previously, and a member of the powerful family of the Anicii. He, like Festus, had recently returned from a mission to the Eastern capital, ostensibly on behalf of Odovacar. A swarthy individual despite his cognomen, he looked round the packed marble benches with an ingratiating smirk. ‘The choice is obvious,’ he drawled, with the easy confidence bestowed by generations of wealth and privilege. ‘We back the winner.’
‘Do, pray, enlighten us,’ sneered an elderly senator. ‘Clearly you must have contact with the Sibyl — unlike the rest of us benighted souls.’
‘Do I really have to spell it out?’ sighed Faustus, raising his hands in a calculated gesture of exasperation. ‘It’s Theoderic, of course. Anyone with a smidgen of perception can see that. You’ve only to look at the man’s record. Through a mixture of persistence, leadership and sheer guts, he’s managed to unite all the Goths in the Eastern Empire, transforming them from a collection of squabbling marauders to the most powerful nation in Europe. As the hereditary monarch of an ancient royal house — one, moreover, with the backing of the late Eastern Emperor — Theoderic has the sort of influence and personality that attend success. What does Odovacar amount to? An adventurer from a minor tribe whose rise owes more to luck them ability, elected king by a rabble of rebellious soldiery, whose allegiance is precarious at best. His rule was never recognized officially by Zeno, just not contested, as being the least bad option. Then there’s the question of age. Odovacar’s a worn-out old man in his sixties; not yet forty, Theoderic’s in his prime. If you’ve any sense, like me you’ll vote for Theoderic.’
A ground-swell of approving murmurs — loudest from the Anicii and another leading family, the Decii (normally their rivals, but in this instance allies) — arose from all across the benches, drawing angry protests from those supporting Odovacar.
A tall senator with patrician features rose to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at the Anician. This was Quintus Aurelius Memmius Symmachus, Roman patriot, one-time consul and City Prefect, from the most illustrious family of Rome, whose great-grandfather had in this very Senate House led the campaign against the removal of the (pagan) Altar of Victory by Bishop Ambrose of Milan and his Christian zealots. That fight might have been lost, but the honour of the family had gained immeasurably, the name of Symmachus coming to stand for freedom of speech and thought, against bigotry and intolerance.
‘Shame on you, Faustus!’ declared Symmachus. ‘You went to Constantinople to plead Odovacar’s cause. Now you stab him in the back and tell us we should do the same.’
Faustus smiled, and shrugged. ‘Political necessity,’ he murmured.
‘Cynical expediency, more like!’ shouted Symmachus. His gaze swept round the assembly, now tense and expectant. ‘Has it come to this: that we, the Senate, the very voice of Rome, stand for nothing more than cowardly self-interest? There was a time when senators were not afraid to speak out for what was right. Odovacar has proved himself a good and just ruler — a great deal better than many of our emperors. He rewarded his soldiers, which he was compelled to do, with public land as far as possible, keeping confiscation from Romans to a minimum, something for which we should be eternally grateful. We owe him loyalty, not betrayal.’
‘Hear, hear!’ This from Marius Manlius Boethius,* another former consul from a rich and famous family, who had risen from a sick-bed to attend the meeting.
Speaker after speaker rose to express their views, most siding (some shamefacedly) with Faustus. When the vote was taken, it was overwhelmingly in favour of Theoderic. The names of those who, like Boethius and Symmachus, supported Odovacar were noted, as were those abstaining. Among the latter was Cassiodorus, who was genuinely confused. Instinctively, he sympathized with Symmachus’ stance defending Odovacar, yet he was reluctant to believe that so many of Rome’s great and good could be wrong.
Exactly a month later, the Porta Aurea, Ravenna’s main gate, opened to admit Theoderic. Bishop John, his features gaunt with hunger from the long siege, came forward, smiling and uttering assurances that Odovacar now wished only to be friends with the Amal king and hoped that, from this moment on, they could rule jointly in amicable concord. Kissing the bishop’s hand, Theoderic gladly concurred, telling himself that this was perhaps the best possible outcome of the bitter four-year struggle.
