Theodoric

Theoderic defeated Thrapstila. That’s well to the west of Sirmium, whose capture, I imagine, will be Theoderic’s main objective.’

‘Precisely.’ Again Cethegus looked round the circle of faces — now all intent and anxious. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, inviting comment.

‘Anastasius isn’t going to like it,’ observed Symmachus. ‘Relations with the East are bad enough already. Another source of friction is the last thing we need at this juncture. Theoderic must be persuaded to try diplomacy before declaring war.’

‘Hear, hear,’ echoed Cassiodorus and Boethius.

‘Your concern is understandable, gentlemen,’ Cethegus went on. ‘However, there’s another way of looking at the situation — one which takes a long perspective. Now, what I’m about to say must go no further than these walls. If the wrong people got hold of it, we could find ourselves facing a charge of treason.’ He paused, amid a prickling silence, to make sure of everyone’s full attention. ‘There are moves afoot — in Constantinople, in Rome, even in Ravenna — to bring about the eventual reintegration of Italy and the West into the Roman Empire. Already the East regards Italy as pretty well its fief, hence Theoderic’s status of vicegerent, a title which implies, in theory at least, eventual direct control of Italy by the emperor. So I say, let events take their course. Let Theoderic recover as much territory as he can for the West, then, when the rift with Constantinople is eventually healed, the task of building a reunited empire will be that much easier.’

‘Theoderic — imitation of an emperor,’ murmured Cassiodorus to no one in particular.*

Boethius felt as though someone had touched his spine with an ice-cold finger. What Cethegus had said surely belittled Theoderic and all he had achieved, reducing him to, at best, a stand-in for the Eastern Emperor, at worst a mere caretaker, expendable once his role had been completed. That role was to preserve Italy, like a fly in amber, as a Roman state, until a Roman emperor could once again take over the reins of power. It was one thing to discuss ideas of reviving the Imperium Romanum in the rarified and scholarly ambience of Anulus. Such talk, though flavoured with a heady spice of danger, never ventured beyond the theoretical. What Cethegus was proposing went far beyond that — amounting almost to a blueprint for a change of regime.

‘Surely we owe Theoderic some loyalty?’ Boethius protested. ‘He’s brought stability and good government to Italy, and been even-handed in his treatment of Goths and Romans. My father and Symmachus here were proscribed for backing Odovacar, and all of us supported Laurentius. Yet Theoderic’s never held any of that against us.’

‘Our first loyalty must be to Rome,’ said Cethegus gently. ‘I don’t deny that Theoderic has admirable qualities — as an individual. But what we would be foolish to forget is that he’s a barbarian. That means that at bottom he’s unpredictable, and in the last resort untrustworthy. We trusted Stilicho, remember? And look where that got us.’

‘I think we can safely assume that — unlike Stilicho’s legionaries — Theoderic’s warriors would see off any barbarians who tried to invade,’ countered Symmachus.’ He smiled. ‘Any other barbarians, that is. All in all, I’d say we’re lucky to have Theoderic as “Regnator”* — to use his latest title.’

Cethegus shrugged, and spread his hands. ‘Then think beyond Theoderic. A Gothic dynasty: is that really what you want? Believe me, they’ll soon revert to type: small-minded, quarrelsome, vindictive, and incompetent. Theoderic’s the exception; his successors will never match up to his standards. And where will Italy be then?’ He smiled and rose. ‘And now, my dear Quintus, perhaps you’d be kind enough to point me to my bed. I’m somewhat travel-weary, as you’ll understand.’ He looked round at the others. ‘Expect to be summoned by Theoderic any day. Remember my advice — it’s for the best. And now I must bid you all Vale. By cock-crow tomorrow I shall be heading back to Rome. As consul, I’m not supposed to leave the City during my year. So, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.’ And with a friendly wave he slipped out, ushered by his host.

Sure enough, two days later came the summons that Cethegus had predicted. Walking through the streets towards the palace (not the old one that Honorius had built when he moved the capital from Milan a century before, but a bigger, grander structure ordered by Theoderic) from his rented town-house near the Ariminum Gate, Boethius was struck by how different Ravenna felt from Rome. Neat and compact, cocooned in its ring of marshes and lagoons, the little city totally lacked the cosmopolitan buzz and glamour of the ancient capital. Ravenna was a working city, above all a government city, filled with bureaucrats and civil servants, and with a strongly Gothic ambience. This stemmed not just from the fact that you heard German almost as much as Latin spoken in the streets, but from the number of Arian churches that everywhere were popping up like mushrooms, filled with mosaics in the new flat semi-abstract style that would have been inconceivable in Rome.

One mosaic in particular troubled the young man deeply. It showed Theoderic wearing, besides a purple cloak (implying royal, though not necessarily imperial, status) a diadem, the jewelled crown exclusively reserved for emperors. Thus far, the king — perhaps subconsciously fearing a hostile reaction — had held back from actually donning this definitive imperial symbol. But the mosaic clearly indicated in which direction his ambitions lay. Though Boethius liked and greatly admired Theoderic, he felt that these imperial dreams could become a dangerous distraction, even to the point of destabilizing his regime. Julius Caesar had been the greatest and most successful administrator in history, until Antony had offered him the crown. Although Caesar had refused it, the very fact that he had been tempted precipitated a series of crises which had rocked the world. What had happened to Timotheus, the king’s bodyguard? the young scholar wondered. Now, more than ever, his presence might have been beneficial. Down-to-earth and full of common sense, at times the tough Isaurian had seemed the only person capable of bringing Theoderic back to the ground in his more ‘Icarus’ moments.

Boethius sighed. The summons — assuming it was issued for the reasons Cethegus had given — couldn’t have come at a worse time. Helping Theoderic’s administration on an occasional basis with suggestions and initiatives — such as setting up an enquiry into the payment of the palace guard, or overseeing the construction of a water-clock and sundial as diplomatic gifts for Gundobad of the Burgundians — provided stimulating challenges which complemented rather than crowded out the chief business of his life: writing and research. But this wretched Sirmium crisis would inevitably involve endless meetings of the Council, at which attendance would be obligatory, seriously interrupting the project he was working on. This was an ambitious work (perhaps to be entitled De revolutionibus orbium), attempting something which had never been achieved before, nothing less than a synthesis between the ideas of the Aristotelians and those of the Pythagoreans (some of whom had advanced the radical idea that the earth and planets might revolve around the sun!), involving the interrelationship of three separate disciplines: music, mathematics and astronomy, and touching on that most elegant of intellectual constructs, the Music of the Spheres. Well, all that was probably going to have to be put on hold, the young man thought with a stab of weak resentment — of which he felt immediately ashamed. After all, the philosopher-emperor Marcus Aurelius (his favourite role model) had written his Meditations in moments snatched in camp, while campaigning against the formidable Marcomanni and Quadi.

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