Theodoric (10 page)

When informed that, for the time being, Singidunum would remain in Amal hands, with its taxes going to Pannonia (as just reward for the Goths) instead of Constantinople, the smiles on the faces of the Roman hosts became somewhat strained.

Before the Amal departed for Pannonia, Theoderic took Thiudimund aside. ‘Well, brother,' he demanded, ‘I think you owe me some explaining. Why did you fail to warn me, and to implement the diversion?'

‘Why did
I
fail?' blustered the other. ‘It was you who failed, not I. I waited for your signal but it never came.'

Misunderstanding or deliberate malice? Theoderic could not be sure. He knew, with total certainty, that he had told Thiudimund to sound the horns as a signal that the diversion had begun. It was possible – just possible – that his brother could have confused their respective roles. But never again, he decided, would he involve him in his plans.

‘Very well,' he replied, ‘we will leave it there. For now.' He paused and gave Thiudimund an appraising stare. ‘But take care, brother. There is one thing among our people that can never be forgiven: disloyalty. Remember that.'

 

*
Sremska Mitrovica – not to be confused with Kosovska Mitrovica, much further south.

Our lord and master [Euric], even he, has but little time to spare while a conquered world makes suit to him

Sidonius Apollinaris,
Carmina
,
c.
475

To Gaius Lampridius, esteemed author, and adviser to the most noble Euric king of the Visigoths, greetings.

My dear old friend,
tempora mutantur
, as they say. When last I wrote to you, from Arverna,
*
I was organizing that city's resistance against its annual summer siege by the Visigoths, while still nurturing the hope that Anthemius, our late Augustus, could bring Gaul, or Septem Provinciae
†
at least, back within the Imperium Romanum of the West. (Our new Augustus, little Romulus, is of course only a front for his father, General Orestes, one-time envoy of Attila. It's too early yet to know what Orestes' plans are; but we live in hope. God willing, he might even prove a second Aetius and restore the fortunes of the West.)

Since then, as all the world now knows, Arverna has fallen. Considering I've long been a thorn in the flesh of our new masters, I got off pretty lightly. I was carted off to exile here in Burdigala,
‡
where the worst I have to endure is the drunken screeching of two old Gothic crones, next door in the draughty tenement where I presently reside. No matter how hard I try, I don't think I'll ever get used to barbarians: their smell, disgusting manners, outlandish appearance – furs and trousers, long hair smeared with rancid butter . . . How do you, living in their midst at Euric's court, manage to put up with them?

Now, you'll remember, I'm sure, that some time ago I lent you my treasured copy of
Mosella
by Ausonius? No thought then, of course, of any quid pro quo; but perhaps that time has come. The enclosed is a little poem I've written in praise of Euric. I've laid it on a bit thick but, being a barbarian, he's sure to lap it up. I'd be for ever in your debt if you could show it to him, with a view to his revoking my exile. I've heard that (for a Goth) he's quite a reasonable fellow, so perhaps he might be willing to let bygones be bygones. If you think it would help, you could say that I'd be willing to put whatever literary talent I possess at his service – perhaps as a species of court poet? (Panegyrics to order!) There must be worse fates. I trust this finds you in good health and spirits. I know you'll do your best for your old friend and fellow-scribbler, Sidonius Apollinaris. Vale.

Written at the Insula Marcella, Burdigala, III Nones Decembris, in the year of the second consulship of Zeno
*
(no Western candidate this year!)

To Sidonius Apollinaris, poet, former bishop of Arverna, greetings.

Good news, old friend. As requested, I showed your poem to Euric; I think he was more amused than flattered by your (shameless) attempt to butter him up. But he's not the sort to bear grudges, and I think he's rather taken with the idea of having a famous Roman poet in his entourage – along with jesters, cooks and grooms! Anyway, the outcome is that you're forgiven, your exile is revoked, and your estates in Arvernum (which could easily have been forfeit) returned to you. So you see, ‘barbarians', as you call them, are not perhaps as dreadful as you seem to think. At least they're capable of generosity and fairness, which is more than can be said of many Romans.

A friendly word of caution. The world has changed and we'd be wise to accept the new realities. Whether we like them or not, the Goths are here to stay. Whatever adverse views you have of them, I must urge you to
keep them to yourself
. On the whole, they're open, friendly types, but they have quick tempers and
don't easily forgive a slight. I'd hate to hear of the distinguished author of
The Panegyric of Avitus
coming to an untimely end because he'd offended ‘a smelly, trousered savage, with rancid butter in his hair'. They're the masters now, and must be shown respect, if only for reasons of self-preservation.

