| |
BOOK I. CHAPTER IV.
THE COMING OF THE LOMBARDS
FOR sixteen years after the death of Totila, Justinian
governed Italy with little opposition. Then from the Julian Alps the
"unutterable" Lombards poured down upon the country, and the unhappy
provincials were once again exposed to all the horrors of invasion and of
conquest.
The Lombards were the last of the Teutonic nations who
settled in the western part of the Roman Empire. A rude race, “savage with more
than ordinary German fierceness”, few indeed in numbers, but of martial,
independent temper, these barbarians were the inheritors of the Gothic
monarchy, and founded in Italy a kingdom which endured for two hundred years.
From the sixth century to the eighth, from Alboin to Desiderius, the Lombards
ruled in the home of the Latin race, and they have left behind a still-enduring
memorial of themselves in the style of one of the fairest of the Italian
provinces, as well as in the laws and names and customs of the country. Yet the
Lombards failed to establish a permanent ascendency or to effect a unification
of Italy. They never obtained any real hold on the land or on its people.
Hence, as the successors of Theodoric were driven out by Justinian, so the
successors of Alboin were compelled to submit to Charles the Great. The second
Teutonic kingdom had more stamina than the first. Its strength was greater, its
effects are even now to be seen. But it was unequal to the task that was set
before it, and therefore, after a prolonged struggle for existence, it was
broken up by an external force, and unregretted passed away.
The early history of the Lombards is exceedingly
obscure. Respecting their ethnological description, learned authorities differ,
some maintaining them to be of Low-German, others of High-German origin. On the
whole, perhaps, it seems more probable that they were a Low-German tribe, whose
original habitat was somewhere on the southern coast of the Swedish peninsula;
that they migrated thence, about the second or first century BC, to the
territory on the left bank of the Elbe, near the mouth; from which region again
they afterwards extended or removed to the parts of Holstein or Mecklenburg on
the right bank, before they finally quitted the Lower Elbe for the region of
the Middle Danube. According to their historian, Paul the Deacon, the original
name of the tribe was Winnili, and it was not until
they came to the region of Scoringa (to be
identified, perhaps, with the tract of territory on the left of the Elbe's
mouth) that they received the more familiar appellation. The old saga which
relates how they came by the new name, is repeated with delight by the
Christian deacon. The story runs that the Vandal tribe, who were the terror of
the Lower Elbe, marched to subdue the Winnili, and on
the eve of the battle both sides prayed to the gods for victory. The Vandals
prayed to Odin, who answered, “Whichever tribe I look first upon at sunrise, to
that will I give the victory”. The Winnili prayed to
Freia, Odin’s wife, who recommended that at dawn the warriors and their wives
should stand before Odin's eastern window, and that the women should arrange
their hair around their faces to look like beards. Freia's advice was followed;
and when at sunrise Odin looked forth from his window, he beheld the Winnili warriors and the women with their hair about their
faces. Then said he to Freia, "Who are those long-beards?" (longibarbi). And Freia replied, “Thou hast given them a
name, so now also give them the victory”. Thus by Odin's help the Winnili vanquished the Vandals, and ever afterwards they
bore the name of Langobardi. The clerical historian
thinks it necessary to apologize for the heathenish recital. “This”, writes he,
“is a laughter-moving, futile story. For victory is not attributed to human
power, but is rather accorded from heaven”. Yet he nevertheless maintains the
correctness of his derivation. “It is certain that the Winnili received the name of Langobardi from the length of
their beards, untouched by the razor. For in their tongue Lang' signifies long,
and bart, beard”. So Paul. In recent times other
derivations have been suggested. One would connect the name with the old
High-German “Bart” signifying “an axe”, and explain “Langobardi”
as meaning “men of long axes”; another makes “Langobardi”
equivalent to “men who dwell on the Lange Börde”, the
long flat meadows of the Elbe. But, though either of these alternatives may be
correct, no argument has hitherto been adduced sufficiently weighty to make it
necessary to abandon the old derivation of Paul—the earliest, and perhaps, all
things considered, the best of the three.
