by Ross Laidlaw
Since his dismissal from the king’s service, he had felt slack and useless — like an unstrung bow. What would he do now? The future stretched before him, grey and drab, like those mist-shrouded flatlands of the Padus valley round Ravenna. For the first time in his life he felt old. At sixty-three — twelve years older than Theoderic — he was old, he supposed. Old enough to draw his pension as an agens of the Eastern Empire when he returned to Constantinople — assuming that his commission from Leo, granted all those years ago, was still valid. He had some money saved; and the funds allocated to him for the voyage had been generous, enough to leave a healthy surplus after he had paid his passage. Perhaps he would make a down-payment on a little wine-shop near the Iron Gate? On reflection, he found the prospect less than enthralling.
The shock of his abrupt dismissal had given way to a great sadness and concern regarding Theoderic’s state of mind. Hadn’t some Greek philosopher once said, ‘Those whom the gods destroy, they first make mad’?* Assuming it was true, the news that Theoderic had sent troops to Sirmium to take the city and occupy Pannonia was ample confirmation of his fears. Unless they could be changed or ended, Theoderic’s ambitions, which now seemed to include recovery of Western imperial territory, would surely end in tears — conflict with the East and dissension in Italy. Anastasius could hardly be expected to look favourably on his vicegerent’s plans first to take over and revive a Roman province in an area which the Eastern Empire had come to regard as its own preserve, and second to realize his ultimate dream of being crowned Western Emperor. In Italy, the Romans would never accept a German as their imperator, while the Goths would surely resent their beloved ‘Dietrich von Bern’ changing his title ‘King of the Goths’ to ‘Emperor of the Romans’. Yet Theoderic seemed blind to all of this — as though, simply by believing them, he could bring about his hopes’ accomplishment.
By the time he stepped ashore at the Golden Horn (after a short overland journey from Corinthus to Athenae, the voyage had continued from Piraeus to the Bosporus), Timothy, without being consciously aware of having done so, had arrived at a momentous decision. Alone, he could do nothing to help save his old friend and master from himself. But there was a man, probably the only one in Europe, who perhaps could: the Eastern Emperor. Somehow, he would arrange an interview with Anastasius. He would endeavour to make the emperor fully aware of his, Timothy’s, concerns about Theoderic’s imperial ambitions, while at the same time pleading the king’s cause: emphasizing the efficiency of his administration and his essential loyalty towards the emperor. A difficult balancing act? That, for sure. Timothy felt rather like the Colossus of Rhodes, whose legs were said to have straddled the harbour’s entrance. (Not, perhaps, the most comforting of similes, he reflected: the mighty statue had been toppled by an earthquake.)
*
Ushered by a silentiarius into the reception chamber of Constantinople’s Great Palace, Timothy found himself in the same vast colonnaded hall where, thirty-four years earlier, he had been quizzed about Theoderic by Emperor Leo. At the far end of the great space sat an elderly diminutive figure, clad not in imperial robes but in a simple dalmatic. In a most unimperial gesture, Anastasius rose, advanced towards Timothy and, taking him by the shoulders, greeted him warmly. ‘Welcome, Timotheus Trascilliseus. My Master of Offices informs me that you have travelled all the way from Ravenna with information concerning King Theoderic, my vicegerent in Italia.’ Seating himself on a chair, he waved Timothy to another, and with his own hand poured wine for them both. He glanced at Timothy’s uniform of an agens in rebus (seldom worn but carefully preserved): pillbox cap, broad military belt, undyed linen tunic with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder. ‘I see you’re dressed as an agens of the Eastern Empire,’ he observed. (No royal ‘we’, Timothy noted, warming to him.) ‘I thought I knew all my agentes by sight; you must have been absent from the capital since before my succession to Zeno.’
Anastasius’ ancient and careworn face displayed only kindly curiosity. All at once Timothy felt unmanned, close to disgraceful tears. His whole life he had fought and striven, surviving against hard circumstances and harder men, through skills learnt as a boy in the tough school of the Tarsus back streets. It was a contest he had relished all his life. But no more, he realized abruptly. His strength was ebbing; his joy in pitting his wits against others and prevailing had lost its savour. It was this knowledge, combined with the other’s unforced cordiality and kindness, that had somehow got to him, filling him with an unfamiliar gratitude mingled with self-pity. No more of this maudlin weakness, he told himself in shame, taking a sharp pull at his morale. If he would help Theoderic, let alone himself, he must stay collected and positive.
