Theodoric (27 page)

Arriving at the palace – an immense fortress-like rectangle, with guard-turrets and gateways in the middle of each wall, based on the one Diocletian had built two hundred years earlier at Spalato on the other side of the Mare Adriaticum – Boethius was passed through a long peristyle to the imperial apartments. The vast scale and grandeur of everything constituted, it seemed to him, the strongest hint yet, after the mosaic showing the king wearing a diadem, of Theoderic's imperial ambitions.

‘Sirmium, gentlemen.' Theoderic, eyes alight with enthusiasm, rapped his pointer against a scarlet dot, situated roughly in the middle of the map. This depicted, to Symmachus' astonishment, not the real Europe plus the lands to the south and east of the Mare Internum (Visigothic Spain and southern Gaul, Frankish northern Gaul with the Burgundian wedge between these two kingdoms; Ostrogothic Italy; Vandal Africa; the great bloc of the empire looming beyond the Adriatic) as they existed today, but the entire Roman Empire as it had been before the West's demise. It was as if the barbarian kingdoms had been somehow magicked out of existence, as though they were nothing more than a temporary aberration. He glanced in turn at the fellow Anulars flanking him, Boethius and Cassiodorus. A look of concern flashed between them, plainly saying, ‘Paranoia?' Barring their own threesome and the king, the only other persons in the Council chamber were Pitzia, a veteran Gothic commander, and Count Cyprianus from an old Roman military family – proof that there were exceptions to the rule that only Goths should staff the army.

‘With the capture of the city,' the king continued, ‘not only do we frustrate Thrasaric's plans to unite the two nations of the Gepids, but we can use it as a base from which finally to crush the tribe, and, in the manner of my ancestors, the Western Roman emperors, restore Pannonia Secunda to the empire. Are you with me?' he went on, looking at the Anulars with, Symmachus thought, a note almost of pleading in his voice.

Mindful of Cethegus' advice, and aware that, like Agag, he must tread delicately, the senator, acting as spokesman for his two friends, forced himself to smile and declare enthusiastically, ‘All the way, Serenity.'

‘Excuse me, Sire,' broke in Count Pitzia, his scar-seamed face, framed by a bush of yellow hair, breaking into a frown. ‘But what empire are we talking about? There's only one that I know of, and that's the East.'

‘As whose vicegerent, it is my duty and my mission to restore the West.'

‘Let's hope Anastasius sees it that way!' exclaimed Cyprianus. He looked directly at Theoderic, his strong Roman features creased in exasperation. ‘Your Majesty, while I agree that it's important to nip this Gepid threat in the bud, it would be folly to ignore other political realities. Firstly, any move to reclaim Pannonia Secunda as part of the Regnum Italiae might annoy the Eastern Emperor, who sees it – rightly or wrongly – as coming under his aegis. Secondly, your “mission to restore the West”: a noble aim, no doubt, but it ignores the inconvenient fact that Clovis, Gundobad and Alaric are hardly likely to co-operate. That would be like expecting pigs to vote for the Festival of Romulus.'
*
He shot a glance at his three fellow Romans. ‘You, at least, can surely see that?'

Though wholeheartedly agreeing with Cyprianus' objections, Symmachus shrugged and forced himself to remain silent, as did his two companions.

‘I see.' Cyprianus' voice was thick with contempt. ‘Then I have nothing more to say.' He turned to Theoderic. ‘I await your orders, Majesty.'

‘Your points are noted Cyprianus, my noble Roman with a Gothic heart,' said Theoderic warmly. Though your fears are unfounded, I do not hold it against you for expressing them. I know that you did so only in my interests, as a true friend.' He turned to the other commander. ‘You, Count Pitzia, with Cyprianus as your second-in-command, will lead the army by the Vipavus Valley route to Sirmium; the city to be taken and the Gepids crushed. Those who surrender treat with leniency, but show no quarter to any who resist. King Thrasaric to be taken alive, if possible. Even should Anastasius object, there's not much he can do, his hands being full at present with a campaign against the Persians. Questions, gentlemen?'