It had been a hard war, Theoderic reflected as, accompanied by the captains of his host together with the bishop’s train, he made his way to the Imperial Palace, where Odovacar had his headquarters. In his mind he reviewed the sequence of events: a series of bloody clashes in the Padus* flood-plain, with fortunes swinging like a wild pendulum between the opposing sides. Gradually, however, the initiative had passed to Theoderic, with Odovacar pinned down in Ravenna — thought to be impregnable behind its screen of marshes and lagoons. But by capturing the port of Ariminum,† thus preventing supplies getting through to the besieged capital, Theoderic was able to tighten the blockade dramatically. With famine imminent, Bishop John at last came forth to make terms on behalf of Odovacar.
In the course of the campaign, one unfortunate incident had occurred which was to cast a cloud over Theoderic’s mood for many months to come. Frederick, the young Rugian prince, had proved unable to control his followers. They had gone on the rampage, mistreating the local Roman population. On hearing about this, Theoderic had taken it upon himself to discipline the offenders and take Frederick to task, probably, in hindsight, speaking more harshly than intended. Angry and humiliated, the young man had stormed off and switched allegiance to Odovacar, only to be killed in a subsequent engagement. Theoderic, who had felt a strong affection for the young prince, regarding him almost as a son, took the news badly — both hurt by his betrayal and deeply saddened by his loss.
Meeting the Scirian king, Theoderic was put in mind of a sick old lion. Thin and hollow-eyed from the privations of the siege, the grizzled monarch greeted the Amal courteously, and with as much warmth as the situation allowed. Theoderic liked him immediately, this impression being confirmed when, on further acquaintance, he found him to be frank, down-to-earth, and not without a sense of humour. They discovered, to their mutual surprise, that they had more in common than dividing them. Apart from being fellow Germans, though from different tribes, both had fought for Rome, been commended by the venerable Severinus, and, at different times, received the backing of the Eastern Emperor.
Here was a man he could work with, Theoderic decided, finding Odovacar’s suggestion of co-rule increasingly attractive. Together, they would govern Italy efficiently and well. With supplies now flowing into the city, he planned a feast to set the seal on their burgeoning friendship. For too long Germans had allowed Romans to divide and manipulate them. It was now obvious that, in sending him against Odovacar, Zeno had hoped they would wipe each other out, thus clearing the way for Roman re-occupation. That Anastasius had so far failed to renew Zeno’s mandate reinforced this conclusion. Well, this time things would be reversed. Instead of destroying each other as Rome hoped, the two German peoples would show the Romans that together they could rule in peace and concord. It would be sweet revenge for the slights and rejection that, as a despised barbarian, he had suffered at the hands of Romans from his schooldays on.
‘It won’t work, Deric.’ Timothy and Theoderic were seated in the latter’s spacious quarters assigned to him by Odovacar, in the Imperial Palace.
‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t,’ objected Theoderic, realizing that he sounded angry and defensive. ‘Odovacar’s a good man. We like and respect each other, as well as seeing eye to eye about many things.’
‘I daresay, but that’s irrelevant. I don’t doubt you could be bosom friends with Odovacar, but as for ruling with him. .’ Timothy shook his head emphatically. ‘In any group there can only be one boss. It’s a basic law of nature. You’ll never find a wolf pack with two leaders, or a herd with two herd bulls. Your mandate from Zeno said nothing about power-sharing, and it’s doubtful if Anastasius would take a different line. I’ll tell you a story from my own past; you’re the first to hear it. And since you’re offering, yes, I will have some of that local vinegar they call wine.’
The two men sipped in silence for a time, then Timothy resumed.
‘As you know, I grew up as a street kid in Tarsus. My grandfather was head of the family, and he ran the family business with a rod of iron. I guess some would call that business extortion — ‘protection’ for a fee, although my grandfather did make sure that no outsider ever fleeced his clients. He died handing over to his sons, my father and my uncle. My father, as the elder, was supposed to be the boss. Although a crook, he was at heart a decent man, and bent over backwards to involve my uncle in decision-making and the running of the business.
‘But, as well as being lazy and incompetent, my uncle was jealous. One day he picked a quarrel with my father. Tempers flared, then my uncle drew a knife and stabbed him to death. It was judged a fair fight by the