When history first took cognizance of the Lombards,
they were dwelling near the mouth of the Elbe, in more or less intimate
relation with two powerful Suevic tribes, the Hermunduri and Senones, whose settlements were higher up the river. Velleius Paterculus
notes the extraordinary ferocity of the tribesmen; he asserts, however, that
they were subdued by the Emperor Tiberius. The historian Tacitus, in the
Germania, refers to them as follows: “The scanty number of the Lombards is an honour to the people; for, though surrounded by a host of
most powerful tribes, they maintain their existence, not by servile submission,
but by daring the perils of war”. The same author relates that the Lombards
joined the Cheruscan confederacy, when in 17 AD the Cherusci came into conflict with the Marcomanni; and that thirty years later they
rendered substantial aid to Italicus, nephew of the
great Cheruscan leader Arminius, in his struggles to maintain his sovereignty
over his wild countrymen. These short notices give us little information. Yet
from these and the folk-tales of Paul is gleaned all that we know about the
Lombards during the period of their sojourn at the mouth of the Elbe.
When we next hear of the people, the scene has
changed. During the reign of Marcus Aurelius, about the year 165, we read that
six thousand Lombards and Obii crossed the Danube
into Pannonia, where they were utterly routed by the cavalry officer Vindex. In consequence of this defeat the barbarians sent
an embassy to Aelius Bassus, Governor of Pannonia, and made peace, after which
they once more retreated over the frontier. Thus in the second half of the
second century we find the Lombards in the region of the Middle Danube, in the neighbourhood of Pannonia. How they got thither is unknown.
Our documents supply a list of place-names—Golanda, Anthaib, Banthaib, Burgundaib—as to the application of which, however, there
is interminable disputing among German savans. But
whatever were the stages of the journey from the Elbe, in the year 165 or
thereabouts, the Lombards are discovered upon the Danube, in the near vicinity
of the territories of the Empire.
After this there is a great blank in the history. For
more than three hundred years we have no reliable information about the
Lombards. They had not yet emerged from the northern darkness into the clear
light of Roman civilization, and of their dim wanderings and strugglings amid the chaotic mass of vagrant Teutonic
barbarism it is scarcely profitable to speculate. It is asserted by Paul—and
there is no reason to doubt his statement—that, in the latter half of the fifth
century, they settled for a time in Rugiland, on the
northern bank of the Danube; possibly in the hope of making good their footing
in the opposite province of Noricum. But this sojourn in Rugiland cannot have been of long duration, for in the first decade of the sixth century
we find them established in a region called Feld, beyond the Danube, on the
western plains of Hungary. And here they begin to play a more prominent part in
the drama of European history.
On the eastern shore of the Danube, to the south of
the Feld where the Lombards had their settlements, there dwelt one great
division of the powerful tribe of the Heruli. This nation, which had also come
originally from the Baltic, is described by Procopius as faithless, shameless,
and covetous, “the vilest of mankind”. They were heathen; and, almost up to
Procopius's time, had practised peculiarly atrocious
rites of human sacrifice. They had been accustomed also to murder their sick
and aged, and to compel widows to immolate themselves at their husbands' tombs.
At the beginning of the sixth century, however, the Heruli were the most
powerful tribe in that part of the country, and had reduced all their neighbours, including the Lombards (who had now become
Christian) to the position of tributaries. But sometime between the years 506
and 511, during the reign of the Emperor Anastasius, a war broke out between
the Heruli and the Lombards, as a result of which the power of the former was
forever broken, and the attention of the Roman world was drawn upon the Lombard
people. Respecting the occasion of this conflict, our historians give us two
distinct accounts. According to Procopius, it was provoked by the Heruli
themselves, who, having subdued their barbarian neighbours and concluded a peace with the Empire, and finding the consequent inaction
tedious, forced their king Rodulf to declare war upon
the Lombards, without having any excuse other than their longing to enjoy once
more the excitement of a fight. Paul, however, throws all the blame upon the
Lombards, and he tells the following story. The brother of the Herulian Rodulf had paid a state visit to the Lombard king Tato,
with the object of concluding an alliance. When his business was over, the
prince set out on his homeward journey, and passed on his way the house of Rumetruda, the daughter of the king. Here he was invited to
dismount and receive a cup of wine from the hand of the princess. The Herulian
accepted the invitation, and stopped at the palace. Unfortunately, he was a
little man, and when the daughter of the tall Lombards saw him, she could not
conceal her contempt. But the taunts of Rumetruda were promptly answered with a stinging insult which covered her with confusion.
Mortified and furious, the princess determined on revenge, and, dissembling her
anger, she mollified her guest with soft words and pressed him to stay to
dinner. When the hour arrived, the Herulian was ushered with all ceremony into
the banqueting-hall, and placed in a chair before a window, which was covered,
as though to do him honour, with a valuable curtain.
