Theodoric (21 page)

All at once, Theoderic's euphoria drained away; as with Paul on the road to Damascus, the scales fell from his eyes. Timothy was right. He could see that now. You had only to look at history: Caesar and Pompey, Octavian and Antony, Caracalla and Geta, Constantine and Maxentius. Each pair had started out as partners, but only one ever survived. He realized what the reason was for his welcoming Odovacar's proposal: exhaustion. He was tired to the marrow of his bones. The accumulated strain of organizing the great expedition, of fighting a major battle en route, then finding a passage through the Alps, the treachery and death of both his brother and Frederick, four long hard years of war – all these had taken their toll, draining him of energy and clarity of purpose, so that, above all, he wanted to rest, to lay down the burden of responsibility; or, if not that, to share it with another.

‘I know,' murmured Timothy, as if reading his thoughts. ‘It's lonely at the top.'

‘What must I do?' whispered Theoderic.

‘I think you know the answer,' Timothy replied gently.

Ten days after Theoderic had entered Ravenna, the feast to mark the concordat between the two German kings began.
*
In the palace's great hall of state, where Roman emperors had entertained, rows of long tables groaned with food – predominantly meat to suit Teutonic taste.
Attendants with jugs of ale and flagons of wine hovered at the ready to replenish (which was often) drinking-horns and goblets. The guests, Sciri and Ostrogoths, most in German tunics, a few in Roman dalmatics, were in festive mood, becoming noisily relaxed as the evening wore on, with toast following toast in increasingly swift succession. Then a hush spread round the tables as Theoderic, Odovacar beside him in the seat of honour, rose with wine-cup in hand. The moment had arrived for the kings to toast each other, marking the bond of amity that now united them, together with their peoples.

But instead of calling for a toast, Theoderic set the goblet down and drew his sword. At the same moment, two attendants rushed forward and grabbed Odovacar by the wrists, while from a side entrance armed Ostrogoth warriors poured into the hall, surrounding the tables and the unarmed guests.

‘Where is God?' cried Odovacar in stricken disbelief.

‘God is with the stronger!' shouted Theoderic, and ran him through. His action was instantly copied by the Ostrogoths, and in a few moments all the Sciri lay dead or dying, their blood staining the fine linen tablecloths and puddling the mosaic floor.

Swift and brutal, a stream of orders from Theoderic effected the immediate extinction of Odovacar's family and the slaughter of as many of his followers as could be found. As for the Romans, those who had supported Odovacar were proscribed, their rights as citizens revoked, their property forfeit. Sequestered in his quarters in the palace, Theoderic raged and wept, overwhelmed by black depression. Where was God, indeed? All his high hopes and aspirations seemed hollow and worthless, like those fabled Apples of the Hesperides which turned to ashes in the mouth. Seduced by a glittering but empty title, ‘Vicegerent of the Eastern Emperor', he had been persuaded to remove himself to Italy. For what? Zeno must be laughing in Heaven. The Romans might, reluctantly, tolerate him as their ruler, but they would never allow him to assume the mantle of ‘
Romanitas
'. To them he would always be a barbarian outsider – and a bastard, to boot – condemned by his German blood, despite his Roman education, never to enter the magic circle of those who belonged, were part of Rome. Indirectly, because of Roman machinations he had lost a brother, lost, in young Frederick, almost a son, and been forced to murder a good and honest man who could have been his friend.

Gradually, though, the darkest clouds lifted from his mind, replaced by gloomy resignation, and eventually Bishops Epiphanius of Pavia and Laurentius of Milan, who had been waiting nervously for an audience, were admitted to his presence. Experienced negotiators skilled in the arts of diplomacy, they succeeded, through a blend of tact, sympathy and reason, in prevailing on Theoderic to moderate his stance. Provided the Sciri accepted him as their legitimate ruler, amnesty would be granted to them; and Romans who had stood by Odovacar would not, after all, be punished. Only those obdurate enough to reject these generous terms would be proceeded against. Such was the fiat issuing from Ravenna; it was carried post-haste by heralds to every part of Italy.