‘So, my friend,’ prompted Anastasius, ‘what have you to tell me?’
Timothy held nothing back: his job as Theoderic’s bodyguard during the young prince’s schooldays; the long journey back to Theoderic’s homeland in Pannonia; the migration to Moesia and the years of struggle alternating with alliance, between Zeno and the nation of the Ostrogoths; the rivalry with Strabo; the great exodus to Italy; the wars with Odovacar, and the success of Theoderic’s administration following the former’s defeat; finally, his dreams of becoming Roman emperor in Italy and — if the rumours were true — of reviving the Western Empire itself. ‘When I confided my concerns to him, Serenity, he took it amiss, I fear,’ concluded Timothy. ‘Hence my presence here.’
Anastasius, who had listened in silence to the long recital, refilled their beakers and murmured, ‘Well, we can perhaps turn a blind eye to Pannonia for the moment. After all, it was a Western province once. Before, that is, it became homeland to the Huns, then the Ostrogoths, followed by the Gepids, and now, it seems, returning to its original owners, the native Roman inhabitants. Orestes — Attila’s secretary and father of Romulus, the West’s last emperor — was Pannonian, you know. Poor little Romulus — pensioned off to Lucullus’ villa in Campania. Still alive, I hear.’ Anastasius gave a wry chuckle. ‘And that could complicate any plans Theoderic may be entertaining to have himself made emperor.’ He shot Timothy a keen look, one of unexpectedly steely authority. ‘That we simply can’t allow. There can only be one Rome, and it is Constantinople — which sounds like an oxymoron, I know.’ He smiled, and continued, ‘Theoderic is my vicegerent. Nothing more, nothing less. He must, in no uncertain terms, be reminded of that fact — if necessary, by the threat of forced removal from office should be remain obdurate. But hopefully it need not come to that.’ He glanced at Timothy appraisingly. ‘I am most grateful, Timotheus, for your confiding in me. Knowing what I now do, it may not be too late to mend fences with Theoderic. Perhaps with gentle persuasion he can be made to see where his attitude errs, while being reassured that he remains a valued servant of the empire. It strikes me that you Timotheus, knowing Theoderic better, I suspect, than anybody else, would be the ideal person to take a message to him from myself, couched, of course, in terms of exquisite diplomacy, and peppered with compliments. We could even offer him a second consulship. It would have to be honorarius not ordinarius,* but it would demonstrate that we hold him in high esteem, and would welcome his co-operation. Perhaps, as with Paul on the road to Damascus, the scales would then drop from his eyes. Will you consider my suggestion?’
‘How could I refuse, Serenity?’ Timothy replied, momentarily overcome. He felt a great surge of hope and gladness. The emperor’s proposal offered real hope that Theoderic would be brought to see sense, with the bonus that the rift between himself and the king might be healed. ‘My commission from Zeno has never, to my knowledge, been revoked, which hopefully makes me still an agens in the service of the Eastern Emperor.’
‘It does indeed, my friend. If you still have the document, we will have it updated with our seal, any increments of pay to be made up in full. If not, I will give the order to my Magister Officiorum that a fresh commission be-’
He broke off as the door crashed open and a figure in gilded armour burst into th
e room.
‘Julianus!’ exclaimed the emperor in surprise and displeasure. ‘We assumed our Magister Militum per Orientem to be in Persia. What is so urgent that it causes you to enter unannounced?’
‘A thousand pardons, Serenity,’ declared the other, ‘but what I have to tell cannot stand on ceremony. A truce with Persia was the reason I returned post-haste to the capital, to seek your ratification of a provisional treaty. A short time ago, as I was disembarking at the harbour of Phospherion, grave news came in about the latest actions of Theoderic. Not content with taking Sirmium and occupying Pannonia, he went on to invade the empire and has just defeated a Bulgar army commanded by Sabinianus. This, Serenity, is war!’
* The Gulf of Corinth.
