Theodoric (37 page)

Theoderic leant forward, a hectic spot burning in each cheek. ‘Albinus,' he said in a low, hoarse voice, ‘have you anything to say?'

Drawing himself up to his full impressive height, Albinus bowed to the king. ‘Your Majesty, members of this court,' he began in an urbane and reasonable tone, ‘take any sample of the contents of the diplomatic bag of correspondence destined for Constantinople. I guarantee it would
contain many phrases of polished flattery such as diplomacy requires, which – taken out of context – could be made to appear just as “treasonable” as the excerpt you have just had read to you. I was merely suggesting to the emperor that a state visit would prove of inestimable benefit in smoothing away the unfortunate misunderstandings that have recently arisen between Ravenna and Byzantium. If
that
is treason, I am happy to plead guilty to the charge.'

Boethius, who had listened with growing admiration, decided that, notwithstanding Cethegus' sensible advice, he must speak up in the senator's defence, or he would not be able to live with himself. Was it Roman patriotism that prompted him, or merely a sense of solidarity with, and loyalty to, his own class? He could not be sure. All he knew was that silence – prudent but cowardly – was not an option. Rising to his feet, he heard himself exclaim, ‘The charge is false, Serenity! If Albinus is guilty, then I and the entire Senate are also guilty. If men can be condemned on such a trumped-up accusation, it is a sorry day indeed for Roman justice.'

A stunned silence followed his outburst. Theoderic stared at his Master of Offices with shocked incredulity. ‘Anicius Boethius, are you blind as well as deaf?'

‘Neither, Serenity,' declared Boethius, the enormity of his declaration beginning to sink in. Well, it was too late to row back now. He must continue on the course he had set himself – even though it might be destined for the rocks. ‘My only concern is that the light of truth should so illumine the minds of all present that they do not, through a misunderstanding of the sense of a few phrases, condemn a noble Roman who is innocent.'

‘Then,
Magister
,' broke in Cyprian, sounding uncomfortable, ‘you force me – reluctantly, I may say – to disclose the contents of a letter you yourself wrote to the emperor. I had hoped, as it is not strictly germane to the case we are here to examine, that I could avoid doing so, but you leave me no choice.' Producing another letter, he read aloud, ‘“It is my hope, and also that of many senators, that
libertas Romana
may soon be restored to Italy.”'

‘It is a forgery!' declared Boethius, his heart beginning to pound and his palms to sweat. ‘Anyone familiar with my hand will testify to that.'

‘It is a
copy
,' countered Cyprian, ‘written admittedly from memory.'
An edge of anger entered his voice as he continued, ‘The original was stolen from my office. And you,
Magister
, dare talk about the light of truth.' He looked round the assembly, then at Theoderic. ‘Your Majesty, members of this court, I rest my case.'

Theoderic cast a stricken gaze on Boethius. ‘Et tu, Anici,' he whispered brokenly.

Maddened by grief and a feeling of betrayal, racked by bouts of a sickness soon to become terminal, the old king – all pretensions to
dignitas
and
civilitas
thrown to the winds – succumbed to a protracted fit of blind fury, striking out at all who might be considered enemies. Albinus was the first to die. Then the
Caput Senatus
, Symmachus – who dissolved a cowed and apprehensive Senate to prevent it from condemning in absentia his friend and son-in-law Boethius – was arrested and excuted. Pope John, Hormisdas' frail and elderly successor, was thrown into gaol after a papal mission to Constantinople failed to persuade the emperor to relax his anti-Arian laws; still incarcerated, the pontiff died soon afterwards. In revenge for the Eastern legislation against Arians, Theoderic prepared a mandate for the enactment of laws prohibiting Catholic worship – practised by the vast majority of his subjects. And a special court – the
judicium quinquevirale
of five (carefully selected) peers of Boethius, presided over by Eusebius, the City Prefect of Rome – found Boethius guilty of treason while yet in custody. The verdict was facilitated by the testimony of several witnesses: Faustus
niger
and his coterie, also some of the provincial parvenus in government who felt their position threatened by Boethius and his aristocratic circle. (They even utilized his interest in philosophy to have sorcery included in the charge.) Conveyed in fetters to the grim fortress-city of Ticinum, he was imprisoned in its forbidding keep, where he finished writing his magnum opus,
The Consolation of Philosophy
.
*

United in fear and hatred of Theoderic, and freed from any loyalty to him, the senators of Italy resumed their plotting with Justinian, their hopes reciprocated by the emperor-to-be.