When the last of the five had filed out, Theoderic began to pace the chamber in excitement. Pannonia Secunda/Pannonia Sirmiensis – that would be but the first step. Next, Clovis's expansionist plans must be halted. After that, the rest should prove relatively straightforward. Gundobad and Alaric would soon come to heel, their status in a resurrected empire redefined perhaps as federates, or even ‘client-kings' – to recycle a convenient label from the past. Even Vandal Africa might one day follow suit; already Thrasamund acknowledged Ostrogothic hegemony. With gifted Romans like Boethius and Symmachus to help him shape his plans, who knows what limits could be put on his success? He had been right not to heed Timothy's slanderous calumnies against them; their conduct today showed them to be loyal and devoted friends, as well as useful colleagues.

As for Pitzia and Cyprianus, the army could not be in better hands. His own fighting days were over, he reflected with a twinge of regret. No matter. It was fitting for a ruler of mature years to send others to wage war on his behalf, as Roman emperors had done, just so long as they were loyal and efficient. On that score, he had no fears.

 

*
Secretary of the Council.

*
504. There being no Eastern nominee, Cethegus was sole consul for that year.

*
The remark is adapted from a statement of Cassiodorus (in
Variae
), comparing Theoderic's realm to that of the East Roman Emperor.

*
Ruler.

*
At the Festival of Romulus and Remus to celebrate the Founding of the City, in 753
BC
, free pork and wine were (and still are!) issued to the citizens of Rome.

By the power of the lord king Theoderic the Bulgars were defeated and Italy regained Sirmium

Cassiodorus,
Chronica
, 519

‘Well, that was almost
too
easy,' Cyprianus chuckled to Pitzia as the two leaders, after supervising the dispositions of the Gothic camp outside the walls, returned to their improvised command post in the basilica of Sirmium, the once-mighty Illyrian city where the great Theodosius had been proclaimed emperor more than a century ago. Thrasaric and Fastida had proved to be parchment tigers. At the approach of the redoubtable Gothic host, who clearly meant business, the Gepids had produced a great deal of noise, shouting and banging spear-butts against shields. But when this tactic had signally failed to intimidate their opponents, they broke and scattered before the steady advance of their traditional foes. Fastida had fled back beyond the Danube, Thrasaric had disappeared without trace, his mother's capture a pledge against his future good behaviour, and his force had meekly laid down their arms on being told that their lives would be spared if they surrendered. With the restitution of a
retenator
or governor and the return of their
praecepta
(rights and traditions) to the indigenous Roman population, the machinery was set in motion for the reinstatement of Pannonia Secunda as a fully functioning Roman province. (A Roman province incorporated into the Ostrogothic realm!) Mission accomplished, or so it seemed to Pitzia and Cyprianus as they made ready to return to Italy.

However, on the order being given by Pitzia to break camp, the Goths assembled in marching order – facing eastwards! Fired up by their near-bloodless victory, which had aroused but not satisfied their martial ardour, and unwilling to pillage their Sirmian hosts, whom they had just delivered from the Gepid yoke, the Goths – by one of those strange collective decisions which can suddenly infect a mass, had
determined to press on into imperial territory in a quest for glory and plunder.

‘Madness!' exclaimed Cyprianus to a desperate-sounding Pitzia, when the latter informed him of the situation. ‘Sheer madness!' Forcing himself to stay calm, the Roman tried to assess the crisis objectively and come up with a rescue plan. He should have seen this coming, he thought grimly. This was what happened when you put a barbarian army under a leader who was not up to the (admittedly difficult) task of imposing discipline. Strictly speaking, such a force was not an ‘army' at all, just a mob of individual warriors, all ferociously brave but basically motivated by a thirst for loot and personal glory. Pitzia – generous, and valorous to a fault – they would follow into battle anywhere. But Pitzia was not strong enough to control them when their will needed to be curbed. For that, you needed a Theoderic. And Theoderic, now middle-aged, was happy, it would seem, to delegate the responsibility to others.

The situation was potentially disastrous, Cyprianus reflected. The Goths were embarked on what was technically an invasion of the Eastern Empire, the most formidable power in the world. Success against the Gepids was one thing; taking on a disciplined Roman army quite another. The best that could be done, he thought (and it seemed a very poor best), was for him and Pitzia, accepting the fait accompli, to put themselves at the head of the host and hope that some easy pickings would soon come their way. Hopefully, reward enough to satisfy the Goths and persuade them to to turn back for Italy before the full wrath of Anastasius descended upon them.