About half-way through the entertainment Rumetruda turned to her butler, and said in a clear voice, "Misce"—mix
the wine!" and at this preconcerted signal armed retainers, stationed
behind the curtain, drove their lances into the back of the unsuspecting
chieftain, killing him forthwith. It was this treacherous murder—according to
Lombard tradition—which caused King Rodulf to break
off his alliance with the Lombards and march to war.
Whether we give credence to either, or neither, or
both of these accounts—for with some slight modification they can easily be
harmonized—it is certain that about 506 the two tribes met in battle on the
Feld. Procopius says that when they got into position the sky above the
Lombards was black with massed clouds, while over the Heruli was clear
sunshine—an evil omen. The Heruli, however, took no heed of this, but,
confident in their numbers, joined issue, disdaining even to use armour to protect their naked bodies. King Rodulf, certain of the victory, did not take the trouble to
enter the battle, but sat quietly at a table in his camp, playing some game. He
had sent a man up a tree close by, to give him tidings of the fight:
threatening, however, that if he reported that the Heruli fled, he should lose
his head. Now and then the king glanced up from his play to ask how the battle
was going, but the scout dared answer only that the warriors were fighting
splendidly. Little by little, however, the Heruli gave way, and at last they
broke into headlong rout. Then cried the scout, "Alas, wretched Herulia surely thou art chastised by the wrath of
heaven!" Playing King Rodulf called out in
consternation, "Is it possible that my Heruli are fleeing?" And the
watchman answered, "Thou, 0 king, hast said the word—not I". The
victory of the Lombards was indeed complete. The flying army, in mad panic,
came to a field of flax, and in their terror mistook the waving blue for
rippling water. They plunged in as if to swim, and were butchered
defenselessly. The remnant that survived abandoned their dwellings, and, after
drifting about for some years, despised and demoralized, finally joined the
Gepid confederacy. Meanwhile the Lombards entered upon their heritage. Their
victory had brought them to the notice of the Roman world as a tribe to be
seriously reckoned with. From this time onwards they have a place in history.
The power of the Lombards steadily increased. Waccho,
the successor of King Tato, strengthened himself by alliances with several
chieftains, and came to good understanding with Justinian. To this king,
Witigis the Goth sent an embassy to persuade him to come to his assistance in
the Gothic War. Waccho, however, believed that his interest lay in alliance
with the Empire, and the Gothic proposals were accordingly refused (539). Seven
years later, Audoin, father of Alboin the Invader, was elected king of the Lombards,
and in his time the bond with the Empire was drawn yet closer. It seems that
the Lombards were engaged in a continual desultory warfare with the Gepidae,
their southern neighbours in Hungary. Justinian, who
feared both tribes, endeavoured to weaken them and
keep them occupied, by aiding each in turn against the other. Inasmuch,
however, as the Lombards were slightly inferior in strength, the Emperor was
more inclined to take their side; and at length, in order to put a check upon
the Gepidae, he actually invited Audoin to migrate across the Danube into the
further parts of Pannonia between the Danube and the Drave, in the neighbourhood of the city of Noricum, or Noreia. The folly
of this policy of summoning a savage tribe from distant Hungary and settling
them within a few days' march of Italy, is obvious enough to us; but Justinian
was blind to the danger. He was even mad enough to ask for Lombard assistance
in Italy itself; and in 552 AD we find 2500 picked Lombard warriors, with 3000
attendants, fighting under Justinian's banner in the battle of Scheggia. Their excesses after the victory necessitated an honourable dismissal, and they were escorted back, by
Narses' order, to the Julian Alps. Nevertheless, they had set their feet within
the enchanted land, and they were not forgetful of the things which they had
seen. A few more years they waited impatiently upon the threshold. Then under a
new king they ventured forth once more; and this time they did not return. Thus
was the newly recovered province lost, almost before it was won, through the
short-sighted policy of Justinian.
The greater part of Audoin’s reign was spent in
fighting against the Gepidae. Of the hostilities of the two nations, of their
alternate appeals to Constantinople, of their successes, truces, treaties, and
various barbarities, we have confused accounts which need not here be
disentangled. It is sufficient to say that about the year 554, the Lombards in
a great battle defeated the Gepidae, reducing them to a condition of
semi-dependence. Some ten years later Audoin died, and was succeeded by Alboin,
the son of his first wife Rodelinda.
