Theodoric

neighbourhood, who made sure no word leaked out to the authorities; in the Tarsus back streets, society makes its own rules. But I knew it was murder, callous and deliberate: my father would never have pulled a knife on his brother.

‘My uncle continued to run things — badly — on his own, while I bided my time. He never suspected that the quiet lad who went round collecting the subscriptions was secretly planning revenge. Then one dark night, my uncle had, let’s say, an “accident”. They fished his body out of the Cydnus two days later — the victim of a desperate client fallen behind with his dues, so everyone said.

‘Not wishing to be the focus of a family vendetta if anyone became suspicious, I left home to set up my own concern, an import/export business. At sixteen, I was running an empire: handling all the portering of goods coming into and out of Tarsus, the chief emporium for traffic between Syria and Anatolia. I was the boss, and I made sure everyone knew it. No one got a job as a porter or a middleman without my sayso, plus the down-payment of a “registration fee”, as it was known. Anyone trying to muscle in got warned off. Broken fingers for a first offence, smashed kneecaps for a second. That normally worked, but if it didn’t. . Well, we won’t go into that.’

Timothy held out his cup and, when Theoderic had refilled it, continued, ‘You see, I’d learnt my lesson. I’d seen what happened to my father. From the best of motives, he’d tried to share the running of the business, and ended up dead.’ He gave the king an earnest look. ‘Listen to old Timothy; and don’t make the same mistake.’

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.

PART III

‘IMITATION OF AN EMPEROR’

AD 493-519

TWENTY-THREE

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