Theodoric

for pulling power, yoked to the shaft, the outer ones, responsible for turning the chariot, on traces. The drivers, wearing thick leather helmets and short tunics in their factions’ colours, had tied the reins round their waists to get more leverage on the turns — a risky procedure in the event of a crash, as their only means of freeing themselves was a sharp knife stuck in the belt. The drivers’ strategy was to take the turns as tightly as possible, which meant trying to beat the opposing teams to reach the inside track next to the Spina. The race comprised seven circuits of the track, the completion of each lap being marked by the removal of a dolphin from a crossbar at either end of the barricade.

As the chariots flashed round the track, dolphin after dolphin disappeared from the crossbar until only one remained.

‘Come on, Fuscus!’ groaned Cethegus as the vehicles approached the final turn, with the Blues’ chariot in the lead and the Greens’ at the rear. Then Fuscus touched his whip to the shoulders of the inside pair; the team picked up speed, and in a magnificent piece of driving Fuscus wove between White and Red to draw level with Blue.

In a desperate attempt to maintain his lead, the Blue driver swung his team as close as he dared round the end of the Spina. Too close. His axlerod hit one of the protective bumper cones and broke, the dragging axlebar flung the whole equipage forward with a savage jerk, and down went chariot, horses and driver in a tangle of splintering wood, whipping traces and flailing hooves. Unable to draw his knife in time, the Blue driver died beneath the wheels of Fuscus’ chariot, as it ploughed through the wreckage — before hurtling on to win the race.

‘Well done, Rufius,’ said Faustus albus to Cethegus, as the Anulars left the stands. ‘You can afford to stand us all a drink from your winnings. In fact, congratulations all round are in order, I think — if you believe in omens, that is.’ He smiled at the others. ‘Know what that poor Blues’ driver called his lead horse? Eutharic. Thought the name might bring him luck, I suppose.’

‘If only our beloved new consul had had the accident,’ murmured Cethegus, his mischievous tone belying the thoughtful gleam in his eye. ‘That would have fouled up the succession nicely. Ah well, we can all dream.’

In the gardens of Lucullus’ villa near Neapolis,* the last Western emperor, trowel in hand, knelt to dig a hole. The hole was to receive a young laurel which, when mature, would perfectly set off a mosaic fountain niche, the centrepiece of a series of elaborate waterways spanned by pavilions and pergolas. Romulus looked with pleasure at the contrast that white marble, grey weathered wood and clear running water made with the varying shades of green: box and cypress, plane trees, myrtle and acanthus.

As he tamped the rootball carefully in place, Romulus reflected on his life. At fifty-three, despite being confined — a virtual prisoner within the bounds of the estate — he was not unhappy. In fact, he was probably a great deal happier than he would have been if he had inherited the cares and duties of a Roman emperor. These gardens were his empire, their trees and flowers his subjects, whose tending brought him fulfilment and content. Not many, he supposed, could ask for more.

Preoccupied, he failed to notice a man approaching him from behind. A shadow fell across the grass before him, followed by a sharp, stinging pain across his throat, then a terrible choking sensation. He tried to cry out but no sound came; his mouth filled with warm liquid. Blood sheeting from his neck, the last emperor of the West slumped dying to the ground.

* The official city boundary, enclosing a space extending some distance beyond the Aurelianic Walls.

† 1 January 519. Sessions of the Senate were held on the three key dates of the month: Kalends (1st), Nones (5th or 7th), Ides (13th or 15th).

‡ China.

* And still functioning.

* Naples.

PART IV

THE TOWER OF PAVIA

AD 519-526

THIRTY-THREE

Most glorious. . Theoderic, victor and conqueror, ever Augustus

Part of an inscription put up at Terracina on the Via Appia, by Caecina Mavortius Basilius Decius; after 510

‘Delicious, Serenity,’ pronounced Boethius, after taking a bite from the pear Theoderic handed to him. ‘Truly delicious. I congratulate you; creating a successful orchard in Ravenna, with its fogs and marshy exhalations, seems a near-miraculous feat.’

‘Well, it was not without problems,’ allowed the king, flushing with pleasure at the compliment. ‘I had to grub up the original stock and replace it with quince for grafting. Then trenching and draining, building a wall to absorb and reflect heat, judicious pruning from the second year. Hard work, but worth it in the end, though I say it myself. But, coming to fruition, I have another crop than pears I would discuss with you, Anicius.’ The king’s hand upon the shoulder of his Magister Officiorum, the pair began to stroll beside the fruit trees.

Now approaching seventy, the king was not the man he once had been, thought Boethius. His hair had changed from gold to silver; aided by a stick, he walked with a stoop, and his health, formerly robust, had deteriorated; he was periodically troubled by stomach pains and bouts of chronic diarrhoea. Also, it seemed to the newly appointed minister that Theoderic’s mind was losing its sharpness and clarity, becoming susceptible to illusion and irrational suspicion.

However, there was no denying that at this moment Theoderic was happy. Buoyed up by the glorious hopes of Eutharic’s consulship, and by assurances regarding the succession, Theoderic was in a mood of expansive optimism, though Boethius felt it had a slightly manic edge.

‘I have put back together much of the Western Empire,’ declared the king. ‘Italy, Spain, Pannonia and much of Gaul are now a single realm. Only one thing is lacking.’

‘Serenity?’

‘What is an empire without an emperor? A building without mortar, which will crumble under stress. I intend to be that mortar; the time has come for me to don the purple and the diadem. Am I right to do so, Anicius?’

Strangely affected by the note of appeal in the king’s voice, Boethius felt a rush of concern and sympathy for the tired old warrior. For Theoderic to declare himself emperor would prove, Boethius was sure, to be a step too far. The Hispano-Romans and the Gallo-Romans might (grudgingly) accept a German emperor; but the Romans of Italy, the centre and power base of the resurrected ‘empire’? Never. And, from what he had so far gleaned about his character, neither would the emperor-in-waiting, Justinian.

Boethius, however, had no intention of trying to dissuade the king from taking that step.

Much though he liked and respected Theoderic, and appreciated the honour done himself by the appointment as Master of Offices, Boethius’ commitment to the Cause overrode his loyalty to the king. If that meant giving the nod to anything that might de-stabilize Ostrogothic rule, so be it — even if what Theoderic proposed could have appalling consequences. Little over a century before, resentment over growing German influence* in the army had spilt over into a terrible massacre of federates’ families, and for similar reasons Constantinople had witnessed a bloody pogrom of the Goths.

‘I applaud your decision, Serenity,’ declared Boethius, feeling like Brutus delivering the final dagger-thrust to