by Ross Laidlaw
Down the centre of the great drill-hall flanking the quadratum extended a long line of trestle tables (none of this effeminate Roman nonsense of lounging on couches) at which were seated the king and his guests — all Gothic nobles, apart from the two Romans, Cassiodorus and Cethegus. This latter pair alone wore Roman dress; the others were clad in Germanic trousers and belted tunics, Roman dalmatics being streng verboten. No females were present, for this was to be a warriors’ feast, where men could brag, guzzle, and swill to their hearts’ content, free from the restraining influence of womenfolk. Seated in the middle, the young king, his face blotched and puffy from long acquaintance with the wine-stoup, cut a faintly ridiculous figure. In imitation of what he imagined to have been the garb of his heroic German ancestors, he sported a cloak of wolf-fur, fastened at the shoulder by an enormous enamel-and-gold fibula in the form of an eagle, his head being surmounted by a silvered Spangenhelm. Gone was his original short Roman haircut; in its place, flaxen locks now depended to his shoulders. Less successful had been his attempt to grow a Gothic-style moustache, his upper lip adorned by a mere downy fuzz.
Swaying slightly, Athalaric rose and raised aloft his wine-cup. (In contrast to his favouring all things Teutonic over Roman, he had acquired, in preference to German beer, a liking for the strong Roman vintages, which he drank undiluted.) All followed suit.
‘My friendsh. . friends, fellow Goths and Romans,’ the king announced, in tones already slurred, ‘in three weeks time I shall be eighteen. An age at which my illushtrious. . illustrious grandfather, Theoderic, had already made his name, by capturing the great city of Shingi. . Singidunum. But my mother says I’m not yet fit to rule. The bitch. Well, we’ll see about that. Come my birthday, I intend to tell her she is no longer regent, and musht make way for me. I trust I may count on your support.’ He paused and looked muzzily around the table. ‘I therefore ask you all to drink: to my acsheshun. . accession.’
Goblets were dutifully drained — except by one venerable greybeard, whom the king unfortunately spotted.
‘Hildebrand — you did not drink!’ accused Athalaric, his face whitening. ‘You, who were my grandfather’s cup-bearer. You wouldn’t have refused to toasht. . toast Theoderic, I think.’
‘You, Sire, are no Theoderic,’ declared the old man bluntly.
‘You dare to speak to me like that!’ screamed the king. Turning to Cassiodorus he declared, a note almost of pleading entering his voice, ‘Tell him I am worthy to be king.’
‘Italy is fortunate indeed, to have as ruler a descendant of the great Theoderic,’ replied the other smoothly.
‘You see!’ shouted Athalaric, unaware of the prefect’s careful ambiguity. ‘Even Cashiodorus — a Roman — thinks that I should shit. . sit upon the throne. By God Hildebrand, you will drink, you. . you insolent dotard.’ And moving down the table, he grabbed the elder by the nose. Forced to open his mouth in order to breathe, the old man was unable to prevent Athalaric from spilling some wine into it.
‘Now, leave our presence,’ demanded Athalaric, setting down a half-empty goblet. ‘You are hereby banished from our court — forever.’
Red-faced and spluttering, Hildebrand nevertheless exited the hall with dignity, an embarrassed silence spreading in his wake.
Awkward and stilted at first, conversation gradually picked up as a harpist began to sing of great deeds by Gothic heroes, and a stream of rude plenty — mainly dishes of beef, pork, and venison — flowed in from the kitchens. (Conspicuous by their absence were elaborate Roman dishes such as flamingoes’ tongues with mullets’ livers, or sows’ udders in tunny sauce.) Toast followed toast, in heavy Roman wines unmixed with water. In contrast to the king, who invariably refilled his goblet, most of the guests, after a time, contented themselves with sipping sparingly each time a health was drunk.
After several hours, with the torches guttering in their sconces and several guests slumped asleep, their heads resting on the boards, Athalaric, cheeks flushed and eyes bloodshot, rose unsteadily to propose a final toast. ‘To my beloved mother — Amalashuntha,’ he mumbled incoherently. ‘May she rot in hell.’ Suddenly, he staggered, the goblet slipping from his fingers, and with a loud cry crashed backwards to the floor. Immediately, a doctor was summoned; arriving within minutes, he knelt beside the patient. After a brief examination, he rose and pronounced to the assembled guests, ‘Gentlemen — the king is dead.’