* It was actually Sophocles. (‘Whom Zeus would destroy, he first makes mad’, Antigone, c. 450 BC.)
* Unlike that of a consul ordinarius, the name of an honorary consul, such as Clovis became, did not appear in the Fasti (state records, especially consular lists). Western consuls, their appointments subject to ratification by the Eastern Emperor, were nominated by Theoderic.
THIRTY
A dishonourable victory which Romans snatched from Romans with the daring of pirates
Marcellinus Comes [referring to the Eastern Empire’s punitive naval raid on Apulia and Calabria], Chronicon, c. 550
To Theodericus Amalo, king of the nation of the Ostrogoths and our vicegerent in Italia, greetings.
Whereas it has come to our attention that within the months of Iulius and Augustus of this year present you did knowingly and without permission from ourselves both capture the city of Sirmium and occupy the disputed territory of the civitas of Bassianae, commonly known as Pannonia Sirmiensis, being the eastern sector of the former Roman province of Pannonia Secunda, and moreover thereafter did proceed without just cause or provocation to enter under arms into our imperial province of Moesia Prima, and did there, in alliance with a proscribed outlaw and criminal, to wit, one Mundo, make war against our imperial forces commanded by our Magister Militum per Illyricum, we now desire and demand that immediately upon receipt of this communication. .
Timothy looked up from the scroll and in a strained voice asked, ‘Do you really want me to go on, Deric? Why don’t I cut to the chase and tell you in my own words what Anastasius wants? Then we can decide how best to respond.’ His mind flashed back to the meeting with Anastasius, and the plan that, for a brief moment, had seemed to offer a happy resolution to the crisis with Theoderic.
Until, that is, arriving from the blue like a ballista-bolt, the news from Julian (now a mature and hardened veteran) had smashed the plan to smithereens. Privately, Timothy had felt the situation was not past saving. He was convinced that the ‘invasion’ of the empire had not been intended by Theoderic, and would peter out as soon as the leaders of the host managed to talk the men out of their madness. He sensed, however, that it would be useless to try to make the emperor and his general see that; Anastasius’ attitude had hardened, and Julian was clearly determined to teach Theoderic a lesson. Here was a marvellous opportunity to be revenged on the youthful prince who, thirty years ago, had shown him up at the hunting of the great boar Cambyses, and who later had made him look a fool by countermanding his order to shoot, when charged by Zeno’s Excubitors. Recognizing Timothy even after such a lapse of time, Julian had shot him a look of pure malevolence, stemming, the Isaurian had no doubt, from the slap he had administered at the boar-hunt — a blow clearly neither forgotten nor forgiven. Timothy knew that, should Julian ever find the opportunity, he, too, would be singled out for vengeance.
‘“Deric”? I know no “Deric”,’ replied Theoderic in coldly sneering tones. The two men — Timothy standing, Theoderic enthroned — were in an audience chamber in the king’s palace in Ravenna. ‘You will address me as “Regnator” or “Your Majesty”. And do not presume to suggest that “we” respond to Anastasius. As far as you and I are concerned, Trascilliseus, there is no longer a “we”. You arrive from Anastasius — a vir spectabilis,* no less, and his official nuntius. No, let all be done according to correct form; then there can be no misunderstanding. Pray proceed.’
Timothy ploughed on wretchedly:
. . delivered and announced by our trusty and well-beloved servant Timotheus Trascilliseus, you hereby withdraw all troops from our imperial territory and from the other regions aforesaid (a state of war now prevailing between the Regnum Italiae and our Imperium Romanum), which action will suffice to signify the cessation of hostilities, and hereinafter do solemnly swear and promise to limit your activities solely to those proper to the remit of the office of vicegerent, on pain of forfeiture of the said office.
Given under our seal and hand, the Most Holy the Most Serene Anastasius, Augustus of the Romans, at the Great Palace of Constantinopole, IV Kalends October in the year of the consuls Sabinianus and Theodorus.*
‘You have betrayed me, Trascilliseus,’ accused Theoderic. ‘The very fact that you come from Anastasius tells me you have spoken to him concerning myself.’