 

*
30 September 524.

*
See Notes.

By whose accusations did I receive this blow?

Boethius,
The Consolation of Philosophy
, 526

‘Timotheus Trascilliseus, former royal servant, hear the sentence of Eusebius, Count of Ticinum',
*
acting under orders from the king.' The
saio
delivering the message looked up briefly from the warrant, his impassive blue eyes beneath the studded
Spangenhelm
connecting momentarily with Timothy's. Then he continued, ‘At the first hour of the day of six Kalends September in the Year of the Consul Olybrius,
†
you are to be taken to the place of execution within the bounds of this prison, there to suffer death by the sword.' His business done, the
saio
turned on his heel and departed; Timothy heard the key of his cell turn in the lock.

Well, at least he now knew the worst – which was a relief of sorts. He consulted the tally of the time of his imprisonment that he had scratched on the wall. In ten days! Which was worse, to have the inevitability of death confirmed, or to suffer the suspense of uncertainty about one's fate? At least the latter allowed one still to hope. At his age, having long outlived his biblical span, death should hold no terrors for him. But the truth was that it did. Despite the Church's assurance of an afterlife, reinforced by the vast panoply of a glittering clerical hierarchy and glorious ecclesiastical buildings, there lurked a gnawing doubt that beyond the end of life lay . . . nothingness, a terrifying oblivion where consciousness ceased for ever to exist. Life, even in the confines of this bare cell, was sweet, thought Timothy, appalled at the prospect of departing from it.

*

Roused by footsteps in the yard below the tower, Timothy rose from his straw-filled pallet and looked down from the small barred window of his cell. Into the grassed enclosure – rather grandly known as Ager Calventianus – a prisoner was being led by two warders, who proceeded to secure him by stout straps to a chair in the middle of the green. Beside the chair, long clubs protruding from their belts, stood two brutal-looking men, one of whom held a length of cord. With a start, Timothy recognized the prisoner: Boethius, whom he remembered as an adviser and close confidant of Theoderic. He recalled that the Roman had been prominent among those rumoured to be plotting with Constantinople for Italy to be reunited with the empire.

Tying the cord in a loop round the prisoner's head, one of the executioners, inserting a stick below the ligature, began to twist and tighten it. As the cord bit deep into the prisoner's flesh and started to compress his skull, he jerked against his bonds and cried out in agony. Horrified, Timothy watched Boethius' eyes begin to start from their sockets, while his cries changed to a continuous high-pitched scream. With their clubs, the executioners rained violent blows on the prisoner, the thumps, like wet laundry being pounded, carrying clearly to Timothy's ears. At last, with a horrible crunching, the victim's skull was stove in and he slumped against the straps, released by death from further torture.

Shaking with revulsion, Timothy drew back from the window; death by the sword would at least be mercifully quick. Although liable at times to fits of violent fury, Theoderic was not a cruel or vindictive man. The only explanation for his condemning Boethius to such a dreadful fate must lie in some terrible betrayal on the Roman's part – a betrayal clearly far more heinous than Timothy's had been.

Awaking from a brief and troubled sleep on the morning scheduled for his execution, Timothy watched with dread as the window of his cell slowly took on definition as a pale rectangle. The key squealed in the lock and the door creaked open to reveal, flanked by two warders, a tall figure wearing
Spangenhelm
and military belt – not the official who, ten days ago, had announced his sentence.

‘I see I have arrived in time,' said the
saio
; his voice seemed strangely familiar. ‘Good news, Herr Timothy. The warrant for your execution is revoked, and you are a free man.'

‘
Saio
Fridibad!' exclaimed Timothy, recognizing him in the growing light. Relief swept through him, making him feel faint and giddy.

‘The king is dying,' the Goth continued sadly. ‘He would make his peace with you, Herr Timothy. The end is not far off, so we must make haste. I have fresh horses waiting, if you are able to ride.'