* For the background of these two influential Roman officials, see my Theoderic.
** Amalasuntha was the beautiful and learned daughter of Theoderic, who had died eight years before in 526.
* River Po.
** A Roman education involved liberal use of the cane. In the opinion of Theoderic, this would cow a boy’s spirit, so that when he became a man he would be afraid of battle.
* These two categories of Goths corresponded (very roughly) respectively to barons and sheriffs in mediaeval England. ‘Dux’ was a Roman title for the holder of a high military command, one which Gothic nobles had (rather inappropriately) adopted.
SEVENTEEN
If my lord the emperor is dissatisfied, there will be war
Procopius (paraphrasing Peter the Patrician’s warning to Theodahad about the consequences should Amalasuntha not be reinstated), History of the Wars of Justinian, after 552
‘Slow down, Serenity,’ grumbled John the Cappadocian, as he toiled up the ladder in the wake of Justinian. Unwilling to break his daily routine of checking progress on his beloved project — the building anew of Hagia Sophia — the emperor had summoned his praetorian prefect to join him on the building site, to make his regular report.
Arriving at the topmost tier of scaffolding, adjoining the pendentives linking the arches on which the great dome would rest, Justinian perched himself on the edge of the planking, from which vantage-point he commanded a clear view of the workmen far below, egaged in erecting the green-and-red-veined columns to support the arcades, or encasing the massive piers with slabs of coloured marble — green, red, yellow, and blue. Puffing heavily, John at last joined the emperor, but was careful to position himself well clear of the platform’s brink.
‘Well, John, things it seems are looking up for us in Italy. A nephew of Theoderic, one Theodahad — Amalasuntha’s cousin and next in line of succession after Athalaric — has offered to transfer his liquid assets to Constantinople in return for a position of dignity at court. A strange, unpleasant character. Tries to be more Roman than the Romans. Divides his time between grabbing land in Tuscany, composing Latin verse, and reading Greek philosophy. Amalasuntha herself has been in secret communication with me, hinting that supreme power might be transferred to ourselves. And — this has to be significant — my edict concerning transfer of property, addressed to the senators in both Constantinople and Rome, has been accepted by Ravenna, or at least not rejected.’ Producing a length of spiced sausage from a knapsack, the emperor cut off a hunk and passed it to his prefect. ‘All in all, John, it looks as if Italy could be rejoining the Empire without a blow being struck.’
‘Afraid the picture’s changed, Serenity,’ declared the other, his mouth full of sausage. ‘Coming here, I bumped into your ambassador, Peter the Patrician, fresh back from Ravenna and on his way to report to yourself. Told him I’d pass on his news to you, on his behalf. So here it is. Athalaric died in October. In consequence, Amalasuntha was forced to make Theodahad her consors regni — co-ruler; you know these Goths, can’t stand the idea of a female running things. Well, now that he’s become king, Theodahad has suddenly got big ideas, which don’t include sharing power with his cousin. From being a committed Romanophile he’s now sided with the anti-Roman Gothic nationalists, especially the relatives of the three leading Goths Amalasuntha had murdered, all powerful men with lots of influence.’
Justinian stared at the prefect, his expression bleak. ‘This is dreadful, John. And just when things seemed to be going so well.’
‘Better brace yourself, Serenity; it gets w
orse. Theodahad and his clique of leading Goths have staged a coup, deposed Amalasuntha and imprisoned her on an island in Lacus Volsiniensis* in Umbria, where she’s rumoured to be in danger of her life.’
‘Unbelievable! Theodahad must be warned, in no uncertain terms, that unless he restores Amalasuntha forthwith to her former position, we shall be forced to intervene.’
‘Quite right, Serenity. Theodahad needs reminding that, constitutionally, he’s the vicegerent of the Eastern emperor — a title and function handed down from Theoderic. It applies of course also to Amalasuntha, only more so. So our Gothic philosopher-king has to toe the line. But so in a sense do you, Serenity. After all, Theodahad is the legitimate ruler — if we set aside his usurpation of his cousin’s role. So it wouldn’t do for you just to march into Italy and take over. That would be universally condemned as naked aggression. What you need is a casus belli. That sausage, by the way, is very good; I won’t say no if you’re offering some more.
