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.
THIRTY-EIGHT
By whose accusations did I receive this blow?
‘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.