Theodoric

by Ross Laidlaw

  ‘My friend from Constantinopolis, and your fellow Anular, Lucius Vettius Priscianus,’ announced Cethegus, introducing his companion (whose dark skin and tightly curled black hair denoted an African origin) to Cassiodorus, Boethius and Symmachus, ensconced in the tablinum of Symmachus’ house in Ravenna. ‘But I was forgetting, Quintus’ — he nodded at his host — ‘you two already know each other.’

  ‘Indeed we do,’ said Priscianus warmly. ‘When we first met in Constantinople, I had to congratulate him on his command of Greek — better than most native speakers’.’

  ‘And showed his appreciation by dedicating three treatises to me,’ the senator responded with a smile. He clapped his hands and a slave entered, bearing a tray on which were five goblets and a silver flagon. ‘Let’s toast this reunion in Falernian.’

  ‘Perhaps later, Quintus,’ Cethegus suggested. ‘Best we keep our heads as clear as possible while I explain the reasons why I’ve called this meeting — which must be strictly sub rosa, by the way.’ Smiling cheerfully, in a significant gesture he drew a finger across his throat.

  ‘Anastasius is dead at last,’* Cethegus announced, when all were seated, listening, in a silence tinged with apprehension. ‘Expect to hear officially in a day or two; my sources usually provide me with intelligence before the government couriers arrive with news.’

  ‘And his death means. .?’ prompted Boethius.

  ‘That the Acacian Schism, too, is dead. Or, if not yet defunct, shortly to become so.’

  ‘Forgive me, Rufius,’ said Cassiodorus, looking mildly puzzled, ‘but I’ll have to ask you to enlighten me.’

  ‘Without elaborating on religious niceties,’ Priscian put in, ‘it means that peace, theologically speaking, has broken out between Rome and Constantinople. Our new ruler, Justin — another geriatric emperor — is a tough old soldier from a peasant background. The real power behind the throne is his nephew Justinianus — well educated, and highly intelligent, to boot, by all accounts.’

  ‘The point is,’ Cethegus observed, picking up on Priscian, ‘that they’re both fervent Chalcedonians — id est, adherents of the doctrine, established by the Council of Chalcedon way back in the reign of Marcian, that Christ has two natures, human and divine. Which, as I’m sure you hardly need reminding, puts them very much in tune with Rome, whose new Pope, Hormisdas, is also strongly Chalcedonian. The Acacian creed, which panders to Monophytism — the belief that Christ has only one, divine, nature, and which, under Zeno and Anastasius, gained ground in Eastern sees — is now almost certainly about to be declared anathema.’

  ‘Your drift, if I’ve followed you aright,’ said Boethius, ‘is that, with channels of communication soon to be unblocked between East and West, Romans in both Italy and the empire will shortly be exchanging ideas. Am I right?’

  ‘You are indeed, Anicius Manlius. As I mentioned at our last meeting, there’s a growing feeling on both sides of the Adriatic that Italy should be reunited with the empire. That feeling is articulated and given focus by leading Romans: the senators of Rome itself — Laurentians almost to a man — writers, politicians, intellectuals, and more especially by Anulus, the group to which the present company belongs and which, from this moment, will be called upon to help to sway men’s minds throughout the Roman world. Justinian himself is thought to be strongly in favour of bringing Italy back into the imperial fold. Not only that, but he’s said to harbour ambitions to reconstitute the whole Western Empire.’

  ‘But that would mean. . the expulsion of the Vandals, the Burgundians and Franks, and the Ostrogoths and Visigoths,’ said Symmachus slowly, his fine patrician features set in an expression of concern. ‘A momentous step. Could it be done? Should it, in fact, be done?’

  ‘The task would certainly be challenging,’ replied Cethegus. ‘But yes, I believe it could be done. Bear in mind that the barbarians are a tiny fraction — perhaps no more than a hundredth — of the Roman population of the occupied territories. Many are no longer the ferocious warriors they once were. The Vandals have grown soft through the debilitating effects of luxury and a hot climate. The Visigoths and Franks lost many of their finest fighting men in the recent wars. The imperial armies, on the other hand, are strong, well led and well equipped. In a straight fight, Roman troops will always win — thanks largely to barbarian indiscipline and lack of armour. All in all, the odds on us expelling the barbarians are in our favour, I would say. Also, by bringing much of the West’s former territory into the Ostrogothic realm, Theoderic may have done us a favour. Reconstituting the Western Empire could be made that much easier. As to your second point, Quintus, I believe it is the patriotic duty of all Romans to rid ourselves of the barbarians — who, let us not forget, are uninvited guests. Look at the tyrannical regime the Vandals have inflicted on the Romans of Africa. And the record of the Franks and the Burgundians hasn’t been much better.’