The old saga has much to say of Alboin. A handsome
youth, with a tall strong body seasoned to battle-toils; a man of reckless
courage, with a nature which, though brutal and untamed, was not without some
elements of nobility, he was well adapted to become the hero of his wild and
savage countrymen. An early exploit serves to throw a light upon his character.
In the last great battle with the Gepidae—so Paul relates the story—the two
royal princes, Alboin the Lombard, and Thorismund son of Thorisind the Gepid king, met in single combat. Thorismund was killed, and his fall, by
disheartening the Gepidae, decided the fortune of the day. The conquering
Lombards celebrated their victory with a great feast; and at this banquet
Alboin, who had done so much, desired to take his place at the king's table as
"the king's guest." But his father would by no means suffer him;
"for," quoth he, "it is not according
to our customs that a king's son should sit at table with his father until he
has become son-at-arms to some neighbouring king." Then Alboin, without waiting, took forty young companions and rode
away to the Gepid king himself, the father of the slain Thorismund, and boldly
claimed adoption at his hands. Now, hospitality was the one thing sacred to
these barbarians; so Thorisind welcomed Alboin
courteously, and made him a feast, and set him at his right hand in his dead
son's place. But as the banquet proceeded, the king fell gloomy, sighed, and
finally broke out in uncontrollable grief: "How I love that place!"
he cried, glancing at Alboin's seat; "but how grievous is he who sits
thereon!" Thereupon a younger son of Thorisind cast a furious insult at the Lombards, alluding to their white gaiters:
"You are like stinking mares". “Go to the Asfeld”, came the retort
immediately, “and you will see how these same mares can kick. Your brother's
bones lie scattered about the plain like any wretched nag’s”. In a moment there
was an uproar. The Gepidae sprang to their feet; the Lombards clustered
together and seized their arms. But before a blow could be struck, the king
himself rushed in between the raging men, and commanded them, on pain of his
displeasure, to keep the peace. So Gepidae and Lombards sat down again
together; and when the last wassail-bowl was drained, the king presented Alboin
with his dead son's arms, and sent him away in safety to his friends.
Alboin became king of the Lombards in 565, and
immediately afterwards there was a fresh outbreak of hostilities between the
Lombards and the Gepidae. The generous Thorisind was
by this time dead. The new chieftain of the Gepidae was named Cunimund, and he
had a beautiful daughter, Rosamund, whom Alboin loved, but wooed without
success. Finding at length that all his overtures were rejected, Alboin took
short measures, and, waiting a favourable opportunity, carried the princess off. War now broke out afresh. On this
occasion the Gepidae were supported by Imperial troops, with the assistance of
whom they succeeded in inflicting on the Lombards a severe repulse. Alboin made
proposals for peace, offering even to contract a legal marriage with the
outraged Rosamund. But the Gepidae, strong in their Roman alliance, refused to
come to terms. Then Alboin in his turn looked around for an ally. He sent
ambassadors to the chief or Chagan of the Avars—a savage Tartar tribe, which
had recently been harrying the northern provinces of the Empire in a series of
destructive raids—and by skillfully playing on his ambition and cupidity,
persuaded him to make a league against the Gepidae. The conditions of the
treaty thus concluded are remarkable. The Avars were to receive at once a tenth
of the flocks and herds belonging to the Lombards, and, in the event of
victory, the whole of the Gepid territory and a half of the spoil. Further, it
was agreed —if not at this time, at least shortly afterwards—that if the
Lombards should in the future secure a footing in Italy, they should give up to
the Avars their settlements in Pannonia; provided, however, that in case they
were driven back and forced to return, they should receive their own again.
This curious compact was finally settled about 567.
The Lombards and Avars now invaded the land of the
Gepidae in two separate detachments. Cunimund was in despair, and sent to the
Emperor, urgently requesting succour. But only
evasive answers were returned from Constantinople, and no Imperial troops
appeared. Cunimund then abandoned hope, yet determined to make a final gallant
stand against his hereditary foe. So the two tribes met in battle for the last
time in 567, and the Gepidae were utterly defeated, so that scarcely a man
survived to tell the tale. The tribe henceforth vanishes from history. Alboin
slew Cunimund with his own hand, had his head cut off, and the skull fashioned
into a drinking-cup; and Rosamund, the innocent cause of all these happenings,
was forced into marriage with the man who killed her father. Then the Avars
settled on the conquered territory, and the Lombards had leisure to turn their
attention to the conquest of Italy.