Surrounded by anxious crowds filling the Forum Romanum, the
nuntius
unfurled his scroll and began to read, in a stentorian voice, the latest proclamation from the capital. His minions, meanwhile, pasted up copies on walls and pillars, in the process obscuring obsolete
acta diurna
and
acta publica
.
*

‘Well, at least our new ruler's shown that he's no Sulla,' remarked Faustus to Symmachus, who was endeavouring, without complete success, to hide his huge relief. ‘Congratulations. It seems you won't, after all, be forced to surrender your new summer villa at Baiae. I suppose we have to allow that Theoderic's made an encouraging start – for a barbarian.'

 

*
The Head of the Senate – in Westminster terms, his role would be something between those of the Speaker and the Father of the House.

†
5 February 493.

*
The father of Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius, then a boy, who was to become the friend and adviser of Theoderic, and author of
The Consolation of Philosophy
.

*
River Po.

†
Rimini. For details concerning the war, see Appendix I.

*
Theoderic entered Ravenna on 5 March 493. The feast was held on 15 March, the Ides of March – fateful day!

*
A
nuntius
was a cross between a herald and a town crier.
Acta diurna
and
acta publica
corresponded, respectively, to daily bulletins and government enactments.

Pope Symmachus, and the entire senate and people of Rome amid general rejoicing met him [Theoderic] outside the city

Anonymous Valesianus,
Excerpta: pars posterior, c.
530

Observing the awe on Theoderic's face as they came in sight of Aurelian's mighty walls surrounding Rome,
*
Timothy's heart sank. Moments later his fears were confirmed when, making the sign of the cross (an unheard-of gesture on the part of an Arian), the king murmured, ‘Behold: the Mistress of the World.'

Assembled before the Flaminian Gate, the city's main entrance from the north, the vast throng – senators in togas, leading citizens in brightly coloured dalmatics, robed clerics, plebs in working tunics or holiday attire – burst into spontaneous cheering. As the royal party approached the great arch flanked by white marble-clad towers, two men stepped forward. One was toga-draped, ancient, stooped and bald, but with an air of stern authority; the other was youngish, almost effeminately handsome, with the face of an Adonis carved by Praxiteles, and clad in floating, diaphanous robes of coloured silk. The first would be Festus, the
Caput Senatus
, Timothy thought. But the second? With a shock, he realized that (assuming the briefing was correct) this must be the new Pope, Symmachus.
†

‘The Senate and the People of Rome, together with His Holiness the Monarchical Bishop of the See of St Peter,' announced Festus in a voice trembling with age and dignity, ‘give greeting to Theoderic Amalo, king of the Ostrogoths and vicegerent of Italy in the name of His Serenity Anastasius, Emperor of the East Romans.'

Dismounting, Theoderic made an appropriate response, then, with
his bodyguard and chief councillors, accompanied by the senatorial and papal parties and surrounded by exuberant and noisy crowds, entered the Eternal City by the Flaminian Way. ‘Remember thou art only a man,' murmured Timothy with a grin; it was the ancient caution that a slave whispered in the ear of a Roman general entering Rome to celebrate a triumph.

But the jest fell on deaf ears. ‘I believe the Romans love me,' said Theoderic, turning a rapt face to Timothy as they passed beneath the arch of Marcus Aurelius. ‘They seem to be accepting me as one of their own – perhaps even as their emperor.'

This was extremely bad news, thought Timothy, muttering something vague but tactful in reply. Staring at the man who was his friend as well as master – also still, in some unaccountable way, his charge – Timothy decided that Theoderic looked ridiculous. To please his own people, whose identity was at risk of being swamped, living as they were among the numerically far superior Romans, the king – in contrast to his previous short Roman-style haircut and clean-shaven face – had grown his hair long in the German fashion, and allowed a moustache to adorn his upper lip. The image accorded ill with the robes of imperial purple he had affected for the occasion. In consequence, he looked neither Goth nor Roman, more a freakish hybrid. Things had changed in the time since Theoderic, by eliminating Odovacar, had made himself undisputed ruler of Italy. Timothy's mind drifted back over the past seven years.