  ‘But under Ostrogothic rule, Italy has prospered,’ objected Cassiodorus. ‘You can’t deny it, Rufius.’

  ‘Theoderic, I grant you, has ruled well — largely through the guidance of you three.’ Cethegus nodded at the trio of Roman Councillors. ‘But Theoderic’s getting on; who knows how much longer his reign will last? I would remind you that on the previous occasion I was here, I warned of the dire consequences of a Gothic dynasty.’

  ‘Obviously Theoderic’s successors will be Goths,’ Boethius said. ‘But. . a dynasty? Can that be likely? The king has no male heirs, and at his age the chances can’t be good that he’ll produce any.’

  ‘Ah, but he does have an heir. His daughter Amalasuntha has been married to a Visigoth called Eutharic, for whom an impressive Amal pedigree has naturally had to be concocted. You may well look surprised; the marriage has been kept under wraps, probably because Theoderic suspects that Roman reaction would be less than ecstatic, especially should the couple have a son. But why does all this matter, I hear you ask? Well, the reason is that dynasties are hard to overthrow. Once established, the population tends to tolerate them, even when they’re brutal or incompetent, like the Severans or later Theodosians. Smooth transfer of power from one monarch to the next, you see. Lessens the risk of usurpation and civil war, which has always been the curse of Rome. Now, I have it on good authority that scheduled for next year are three events which, taken in conjunction, will reinforce Theoderic’s dynastic position immeasurably.’

  ‘Thus making it that much harder to unseat his successors, when the Day of Liberation comes,’ added Priscian.

  ‘And these events are?’ queried Cassiodorus.

  ‘First,’ Cethegus went on, ‘Theoderic has nominated Eutharic for a consulship. If it’s confirmed by Justin, as it almost certainly will be, the prestige accruing to the house of the Amal will be immense, helping to make Eutharic acceptable as Theoderic’s heir. Second, Senator Caecina Mavortius Basilius Decius, who — surprise, surprise — is hoping for a consulship, will, six months after Eutharic takes office, unveil an inscription at Terracina on the Via Appia. Exactly what its wording is, my agents have so far been unable to discover, but I strongly suspect that it’s something designed to lend support to item number three.’ Pausing for dramatic effect, he looked round at the others.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Cassiodorus, at last breaking the tension-building silence.

  ‘A week after Decius unveils his mystery inscription,’ Cethegus continued, ‘Theoderic intends to present himself in the Basilica of St Peter outside Rome, before Pope Hormisdas — who will then proceed to crown him emperor.’

  * Provence, where they had been besieging Arelate (Arles).

  † Barring its north-west corner, which was Suevic territory, the Hispanic peninsula had been added to the Visigothic realm of Aquitania, under Euric.

  * In 511.

  * He died on 9 July 518, aged eighty-eight.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Eutharicus was adorned by Justinus with the palm-enwoven robe of the consul

  Cassiodorus, Variae, c. 537

  Fr
om his place on the marble benches of Rome’s Senate House, Theoderic felt his heart swell with pride as his son-in-law Eutharic, tall, handsome, smiling, advanced towards the rostrum.

  With the death of Anastasius and the ending of the thirty-five-year schism between Rome and Constantinople, Theoderic had at first been worried. The religious divide (in a world where prosperity and personal salvation depended on correct belief — an attitude not shared by the sceptical monarch) had meant that his Roman subjects were less likely to look for help and support from an emperor they regarded as a heretic. Now that religious unity had been restored, would these same subjects start conspiring with the Romans of the East, in a move towards political unity? In the event, however, his concern had proved premature. Justin, the new emperor, had been happy to confirm Theoderic and his successors as rulers of the Ostrogothic realm. And when Eutharic visited the emperor in Constantinople, Justin had been so taken with the young Visigoth that he adopted him as ‘son-in-arms’ (shield-raised according to Germanic custom), and had personally nominated him for the Western consulship, along with, and taking precedence over, himself as Eastern consul — an unprecedented honour. In addition, the emperor had designated Eutharic a ‘Flavian’, a unique privilege reserved for those deemed fit to be associated with the imperial family. Enormously relieved, the Amal king had, to mark the Rome-Byzantium entente, issued three new coins: forty-, twenty-, and ten-nummi pieces, each showing on the obverse an eagle, long a symbol of nobility and power to both Goths and Romans.

