by Ross Laidlaw
As the chariots flashed round the track, dolphin after dolphin disappeared from the crossbar until only one remained.
‘Come on, Fuscus!’ groaned Cethegus as the vehicles approached the final turn, with the Blues’ chariot in the lead and the Greens’ at the rear. Then Fuscus touched his whip to the shoulders of the inside pair; the team picked up speed, and in a magnificent piece of driving Fuscus wove between White and Red to draw level with Blue.
In a desperate attempt to maintain his lead, the Blue driver swung his team as close as he dared round the end of the Spina. Too close. His axlerod hit one of the protective bumper cones and broke, the dragging axlebar flung the whole equipage forward with a savage jerk, and down went chariot, horses and driver in a tangle of splintering wood, whipping traces and flailing hooves. Unable to draw his knife in time, the Blue driver died beneath the wheels of Fuscus’ chariot, as it ploughed through the wreckage — before hurtling on to win the race.
‘Well done, Rufius,’ said Faustus albus to Cethegus, as the Anulars left the stands. ‘You can afford to stand us all a drink from your winnings. In fact, congratulations all round are in order, I think — if you believe in omens, that is.’ He smiled at the others. ‘Know what that poor Blues’ driver called his lead horse? Eutharic. Thought the name might bring him luck, I suppose.’
‘If only our beloved new consul had had the accident,’ murmured Cethegus, his mischievous tone belying the thoughtful gleam in his eye. ‘That would have fouled up the succession nicely. Ah well, we can all dream.’
In the gardens of Lucullus’ villa near Neapolis,* the last Western emperor, trowel in hand, knelt to dig a hole. The hole was to receive a young laurel which, when mature, would perfectly set off a mosaic fountain niche, the centrepiece of a series of elaborate waterways spanned by pavilions and pergolas. Romulus looked with pleasure at the contrast that white marble, grey weathered wood and clear running water made with the varying shades of green: box and cypress, plane trees, myrtle and acanthus.
As he tamped the rootball carefully in place, Romulus reflected on his life. At fifty-three, despite being confined — a virtual prisoner within the bounds of the estate — he was not unhappy. In fact, he was probably a great deal happier than he would have been if he had inherited the cares and duties of a Roman emperor. These gardens were his empire, their trees and flowers his subjects, whose tending brought him fulfilment and content. Not many, he supposed, could ask for more.
Preoccupied, he failed to notice a man approaching him from behind. A shadow fell across the grass before him, followed by a sharp, stinging pain across his throat, then a terrible choking sensation. He tried to cry out but no sound came; his mouth filled with warm liquid. Blood sheeting from his neck, the last emperor of the West slumped dying to the ground.
* The official city boundary, enclosing a space extending some distance beyond the Aurelianic Walls.
† 1 January 519. Sessions of the Senate were held on the three key dates of the month: Kalends (1st), Nones (5th or 7th), Ides (13th or 15th).
‡ China.
* And still functioning.
* Naples.
PART IV
THE TOWER OF PAVIA
AD 519-526
THIRTY-THREE
Most glorious. . Theoderic, victor and conqueror, ever Augustus
Part of an inscription put up at Terracina on the Via Appia, by Caecina Mavortius Basilius Decius; after 510
‘Delicious, Serenity,’ pronounced Boethius, after taking a bite from the pear Theoderic handed to him. ‘Truly delicious. I congratulate you; creating a successful orchard in Ravenna, with its fogs and marshy exhalations, seems a near-miraculous feat.’
‘Well, it was not without problems,’ allowed the king, flushing with pleasure at the compliment. ‘I had to grub up the original stock and replace it with quince for grafting. Then trenching and draining, building a wall to absorb and reflect heat, judicious pruning from the second year. Hard work, but worth it in the end, though I say it myself. But, coming to fruition, I have another crop than pears I would discuss with you, Anicius.’ The king’s hand upon the shoulder of his Magister Officiorum, the pair began to stroll beside the fruit trees.
Now approaching seventy, the king was not the man he once had been, thought Boethius. His hair had changed from gold to silver; aided by a stick, he walked with a stoop, and his health, formerly robust, had deteriorated; he was periodically troubled by stomach pains and bouts of chronic diarrhoea. Also, it seemed to the newly appointed minister that Theoderic’s mind was losing its sharpness and clarity, becoming susceptible to illusion and irrational suspicion.
However, there was no denying that at this moment Theoderic was happy. Buoyed up by the glorious hopes of Eutharic’s consulship, and by assurances regarding the succession, Theoderic was in a mood of expansive optimism, though Boethius felt it had a slightly manic edge.
‘I have put back together much of the Western Empire,’ declared the king. ‘Italy, Spain, Pannonia and much of Gaul are now a single realm. Only one thing is lacking.’
‘Serenity?’
‘What is an empire without an emperor? A building without mortar, which will crumble under stress. I intend to be that mortar; the time has come for me to don the purple and the diadem. Am I right to do so, Anicius?’
Strangely affected by the note of appeal in the king’s voice, Boethius felt a rush of concern and sympathy for the tired old warrior. For Theoderic to declare himself emperor would prove, Boethius was sure, to be a step too far. The Hispano-Romans and the Gallo-Romans might (grudgingly) accept a German emperor; but the Romans of Italy, the centre and power base of the resurrected ‘empire’? Never. And, from what he had so far gleaned about his character, neither would the emperor-in-waiting, Justinian.
Boethius, however, had no intention of trying to dissuade the king from taking that step.
Much though he liked and respected Theoderic, and appreciated the honour done himself by the appointment as Master of Offices, Boethius’ commitment to the Cause overrode his loyalty to the king. If that meant giving the nod to anything that might de-stabilize Ostrogothic rule, so be it — even if what Theoderic proposed could have appalling consequences. Little over a century before, resentment over growing German influence* in the army had spilt over into a terrible massacre of federates’ families, and for similar reasons Constantinople had witnessed a bloody pogrom of the Goths.
‘I applaud your decision, Serenity,’ declared Boethius, feeling like Brutus delivering the final dagger-thrust to dying Caesar. ‘“Theodericus Augustus”, the first in a glorious new dynasty of Western emperors.’
‘“Theodericus flamin’ Augustus?”’ shouted a burly cobbler. Crowds had gathered in the forum of Terracina,† to witness the unveiling of an inscription commissioned by Senator Caecina Decius. ‘’Oo the bleedin’ ’ell does ’e think ’e is?’ He spat vigorously on the cobbles.
‘You ain’t ’eard nuthin’ yet, mate,’ called a man in a blacksmith’s apron. ‘The buzz in Rome says ’e’s to be crahned emperor.’
‘A Jerry emperor? Over my dead body!’ bawled the town drunk.
A storm of boos and catcalls erupted from the crowd. A mudball splattered the gleaming white marble of the plaque, swiftly followed by a barrage of missiles pillaged from the cart of an unfortunate fruit-vendor.
The discontent spread like wildfire throughout Italy. Disturbances broke out in many major cities,* taking the form of serious rioting in Rome and Ravenna. Afraid, perhaps, of the consequences of openly expressing anti-German feelings, the mobs discovered in a half-forgotten piece of legislation a useful screen for their actions.
Earlier in his reign, Theoderic had issued an Edict of Toleration for all faiths.† In practice, this meant freedom of worship for the Jews, ‘toleration’ being hardly applicable to Nicene Catholicism, the religion of the vast majority of the population. The Gothic conquerors — Arians, and therefore technically heretics — did not need the protection of
an edict, since no one in their right mind would dream of persecuting them, for fear of armed and instant retribution. An unfortunate consequence of this humane and enlightened decree had been the creation of a smouldering resentment among the Catholic Romans (for whom heresy was an abhorrent aberration) against Jews and Goths alike, the two peoples being vaguely lumped together in the collective consciousness.
Now the Romans had a perfect cover for their anti-German rage. They dared not openly attack the Goths, but the Jews were a different matter. Wealthy and defenceless, they were a convenient (and lucrative) target on which the mobs could safely vent their fury. All over the country an orgy of Jew-baiting exploded, accompanied by robbery, house-breaking and the burning of synagogues.