The moment, it seems, was favourable for attack, for Narses the Patrician had fallen on evil days. During the
fifteen years of his government of a bankrupt and ruined country, he had dealt
hardly with the people. Money was squeezed out to fill the Emperor's treasury,
and more money for Narses' private benefit, and the rascally methods of
Alexander the Scissors were again put into use. The people bore it for a time
without complaining, but at last murmurs arose which were heard even in
Constantinople. Doubtless, if Justinian had been yet alive, no notice would
have been taken. But Justinian was dead; and poor mad Justin and his meddlesome
wife Sophia seemed to have welcomed this opportunity of quarrelling with an
official who had perhaps become too powerful. At any rate, Narses was disgraced
in 567, and retired to Rome in dudgeon. The terrible old man, the conqueror of
the Goths, the only one capable of defending the Italian frontier against the
gathering swarms of barbarians, was withdrawn from power at the very moment
when, by the extermination of the Gepidae, the Lombards were left free for
bolder enterprise. And in his place there came a man of straw, the Count
Longinus, from who neither Lombards nor anyone else, save the oppressed
provincials, had aught to apprehend. It really seems as if a fatal blindness
had fallen on the Emperors—on Justinian and on Justin—who by their own
miscalculated acts had levelled barrier after barrier, and made the way
straight before the Lombards into the land of their desire.
One would think that Alboin would scarcely have
required a formal invitation to attract him into Italy. However, according to
more than one account, even this inducement was not wanting. The Papal
Biographer, Isidore of Seville, Fredegarius, and Paul the Deacon unite in
saying that Narses, in his fury and disgrace, sent a message to the Lombards,
calling them to come and take possession of Italy. This story is of
considerable interest. It is very nearly contemporary with the supposed event,
having been committed to writing within twenty years of Narses' death. In its
earliest and simplest form it is found in the Life of Pope John the
Third, written probably sometime between 579 and 590; and is as follows:
"Then the Romans, influenced by envy, represented to Justin and Sophia
that it would be more expedient for the Romans to serve the Goths than the
Greeks; for, said they, when Narses the Eunuch rules, he subjects us to
slavery, and the Most Religious Emperor is ignorant of this; either free us and
the city of Rome from his hand, or assuredly we will serve the barbarians. When
Narses heard this he said, If I have done evil to the Romans, evil shall I
find. Then Narses, going forth from Rome, came to Campania, and wrote to the
nation of the Langobardi that they should come and
take possession of Italy. When John the Pope knew that they had made
representations to the Emperor against Narses, he went in haste to Naples, and
begged him to return to Rome. Then Narses said, Tell me, Holy Father, what evil
have I done to the Romans? I will go to the feet of him that sent me, that all
Italy may know how with all my strength I have laboured on her behalf. Pope John replied, I will go more quickly than thou canst depart
from this land. Therefore Narses returned with the Most Holy Pope." Very
obscure as this narrative is, it at any rate stands as evidence that, within
two decades of Narses' death, the story of his treachery was in circulation.
And this story of the Papal Biographer is confirmed by Isidore. A variant form
of the statement is given by Fredegarius, who relates that Justin and Sophia
sent a threatening message to Narses, and that the Empress further forwarded to
the Eunuch a golden distaff, telling him that he might henceforth rule over
spinning-girls, but not over a nation. Whereat Narses exclaimed, " I will
spin a thread which neither Justin nor the Augusta shall be able to
unravel"; and he straightway invited the Lombards from Pannonia. Lastly,
Paul the Deacon reiterates the statement of the Papal Biographer, combining it
with a modified version of Fredegarius, and adding that, as an enticement to
the Lombards, Names sent them "many kinds of fruit and samples of other
products with which Italy abounds." Such is the story in its final and
elaborated form.