‘Suppose, Serenity, another message got through to Theodahad — one different to the one you’re proposing to send.’ Munching sausage, the Cappadocian shot the emperor a crafty glance.
‘Explain yourself, John,’ snapped the emperor testily. ‘You know I hate mind games.’
‘This sausage really is excellent, Serenity — you must tell me where you get it. Well now, just suppose that Theodahad was tipped the wink that, despite your threat, nothing would happen to him if Amalasuntha had, let’s say, an “accident”. Then suppose Theodahad were to act on that — you’d have a cast-iron case for invading Italy. If necessary, you could always later disown having any part in a second message. Your reason for intervening in Italy would look even better than your excuse for taking over Africa — restoring Hilderic.’
‘It’s monstrous! I won’t hear another word, John — I absolutely forbid it. Do I make myself clear?’
‘As glass, Serenity,’ the prefect murmured with an enigmatic smile. ‘As glass.’
Waylaying Peter the Patrician as (en route to Salonae on the Adriatic, for the crossing to Ravenna) he emerged from Justinian’s tablinum, Theodora pressed into the ambassador’s hand a missive bearing her seal. ‘Give this to King Theodahad,’ she requested. ‘Personally — that’s very important. Also, no one, not even the emperor, must know I’ve given it to you.’ She smiled, and patted his hand. ‘I know I can trust you, Peter.’
‘My lips are sealed, Domina,’ replied the other, slipping the letter into his satchel to join Justinian’s own message to the Ostrogothic king. Like all servants of the imperial court, he was totally in thrall to the empress’s charm and charisma.
The previous day had seen Theodora, in an agony of mind, pacing the little garden where she and Justinian had first met. She recalled the horrified indignation with which the emperor had recounted the Cappadocian’s suggestion that Theodahad be given carte blanche to do away with Amalasuntha.
Although her husband had dismissed the idea, Theodora had found herself unable to. Till far into the night, she had wrestled with her conscience. She knew how vitally important the realization of his Grand Plan had become to Justinian. Africa had been a glorious start. But Italy — the very fons et origo of Rome’s imperial saga — was the prize above all others. Although she cared passionately about the rights of her own sex, was not the sacrifice of a single woman’s life justifiable in the great scheme of things? Theodora (despite that snake, Procopius, hinting that Amalasuntha’s overtures to Justinian had provoked the empress’s jealousy) felt no ill-will towards the Gothic queen; rather, Amalasuntha’s courage and resolution in holding out against the chauvinism of the leading Goths had aroused Theodora’s admiration and sympathy. But such feelings were disembodied, abstract. She had never met Theoderic’s daughter, therefore any guilt she might feel would be impersonal. She was reminded of a conundrum once posed by some philosopher. If, simply by nodding, you would acquire great riches, but at the same time bring about the death of an unknown mandarin in distant China — would you nod?
With a shock of self-disgust, Theodora realized that she had somehow crossed a moral boundary, and was already actively considering how the prefect’s sly proposal might be implemented. The steel in her character coming to the fore, Theodora made her decision. Her husband’s interests must take precedence. She dismissed the thought that she might be damning her immortal soul; such a consideration would cause Justinian concern, but not herself. Her interest in religious matters was strictly academic, its main solicitude the social penalties of non-conformity. Repairing to her private chamber, she began to draft a letter. .
‘Was the use of Socrates as a character merely a literary device for presenting a philosophical argument?’ pondered Theodahad, pen in hand, ‘or did it represent Plato’s personal views?’ Dressed in a Roman dalmatic, and seated at a desk in his tablinum (festooned with busts of Greek philosophers and Roman poets) in Ravenna’s royal palace, the Gothic monarch was working on a treatise, which he hoped would at last cause others to take him seriously as a scholar and a man of letters. This opus (about the differences between Plato’s early dialogues and the middle and late ones) was to be entitled Crito versus Gorgias, or perhaps The Avoidance of Hiatus. When published, it would, he hoped, impress Cassiodorus to the extent that his eminent Scriba Concilii* would spread the word, and thus increase his — Theodahad’s — status among his Roman subjects. Useless, of course, to expect any Goths to read it; even the few who were literate were hardly likely to have heard of Plato.
He was interrupted by a silentiarius (a Goth, the Roman silentiarii having been phased out under Theoderic) ushering in, ‘The ambassador from Constantinople.’