‘Why?’ exclaimed an anguished Theoderic to Eutharic. ‘Surely I don’t deserve this? Throughout my reign I have tried my best to rule justly and well. I have bent over backwards to be even-handed in treating my own people and the Romans alike. What should I do, my son?’
‘They must be punished severely, these ungrateful dogs of Romans. Perhaps, father, you’ve been too soft with them in the past. Set up a legal enquiry immediately, so that the perpetrators can be brought to justice. Here, in Ravenna, which saw some of the worst of the rioting, let me make an example of the ringleaders.’
‘Very well, my son. Do as you think fit. I put the whole matter in your hands.’
Directed by Eutharic, retribution was swift and harsh. Failure to identify individual offenders resulted in the imposition of collective fines on whole communities, so that damage to Jewish property could be repaired. In Ravenna a significant number refused to pay the fines, and accordingly were whipped through the streets by the executioner — immediately becoming ‘martyrs’ in the eyes of the populace, their stand applauded from three hundred pulpits throughout the length and breadth of Italy. In Verona, in the chapel of St Stephen, a statue of Our Lady, commissioned by Theoderic, for no apparent cause toppled and shattered. Public jubilation over this ‘miracle’ soon turned to fury and dismay when the chapel, in consequence, was ordered to be demolished. As a reminder that violence would not be tolerated, an edict was issued forbidding all Romans to carry any arms whatsoever except a small knife for domestic use.*
Among the Romans of Italy, a spirit of sullen hostility and passive resistance replaced the rejoicing and euphoria that only a few short months before had accompanied the inauguration of Eutharic as consul. Secluded in his palace in Ravenna, the old king, his imperial dreams shattered, surrendered to a black mood of bitterness and indignation.
In the basilica of St Peter, outside Rome, Pope Hormisdas, Theoderic’s loyal friend and colleague, sadly locked away in a vault the robe and diadem for the coronation that would never now take place.
* See Notes.
† A town on the Appian Way between Rome and Naples.
* Especially Naples, Rome, Ravenna, Milan and Genoa.
† In deference to constitutional sensibilities, Theoderic issued edicts rather than promulgating laws — an imperial privilege. The effects, however, were the same.
* Reviving a law passed in 364 by the emperor Valentinian I.
THIRTY-FOUR
Shortly after that [the riots of 519 — 20] the Devil found an opportunity to steal for his own a man who was ruling the state well and without complaint
Anonymous Valesianus, Excerpta: pars posterior, c. 530
Striding along Ravenna’s cardo,* Eutharic chuckled to himself as Romans hurriedly made way for him. The fact that they now feared and hated him — who had been but a short time before the most popular man in Italy — bothered him not one whit. That was the trouble with dear old father-in-law: he wanted to be liked, and was hurt and puzzled when his subjects bit the hand that fed them, so to speak. If you were a ruler, the only thing that mattered was to be obeyed; if the price of that was to make those you ruled afraid of you, too bad.
Eutharic had never liked the Romans: an arrogant lot who couldn’t get used to the fact that they’d lost an empire — the Western ones anyway. This fracas with the Jews had given him the chance to rub their long noses in it. Not that he had much time for Jews, either — too devout and cliquish for his liking. But the fact that his own people, the Visigoths, had tramped around the Roman Empire for forty years before being granted a homeland, gave him a sneaking sympathy for a people who had spent the same amount of time wandering the desert before entering their Promised Land.
Hullo, what was this? A man was standing by one of the newly repaired synagogues, painting a message on a wall: ‘Iudaei spurci’.† Delighted to be gifted such an opportunity to make an example of an offending Roman, Eutharic moved up silently behind the graffitor, who was so absorbed in his work that he failed to notice the other’s arrival.
‘Good on you,’ murmured Eutharic. ‘These Yids need keeping in their place.’
‘You’re not wrong there, mate,’ replied the man, adding a crudely daubed skull to his slogan. Then his smirk faded, as he turned and saw who the commentator was. ‘Er. . just a bit of fun,’ he faltered.
‘Lick it off,’ said Eutharic, smiling pleasantly.