In forming an estimate of the truth of the tale, the
following considerations may be kept in mind. First, the picturesque
details—the golden distaff, the retort of Names, the fruit of Italy—are found
only in writers which belong respectively to the middle of the seventh and to
the eighth centuries. Between their period and the disgrace of Narses there was
plenty of time for a legend to grow up. Hence the accounts of Fredegarius and
Paulus may justly be regarded with suspicion. On the other hand, the statement
of the Papal Biographer, confirmed by Isidore, proves without shadow of doubt
that, within a little while of Narses' death the story of his treachery was
current. But was this story based on fact, or was it merely unsubstantiated rumour. In favour of the latter
hypothesis, it may be urged that there is no hint of the alleged transaction in
Gregory of Tours, or in Marius of Aventicum, or in
the Annals of Ravenna. Nor does rank treachery of this kind seem to
be quite consonant with what we otherwise know of Narses' character. His
retirement to Naples, again, immediately before sending such an invitation, is
not what we should naturally expect; and the subsequent sending of his corpse
to Constantinople would have been strange had he been really guilty of high
treason. It may be further suggested that the events which followed immediately
on the deposition of Narses may well have given rise to the rumour that the unpopular Patrician was not unconcerned in the troubles of his
ungrateful master; and the death of Narses soon afterwards would lessen the
chance of contradiction. Hence, we may imagine that what was originally but
idle gossip, circulating freely, grew by degrees into stereotyped form, and was
finally accepted by uncritical writers as veritable history.
Be this as it may, in the spring of 568 Alboin was
ready to march into Italy. There was a great muster in Pannonia. Besides the
Lombards themselves, a heterogeneous throng assembled, drawn from many
nationalities—Saxons, Gepidae, Bulgarians, Sarmatae, Suavi, and various tribes of Noricum and Pannonia, the
names of which, Paul tells us, were preserved in Italian villages in the time
of Charlemagne. It boded ill for Italy that not one nation only was come
against her, but a horde of many nations, tumultuous, savage, uncontrolled, and
prepared to give free rein to their several national vices and ferocities.
Perhaps the composite character of the invading band may account, in some
degree, for the peculiar horror and detestation with which for centuries "the
unspeakable Lombards" were regarded by the inhabitants of the conquered
country.
On Easter Tuesday, in the April of 568, the march
commenced. Strange portents, it is said, were seen in Italy. The blessed martyr
Eutychius appeared to a bishop in a vision and uttered the threefold warning,
"The end of all flesh is at hand! the end of all flesh is at hand! the end
of all flesh is at hand". In the sky towards the north, fiery armies
seemed to be fighting, and red clouds appeared to be flowing with blood.
Meanwhile the Lombards moved slowly across the Julian Alps. There is, by the Predil Pass, a certain mountain named Monte del Re, the
slopes of which afford a magnificent view of the province of Friuli. A popular
legend of the eighth century connects this mountain with the coming of Alboin.
Here, men used to say, the barbarian chieftain, like a
Hebrew leader long ago, climbed up to feast his eyes upon the land of promise;
while down below swung past the files of long-haired Lombards, marching on to
conquest. But the picturesque story is probably nothing more than an invention
of the peasants, who could not otherwise account for a puzzling local name.
When the Lombards emerged into Venetia, they found no
one to oppose them or dispute their passage. Only at the River Piave, Bishop
Felix of Treviso met them, praying that his Church might not be harmed. Alboin,
in a fit of generosity, granted his petition, and a charter was prepared
safeguarding all the rights and prerogatives of the Trevisan Church. Then the
host moved on, took without trouble the cities of Vicenza and Verona, and
overran Venetia. The Patriarch of Aquileia, unable to save his city, fled with
the treasury of the Church, to the island of Grado. The Byzantine Governor
skulked in Ravenna, and made no sign. Mantua, Padua, Monselice,
and the neighbourhood of the lagoons alone remained
unconquered. So far the Lombards were triumphant.
(Why was there no resistance? The Imperial authorities
must certainly have had sufficient warning of the invasion to make their
preparations. But (1) to drive back the Lombards it would have been necessary
to oppose to them a really national resistance, and for this purpose it would
have been necessary to arm the whole able-bodied population of Italy. Such a
course might have been dangerous, and would certainly have been a violation of
the settled policy of the Empire. (2) The resources of the State were unequal
to the maintenance of a mercenary army in Italy sufficiently large to repel the
invasion. Doubtless there were statesmen in Constantinople who felt that
Justinian's Western conquests had weakened instead of strengthening the Empire,
by extending it to an unmanageable size, and who therefore were not unwilling
to let Italy go. At all events, the people of Italy were abandoned to their
fate).