Which brings me to another point. You seem to cherish hopes of some sort of recovery for the West. Well, let me disillusion you; it's not going to happen. Even so recently as seven years ago, I might have conceded that you had a point. But the failure of the East–West expedition to recover Africa from Gaiseric has put paid to any chance of a Western revival. Now no Eastern army's going to intervene to save the West. And the Army of Italy, composed of federates, is hardly likely to take up arms against the Franks, Visigoths and Alamanni – all fellow Germans, who are taking over Gaul and Spain. Anyway, what would be the point? Romulus is emperor of . . . what, exactly? Italy, and a small enclave of south-east Gaul! The old Rome that we both knew and loved is passing and will soon be gone. The future lies with the German kingdoms that are taking its place. How will they fare? Maybe only the Sybils would have known the answer. But they, like Rome, belong to yesterday. With hopes that we may meet soon, perhaps at Euric's court, your friend Gaius Lampridius bids you farewell.

Written at the Praetorium of Tolosa,
*
postridie Natalis
P
, in the eleventh regnal year of Euric, king of the Visigoths.
†

 

*
Clermont-Ferrand in the Auvergne.

†
The southern of Gaul's two dioceses.

‡
Bordeaux (in Aquitaine, the homeland granted to the Visigoths in 418).

*
4 December 475.

*
Toulouse.

†
26 December 475. (‘
P
' is a contraction, using modified Greek letters, for ‘Christi'. ‘X', as a symbol for ‘Christ', lingers on in ‘Xmas'.)

The garrison of Batavis, however, still held out. Some of these had gone to Italy to fetch for their comrades that last payment

Eugippius,
The Life of Severinus,
511

Striding over the flower-spangled meadows of the Oenus
*
valley, Severinus wondered if the detachment – from the last Roman garrison that Castra Batava was ever likely to see – had made it back from Italy. He had warned them not to go.

For more than sixty years, Noricum
†
had witnessed the barbarian tides roll past it to the north and south – and had been miraculously preserved on account of its being a rustic backwater, off the main routes into Italy and Gaul. But lately things had changed. Raids by Alamanni, Heruls and the northern branch of the Ostrogoths led by Valamir had year by year become more savage and destructive. From experience gained in Britain he, Severinus, had shown the Noricans the best way to resist. This was to retreat to
castella
– fortified settlements (contemptuously called
fliehburgen
by the German marauders) – garrisoned with citizen-militia stiffened by the remnants of Roman units which, so recently as the Attila campaign, had amounted to a considerable military presence.

Seating himself on a boulder for a breather (though still hale and active, he
was
eighty, Severinus reminded himself), he filled his lungs with the pure mountain air. Around him stretched a vista of majestic peaks, lakes and limpid streams – the most beautiful land he had known in his travels to every corner of the Roman Empire: Britannia with its mists and rain, the burning sands of Africa and Egypt, the forests of
the northern frontier. His mind drifted back to his early childhood in Britannia, where his father had been a
primicerius
*
in the great military base at Eboracum.
†

He was born in the final year of the reign of the great Theodosius, when, for the last time, Rome had been a single empire and was still the mightiest power in the world. When the self-styled ‘emperor', Constantine III, had taken the field army of Britannia with him from the island in a doomed bid for the purple, little Severinus had accompanied his family with the legions, to Gaul. But, in the meantime, following the death of Theodosius and the ‘splitting of the Eagle' (as the soldiers had termed the final division of the Empire into East and West), catastrophe had struck. On the last day of the year 406, a vast barbarian confederacy of Vandals, Sueves and Alans had crossed the frozen Rhine; they later swept through Gaul and into Spain.

In the chaos of Gaul, his father had been killed fighting the Vandals, his family had become dispersed and, aged twelve, Severinus had found himself a homeless refugee. Sustaining himself by begging and stealing, he had made his way to Aremorica
‡
in north-west Gaul, an enclave run by the Bagaudae. These were ‘outlaws' (as the state termed them), refugees from oppressive landlords and the crushing demands of the Roman tax machine, who had banded together to form their own self-governing communities, with strict laws and People's Courts. Severinus had lived among these tough and independent-minded folk for several years, absorbing many useful skills, from woodcraft to healing.