‘Sir, y-you don’t mean that,’ stammered the man, his face suddenly white. He laughed nervously. ‘’Course you don’t. I’ll fetch a scrubbing-brush and water. Come off in a jiffy, it will.’
‘I said, “Lick it off” you Roman bastard,’ reiterated Eutharic, his words all the more menacing for being uttered softly. His voice suddenly cracked like a whiplash: ‘Now!’
Trembling with fright and revulsion, the man began to lick, while a silent crowd, fearful and curious, gathered to watch. Fortunately, the paint was still wet enough to come off fairly easily, and within half an hour a faint smudge was all that remained. The culprit, his lips and jaws smeared with pigment, vomited on to the cobbles.
Chuckling, Eutharic walked on in high good spirits.
In the palace kitchens, Amalasuntha, Theoderic’s beloved daughter and wife of Eutharic, supervised the preparation of the evening meal, the cena. Fluent in Greek as well as Latin, well versed in classical literature, the princess was an enthusiast for all things Roman, including cooking. Here, her guide and mentor was the great Apicius, his famous cookery book her bible. It was one of his recipes that she was using now. ‘Sucking-pig in the manner of Frontinus: fillet, brown and dress; put in a casserole of fish sauce and wine, wrap in a bouquet of leeks and dill, pour off the juice when half cooked; when cooked, remove and dry, sprinkle with pepper and serve.’
Smiling fondly, Amalasuntha anticipated her husband’s reaction. Pretending to despise Roman cooking as fussy and pretentious, he had a weakness for any dish which included pork. The dinner-time ritual had become familiar: a show of grumbling, followed by enthusiastic consumption, then (eventually) a compliment on a delicious meal, expertly prepared. Following patriarchal German custom, he preferred to eat alone (seated at a table: none of this effeminate Roman nonsense of lounging on couches).
‘The master’s ready. You may take this in to him,’ Amalasuntha told Prosper, her new young scullion, whom she had taken on after he had repeatedly turned up at the palace asking for kitchen work. Keen and quick to learn, he had emerged with flying colours from a trial period, and was now a valued addition to the kitchen staff.
En route to the triclinium with a steaming bowl of ‘Frontinus’ Speciality’, Prosper took a phial from his belt-purse, emptied the contents into the bowl, then proceeded on his way.
‘What’s this, flamingoes’ tongues with mullets’ livers, or some such Roman trash?’ sighed Eutharic, as Prosper ladled out a small portion onto a plain pewter dish. (No fancy gold or silver Roman plate for a Goth with simple tastes, thank you.)
‘Go on, Sire, try some,’ coaxed Prosper. ‘You’ll like it. The Domina prepared it specially.’
‘Mmm, not too bad,’ conceded Eutharic, after sampling a spoonful. He signalled Prosper to fill the dish.
Two days later, Eutharic took to his bed, complaining
of violent stomach cramps. Prosper, meanwhile, had disappeared, never to be seen again.
‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ said Cethegus to the four Anulars awaiting him in Symmachus’ house in Ravenna: Boethius, Symmachus, Cassiodorus and, fresh back from Constantinople, Priscian. ‘This year of the consul Maximus* bids fair to be an exceedingly auspicious one — an Annus Mirabilis indeed. For the Cause, that is, though not, I fear, for our esteemed lord and master. Quintus,’ turning to Symmachus, ‘let us for a change, begin with the Falernian. There being nothing to discuss, merely items to report, a toast to Fortuna is in order, I believe. Even the heavens, it would seem, are on our side; a comet, that portent of the death of kings, has appeared in the sky.
‘This year has seen three highly desirable deaths,’ Cethegus announced when all were seated comfortably in the tablinum, goblets brimming with ruby wine. First and most important, Eutharic died recently from a mysterious sickness-’ He broke off, when he caught Cassiodorus’ eye. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Magnus. You can’t think I had anything to do with it, surely? Heaven forfend! Plenty of disgruntled Romans in Ravenna willing to do the deed. Anyway, who’s to say he didn’t die from natural causes? But back to what I was saying. Don’t expect to hear the news officially for some time yet. The palace is desperately trying to hush it up — and for good reason.’