Theodoric (32 page)

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 another 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.

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.

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?'