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
‘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
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,
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.
With the vast expanse of the Campus Martius, studded with theatres and great public edifices such as the Pantheon, stretching away to the right, the procession proceeded beneath the huge aqueduct called Aqua Virgo, passed the Forum of Trajan, skirted the Forum Romanum overlooked by the Capitol, crossed the Tiber by the Aemilian Bridge, left the city by the Aurelian Gate, and ascended the hill called Vaticanus to the Basilica of Peter, built by Constantine over the apostle’s grave. Here, Theoderic went into conclave with the Pope, to settle an ongoing and furious controversy arising from a challenge to the papal succession, and the questionable status of lands gifted to the Church. Timothy found himself wondering how a people who had raised such mighty works, could have allowed themselves to be conquered by illiterate barbarians.
En route, he had been amazed by the numbers of infatuated women who had crowded round the Pope, calling out endearments and fondling his garments — attentions which Symmachus appeared to enjoy, or at any rate did nothing to deter. Particularly brazen was the behaviour of one young female whom the others called ‘Spicy’,* whose propositions to the Holy Father bordered on the obscene.
Next on the royal itinerary was the Senate House, where Theoderic had been invited to speak before the august assembly. Approaching the rostrum, the king had a sudden, unexpected and extremely disconcerting attack of nerves. Confronting the rows of white-clad senators, their faces for the most part hard, proud and fiercely critical, Theoderic quailed. These Romans were men whose ancestors had ruled a goodly portion of the known world for the better part of a thousand years. And here was he, a mere barbarian, presuming to address them; the purple robe he wore all at once felt like the garb of an imposter. The scene swam before his eyes, and for a terrible moment his mind went blank. Fighting for control, he gripped the rostrum’s edge in an effort to restrain the trembling of his