  ‘Do you, Flavius Eutharicus Cilliga,’ quavered old Festus, ‘swear, as consul, faithfully to serve the Senate and the people of Rome, and to reside within the pomoerium* during your term of office?’

  ‘I do so swear.’

  ‘Then I, in my capacity as Caput Senatus, with these symbols of office do hereby invest you as a Consul of Rome, your name, along with that of Justinus, Augustus of the Romans, to be entered in the Fasti this Kalends of Januarius, for the year from the Founding of the City the twelve hundred and seventy-third,† to be known hereafter and for ever as the Year of the Consuls Eutharicus and Justinus.’

  Two former consuls placed upon the young man’s shoulders a robe of cream silk from Serica‡ patterned in a wondrous raised design of squares, lozenges and stylized flowers. Festus handed him an ivory baton topped with a golden finial in the form of a winged figure. Then, to loud and sustained acclamation, the new consul, followed by senators and guests, exited the Senate house and proceeded in procession to the Circus Maximus, there to inaugurate the Games, the expensive duty which every consul was expected to take up and which, for the honour of having the year named for him, could bring about financial ruin.

  Within days, Eutharic was the darling of the City, charming all who came in contact with him by his open manner, friendliness and liberality. Generous sparsiones — scatterings of coin — pleased the mob, gifts of consular diptychs, waxed writing-tablets with exquisitely carved ivory covers, delighted their aristocratic recipients, while the munificence of the amusements exceeded all expectations.

  But Eutharic’s charismatic geniality concealed a shrewd and calculating side. Theoderic, intensely interested in the vast and complex systems of aqueducts and drains by which water was conveyed into and removed from Rome, and which, in his fancy, resembled the vessels of a living organism, had arranged for himself and his son-in-law a tour of the city’s subterranean sewers. Led by a guide provided by the City Prefect, the royal pair, after threading a network of dank underground tunnels with deep central gutters along which noisome fluids flowed, paused for a rest inside the Cloaca Maxima, a vast arched channel deep below the Forum Romanum.

  ‘Built by the kings of Rome a thousand years ago,’* Theoderic said wonderingly, pointing to the massive, cunningly fitted blocks of ashlar curving above their heads. ‘I wonder, will we ever rediscover such engineering skills?’

  ‘I doubt it, father,’ laughed Eutharic, passing over a flask of wine. ‘The Gothic kings will have other priorities, I think. War and politics are more our line. Talking of which,’ he added lightly, ‘I take it my succession — which hopefully will not happen for many years yet — will go unchallenged?’

  ‘Have no fear on that score, son. As my heir, Constantinople backs you to the hilt, and Romans in Italy have lost the taste for competing for the purple. Of course, there’s poor old Romulus.’ Theoderic shook his head and chuckled. ‘But nobody remembers him.’

  ‘Romulus?’

  ‘West Rome’s last emperor. I’d almost forgotten he existed. He was put on the throne by his father, Orestes, the Roman general who ran Italy at the time, Italy being about all that was left of the Western Empire. When his Master of Soldiers — my predecessor Odovacar — demanded a pay increase for his German federates, Orestes was foolish enough to try to stall him. Bad mistake. Odovacar had him killed, pensioned off little Romulus, who was only a child, and made himself de facto king of Italy, with the tacit consent of Zeno.’

  ‘So where’s Romulus now, father?’

  ‘Living in comfortable obscurity somewhere in Campania, I believe. Must be in his fifties — a harmless nobody.’ Theoderic laughed. ‘Don’t worry, son. No one’s going to try to get his throne back for him after all these years.’

  ‘I see.’ Eutharic took a pull of wine and smiled. But the smile did not reach his eyes.

  Before they even sighted her walls, travellers approaching Rome heard the roar from the Circus Maximus. Packed into the stands of the vast racecourse — fully a third of a mile long — three hundred thousand people rose to their feet and yelled their appreciation as, according to custom, the Games’ editor, followed by a procession of mounted dignitaries, rode in a chariot round the Spina, the long barrier down the centre of the racetrack. The editor was the consul for the year, none other than the son-in-law of Theoderic himself, Eutharic.

