Citadel of God

A Novel of Saint Benedict

Louis de Wohl

• Publisher: Hauraki Publishing
• Year: 2016
• eBook ISBN: 9781787201163
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Religion

The streets of Rome are crowded as Theoderich, the "barbarian" Gothic king, makes his triumphal entry into the conquered city. Suddenly a boy rushes into the street and attempts to stab the king with his stylus. Kicked aside by the king's guard, he is rescued and carried to safety by a young man. The boy is Peter, adopted son of the noble Roman philosopher, Boethius. His rescuer is Benedictus, a student, who becomes Peter's tutor, and tries to curb the boy's reckless determination to succeed at all costs.
So begins this vivid story which follows Benedictus through a disillusioning experience with a beautiful woman of Rome, his years as a hermit and his work in establishing religious communities that were truly citadels of God in the decadence of sixth-century Rome.
Peter, meanwhile, has dedicated himself to overthrowing the Goths—partly to further his own ambition and partly to win the beautiful Rusticiana, who has promised to marry him if he succeeds. Sweeping from Rome to Ravenna, Byzantium and Monte Cassino, the story reaches its climax in a dramatic fulfillment of Benedictus's long-ago promise to Peter: "We shall meet again when you need me."
Here, as in all his novels about great saints of the Church, Louis de Wohl weaves an intricate colorful tapestry of violence, love and piety to tell with historical accuracy the story of St. Benedict and the tempestuous era in which he lived.

BOOK TWO

12

ARMY COMMANDER COUNT WITTICH was reporting to the King, and Cassiodor, whose report was next on the list, had time to look, from under half-lowered lids, at Amalaswintha who was sitting beside her father on a low chair. She was a mature woman now, and more beautiful than ever. The year of mourning for her husband, Prince Eutharich, was over, so she had shed her widow’s weeds. Her robe of brilliant blue matched the glory of her hair, a golden-yellow brown like the skin of a lioness, and she did look a little like a lioness, or rather like a princess in a story Ovid had forgotten to tell in his Metamorphoses, a princess whose mother had succumbed to Jupiter under the form of a lion.

From where Cassiodor was sitting he could see her profile in line with Theoderich’s. The resemblance was there, of course, in forehead, nose and chin. But the King was an old lion now.

Count Wittich, a brawny, flaxen-haired man with fists as large as a human head, rambled on with his report. The production of the helmet factories at Mantua and Florentia. The introduction of Spanish steel for sword blades. The import of horses from Illyria.

The King was an old lion, but he had not mellowed with age. Several times he interrupted Wittich, questioning his figures. The large vein on his forehead and the muscles of his neck stood out.

Cassiodor sighed inaudibly...At the best of times it was no pleasure to report bad news to the King. It was worse when the King was in an ill mood and worst of all when Amalaswintha was present to witness a stormy audience. At court, a man must learn to be elastic and to bow as a tree bows in a storm. He had done so often enough. But when Amalaswintha was present his very nature rebelled against humiliation. She knew it and felt sorry for him and her compassion was more difficult to bear than the king’s rage.

The King bellowed that he wanted horses to be bought in Spain and not in East Roman territories. “We have given far too much trade to the Buffoons.”

Count Wittich grinned delightedly. He was one of the King’s favorites and had done extremely well in the war against the Gepids, in the Gothic style, by splitting enemy heads, helmet, skull and all. Perhaps the King was right to make him an expert on helmets and their resistance and durability.

“Pleases you, does it?” growled the King. “You don’t have to receive speechifying Byzantine ambassadors. Very well. Anything else? Right. You may stay on and hear what Cassiodor has to say. It’s bad news. I always know when he’s got bad news. What is it this time? Still no answer from Byzantium?”

“Worse, I’m afraid, my lord King,” Cassiodor replied. He spoke fairly loudly. The King was getting a little deaf. “The Emperor’s answer is negative.”

Theoderich’s brows contracted. “What’s he say? Where’s the letter?”

Cassiodor produced it.

“That’s not an imperial letter,” Theoderich snapped. “And don’t you tell me it is. No purple ink. No big seal attached. Just because I can’t read, you can’t cheat me. The Emperor, God blast him, can’t read or write either. Doesn’t have to. What’s this scrap of ass’ hide about?”

“It is a letter from the Emperor’s nephew....”

“Justinian. Can’t wait till the old man is dead, eh? He’s the man to watch, daughter, remember that.”

“Prince Justinian seems to be in charge of all important foreign affairs,” Cassiodor went on. “His letter is addressed to the Royal Secretariat—quite correctly so, as he is not in a position to address the King directly, on state affairs.”

“All Byzantines love formalities,” Theoderich explained to Amalaswintha. “And they hate everything that is straight and simple. When a Buffoon wants to scratch behind his right ear, he’ll use the left hand just to make it a little more complicated. Will you tell me what the young man says, Cassiodor?”

“He refers to the King’s letter to the Emperor about the edict against the Arians.”

Theoderich’s face was dark. “I wrote to the Emperor,” he said between his teeth. “Is Justinus incapacitated that his nephew must answer for him or is he trying to insult us?” “The letter is couched in very polite terms,” Cassiodor replied, somewhat evasively. “Prince Justinian expresses his regret for having been directed to reply that the edict cannot be withdrawn, as the King suggested. Also there can be no restitution of former Arian churches to that sect...”

