by Ross Laidlaw
* The Rhine and the Somme.
† The Mediterranean.
TWENTY-SEVEN
My ancestors, the Western Roman emperors
[quoting a remark of Theoderic], Cassiodorus Variae, c. 537
‘Ave Petronius Rufius,’ Symmachus greeted the cloaked and hooded figure that the porter had just shown into the vestibulum of the senator’s house in Ravenna. He instructed the porter to see to the stabling of the visiter’s equipage of currus (light carriage) and pair, and to arrange for the driver to be looked after in the domestics’ quarters. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Ave Quintus,’ replied Cethegus, allowing the porter to divest him of his dripping cucullus. ‘Journey? Vile weather but apart from that it could have been worse, considering that the old cursus publicus has finally packed up. A few way-stations still operating along the Flaminia, though.’
‘Come and meet the others,’ continued Symmachus, when his guest had bathed and changed. ‘We’re all agog to hear this news you wrote to us about. Must be important, for you to have come all the way from Rome.’ Symmachus conducted Cethegus, son of Probinus, the leader of the Laurentian faction in Rome, to the triclinium, where lamps had been lit and couches and tables made ready for dinner. Here, already waiting, were the young Boethius, who had recently married Symmachus’ daughter Rusticiana, and Cassiodorus, Theoderic’s Scriba Concilii,* whose quaestorship was virtually guaranteed within the next few years. The four men were key members of Anulus, the Ring, an influential group of aristocratic intellectuals centred in Rome and Constantinople, who kept in touch and exchanged ideas through regular letters and visits.
During the meal conversation was light, consisting mainly of mutual compliments — congratulations to Cethegus on being appointed consul for the current year,* praise for Boethius’ recently published treatises on music and astronomy, and for the first instalment of Cassiodorus’ History of the Goths, an ambitious project undertaken with the approval of Theoderic and planned to be in twelve volumes. Also given due plaudits was the fare provided by their host, sows’ udders in tunny sauce, followed by sucking-pig in a casserole of garum (fish sauce) and wine, washed down with vintage Falernian.
After dinner the four retired to the tablinum, where Cethegus, whose good-humoured, somewhat battered-looking features bore an astonishing resemblance to those of the Flavian emperor, Vespasian, announced without preamble, ‘Fastida has made contact with Thrasaric,’ a statement which was greeted with polite bemusement.
‘You make it sound like, “Caesar has crossed the Rubicon”,’ observed Cassiodorus with a puzzled smile. ‘Forgive our ignorance Rufius, but who are these gentlemen? Barbarians I take it, from their names.’
‘My apologies, gentlemen,’ grinned Cethegus, enjoying the others’ reaction. ‘My warped sense of the dramatic. Don’t blame yourselves if you’ve never heard of them — not one in a thousand has. The only reason I know about them is that fossicking about in the tangled under-growth of foreign affairs has long been a hobby of mine. The pair I’ve named are involved in something I’ll call “the Sirmium question” — which is going to be very, very big in the coming months. That’s why I’ve decided to speak to the three of you in confidence. As Theoderic’s most trusted advisers, you’re the ones best placed to influence his policy. Quintus, would you think me rude if I suggested we pass round another flagon of that excellent Falernian? What I’ve got to say may take a little time.’
The Gepids, who, fifteen years before, had tried to block Theoderic’s expedition to Italy, had recovered from the thrashing they received on that occasion, Cethegus explained, and were flexing their muscles once again. Under their king, Thrasaric, son of Thrapstila, who had been killed in Theoderic’s victory at the River Ulca, the Gepids, always a troublesome lot, were growing in confidence, their embassies to Ravenna behaving with an arrogance bordering on insolence. However, on their own they were a minor irritant rather than a major threat.
The trouble was that there existed a second group of Gepids living north of the Danubius outside imperial territory, and the two Gepidic subtribes were making dangerous efforts to unite. Should that happen, the Gepids — traditional enemies of the Ostrogoths — might, just conceivably, become a threat to Theoderic’s kingdom. The Praetorian Prefect’s agentes had recently confirmed that Thrasaric had been in conclave with Fastida, king of the northern branch of the Gepids. The meeting had taken place at Sirmium, the old capital of Pannonia Secunda, the long-abandoned Western frontier province, occupied after Roman withdrawal first by the Huns, then by the Ostrogoths prior to their migration into Eastern imperial territory, and now homeland to the southern Gepids.