A bizarre, almost surreal atmosphere seemed to surround the expedition as it marched downstream along the Danube. The men, fortified by copious supplies of food and drink transferred wholesale from the Gepid commissariat, were in a relaxed and happy, almost holiday mood, as they tramped at a leisurely pace through a beautiful landscape of water-meadows, wooded hills, and vineyards, all bathed in golden summer sunshine. Bypassing Singidunum (scene of Theoderic's youthful victory against Babai), whose massive ramparts were defended by a strong Roman garrison, the Goths pressed on towards Margus, where a shameful treaty had been imposed by Attila on the East Romans more than sixty years before. Near the latter city, as the Goths were pitching camp for the night,
Pitzia's scouts (detached from the small body of cavalry accompanying the host) came posting in with the news that a Roman general, Sabinianus, was approaching at the head of a large force of Bulgar mercenaries.

‘This Sabinianus, what do we know of him?' queried Pitzia, as the two leaders conferred in the commander's tent.

‘Only that he's one of the East's top soldiers,' replied Cyprianus. ‘Son of a famous general of the same name, who once ambushed a column led by Theoderic's brother Thiudimund, capturing all his wagons.'

‘And the Bulgars?'

‘A Turkic tribe of mounted nomads, originally from Central Asia. Not, thank God, horse-archers like the Huns. The only saving grace is that, with the East's field armies fully committed on the Persian front, we won't be facing a Roman force.'

‘We should be all right, then.'

‘Should we now?' snapped Cyprianus, infuriated by the other's groundless optimism. ‘May I remind you that our army amounts to the grand total of two thousand men on foot plus five hundred riders. We'll probably be facing a much larger force made up of Bulgar cavalry – among the finest in the world. There's only one way to see off cavalry: forming a defensive shield-wall. And that, my dear Pitzia, calls for steadiness and iron discipline, qualities which even you must admit the Goths conspicuously lack. Oh yes,' he concluded bitterly, ‘we should be all right.'

‘What do we do?' Pitzia now sounded sober and concerned.

‘Well, we can't retreat, that's for sure. Being cavalry, they'd soon overtake us. So we have to offer battle. That means choosing a defensive position with as many advantages of terrain as possible. Ideally, a narrow front on rising ground between woods or marshes, so that we can't be outflanked, while they're prevented from bringing their full strength to bear. After that, as I've said, everything depends on discipline – our Achilles' heel, unfortunately.'

‘We're going to lose – is that what you're saying?'

‘Not necessarily,' mused Cyprianus, as he recalled a codicil to their orders. It granted them permission to ally with Mundo, a renegade warlord whose stronghold, Herta, was only a few miles distant, at the confluence of the Danube and a large tributary, the Moravus.
*

‘Mundo? That leader of thieves and cut-throats?' exclaimed Pitzia in horror, when the other had reminded him of this option. ‘We can't possibly accept help from such scum.'

‘Then we'll probably all die!' shouted Cyprianus, losing patience. ‘Wake up, man. This is war. We don't have the luxury of choice. If the Devil himself offered to help us, we'd have to accept. Mundo's a nasty piece of work, I don't deny it – boils his prisoners alive, I've heard. But, as far as we're concerned, the only thing that matters is: will he make an effective ally? You
can
see that, can't you?'

Chastened, Pitzia nodded.

‘Good. Now we have to move quickly. Herta's less than ten miles from here; if I set off now on a fast mount, I can be there by sundown. Assuming I can persuade Mundo to join us, we should be back here sometime in the morning – hopefully before Sabinianus shows up. Mundo and his followers are Huns and therefore almost certainly cavalry, which is where we're weakest. They're a remnant of Attila's horde. Stayed behind when most of the tribe drifted back to Asia, following the collapse of Attila's empire. Right, I'd best be on my way.'

‘Just one thing: why would Mundo want to help us?'

Cyprianus groaned to himself. Getting through to Pitzia could be hard work at times. ‘Because the man's living on borrowed time. At present, Anastasius has bigger fish to fry – Isaurian rebels and a hostile Persia. But Mundo knows the day of reckoning is bound to come. And that day could dawn very soon. After ourselves, Sabinianus' next target – being conveniently close – would almost certainly be Mundo, who's become a serious challenge to the maintenance of local law and order. By joining us, he'd be helping to keep Sabinianus off his back. And now, I really must be off.'