They had been years of astonishing, solid achievement, Timothy reflected, resulting in an Italy that was (to all outward appearance) well run, stable and prosperous – as in the best days of the Caesars. Faced with the daunting and immensely difficult task of providing for his people in a foreign and potentially hostile land, and doing so without antagonizing the new Italian subjects over whom he must establish his rule, Theoderic had, thought Timothy, risen superbly to the occasion. Administered by one Liberius, a senator, a careful sale and redistribution of land had satisfied the great majority of Ostrogoths without bearing too hard on their Roman ‘hosts', a settlement facilitated by the fact that the Romans vastly outnumbered their ‘guests'. The two peoples were to live strictly under their own laws as separate communities, with distinct functions: the Goths (concentrated mainly in the strategically
important north-east of the country, between Pavia and Ravenna) to man the army, the Romans ‘to cultivate the arts of peace', and to run the administration. This last, purged of corruption for almost the first time in its long history, functioned efficiently under the Master of Offices and the Praetorian Prefect, assisted by a shadowy tribe of ubiquitous officials known as
agentes in rebus
.

Theoderic himself fulfilled a double role. To the Goths, he presented the assiduously nurtured image of the successful war leader – not difficult, considering his proven record as victorious hero-king, Timothy told himself. To his German compatriots in the Ostrogothic heartlands of Venetia et Histria, Aemilia and Flaminia et Picenum, Theoderic was ‘Dietrich von Bern' – Theoderic of Verona (his favourite residence). To the Romans, he tried to appear a worthy successor to the best of their emperors, wise, strong, and even-handed: a stance which seemed to work, as the Romans increasingly compared him to Trajan or Valentinian I. As for the Church, Theoderic was content to act as impartial arbitrator when disputes arose, a position traditionally adopted by emperors from Constantine on; here, his Arianism was actually an advantage, his judgements being perceived as unbiassed. The fact that the Churches of the West and East were in schism also benefited Theoderic by allowing him to appear, if only to a limited extent, as the champion of Rome versus Constantinople.

Preoccupied with implementing these demanding policies, prior to this first visit to Rome Theoderic had had little time to speculate about his constitutional position. The status quo he had achieved would have satisfied the ambition of most rulers – men of, say, Odovacar's stamp, Timothy reflected. And yet he sensed that for Theoderic it was not enough. The Amal king's dream of becoming accepted by the Romans as one of them had never been abandoned, only put on hold while he dealt with the pressing practicalities of getting his people to Italy and establishing his rule there. The recent, tardy confirmation of his status as vicegerent by Anastasius had wrought an immediate (and, to Timothy, misplaced) change in Theoderic's priorities. Hence the visit to Rome.

To Timothy, the king's re-awakened ambition was an unfortunate development. He had seen it all before with successful gang leaders. They acquired delusions of grandeur, craving acceptance by respectable
society, striving for status, titles, above all that most Roman of accolades,
civilitas
.
*
Almost invariably with such climbers, pride came before a fall – exposure and disgrace by contemptuous members of the class they aspired to join, a knife in the back by an ex-colleague in crime with a score to settle. Take Zeno, a perfect example of a small fish swimming in a big pond: his Roman subjects had despised him as a barbarian who had got above himself. If he'd stuck to being warlord of a tribe of savage hillmen, instead of vying for the purple, he would never have endured that most horrible of deaths. Would Theoderic make the same mistake? Was he capable, Timothy wondered, of seeing himself as he really was: a barbarian leader who, by an extraordinary combination of luck, personality and circumstance, had made it big on the world stage? For his own well-being and peace of mind, he would do well to put aside any dreams of becoming Roman. That way lay disillusion.

The Romans, Timothy believed, were an arrogant and fickle race, with long and unforgiving memories stretching back to the massacre of Varus' legions by Arminius, the German freedom fighter. In the infancy of some ancients yet alive, one of the greatest of Rome's generals, Stilicho, debarred from the purple by reason of his Vandal blood, had perished at the hands of a Roman executioner. For all his Roman upbringing, Theoderic was still German, a fatal barrier to acceptance by the Romans. He should remember that. But would he? As much chance of that happening, Timothy admitted gloomily, as of a camel going through the eye of a needle.