‘I think I know what you’re going to say next,’ put in Boethius. ‘Theoderic’s about to launch a pre-emptive strike, to prevent the Gepids joining up. Correct?’
‘Absolutely, young Anicius Manlius. He hasn’t actually said so yet, but he will. Of that you may be certain.’ He took a sip of wine and looked at the others appraisingly. ‘We all know about Theoderic’s imperial ambitions. He hasn’t yet dared to don the diadem, but the Gepids have provided him with a perfect casus belli to achieve the next best thing, the recovery of Roman imperial territory.’
‘That might prove controversial.’ Cassiodorus’ mild face took on a worried cast. ‘Pannonia Secunda used to be part of the Western Empire — technically. But since it was abandoned it’s become a grey area, a sort of Debatable Land, which the East has long regarded as coming within its own sphere of influence. There’s a general understanding that the empire’s western boundary is now the Ulca river, where 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 Cyprianus from an old Roman military family — proof that there were exceptions to the rule that only Goths should staff the army.
‘With the capture of the city,’ the king continued, ‘not only do we frustrate Thrasaric’s plans to unite the two nations of the Gepids, but we can use it as a base from which finally to crush the tribe, and, in the manner of my ancestors, the Western Roman emperors, restore Pannonia Secunda to the empire. Are you with me?’ he went on, looking at the Anulars with, Symmachus thought, a note almost of pleading in his voice.
Mindful of Cethegus’ advice, and aware that, like Agag, he must tread delicately, the senator, acting as spokesman for his two friends, forced himself to smile and declare enthusiastically, ‘All the way, Serenity.’
‘Excuse me, Sire,’ broke in Count Pitzia, his scar-seamed face, framed by a bush of yellow hair, breaking into a frown. ‘But what empire are we talking about? There’s only one that I know of, and that’s the East.’
‘As whose vicegerent, it is my duty and my mission to restore the West.’
‘Let’s hope Anastasius sees it that way!’ exclaimed Cyprianus. He looked directly at Theoderic, his strong Roman features creased in exasperation. ‘Your Majesty, while I agree that it’s important to nip this Gepid threat in the bud, it would be folly to ignore other political realities. Firstly, any move to reclaim Pannonia Secunda as part of the Regnum Italiae might annoy the Eastern Emperor, who sees it — rightly or wrongly — as coming under his aegis. Secondly, your “mission to restore the West”: a noble aim, no doubt, but it ignores the inconvenient fact that Clovis, Gundobad and Alari
c are hardly likely to co-operate. That would be like expecting pigs to vote for the Festival of Romulus.’* He shot a glance at his three fellow Romans. ‘You, at least, can surely see that?’
Though wholeheartedly agreeing with Cyprianus’ objections, Symmachus shrugged and forced himself to remain silent, as did his two companions.
‘I see.’ Cyprianus’ voice was thick with contempt. ‘Then I have nothing more to say.’ He turned to Theoderic. ‘I await your orders, Majesty.’
‘Your points are noted Cyprianus, my noble Roman with a Gothic heart,’ said Theoderic warmly. Though your fears are unfounded, I do not hold it against you for expressing them. I know that you did so only in my interests, as a true friend.’ He turned to the other commander. ‘You, Count Pitzia, with Cyprianus as your second-in-command, will lead the army by the Vipavus Valley route to Sirmium; the city to be taken and the Gepids crushed. Those who surrender treat with leniency, but show no quarter to any who resist. King Thrasaric to be taken alive, if possible. Even should Anastasius object, there’s not much he can do, his hands being full at present with a campaign against the Persians. Questions, gentlemen?’
When the last of the five had filed out, Theoderic began to pace the chamber in excitement. Pannonia Secunda/Pannonia Sirmiensis — that would be but the first step. Next, Clovis’s expansionist plans must be halted. After that, the rest should prove relatively straightforward. Gundobad and Alaric would soon come to heel, their status in a resurrected empire redefined perhaps as federates, or even ‘client-kings’ — to recycle a convenient label from the past. Even Vandal Africa might one day follow suit; already Thrasamund acknowledged Ostrogothic hegemony. With gifted Romans like Boethius and Symmachus to help him shape his plans, who knows what limits could be put on his success? He had been right not to heed Timothy’s slanderous calumnies against them; their conduct today showed them to be loyal and devoted friends, as well as useful colleagues.