‘I would never betray you!’ cried Timothy, hurt to the quick. ‘It is true that I spoke of you to Anastasius, but only in your best interests, in an attempt to remedy the misunderstanding that has developed between yourself and the emperor. A dangerous misunderstanding. As things stand at present, you could be in peril, Majesty. Anastasius’ senior general is Julian, whom you must remember from your youth. He is to raise an expedition to enforce the withdrawal of your troops from Moesia and Pannonia. Don’t tell me he won’t exploit his command as an opportunity to settle old scores. For your sake, Majesty, it’s vital he be given no excuse to do so.’
‘Your concern is touching, Trascilliseus. First treachery, now a warning. You would do better to consider your own position. No doubt you’ll be expecting to return to Anastasius bearing my reply. Instead, you will remain here in Ravenna, as. . let us say as my “guest”, pending further developments.’
In other words, a hostage against any tricks that Julian might play, thought Timothy, grim foreboding growing like a cold lump inside him.
In the Senate House, old Festus, the Caput Senatus, banged his staff on the floor and called the next speaker: ‘Publius Quinctilius Junius Theotecnius Constantius, Praefectus Urbis Romae.’
The City Prefect rose from his place on the crowded marble benches and made his way to the rostrum. He was a red-faced, paunchy individual, whose sweating face betrayed his nervousness at addressing the august assembly of ‘his betters’. (Oh yes, he’d overheard some of the snide put-downs whispered behind his back by these snobs of Roman senators. Just because they’d all got pedigrees stretching back to Romulus and owned a few farm-middens in the sticks. .)
‘One of Theoderic’s “new men”,’ whispered Faustus albus to Rufius Cethegus seated beside him. ‘Jumped-up arriviste — a nobody from Liguria. No family cognomen, so makes up for it by giving himself a string of impressive-sounding names. Who does he think he’s fooling?’
‘He’s not one of us, that’s for sure,’ Cethegus concurred. ‘“Us”, I fear, being very much personae non gratae with our Dear Leader in Ravenna. Have you noticed that, ever since we stood up to him over the Laurentius v. Pope Symmachus affair, not a single member of an old Roman family’s been given a key appointment? Barring, that is, the Three Wise Men,* whom, for some reason, he seems to trust.’
‘You’re right. It must go back to that do in Domitian’s Palace, where he handed out those silly medals.’ Faustus chuckled; ‘Mine comes in handy as a paperweight. As I recall, your father got bawled out on that occasion — shocking bad form. Better shush: our country cousin’s about to grace us with his views.’
‘Honourable Members of this ’ouse,’ Constantius began, speaking in a broad north-western accent with a hint of Gallic, ‘it is my ’umble opinion that you may not be fully aware of the danger in which our fair City stands.’
A buzz of puzzled speculation rippled round the benches. ‘Danger?’ whispered Fa
ustus to Cethegus. ‘What on earth’s he on about?’
‘As you all know,’ the Prefect continued, ‘Theoderic ’as pulled back ’is troops from Moesia and Pannonia to Ravenna, so as to be able to counter possible threats from two directions. Threat number one.’ He held up a forefinger. ‘In Gaul, Clovis is waiting to pounce on the Visigoths — which ’e can’t risk doing for the nonce, because Theoderic, their ally, is too close. Threat number two.’ Up came the forefinger again, joined by a thumb. ‘A great sea-borne expedition from the Eastern Empire, commanded by General Julianus, Master of Soldiers for the Diocese of Oriens, is presently patrolling off the coast of south-east Italy. Result: Theoderic’s in a bind. If ’e marches south to protect the ’eel of Italy, Clovis will attack the Visigoths. But if ’e ’eads for Gaul to ’elp King Alaric, that would leave the Eastern expedition free to strike.’
‘But where’s the threat to Rome in all of this?’ one senator called out, in tones of mild exasperation.
‘From the Adriatic coast to Rome is no great distance.’
‘With the Apennines between — good God, man, you’d think this Julianus was a second Hannibal!’ exclaimed another senator. ‘The expedition’s only there as sword-rattling. Basically, to remind Theoderic to behave himself.’
‘Well, in my ’umble opinion, we can’t afford to take no chances. The walls of Rome need strengthening in places. ’Appen Julianus should besiege the City, I wouldn’t like to bet we’d keep ’im out.’
