by Ross Laidlaw
Unwelcome though he felt the news would be, Timothy knew he would be wanting in his duty if he failed to lay his findings before Theoderic. It was with a heavy heart that he approached the king’s quarters in the palace.
Theoderic had never been so happy. Sequestered in a small tablinum or study-cum-library which he used as a council chamber, he began discussing the schedule for the day with his two new friends and chief advisers, Symmachus, the wise and cultured senator, and young Boethius, a brilliant scholar whose mind displayed the grasp and judgement of someone far beyond his years. Thanks to the assistance of this gifted pair, those early years of consolidating his rule following the overthrow of Odovacar, were being crowned by ambitious plans which were already beginning to spread his fame and influence far beyond the confines of Italy, and bidding fair to make Theoderic the mentor and unofficial leader of all the German peoples. And when the business of the day was done, it was an unalloyed pleasure to discuss, sometimes in Greek, the literature and philosophy of Greece and Rome: something for which his soul had hungered ever since he had been forced to abandon his studies in Constantinople.
Already accepted by other barbarian kings (even the ferocious Vandals) in the former Western Empire as a ruler too powerful to tangle with, Theoderic had only one real problem: his brother-in-law, the Frankish monarch, Clovis. Twelve years younger than Theoderic, the ambitious Clovis, whose marriage to a Catholic princess, Clotilda, was followed by his own conversion from Arianism, had embarked on plans to extend his rule over the whole of Gaul — plans which threatened Theoderic’s Visigothic kinsmen and allies in Aquitania, and had led to a pre-emptive strike by Clovis against the Alamanni on Gaul’s eastern border. The cynical cover for these aggressive moves was a professed desire to bring the light of Catholicism to those benighted heretics living in Arian darkness — a ploy which had succeeded with the late Pope Anastasius, leading him to confer on Clovis the title of ‘Most Christian King’. Boethius and Symmachus were at present engaged in helping Theoderic devise a policy aimed at curbing Clovis’ expansionist designs.
‘A firm but tactful stance might be the best approach, Serenity,’ suggested Symmachus; ‘a hint of iron hand in velvet glove.’
‘Reinforced with a “sweetener” perhaps,’ added Boethius with an innocent-seeming smile. ‘The man loves music, especially songs accompanied by the harp. Why don’t we send him an expert harpist, one who can make up songs extolling Clovis’ martial feats? That’s sure to go down well; our Frankish friend is not impervious to flattery.’
‘Excellent,’ laughed Theoderic, clapping the young man on the shoulder. ‘Quintus,’ he said to Symmachus, ‘time to put your epistolary skills to use.’
‘“Theoderic, king of the Ostrogoths,”’ Symmachus read aloud, some time later, ‘“to his esteemed brother-in-law, Clovis, king of the Franks, greetings. The husband of your beloved sister appeals to you for help in resolving the delicate situation in which he finds himself. For I am between Scylla and Charybdis.* The Alamanni, against whom you recently won a great and glorious victory, and who have now sought refuge within my own realm, have appealed to me to intercede with you on their behalf. I beg you, take the advice of an older man whose experience has taught him that successful wars are those brought to completion with moderation. I ask you, in the name of friendship, to desist from further hostile action against your former foes. Likewise, I urge you to end your campaign against the Visigoths. As his friend as well as kinsman, honour would compel me to come to the assistance of King Alaric II, should he request it. But I trust it will not come to that. Restraint and good sense on your part will, I am sure, prevail.
‘“As a token of my goodwill and continuing friendship, I am accompanying this letter with a gift, which will, I hope, prove a source of pleasure and solace in the manner of Orpheus.”’
Symmachus looked up with a dubious smile. ‘I wonder if perhaps I haven’t laid the flattery on a bit too thickly in parts, Serenity?’
‘Not at all,’ enthused Theoderic. ‘You’ve hit the right note exactly. Subtlety’s not one of Clovis’s strong points. I’d be surprised if this doesn’t get results. Now to find that harpist.’
Observing Theoderic’s expression as he concluded his report, Timothy’s heart sank. The king’s face, which at first had reddened, was now pale.
‘Where did you get this information?’ The voice was ominously quiet.
‘From all over Rome, Deric — from the slums, the taverns, even from the palace.’
‘The idle gossip of the mob, backstairs chit-chat among palace underlings. You give credence to such malicious drivel?’
‘It can’t all be dismissed, surely? Sometimes it’s one’s painful duty to tell a friend what he doesn’t want to hear.’
‘You dare to call yourself my friend! Symmachus and Boethius, whom you choose to smear, they are my friends — true friends.’
‘They’re Romans, Deric!’ cried Timothy, becoming desperate. ‘Of course they’re going to go along with you, agree with everything you say. It’s in their interest to do so. It’s all smiles and flattery — for the present. But times can change. Suppose this rift between Rome and Constantinople gets healed, and the East wishes to recover Italy for the Roman Empire? Do you really think that Symmachus and Boethius wouldn’t drop you in a moment? Open your eyes.’
‘Enough!’ roared Theoderic, raising his fist.
