Entering the city through the Golden Gate in the mighty Theodosian Walls, the great procession, flanked by cheering crowds, made its way along the Mese. At the front, heading his soldiers, marched Belisarius — granted a Roman triumph, the first for centuries; then came Gelimer in chains, but clad, ironically, in royal purple, followed by the tallest and handsomest of the Vandal prisoners, then wagon after wagon loaded with the spoils of victory, among which was the Menorah: the seven-branched gold candlestick which, close on five centuries before, Titus had taken to Rome whence Gaiseric had removed it to Carthage.
The column proceeded through the fora of Arcadius, the Ox, Amastrianum, Theodosius, and Constantine, with all around new buildings rising to replace those destroyed in the riots of two and a half years before. The parade finally halting in the Hippodrome, Belisarius knelt in obeisance before the kathisma wherein were seated, surrounded by the great officers of state, Justinian and Theodora.
‘“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,”’ the emperor quoted from St Mathew’s Gospel, his voice warm with emotion, ‘- conqueror of Africa, and our consul for next year.’*
Next, Gelimer was brought before the imperial pair. Instead of the defiantly scowling savage that he had half-expected, Justinian beheld a gentle-faced man who carried himself with quiet dignity. The thought — ‘Thus might Christ have appeared before Pilate,’ flitted through his mind.
‘Eat the dust, Vandal dog,’ growled the officer on escort duty, ripping the purple robe from Gelimer’s shoulders, and giving his back a brutal shove. Abasing himself at the foot of the royal box, the last king of the Vandals murmured, in the words of the son of David, ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’
Justinian felt a surge of compassion. There was something touching, almost noble, about a man who, finally surrendering to the Romans after weeks of a wretched existence as a hunted fugitive, had asked for three things: a lyre to accompany himself singing the sad story of his misfortunes, a sponge to wipe away his tears, and a loaf of bread to stay the pangs of hunger.
‘Rise, friend,’ Justinian commanded softly. ‘Your fetters will be removed, your freedom restored, and a fitting residence found for you to pass your days in peace.’**
A sense of triumphant gladness welled up in the emperor’s breast. The horror and humiliation of the Nika episode could now finally be put behind him. By his great victory over the Vandals, God had indeed confirmed that Justinian was His Appointed. But Africa was only the beginning. As Resti-tutor Orbis Romani — Restorer of the Roman World — he must now embark on the next stage of the Great Plan: the conquest of Italy.
* The Mediterranean.
** Foreign troops serving under their own leaders.
* 13 September 533.
* Belisarius’ consulship, inaugurated on 1 January 535, was one of the very last; ‘. . the succession of consuls finally ceased in the thirteenth year of Justinian [i.e. in 539].’ (Gibbon)
** Justinian was as good as his word. Displaying a magnanimity not exactly typical of Roman emperors, he settled the Vandal monarch on a rich estate in Galatia, where he was permitted to practise his Arian faith. In addition, he enrolled surviving able-bodied Vandal males into five regiments of Vandali Justiniani.
SIXTEEN
The child who had trembled at a schoolmaster’s rod would never dare to look
upon a sword
On an October evening of the same year that Belisarius celebrated his triumph, Cassiodorus — silver-haired elder statesman, Praetorian Prefect of Italy, and Secretary of the Ostrogothic Council — greeted his fellow Roman Cethegus,* the Caput Senatus as, from different directions, they entered Ravenna’s Platea Maior: the main thoroughfare of the city’s civitas barbara, or Gothic quarter.
‘Ave, Rufius. You too have had a royal summons. . sorry — invitation — to this feast?’ enquired the prefect.
‘I fear so, Magnus,’ replied Cethegus, whose homely features bore a striking resemblance to those of the Flavian emperor Vespasian. ‘The royal bratling must have something important he wants us to hear, to have dragged me all the way from Rome. And insisted on senatorial dress.’ With a wry grin, he indicated the archaic toga in which he was enshrouded. ‘I see you too are required to wear your robes of office. I guess Athalaric likes to have the odd tame Roman to show off to his Gothic friends.’ And chatting amicably, the pair made their way towards the guards’ compound, which the young king (in a gesture of defiance against his mother, the regent Amalasuntha**) had chosen as a venue for his feast, in preference to the royal palace.
The two old friends had risen to high office under Theoderic, the great Ostrogothic leader who (officially as vicegerent of Italy for the Eastern emperor) had proved a model ruler for most of his long reign. His designated heir, Eutharic, husband of Amalasuntha, had predeceased him, leaving Athalaric — son of Eutharic and Amalasuntha — to become king at the tender age of ten, his mother ruling for him until he should come of age.
‘Remind me what’s happening at court,’ requested Cethegus, as the two strolled through the neat little city, studded with fine new Arian churches built under Theoderic. Protected by its ring of lagoons and marshes, Ravenna had replaced Milan as capital of the Western Empire at the start of the barbarian invasions over a century before. Now, situated in the Ostrogothic heartland of the Padus* valley, it was the administrative centre of Amalasuntha’s government. ‘As head of the Senate,’ went on Cethegus, ‘I have to be in Rome for most of the year, so I tend to lose touch with what’s going on in the corridors of power up here.’
‘Things are pretty tense at present, Rufius,’ sighed the prefect, his fine patrician features pursed in cogitation. ‘There’s a ding-dong power struggle going on between Amalasuntha and the leading Ostrogoths for control of Italy, with young Athalaric a pawn in the game. Basically, the problem boils down to this: Amalasuntha’s a woman; she’s a Romanophile; she wants — or rather did, until the matter was taken out of her hands — Athalaric to be given a Roman education.** All of which is total abomination to the Gothic nobility. To fierce, patriarchal-minded German warriors, rule by a female is anathema. To them, Romans are an effete and cowardly race, so a Roman education is the last thing they want for their king. Accordingly, they removed young Athalaric from his Roman tutors and switched him to a German education. In other words: no more books, no more cane, just learning how to fight, and, unfortunately — drink. Thanks to their enlightened tutelage, the boy, who’s now seventeen, has become a drunken wastrel. Round One to them.’
‘Somehow, Magnus, I can’t imagine Theoderic’s daughter taking all this lying down. She’s inherited her father’s strength of will, I believe.’