Before quitting Venetia, Alboin took measures to
secure his conquest. He had no notion of permitting the Avars or other wild
trans-Alpine tribes to follow in his steps and rob him of his new domains. He
therefore determined to leave a strong detachment to guard the passes of the
north-eastern hills, through which he had himself just come, and which alone
afforded easy access into Italy. A troop of warriors of the noblest Lombard
blood was carefully selected and provided with a sufficiency of the king's best
brood mares; and this band, under the command of Grasulf, Alboin's nephew and
Master of the Horse, was settled in quarters at Cividale, in Friuli, and
charged to drive back any adventurous wanderers from Pannonia, and to keep
Venetia safe. Then, after short delay, confiding in the qualities of his new
Warden of the Marches, Alboin resumed his way towards the west.
Through the year 569 the stream of the invasion swept
over the province of Liguria. The archbishop of Milan fled to Genoa, which
city, together with certain others on the coast, and Piacenza, managed to repel
attacks. The rest of the towns seem to have surrendered without striking a
blow. On September 3, 569, Alboin entered Milan, and for the rest of the year
he overran the district at his pleasure. There was no resistance. More
fortunate than Alaric or Attila, Alboin found no Stilicho, no Aetius, to hamper
his movements. Unlike Theodoric, he had no barbarian rival to dispute his
claim. Belisarius was dead. Narses was living in privacy at Rome, brooding over
his wrongs. Incapable Longinus remained shut up amid the marshes of Ravenna,
and did not stir a finger. The population of North-Western Italy was sunk in
stupor. Worn out with years of grinding misery, they had no energy or spirit
left. The country, too, had been recently desolated by another visitation of
the pestilence. Whole villages were deserted, save by starving dogs; and farms
and country houses were left without inhabitants. In the fields the flocks and
herds strayed about unshepherded, the crops were left unsickled, though the harvest-time was past, and the
purple clusters hung ungathered on the leafless
vines. A primeval silence was upon the countryside. No voice was heard in the
lanes, no shepherd's whistle or fowler's call; only strange rumblings and
ghostly noises, the tramp of phantom armies and the blare of unseen trumpets,
terrified the trembling peasant as he lay awake at dead of night in his
bereaved and ruined home.
In one place, however, the Lombards encountered a
vigorous resistance. Pavia, the ancient Ticinum, was
a strongly fortified town, and seems to have been held by a large Imperialist
garrison. On the approach of Alboin, the citizens closed the gates, and for no
less than three years succeeded in keeping the Lombards at bay (569-572).
Unused as he was to the tedium of blockades, Alboin swore a cruel oath that he
would utterly destroy all the people of the place. But Providence ordered
otherwise. For when at last the plucky garrison could hold out no longer, and
Alboin, meditating atrocities, was riding through St. John's Gate into the
conquered town, his charger suddenly fell under him. The king drove his spurs
into the animal, and his men belaboured it with their
lances, but nothing could make it rise. Then cried a Lombard soldier,
"Remember, my lord king, the cruel vow that thou hast made, and cancel it.
For there is a Christian people in this city." So Alboin retracted his
oath, the horse got up, and the triumphal procession continued on its way to
the palace of Theodoric, where the new "Lord of Italy" took up a
permanent abode. The people of Pavia, assured of their safety, came crowding
round the palace with shouts of joy—and certainly the vanquished citizens had
no reason to regret their change of masters; for Pavia became from now the
capital of the Lombard kings, a centre of high
importance for long years to come.
During these three years (569-572) Alboin, of course,
did much besides blockade Pavia. In the year 570 he was employed, apparently,
in reducing the valley of the Po. Here the work of conquest was even easier
than elsewhere, for the people, in addition to the pestilence, were suffering
from a famine, which, following a year of plenty in 569, raged over Italy with
terrible results. In the spring of 571 Alboin crossed the Appenines into Tuscany, beyond which he made no more advance. Two of his nobles, however, Farwald and Zotto, pressed forward to the south, and
here, in 571, laid, the foundation of the powerful duchies of Spoleto and
Benevento, which, rapidly developing in territory and power, became ere long
the rivals of the Lombard monarchy itself. But meanwhile Alboin came to a
melancholy end, being murdered in 572 a through the machinations of a
revengeful woman. The story of his death, preserved for long in the weird songs
of Saxon and Bavarian minstrels, is not even yet forgotten.
One day (so runs the saga) Alboin sat drinking with
his chieftains in his palace at Verona. Deeds of valour were related, and the king himself told how he had conquered the Gepidae, and
fashioned the skull of King Cunimund into a goblet. Then, in his intoxication,
he called for the famous cup, and, filling it to the brim, sent it to Queen
Rosamund, ironically bidding her "drink merrily with her sire."