‘Ah — Petrus Patricius,’ the king greeted the travel-stained figure who entered. ‘Back so soon? Fresh tidings from the emperor, I take it.’
‘And from the empress, Your Majesty,’ said Peter, removing from his satchel two despatches which he handed to the king.
Theodahad’s face paled as he read the first letter, then cleared as he perused the second.
‘You may tell His Serenity, Justinianus Augustus, that all is well with Amalasuntha Regina,’ he informed the ambassador. ‘Far from being under house arrest, she is presently recuperating at a pleasant spot in one of my. . our estates in Umbria. Her health, you see, has suffered in consequence of her son’s untimely death.’
Pacing the study after Peter the Patrician had departed, Theodahad — his markedly Teutonic features furrowed in thought, contemplated his next course of action. Justinian’s letter had been unequivocal — return Amalasuntha immediately to Ravenna as queen, or expect the Empire to invade and reinstate her. But against that, the tenor of Theodora’s message could hardly have been more different: if Amalasuntha were to be got rid of, Theodahad could rest assured that the emperor would do nothing. The king knew that Theodora’s influence over her husband was total; it was well known that he could refuse her nothing. Were she to veto an Italian expedition, then it would be most unlikely to take place. So, on balance, Theodahad felt confident that he could proceed with impunity to do away with Amalasuntha and consolidate his position as sole monarch.
But what was Theodora’s motive in sending him the letter? Theodahad decided it was probably jealousy. Suppose a conspiracy of Gothic nobles were to force the queen to come to Constantinople in order to make a personal appeal to Justinian? Amalasuntha was younger than Theodora, and beautiful to boot — probably more so than the empress. Thus, Theodahad reasoned, to Theodora the queen would appear a potential rival, and as such, a target for elimination.
After several hours of swithering, the king at last made up his mind. Murmuring an aphorism of Epicurus, ‘Nil igitur mors est ad nos — Therefore death is nothing to us’, he sent for two of his undercover henchmen. When the men arrived — two burly Gepids, a tribe noted for its savagery as well as for its dullness of mind — he proceeded to issue them with instructions, along with a purse of solidi. Soon the pair were posting east then south along the Via Aemilia
and the Via Cassia — bound for Lacus Volsiniensis. .
In the fortified villa on the island of Martana assigned by her consors regni for her ‘recovery’, Amalasuntha prepared to take her bath. In the calm of that spring morning,* walking the short distance from the main building to the bath-house, she paused to admire the scenery on the far side of the lake: a shoreline of white rocks making a dramatic contrast to the dark green of pines and cypresses beyond. A flight of ducks planed down onto the tranquil sheet of water, shimmering in the sun’s early rays. The sight, as usual, helped to calm her troubled mind, tortured with uncertainty since her arrest and confinement in this place, in December of the previous year.
The ritual of bathing was one of the few things to give her pleasure in her present existence — a welcome break in the boredom mingled with anxiety which filled her days. First, after depositing her clothes in the apodyterium or changing room, a bracing immersion in the plunge pool. Then, a session in the sudatorium or steam room to sweat the dirt from every pore, followed by the transit of three cubicles — the laconium, caldarium, and tepidarium, the air in each progressively less hot. Finally, after scraping off the dirt and loosened outer skin with a strigil, a period of repose wrapped in a soft dry sheet in the frigidarium, when a delicious sensation of perfect well-being would steal over her.
Seated on the wooden bench surrounding the inside of the sudatorium, Amalasuntha felt the first prickles of discomfort. The steam was becoming hotter than usual, causing her skin to redden as well as freely to perspire. Clearly, the slaves had miscalculated the amount of fuel to heat the external boiler. She must have a word with the major-domo. For the present, she couldn’t bear to remain in the steam room a moment longer; the heat was now intolerable. She tried to push back the sliding door into the laconium, but it seemed to be stuck. Fighting down a surge of panic, she pushed harder — still no movement. The door back to the plunge pool she found was likewise jammed. Shouting for the slaves to come to her assistance, she continued to wrestle with the doors — to no avail. Meanwhile, the steam grew hotter and hotter; gushing through the inlets in scalding jets, it caused crops of blisters to erupt all over her skin. Now the vapour was as hot as boiling water: she screamed in mortal agony as the blood began to seethe and bubble in her veins. .
