompanied by the captains of his host together with the bishop’s train, he made his way to the Imperial Palace, where Odovacar had his headquarters. In his mind he reviewed the sequence of events: a series of bloody clashes in the Padus* flood-plain, with fortunes swinging like a wild pendulum between the opposing sides. Gradually, however, the initiative had passed to Theoderic, with Odovacar pinned down in Ravenna — thought to be impregnable behind its screen of marshes and lagoons. But by capturing the port of Ariminum,† thus preventing supplies getting through to the besieged capital, Theoderic was able to tighten the blockade dramatically. With famine imminent, Bishop John at last came forth to make terms on behalf of Odovacar.
In the course of the campaign, one unfortunate incident
had occurred which was to cast a cloud over Theoderic’s mood for many months to come. Frederick, the young Rugian prince, had proved unable to control his followers. They had gone on the rampage, mistreating the local Roman population. On hearing about this, Theoderic had taken it upon himself to discipline the offenders and take Frederick to task, probably, in hindsight, speaking more harshly than intended. Angry and humiliated, the young man had stormed off and switched allegiance to Odovacar, only to be killed in a subsequent engagement. Theoderic, who had felt a strong affection for the young prince, regarding him almost as a son, took the news badly — both hurt by his betrayal and deeply saddened by his loss.
Meeting the Scirian king, Theoderic was put in mind of a sick old lion. Thin and hollow-eyed from the privations of the siege, the grizzled monarch greeted the Amal courteously, and with as much warmth as the situation allowed. Theoderic liked him immediately, this impression being confirmed when, on further acquaintance, he found him to be frank, down-to-earth, and not without a sense of humour. They discovered, to their mutual surprise, that they had more in common than dividing them. Apart from being fellow Germans, though from different tribes, both had fought for Rome, been commended by the venerable Severinus, and, at different times, received the backing of the Eastern Emperor.