The City Prefect rose from his place on the crowded marble benches and made his way to the rostrum. He was a red-faced, paunchy individual, whose sweating face betrayed his nervousness at addressing the august assembly of ‘his betters’. (Oh yes, he’d overheard some of the snide put-downs whispered behind his back by these snobs of Roman senators. Just because they’d all got pedigrees stretching back to Romulus and owned a few farm-middens in the sticks. .)
‘One of Theoderic’s “new men”,’ whispered Faustus albus to Rufius Cethegus seated beside him. ‘Jumped-up arriviste — a nobody from Liguria. No family cognomen, so makes up for it by giving himself a string of impressive-sounding names. Who does he think he’s fooling?’
‘He’s not one of us, that’s for sure,’ Cethegus concurred. ‘“Us”, I fear, being very much personae non gratae with our Dear Leader in Ravenna. Have you noticed that, ever since we stood up to him over the Laurentius v. Pope Symmachus affair, not a single member of an old Roman family’s been given a key appointment? Barring, that is, the Three Wise Men,* whom, for some reason, he seems to trust.’
‘You’re right. It must go back to that do in Domitian’s Palace, where he handed out those silly medals.’ Faustus chuckled; ‘Mine comes in handy as a paperweight. As I recall, your father got bawled out on that occasion — shocking bad form. Better shush: our country cousin’s about to grace us with his views.’
‘Honourable Members of this ’ouse,’ Constantius began, speaking in a broad north-western accent with a hint of Gallic, ‘it is my ’umble opinion that you may not be fully aware of the danger in which our fair City stands.’
A buzz of puzzled speculation rippled round the benches. ‘Danger?’ whispered Faustus to Cethegus. ‘What on earth’s he on about?’
‘As you all know,’ the Prefect continued, ‘Theoderic ’as pulled back ’is troops from Moesia and Pannonia to Ravenna, so as to be able to counter possible threats from two directions. Threat number one.’ He held up a forefinger. ‘In Gaul, Clovis is waiting to pounce on the Visigoths — which ’e can’t risk doing for the nonce, because Theoderic, their ally, is too close. Threat number two.’ Up came the forefinger again, joined by a thumb. ‘A great sea-borne expedition from the Eastern Empire, commanded by General Julianus, Master of Soldiers for the Diocese of Oriens, is presently patrolling off the coast of south-east Italy. Result: Theoderic’s in a bind. If ’e marches south to protect the ’eel of Italy, Clovis will attack the Visigoths. But if ’e ’eads for Gaul to ’elp King Alaric, that would leave the Eastern expedition free to strike.’
‘But where’s the threat to Rome in all of this?’ one senator called out, in tones of mild exasperation.
‘From the Adriatic coast to Rome is no great distance.’
‘With the Apennines between — good God, man, you’d think this Julianus was a second Hannibal!’ exclaimed another senator. ‘The expedition’s only there as sword-rattling. Basically, to remind Theoderic to behave himself.’
‘Well, in my ’umble opinion, we can’t afford to take no chances. The walls of Rome need strengthening in places. ’Appen Julianus should besiege the City, I wouldn’t like to bet we’d keep ’im out.’
A chorus of sardonic groans greeted this observation.
‘The man’s panicking,’ Faustus murmured to Cethegus. ‘Either that or he’s hoping to curry favour with Theoderic by a flag-waving gesture.’ He stood up and called, ‘And where’s the money coming from, I’d like to know? You can be sure the Public Purse in Ravenna’s not about to cough up, and, thanks to the Church lands settlement, most of us are pretty strapped for cash.’
‘We must all do our patriotic bit. A spot o’ belt-tightening’s ’ardly going to kill us. ’Sides, Theoderic wouldn’t be impressed if ’e ’eard we was too mean to defend our noble City.’
‘Might have known it would come to that,’ Cethegus whispered disgustedly to his friend. ‘Fellow’s got the ear of you-know-who, unfortunately. We can’t afford to hand the king another stick to beat us with.’
And so (reluctantly) the vote was passed to strengthen Rome’s defences.
As Clovis’s mighty host grew daily greater on the north bank of the Liger, so Alaric’s appeals to Theoderic became ever more frequent and urgent. Torn between the desire to help his Visigothic kinsmen, and the need to keep watch from Ravenna on the Eastern war-fleet, Theoderic set in train a massive warship-building programme. A fleet of sufficient strength would neutralize the threat posed by Julian’s naval expedition, and the king would then be free to march to Alaric’s aid. The shipyards of Arimimum, of Classis* and Tergeste, rang to the thump of adze and mallet as a steady stream of galleys slid down the ways and into the holding-docks. But before enough could be built, news arrived that Clovis had crossed the Liger and was pushing south, carrying all before him.
In rage and desperation, Theoderic despatched Duke Mammo and Count Ibba with the host, to succour his beleaguered allies. Too late. Before the Ostrogoths reached Gaul, terrible intelligence began to filter through: the Visigothic host had been destroyed* — King Alaric being among those killed — the population scattered and in flight. And to compound a sorry situation, the Burgundians, despite prior friendly overtures from Theoderic, now switched their allegiance to the Franks, laid siege to Arelate, sacked Tolosa and, led by Gundobad, their king, took Barcino† in Hispania.
When Julian (aboard his flagship) heard that Theoderic’s host had marched for Gaul, his glee and satisfaction knew no bounds. Now his cup of vengeance would be filled to overflowing, and he would drink deep thereof. Anastasius’ orders regarding the expedition’s rules of engagement had been specific: it was there purely to make sure that Theoderic adhered to the terms laid down in the official warning conveyed to him by the Isaurian, Trascilliseus. Unless provoked, Julian must not commence hostilities. But what else was Theoderic’s warship-building initiative but provocation? Julian knew, of course, that it was nothing of the sort: instead, a desperate measure taken in self-defence, which circumstance had forced upon the king. However, with judicious editing, the facts in his report to Anastasius could be presented in such a way as to constitute a damning indictment of Theoderic, making him, not Julian, appear as the aggressor. With anticipation and excitement rising inside him — like sap in spring within a tree, the general snapped a command to his navarchus. The shipmaster relayed the order to the nautae — the sailors who tended the sails and rigging, as opposed to the remiges who manned the oars. Up to the masthead crept a long red pennant — the signal for the fleet to attack.
*
Tending his flock on the foothills of Mons Garganus* in northern Apulia, Marcus the shepherd selected a dry stone on which to sit while eating his midday prandium of bread and olives. The early autumn sunshine was warm, his sheep were grazing contentedly within easy eyeshot, so Marcus awarded himself a short nap. .
Awaking, he looked out to sea — and gasped. Emerging into view around the mighty headland was a mass of sails. Ship after ship hove into sight; by the time the last had cleared the promontory, Marcus had counted two hundred — some were big-beamed transports, others sleek dromons. Abandoning his charges (he could safely leave them for an hour or two; no wolves had been sighted in the area for many weeks), he began to run down the hill to spread the news to the villagers of Bariae bringing in the harvest in the fields below.
In wonder tinged with apprehension, the harvesters watched the ships drop anchor in the bay fringed by a scatter of lime-washed cottages. Soon, streams of soldiers from the transports and marines from the dromons were wading ashore. Orders in familiar Latin (‘Non vos turbatis sed mandata captate’†) carried faintly to the workers’ ears. A party of several hundred formed up on the beach (only a small proportion of the total force, judging from the numbers watching from the decks) and began to tramp up the hillside in open order, laughing and chatting as though on a spree.