  The circuit completed, Eutharic alighted from the chariot and joined the assembly in the Tribunal Judicum, the raised box where sat the umpires, also privileged spectators. They were: Theoderic, accompanied by his beautiful and learned daughter, the trilingual Amalasuntha, wife of Eutharic; court officials, including the newly appointed Master of Offices, Boethius; Pope Hormisdas, surrounded by a coterie of bishops; and a group of high-ranking envoys from Constantinople. Between box and racetrack, spears in hand, stood a row of flaxen-haired Goths of the royal bodyguard, under the command of Connal the Scot.

  Nearby, in an area reserved for senators and their wives, the Anulars (Boethius conspicuous by his absence) formed a compact group.

  ‘Well, we may as well say goodbye to any ideas about reunification with the empire,’ sighed Symmachus. ‘Now that Justin’s given full backing to Theoderic as king and Eutharic as his successor, Ostrogothic rule seems set in concrete. Rufius,’ he went on, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice, ‘I thought you said the ending of the Schism was going to change everything.’

  Cethegus looked up from studying his racing form for the Greens, engraved on copper. ‘Just a moment,’ he murmured, bending to his scrutiny once more. ‘I’m working out how much to bet on Fuscus. Upand-coming young charioteer, first in over two hundred races to date. Pomperanus, that’s his near-hand horse, is a centenarius — over a hundred wins.’ He signalled to one of the bet-takers parading below the stands. ‘Ten solidi on Fuscus to win.’ The man opened his tablets and scratched a note of the bet, along with Cethegus’ name, then handed the senator a wooden tally in exchange for ten gold coins.

  ‘Rufius!’

  Smiling, Cethegus raised his head and put down his racing form. ‘Apologies, my dear Quintus. Where were we? The Schism, wasn’t it? Not to worry; now that it’s over, things should start going our way.’

  ‘Yes, but when?’ demanded Faustus albus. ‘Since he accepted the post of Master of Offices, with his sons being tipped for consulships, even Boethius seems to have given up the Cause and gone over to the enemy. It’s one thing to act as Theoderic’s unofficial adviser, quite anoth
er to become his chief minister.’

  ‘Be fair, Acilius. He could hardly turn down the appointment,’ Cethegus pointed out. ‘Any more than you, Magnus,’ turning to Cassiodorus, ‘could refuse when Theoderic invited you to deliver an oration in praise of his son-in-law. No, Boethius is simply making the best of things, and marking time until the tide begins to turn.’

  ‘Which it will, gentlemen,’ put in Priscian. ‘As soon as Justinian takes over.’

  ‘I might be dead by then,’ wailed Festus. ‘Justin may be old, but who’s to say he won’t go on for many years yet? Just look at Anastasius.’

  ‘Justin is yesterday’s man,’ said Priscian. His quiet assurance lifted the prevailing mood of pessimism. And the fact that he was from Constantinople, and presumably had some inside knowledge of the machinations of Byzantine court politics, lent his words an added weight. ‘In a sense Justinian has already taken over. Justin may be front of stage, but Justinian’s the one who’s deciding future policy. And that, take my word for it, is definitely geared towards recovering the Western Empire. Constantinople’s full of Roman exiles from Italy who can’t wait for the Day of Liberation to come; and they’re a powerful pressure group.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a trumpet-blast, the signal for the grooms to lead the four competing teams representing the Red, Blue, Green and White factions, into the stalls from the rear. In the box, Eutharic rose to his feet holding in his right hand the mappa, the white cloth to start the race. The mappa dropped, the stall gates flew open, and the chariots were off.

  Each vehicle, a very light affair with a wide wheel-base, was drawn by four horses, the centre two, selected for pulling power, yoked to the shaft, the outer ones, responsible for turning the chariot, on traces. The drivers, wearing thick leather helmets and short tunics in their factions’ colours, had tied the reins round their waists to get more leverage on the turns — a risky procedure in the event of a crash, as their only means of freeing themselves was a sharp knife stuck in the belt. The drivers’ strategy was to take the turns as tightly as possible, which meant trying to beat the opposing teams to reach the inside track next to the Spina. The race comprised seven circuits of the track, the completion of each lap being marked by the removal of a dolphin from a crossbar at either end of the barricade.