Theodoric

nominated him for the Western consulship, along with, and taking precedence over, himself as Eastern consul — an unprecedented honour. In addition, the emperor had designated Eutharic a ‘Flavian’, a unique privilege reserved for those deemed fit to be associated with the imperial family. Enormously relieved, the Amal king had, to mark the Rome-Byzantium entente, issued three new coins: forty-, twenty-, and ten-nummi pieces, each showing on the obverse an eagle, long a symbol of nobility and power to both Goths and Romans.

‘Do you, Flavius Eutharicus Cilliga,’ quavered old Festus, ‘swear, as consul, faithfully to serve the Senate and the people of Rome, and to reside within the pomoerium* during your term of office?’

‘I do so swear.’

‘Then I, in my capacity as Caput Senatus, with these symbols of office do hereby invest you as a Consul of Rome, your name, along with that of Justinus, Augustus of the Romans, to be entered in the Fasti this Kalends of Januarius, for the year from the Founding of the City the twelve hundred and seventy-third,† to be known hereafter and for ever as the Year of the Consuls Eutharicus and Justinus.’

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