‘Strike me if you must, but I’ll finish what I have to say. Forget these dreams of becoming Roman emperor; you can never be “Theodericus Augustus”. But you can be “Dietrich von Bern”. That’s your true role, Deric, a German ruler of a foreign land. Be content with that, as all the other German kings have been, from Gaiseric and Odovacar to Clovis and Alaric II. There, I’ve done.’
‘As I’ve done with you.’ The king’s voice was now level, but with an edge of cold fury. He scratched a message on a pair of waxed writing-tablets — the diptych with exquisitely carved ivory covers presented to him on his consulship, sixteen years before. ‘Go back to Constantinople, Timothy,’ he said, handing him the tablets. ‘This message will enable you to draw funds sufficient for the journey from the Comes Rei Privatae. You may keep the diptych — a memento of a friendship which is now no more.’
The lump in his throat prevented Timothy from speaking. Nodding in acknowledgement, he turned and headed for the door, half blinded by tears — the first he had known since his mother’s death, when he was a child.
* From Lingua Theodisca, the Roman name for the Goths’ language.
* Scandinavia.
* In Greek legend, two sea-monsters believed to drown sailors navigating the Straits of Messina. In popular parlance, the expression would translate as ‘between a rock and a hard place’.
TWENTY-SIX
Another Orpheus, who by his singing and playing will bring delight to the glory of your power
Cassiodorus, Variae, c. 537
As the little ship approached the island in the Sequana* fringed by the concrete ramparts of Parisia (formerly Lutetia Parisiorum), Connal was surprised to hear the skipper order the helmsman to steer towards the wharves on the southern bank. The skipper pointed to a complex of impressive-looking buildings looming through the late-autumn drizzle half a mile distant, beyond a scatter of mean huts and muddy fields. ‘Palatia Thermarum, the old HQ of the provincial governor under the empire. That’s where you’ll find the king — if he’s not off hunting or campaigning.’
The ship having docked, Connal paid the man off and disembarked his escort plus harpist, with whose delivery to Clovis Theoderic had entrusted him. Following his manumission at the Colosseum, Connal had been recruited into the king’s household guard, a small corps of warriors handpicked for loyalty and courage. With his formidable physique and natural authority Connal had quickly risen to become their captain, creating such a favourable impression on Theoderic as to make the Celt an ideal choice of emissary to send to Clovis, with Symmachus’ letter accompanied by ‘gift’.
As the vessel progressed along the winding river through rich champaign country, Connal reflected on the strange twists of fortune that had brought him to his present position.
Connal’s grandfather, a chieftain in the kingdom of Dalriada (at that time located only in Hibernia), had been converted to Christianity by Patricius when the latter arrived from Gaul to begin his mission to his native homeland, in the reign of the emperor Valentinian III. The seed the holy man scattered fell on fertile soil indeed, and he was soon consecrating bishops, ordaining vast numbers of priests, and blessing many monks and nuns, while through his influence a culture of piety and learning quickly took root throughout the island. This same culture Connal’s father had taken with him to Caledonia, when Dalriada created an extension of itself across the Oceanus Atlanticus. Born in the final years of Rome’s Empire in the West, young Connal had grown up learning (besides his Gaelic mother tongue) to speak and read Latin, to become versed in Vergil as well as St Jerome, and skilled in the playing of the harp besides the arts of war.
Then, at the age of twenty, he had been snatched by pirates (very active along Britannia’s western shores), and bought by Gaulish slavers who had sold him to a Roman senator. Condemned to an existence of brutal toil on the Roman’s latifundium, or large estate, he had contrived to escape, almost killing the overseer in the process. Deemed ferox et indocilis at his recapture, he had been sold on to the sulphur mines, where life expectancy seldom exceeded five years. At the time of his escape from the mines followed by recapture and sending to the Colosseum, he had survived for six, thanks to an iron constitution and his will to live.
Meeting the Frankish king, Connal seemed to be confronting his mirror image. Apart from being a few years older, and with a tawny mane rather than a red, Clovis (despite being German and the other Celtic), might have been the Scot’s twin brother: similar features, identical height of some six and a half feet, same massive breadth of shoulder and powerfully muscled frame. The remarkable resemblance struck both men immediately, causing Clovis to utter a delighted whoop and give Connal’s arm a playful punch. After introducing himself and the harpist (a diffident lad of eighteen) and handing over Theoderic’s letter, which Clovis quickly scanned, Connal, together with his group, was conducted through the maze of halls and peristyles comprising the palace, which was complemented by an enormous bath-house — now merely ornamental, the heating system having broken down. The king seemed boyishly pleased to be able to show off the splendours of his residence to one who was obviously capable of appreciating them. The effect, however, was somewhat spoiled by the indifference to their surroundings of the Frankish warriors who, clad in the close-fitting and brightly coloured garments by which the tribe was known, thronged the place, cooking meals and allowing dogs and horses to defecate freely on exquisite mosaic floors.
