‘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 worse. 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.