“Wants to keep stolen goods.”

“...for the reason that most of these churches were Orthodox before they were taken over by the Arians and...”

“Go on, man. Let’s have it.”

“...and that it would be wrong to foster and assist a heretical belief. The Church should be one and the Emperor’s policy is to make it so with all the means in his power and especially by his prayers.”

Theoderich gave an angry laugh. “So he can pray and steal in the same breath...that’s a Byzantine for you. Mark it well, daughter, when the time comes. Make the Church one! Ever since they settled their quibbles, the Roman priests are getting all cock-a-hoop. We are Arians, we Goths. Or most of us. And we intend to remain what we are. What’s more, we’re not going to sit back idly, while they persecute those who believe as we do. And ‘with all the means in his power,’ eh?” The King’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a simple man,” he said, “but perhaps not quite as simple as they think. We have a little power too, eh, Wittich?”

“Yes, my lord King.”

“We shall give the pious Prince and his uncle Emperor proof of that. And some other people as well. But first tell me, Cassiodor...what is the news from Rome?”

“Nothing today, my lord King.”

“Nothing at all? I see. And the Senate? What’s your opinion of that great and honorable assembly, Cassiodor? All loyal to us? No suspicious activities? No secret activities?”

“If there were,” Cassiodor said quietly, “I feel sure the King’s minister, Senator Boethius, would have reported it.” “You do, eh?” Theoderich remained silent for a while. “What about other parts of the country?” he asked suddenly. “Nothing to report to us, Cassiodor? From the North? From Padova, Pavia, Verona, Milan?”

“Nothing of importance, my lord King.”

Theoderich turned his huge head to look his minister full in the face. “We hear a great deal more than official reports,” he said. “For instance, that the priest of the Church of St. Stephen’s in Verona preached a sermon in which he called all Arians heretics who did not give Christ His due honor and said that the Emperor was right in condemning them as the Church had done. And that he would rather destroy his church than give it up to Arian priests.”

“Priests are apt to feel very strongly about such matters,” Cassiodor dared to say. “I am sure that in Arian churches...”

“When I want your opinion I shall ask for it, Cassiodor. I have decided to make an example of St. Stephen’s. The priest shall have his wish. St. Stephen’s will be burned down.”

“Father,” Amalaswintha pleaded, “don’t give such an order, I implore you. They will say...”

“Quiet, daughter. I let you hear what is going on in matters of state because I want you to learn, not because I want your advice. You can spare yourself the effort in any case. My messenger to Count Ibba, Governor of Verona, rode off last night. The Church of St. Stephen’s no longer exists.”

“The Pope will regret it deeply, my lord King,” Cassiodor said.

“And so do I,” Theoderich replied. “You will report to His Holiness about it. Tell him, St. Stephen’s is a token of what will happen to a hundred, to a thousand of his churches, if I give the order. Only three months ago I gave him two candelabra for St. Peter’s, as a sign that I respect and honor a faith even when I do not share it. But when my tolerance is answered by intolerance, my clemency by impudence and rebellious sermons, I have my answer ready. Tell him all of that, Cassiodor. And add that I wish him to keep his priests in order, unless he wants worse things to happen.”

“Very well, my lord King.”

“Write to Senator Boethius, too. I wish to be informed about any man of importance and especially any senator who shows sympathy for Byzantium.”

“Sympathy, my lord King?”

“You heard what I said. And you know exactly what I mean. Make it clear to Boethius in whatever terms you like, but make it clear” He rose and stalked out.

Count Wittich bowed to Amalaswintha, grinned broadly at Cassiodor and clanked out, too.

“What does all this mean?” Amalaswintha asked anxiously.

“Nothing good, Princess,” Cassiodor said in a low voice. “I’m afraid the King believes that the Emperor’s edict against the Arians was made purely for political reasons.”

“How so?”

“To create the feeling in Italy that the Emperor regards himself as the protector of all Catholics. Prince Justinian used rather strong words, for an official communication to another power. If the content of his letter became known, it might make people—some people—look towards Byzantium, when they ought to look towards Ravenna.”

She nodded. “And do you think my father is wrong?”

“I don’t know for certain, Princess,” Cassiodor admitted. “But I do think that the order to destroy a Catholic church is not likely to be the best answer.”

“I would never have given such an order,” Amalaswintha said emphatically, “and I think it is perfectly natural that Romans should have sympathy for other Romans. One cannot blame them for that. And poor Senator Boethius is supposed to inform on his own colleagues. It isn’t right.”

“What a brave Gothic warrior feels is always right,” a child’s voice shrilled. A boy, seven years of age, came in, skipping. “I heard everything,” he declared. “Why do you always side with the Runts, Mother?”

“The Romans, you mean, Athalarich,” Amalaswintha corrected calmly. “Who says I side with them?”

“Uncle Dulun, and Count Wittich and lots of others. Why do you, Mother?”

“I don’t side with anybody,” Amalaswintha said. “Both Goths and Italians are your grandfather’s subjects. And eavesdropping is not worthy of a prince. Where is Theron, your teacher?”

“I don’t know, Mother. I ran away from him. Greek is awful, Mother. It’s a language for Buffoons and a...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• BOOK ONE
• BOOK TWO
• BOOK THREE
• EPILOGUE
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER