Raptor (141 page)

During the better part of a millennium and a quarter, Rome had been a-building, spreading, growing ever grander and more beautiful. But at some point in the not too distant past, it had stopped doing so. That would not have mattered much—because a city simply could not get much more beautiful—if only that beauty had been maintained and preserved. But the rulers and administrators and inhabitants of Rome seemed to have ceased to care about that. Not only was nothing done to save the city’s architectural treasures from the ravages of time and weather; many of those irreplaceable mementos of Rome’s heritage were being let to fall down, or, worse, to be defaced and demolished piecemeal. Some of the most superb buildings and arches and porticos and arcades were nowadays regarded only as
quarries.
Anyone who wished could use them as a convenient source of materials for the paltriest purposes. Fine marble, limestone, whole columns and friezes, sculptured and polished, were there for the taking and free for the taking.

In some places about the city, such depredations have made it possible for an observer to look
backward
over Rome’s twelve and a half centuries of existence. One could literally see how a certain structure, plain and modest at its first upraising, became more lovely and more elegant as Rome’s wealth grew and its arts and skills improved. But one looked on that with rue and melancholy.

I shall cite one case, that of the small but enchanting Temple of Eos near the vegetable market square. Had I seen it when Rome was in its prime, this little temple to the dawn must have been an exquisite expression, in purest Parian marble, of high architectural achievement. But now much of the marble has fallen or been pried away, perhaps to put a facing on the villa of some upstart rich man, or the slabs even just leaned together to make a shelter for the market’s night watchman. And where the marble used to be, there is revealed an earlier Temple of Eos, of the man-made material called ironstone, probably built at a time when Rome could not yet afford to import costly marble. But chunks of that ironstone have crumbled away or been hacked off, perhaps to fill a hole worn in the paving of some nearby street. And under that is visible an even earlier temple, built of the native gray tufa rock, doubtless erected in the days before Romans learned how to make ironstone. But blocks of the tufa have been carried off too, perhaps to prop up the vegetable vendors’ tables in the market. And under what remains of the tufa is what may be the
very
earliest temple, made of humble brown baked-clay bricks, but lovingly made, perhaps away back in the dawn-time when the Rasenar still called this place Ruma and the dawn was called Thesan.

Still, despite its disgraceful self-neglect, Rome had not lost its magnificence. Much of it was simply too well built, and still is, to succumb to any wreckers less strong and crafty and determined than gods. Much of it was simply so splendid, and still is, that I think even the bestial Huns would be ashamed to despoil it. Enough of the sublime public buildings and palaces and fora and gardens and temples remained unsullied that I—although I had previously seen Constantinople—could not help being astonished and gladdened. Not just on this first visit but every time I came to Rome, there was no way I could act the world-weary traveler and pretend to be unimpressed. However often I walked into the vast, high, vaulting interior of a basilica or therma or temple—especially that most awe-inspiring one, the Pantheon—I never failed to feel as small and insignificant as an ant, and at the same time feel a soaring wonder and pride that mere men could have
made
such things.

I would always prefer Rome to Ravenna, even after Theodoric had so thoroughly transfigured that capital city. And while I cannot deny that Constantinople is a sumptuous metropolis, it is, in my view—even now, as that New Rome approaches its two hundredth birthday—still a mere weanling compared to the venerable antiquity of the original and everlasting and only
real
Rome. Of course, I must bear in mind that I first saw Constantinople when I too was young, and never got to Rome until I myself was on the farther slope of the hill of my life.

When Ewig had shown me all the parts of the city that he knew best, and had introduced me to all sorts of commonfolk, from thieving seamen to pawnbrokers to lupanar lenae, I decided it was time I saw something of Rome’s upper classes. So I inquired as to where Senator Festus might be found, and learned that he owned one of the handsome villas on the Via Flaminia, and I went calling there. The word “villa” correctly means a country estate, and perhaps Festus’s mansion had had open country around it when it was first built, but the spread of Rome had long ago put the city walls far beyond the place. It stood in what is still called the Martian Fields, though that expanse of ground between the Flaminian Way and the river consists of fields no longer, but of close-set fine dwellings.

The senator greeted me warmly—as “Torn,” of course—and made me welcome and sent his slaves running to fetch sweetmeats and libation. With his own hand, Festus poured Massicus wine for me, and mixed into it Mosylon cinnamon, which is the top-tree grade of that spice. The villa was as richly appointed as a minor palace. There was much statuary, many silk hangings, and the windows were of marble lattice, their multitude of openings filled with slabs of cast glass, blue and green and violet. The room in which we conversed had on its four walls mosaic panels representing the seasons: the flowers of spring, the grain harvest of summer, the grape harvest of autumn, the olive-tree beating of winter. But the villa had its common touches too. Like the meanest hut in the dockside low quarters, the villa had wet mats hung in every doorway, to cool the incoming summer breezes.

Festus kindly offered to help me find a residence of my own, one suitable to the king’s marshal and ambassador. And that he did, within just a few days: a town house on the Vicus Jugarius, which had been the street of foreign embassies before all of those removed to Ravenna. The house was no palace or villa, but it was luxurious enough for my taste, and had separate quarters for my domestic slaves, which the senator also helped me buy. (A little later, and without the assistance of either Festus or Ewig, I also acquired a rather more modest house in the Transtiber residential quarter on the other side of the Aurelian Bridge, to be Veleda’s residence in Rome.)

Meanwhile, the senator was eager to introduce me to other Romans of his class, and over the next weeks I met many of those. He also took me one day to the Curia to observe a sitting of the Roman Senate, assuring me that I would find this a momentous occasion. I suppose I went, like any wide-eyed provincial, expecting a senate session to be of awesome solemnity and spectacle. Except for one aspect of it, however, I would have found it intolerably dull. The speeches dealt with matters that seemed to me of no import whatever, and even the most fatuous, longest-winded orations were received with cries of “Well spoken!” from all the tiers of benches: “Vere diserte! Nove diserte!”

The one thing that saved this session from boring me utterly was that Senator Festus himself rose to make a proposal: “I ask the concurrence of you senators and of the gods…”

Of course, the prefatory verbiage went on and on, like every other speech I heard that day. But it culminated in his proposing a vote of recognition of the rulership of Rome by Flavius “Theodoricus” Rex. His oration was dutifully acclaimed “Nove diserte! Vere diserte!” by all present, including even some senators who then voted
against
the proposal when Festus called for a showing of “the will of you senators and of the gods.” The proposal did pass, though, by a comfortable plurimum (of senators, anyway; the gods abstained from voting)—for what little the Senate’s blessing was worth. It at least pleased me, because it
displeased
the Patriarch Bishop of Rome, as I discovered when, on another day, Festus arranged for me an audience with that personage.

On my arrival at Gelasius’s cathedral, the Basilica of St. John Lateran, I was met by one of the cardinal deacons whom I had earlier seen at Ravenna. As he escorted me to the bishop’s audience chamber, he advised me in all earnestness, “You are expected to address the sovereign pontiff as ‘gloriosissimus patricius.’ “

“I will not,” I said.

That made the deacon gasp and sputter, but I paid him no heed. In my childhood days as exceptor to Dom Clement, I had written many of his letters to other patriarch bishops, and I knew the traditional form of address—Your Authority—so that was the only deference I accorded this one.

“Auctoritas,” I said to him, “I bring greetings from
my
sovereign, Flavius Theodoricus Rex. I have the honor to be his deputy in this city, and I offer my services in conveying any communications that you might wish—”

“Convey my greetings in return,” he interrupted, and frostily. Then he began gathering up his skirts as if that were to be the end of our colloquy.

Gelasius was a tall, skeletal old man, parchment-pale and ascetic-looking, but his garb was not of corresponding austerity. His vestments were new and voluminous, of rich silks, heavily embroidered, very different from the simple brown robe of peasant cloth worn by every other Christian churchman of my experience, from lowliest monk to the Patriarch Bishop of Constantinople.

When that patriarch came to mind, I recalled the standing quarrel between him and Gelasius, so I said, “My king would be inexpressibly gratified, Auctoritas, if he were to hear that you and the Bishop Akakiós have resolved your differences.”

“No doubt he would,” Gelasius said through gritted teeth, “That would facilitate his recognition by the emperor. Eheu, what does Theodoric need of that? Has he not already been recognized by the pusillanimous, groveling, sycophantic Senate? I ought to pronounce anathema on every Christian senator in that body. However, if Theodoric wishes to please
me,
all he has to do is join me in denouncing Akakiós for his laxity in the matter of the noxious Monophysites.”