On the previous day, as the king sat at dinner, the meal's main dish was placed before him and the cover removed.

‘Take it away!' shouted Theoderic, gazing in horror at the thing that confronted him with blank staring eyes, its mouth, fringed with long, sharp teeth, agape in silent accusation. ‘It is the head of Boethius!'

Bowing, the servitor removed the great fish's head, while the king stumbled from the table and retired to his bed-chamber. Soon, in a recurrence of the aguish fever afflicting him of late, he lay trembling with cold beneath a weight of blankets.

‘If only I could take back the past,' the king murmured brokenly to his physician, Helpidius, and his daughter, Amalasuntha, in attendance at his bedside. ‘I have cruelly wronged my two most loyal servants, Symmachus and Boethius – both dead at my command. Also Timothy, once my dearest friend, who is to die tomorrow. Their betrayal of me I brought upon myself; I see that now. Too late to save Timothy, alas. If only the
cursus publicus
were still working, there might have been a chance . . .'

As the king drifted into a fitful slumber, Amalasuntha set her powerful intelligence to work. How far from Ravenna was Ticinum? Two hundred miles at most. But still an impossible distance for even the swiftest and most powerful steed to cover in twelve hours, the time remaining before the Isaurian was due to die. Granted, the
cursus publicus
– the old imperial post service with relay stations every eight miles where fresh mounts were available – had been defunct for years; but there were towns along the Via Aemilia: Bononia, Mutina, Placentia
*
and others, where horses could be requisitioned. Provided the rider knew his business, at a pinch a good horse could cover twenty miles in an hour – which rate could be maintained throughout the journey, given sufficient changes of mount. She made a swift computation; there was
still time – just – for Timothy to be reprieved. When her father died, which must be soon, she would assume the regency for her son, little Athalaric. Was that enough to let her act now in Theoderic's name? Well, she would soon find out. Unthinkable to wake her dying father; this was something she must manage on her own. Sending for her secretary, for
Saio
Fridibad (an excellent horseman) and for Cassiodorus, the new Master of Offices, whose countersignature on the documents would reinforce her authority, she began to draft the pardon for Timothy and the requisition orders for fresh horses.

Weakened by dysentry and fever, Theoderic felt the end fast approaching. He had made his final dispensations to the Gothic chiefs and Roman magistrates who filled the chamber, entreating them to keep the laws, to love the Senate and to cultivate the friendship of the emperor. One last thing remained: to be reconciled with the friend who knelt beside his bed.

‘Forgive me, Timothy,' he whispered, stretching out his hand.

Tears blurring his vision, Timothy took it. He felt its grip tighten, then suddenly relax. Theoderic was dead.

 

*
Not to be confused with Eusebius the City Prefect of Rome.

†
6 a.m., 27 August 526.

*
Bologna, Modena, Piacenza.

The true measure of Theoderic's stature lies, perhaps, not so much in his transmutation from semi-nomadic warlord to the enlightened ruler of Italy, as in his feat of successfully balancing and controlling two diametrically opposed social systems. He had, on the one hand, to govern his own people – a shame-and-honour Iron Age society based on
personal
allegiance to a warrior-leader – and, on the other, to rule what in some ways was almost a modern capitalist state, held together by a complex web of laws, bureaucratic institutions and property rights, geared to the acquisition of wealth. Two such differing regimes could never be synthesized, and Theoderic did not try. But the fact that he succeeded throughout most of his long reign (despite allowing himself to be distracted by imperialist dreams) in maintaining a benevolent
apartheid
between these powerful centrifugal forces, was a very great – indeed, a unique – achievement. As Robert Browning (in
Justinian and Theodora
) says, quoting an unnamed scholar, ‘he was certainly one of the greatest statesmen the German race has ever produced, and perhaps the one who has deserved best of the human race'.

In the end, however, the experiment was a failure, though a noble one. His feeble successors, with the possible exception of Totila, could never hope to emulate his example, and the ‘Ostrogothic century' (from the emergence of the tribe into the light of history as allies of Attila at the Catalaunian Fields in 451 to its political extinction by Justinian's generals in 554) ended in the Amals' defeat and their disintegration as a people.