The Frankish king came over to Connal as a larger-than-life figure, filled with restless energy and enthusiasm. Shouting convivialities at his soldiers, who responded in kind, declaiming over murals or the wonders of the hypocaust (even though it no longer worked), the king led the party on at a relentless pace, barely stopping long enough in one spot for Connal to appreciate its features. The persona of rumbustious bonhomie masked, Connal felt, a sharp and calculating intelligence.
The whirlwind tour completed, Connal asked the king what answer to his letter he should convey to Theoderic, on returning to Italy. They were now alone in a neglected and overgrown formal garden, the escort and harpist having been dismissed to mingle with the Franks.
‘You may tell my brother-in-law, Doppelganger mine, that I thank him for his gift, and promise to be most conscientious in heeding his advice. Say also that his comment as to Orpheus isn’t lost on me,’ the king added with a chuckle. ‘My Franks could certainly do with a spot of taming.’*
*
In honour of the occasion, also officially to acknowledge the visit of one Apollinaris — son of the great Gallo-Roman aristocrat and bishop Sidonius Apollinaris, who for years had gallantly defended Arvernum against the Visigoths — Clovis held a feast in the palace’s great audience chamber. Apollinaris had arrived a few days earlier from the court of Alaric II, to plead for a cessation of hostilities against the Visigoths, whose rule, faute de mieux, the Gallo-Romans had come to accept, even loyally support against incursions by the Franks.
Connal had heard that the Franks were generally despised for their barbarism — even among barbarians; he now discovered that this reputation was not undeserved. Vast quantities of beer and meat were consumed amid a deafening hubbub of shouted conversation, quarreling and rowdy horseplay. At one point, someone’s idea of a jolly diversion was to make the unfortunate Apollinaris stand against a door, while diners hurled knives and throwing-axes into the wood all round him. Luckily, the marksmen were skilled, creating on the door a perfect outline of the Roman, without harming him. Clovis seemed oblivious of all the rough-and-tumble, carrying on an animated discussion with Connal concerning religious observance, in which he displayed all the zeal of the converted. ‘Time you Celtic Christians recognized the authority of the Pope and importance of the saints,’ he lectured his guest.
‘The sole authority we need is in the Scriptures,’ Connal replied mildly. ‘By diligent study therein, a man may discover the meaning of God’s Word. Why does he need the Bishop of Rome or the example of holy men to find it, when he can do so for himself?’
‘Heresy, my friend, blind heresy!’ shouted Clovis, ramming a forefinger into the other’s chest. He appeared to be enjoying himself enormously. ‘Tell him, my dear,’ he said, turning to his wife, Clotilde, the Catholic Burgundian princess whose creed he had adopted in preference to his own Arian faith.
‘Give our guest a little peace, Lewis,’* she replied fondly, laying a hand on her spouse’s. ‘Your brother-in-law has been kind enough to send us a harpist. Should we not hear him demonstrate his skill?’
Summoned, the young harpist — awkward and taciturn till this moment — began to sing in a clear voice, accompanying himself on his instrument. True and sweet, the notes rang out, filling the great chamber and silencing the noisy revellers. The musician sang of the great deeds of the Franks: of Clodion, who wrested from the Romans the lands between the Rhenus and the Samara* of Merovech, and of Childeric, the father of their present king; of the victories of Clovis over the Alamanni and the Visigoths. His rapt audience banged the boards in appreciation of feats of valour, or blubbered into drinking-horns over the death of heroes.
The young harpist retired to thunderous applause, whereupon the Franks returned to the serious business of drinking, boasting and competing with each other in feats of strength and skill such as raising a barrel of ale above the head, or throwing a knife in the air then catching the descending blade between one’s teeth. Not to be outdone, Clovis performed a trick for which he had become famous. The fire needing replenishing, a servant led in a donkey loaded with firewood and began to throw on logs. Thrusting the man aside, Clovis lifted both the donkey and its load and hurled them into the flames. The screams of the dying animal were drowned by the roars of approbation from a delighted audience.
Next morning, Connal, accompanied by Apollinaris, took his leave of Clovis and, with pounding head and parched mouth, set
out on the long journey back to Italy.
Pacing the weed-grown suites of the deserted bath-house, his favourite retreat, Clovis mulled over his immediate plans. Let others — Gundobad of the Burgundians, for instance, or even Thrasamund the Vandal king — jump when Theoderic snapped his fingers. He, Clovis, would follow his star irrespective of his brother-in-law’s approval or otherwise. That star? Nothing less than the conquest of the whole of Gaul. Everything north of the Liger was already his. The main barrier between that frontier and the Mare Internum† was the kingdom of the Visigoths. In south-east Gaul, the Alamanni had been already crushed, and the Burgundians were his allies — for the moment; they could be picked off later. But the Visigoths were no longer the mighty power they had once been, their king, Alaric II, a mere shadow of his father, the great Euric. For the time being Clovis would stay his hand. Then, when the Visigoths had been lulled into a false sense of security, he would launch his strike against them.
* River Seine.
† Marseilles.
‡ Lyons.
* In Greek legend, with the music of his lyre Orpheus was able to tame savage beasts.
* ‘The ch expresses only the German aspiration; and the true name is not different from Luduin or Lewis’ (Gibbon).