“Auctoritas, you know Theodoric refuses to intrude upon matters of religion.”

“And so do I refuse to yield on a doctrinal issue to an inferior bishop.”

“Inferior?” As tactfully as I could, I remarked that Akakiós had held his patriarchate for nearly ten years before Gelasius was raised to his.

“Eheu! How dare you compare us? His is only Constantinople! Mine is Rome! And this”—he indicated the building we were in—“this is the Mother Church of all Christendom!”

I asked mildly, “Is that why you have adopted a more striking style of liturgical costume?”

“Why not?” he snapped, as if I had been scathingly critical. “Those who are unique in the grace of their virtue should also be unique in the richness of their raiment.”

I said nothing to that, so he added, “My cardinal deacons and priests too, as they give increasing proofs of their devotion to their Papa, will be rewarded with embellishments of their liturgical dress.”

I still said nothing, so he went on, pedantically, “I have long believed that Christianity is too
drab
in comparison with paganism—in costume, in ritual, in ecclesiastical trappings. No wonder paganism seduces the commonfolk, who welcome any gaudery and ostentation that brightens their meager lives. And the finer folk, how can they be expected to accept instruction or admonition from priests clad like wretched peasants? If Christianity is to be more attractive than the pagan and heretic cults, its churches and clerics and ceremonies must outshine theirs in magnificence. It was this basilica’s own patron saint, John, who made the suggestion: let the onlookers remark in wonder and admiration, ‘You have kept back the
good
wine until now.’ “

I still had no comment to make on that, and clearly nothing I could say would soften Gelasius’s opposition to his brother bishop and the heretic Theodoric, so I took my leave and did not see him again.

Nor did I mourn when, about a year later, Gelasius died. His replacement was a less rancorous man and, if he and old Akakiós had differing doctrinal beliefs, they somehow conciliated them. I daresay it was only coincidence that this new Patriarch Bishop of Rome took the name Anastasius II, and I doubt that that flattered the emperor of the same name. Nevertheless, very shortly thereafter, Constantinople’s Emperor Anastasius
did
proclaim his recognition of King Theodoric and, in token, sent to him the imperial regalia—the diadem, crown, scepter, orb and victoria—all the ornamenta palatii that Odoacer had surrendered to Zeno some thirteen years before.

The now-universal recognition of Theodoric’s regnancy did not cause him to put on any airs or affectations. He never took any title other than Flavius Theodoricus Rex. That is to say, he never claimed to be king
of
anything, not of any land or any people. On the coins minted during his reign, on the dedicatory tablets affixed to the many structures built during his reign, never was he styled King of Rome, King of Italia, King of the Western Empire, not even King of the Ostrogoths. Theodoric was content to express his rulership and his kingliness in deeds and works and accomplishments.

Churchmen, by contrast, have never been known to abstain from or give up any entitlement that they have once been granted or can claim a right to or have invented for themselves. Like Gelasius before him, Anastasius II continued to insist on the title of sovereign pontiff and the honorific of Papa and the address of “most glorious patrician”—and so has every one of the three succeeding Patriarch Bishops of Rome. Like Gelasius, they all have worn splendiferous raiment, and their cardinal deacons and priests gradually have assumed costumes almost equally luxurious. The Church rituals and processions have become ever more bedizened with candles and incense and flowers and gold-encrusted crosses and staffs and vessels.

Well, even at the time of my interview with Gelasius, I had understood his reasons for wanting his Church to make more flagrant appeal to both the commonfolk and the finer folk of the city. Before my coming to Rome, I had naturally assumed that the heart-city of the Catholic Christian Church must be solidly Christian from top to bottom. But I soon learned that it was Christian only in the
middle,
and I am speaking literally. The membership of the Church of Rome consisted almost entirely of those persons who make things: smiths, wrights, artisans, craftsmen—and all those (excluding Jews, of course) who buy and sell things: merchants, traders, shippers, vendors, brokers, shopkeepers, and their wives and families. I was unavoidably reminded of the assertion by that old Gepid hermit, Galindo, that Christianity is a tradesman’s religion.