Theodoric

by a double span of two hundred oxen, on a massive sledge moving on rollers, the enormous marble dome, really a capstone of titanic size, approached its destination. This was a vast limestone structure consisting of two cylinders one atop the other, the lower, larger one pierced by arches. Adjoining a section of the building’s curving face was an enormous sloping ramp of earth and timber, on to which the dome was eased by a complex block-and-tackle system. This was worked by teams of men astonishingly few in number, thanks to the mechanical advantage obtained from multiple pulleys. Slowly, under the watchful eyes of architects and engineers, the great mass, all five hundred tons of it, crept up the ramp; as it slid home to crown the building, a cheer of triumph (and relief) burst from the workmen and professionals.

Leaning on his stick, Theoderic watched the scene from the top of the Porta Artemetoris in Ravenna’s north wall. If they remember me for nothing else, the old king thought sadly, at least they will remember me for this, my mausoleum. What had it all been for? he wondered, reflecting on his long career: his boyhood in Constantinople and the beginning of his doomed love affair with Rome; the epic struggle to find a homeland for his people, culminating in his vicegerency of Italy; his dream of empire with himself becoming emperor, so nearly (it had seemed) coming to fruition; finally, the collapse of his ambitions when all he had striven to achieve suddenly seemed built on sand. What hurt the most was that the Romans, to whose welfare he had tirelessly devoted himself, should have turned against him, with their senators, if rumour could be trusted, in treacherous communication with the empire.

What was the final part of the prophecy that Myrddin, disciple of the saintly Severinus, had foretold for him? Strangely, he could recall the words as clearly now as when he first had heard them: ‘After many years the horse dies, to be followed by eight others of his line; the final six of these the eagle of the East attacks, killing the last.’ The horse, the totem of the Ostrogoths, must be himself. The eagle of the East could only mean the Eastern Roman Empire. The meaning of the prophecy was clear: his long reign would be followed by a dynasty of eight successors, in whose reigns, barring those of the first two, the empire would attempt to reconquer Italy, finally succeeding with the death of the last.

The sudden tragic death of Eutharic had plunged the succession into confusion. Little Athalaric would become the next king. Assuming the boy was still a minor when he ascended the throne, that spelt trouble, with greedy and ambitious nobles, like Athalaric’s relative Theodahad, likely to contest his crown. And after Athalaric. . Amalasuntha, perhaps? Although gifted and popular, being a woman she would face the same problems as a minor: trying to impose her authority over fierce and independent warriors. Whether or not the prophecy was true, the outlook for his people was not auspicious.

What was left for him, now that his life was moving towards its close? (The increasing severity of stomach pains and attacks of diarrhoea carried a message as stark as it was clear.) Like stranded flotsam left by an ebbing tide, a few things remained that could with profit be attended to. His faithful Magister Officiorum, Boethius — the only Roman he had ever truly learnt to trust — should be rewarded with wealth and recognition commensurate with his devoted and unstinting service. Connal, the brave and loyal Scot who commanded his bodyguard, should be permitted to retire with a generous pension, commuted to a lump sum if he wished to return to his homeland. In that event, he could perhaps be asked to seek out news of Myrddin, which could be conveyed back to Italy by a travelling companion. Then there was Timothy, lifelong friend and faithful servant, who had tried to warn him about Roman perfidy and been imprisoned for his pains. Reparation must be made before it was too late.

Finally, and most important of all, he had a duty to defend his own poor people, whom, like Moses, he had led out of the wilderness into their supposed Promised Land. They were beset on every hand by enemies: Vandals, Franks, Burgundians, rebels in Hispania, Romans in Italy, the mighty empire looming like a vast and threatening thunder-cloud beyond the Adriatic. The old king’s face clouded momentarily, then brightened. Ships! Ships and yet more ships — great dromons no one dared defy; that was the answer. Who could deny that, barring the Amal, the strongest of the German nations was the kingdom of the Vandals? Why? Because it had a navy. (True, a navy built by subject Romans, but the concept was the rulers’.) Rome had beaten Carthage only when she built a superior navy; and the same held for the Greeks in their wars against the Persians. The Ostrogothic navy would become the terror of the seas. Then, all those peoples who had dared threaten his realm would perceive their error and repent.

His mind restored to equanimity, Theoderic descended (with some difficulty) to the base of the Porta Artemetoris and made his way towards his tomb, to thank the men responsible for its completion.

* Main street.

† Filthy Jews.

* 523.

* Between the rivers Inn and Rhine.

THIRTY-FIVE

King among all the kings of the British people

Nennius, Historia Brittonum, c. 830

‘There she is, Dacore!’* exclaimed Cella to Connal. Far below them was a distant cluster of timber buildings surrounded by a palisade, near the head of an immensely long and twisting sheet of water, whose placid surface reflected the majestic surrounding mountains.

Accompanied by Cella, a full-bearded, jolly bear of a man, one of a breed of itinerant monks — a familiar sight on the roads of the Empire and the Christian West — Connal had travelled from Italy through Gaul and thence by ship to West Cambria in Britannia.† Advised by Theoderic, who had adopted the same guise himself when journeying to meet the holy man Severinus, the pair had adopted the distinctive robe, staff and scrip of pilgrims (bound for Candida Casa in Galweya and Dun Patricii in Hibernia‡). Thus equipped, they could travel without fear of molestation in Christian lands, such was the reverence in which these pious travellers were held.

Skirting the mountains of North Cambria (having learnt that Artorius was campaigning in the north-west, near the great Vallum Hadriani), they had walked in fine spring weather through the ‘kingdoms’ of Dyfed, Ceredigion and Gwynedd, to the port of Bangor. Here, they had met a holy man of great repute, one Deiniol, who was in the process of setting up a monastery-cum-centre of learning. Deiniol was able to tell them the whereabouts of Artorius, who, he assured them, was accompanied by Myrddin. On his advice, they had taken a ship to the mouth of the Deruuentis river in Reged,* in order to avoid raiding-parties of the North Angles which had recently begun to trouble the intervening coasts. From the estuary, they had travelled eastwards through a most beautiful region of tall mountains, waterfalls and silvery streams, studded with tarns and lakes.

Descending to the lakeside, Connal and Cella approached the settlement they had spotted earlier, and, after affirming their credentials (emissaries of Theoderic, king of Italia and vicegerent of the emperor, status confirmed by a sealed royal statement of authorization), were admitted by gate guards into an extensive enclosure. It was thronged with men-at-arms, artisans at work, grooms attending to horses, and was dominated by a massive timber fort overlooking a scatter of lesser buildings — stables, workshops and storehouses. They were escorted to the fort’s upper storey; it was furnished as a military headquarters, with maps set out and tables loaded with documents and writing paraphernalia, at which clerks sat working. At the room’s far end, deep in discussion with a ring of aides, towered a giant of a man, upright and robust-looking despite being advanced in years, as betokened by a mane of silver hair. He projected authority and confidence.

‘Visitors from Italy, my lord,’ announced the escort. ‘The Dux Britanniae,’ he murmured to Connal and Cella, then withdrew.

‘So, gentlemen, you’re here to convey greetings from Theoderic to Myrddin,’ said Artorius, when the pair had introduced themselves and explained their mission. ‘The King of Italy must think highly of my medicus to have sent you all this way. Your timing could be better: we’re expecting a major push by the Angles any day.’ He shot them an appraising glance. ‘It’ll get nasty. Once you’ve seen Myrddin, you have two choices. Either stay and help, as orderlies behind the lines when battle starts; or head for home. I’d