Rosamund smiled at the jest, and obeyed, but plotted vengeance in her heart.
First she sought out Helmichis, the king's armour-bearer and foster-brother, and offered him her hand
and kingdom if he would kill his master. Helmichis was tempted, but had scruples. He would not lift his own hand against his
foster-brother, but he advised the queen to take into her confidence Peredeo the chamberlain, who might do the deed. Here again,
however, Rosamund was baffled. Peredeo would have
nothing to do with the plot, although for some reason he refrained from
acquainting Alboin with the proposals that had been made to him. Then the queen
devised another plan. Peredeo had a mistress, one of
Rosamund's bower-maidens, whom he was wont to visit in the darkness. One night
this girl was detained, and the queen herself was substituted in her place, Peredeo all the while suspecting nothing until, in the
morning light, he found he had to choose between killing the king, whose honour he had wronged, and getting killed himself. The
chamberlain preferred to live. Not long after this Alboin was taking a siesta
in his chamber. On pretext of quiet, the palace wing, by Rosamund's orders, had
been cleared of soldiers and attendants. The arms that hung on the walls had
also been removed, and the great sword above the bed had been tightly fastened
into its sheath, so that it could not be drawn. While the king was sleeping,
Rosamund admitted Peredeo. We read of a confused
scuffle—Alboin starting suddenly into wakefulness, tugging at the sword which
would not leave its scabbard, keeping at bay his assassin for a moment with a
whirling footstool, and finally falling, done to death "like a mere
poltroon, by the council of one miserable woman." Thus untimely ended the
career of Alboin the Invader, and thus the Gepid nation and King Cunimund were
avenged. The Lombard braves made a great wailing for their king, and buried his
body under a flight of steps adjoining the palace. Paul relates that in the
eighth century this tomb was opened by a certain foolish one—Giselpert, duke of Verona—who removed a sword and other
ornaments which he found therein, and ever afterwards delighted to boast that
“he had seen Alboin”.
A word may be added respecting the fate of the other
actors in this tragedy of Alboin. When her husband was dead, Rosamund gave her
hand to Helmichis, as she had promised, but found
that she was powerless to give him also the kingdom. Detested by the Lombards,
the guilty pair were soon obliged to seek safety in flight. A secret messenger
was accordingly sent to Byzantine Longinus, and at a time arranged Rosamund and Helmichis escaped aboard an Imperial vessel provided
by the Governor, carrying with them all the royal treasure, together with the
Princess Albswinda, Alboin’s daughter by his former
wife. So they reached Ravenna. But now Longinus, wearied of his monotonous life
in Theodoric's great palace amid the orchards and canals, found an agreeable
relief in the society of his beautiful and alluring guest, and he suggested to
her that she should get rid of Helmichis, and
transfer herself and her treasure permanently to his own safe keeping. Rosamund
was nothing loth to become "the lady of Ravenna"; so one day, when Helmichis came from his bath, she offered him, as though
for his refreshment, a cup of doctored wine. The unsuspecting man swallowed
half of the contents, then suddenly felt himself to be poisoned. At once he
drew his sword, and presenting its point at her breast, he forced the miserable
woman to drain what was left in the goblet to the dregs. And that was the end
of the plots and the crimes of Helmichis and Rosamund.
As for Peredeo the
chamberlain, there was a legend in Paul's time that he was sent to
Constantinople, where he slew a monstrous lion in the Hippodrome. The Emperor,
fearing that so strong a man might become a danger, ordered his eyes to be put
out. But this sixth-century Samson, too, had his revenge upon his Philistines.
Concealing two sharp knives in his sleeves, Peredeo craved an audience with the Emperor, alleging that he had a secret of the
highest importance to communicate. Two great nobles were deputed to hear the
revelation. Peredeo drew close to them, as if to
whisper; then suddenly, with either hand, flashed a knife into their bodies,
dealing each a mortal blow. So the strong chamberlain revenged himself, and for
each of his lost eyes he robbed the Emperor of a trusty councillor.
After Alboin's death the Lombards elected as king one
of their noblest warriors, named Cleph. Of this man's reign no details are
preserved. But Paul tells us that he cruelly entreated such of the Roman
aristocrats as fell into his hands—killing some with the sword and banishing
others from Italy. When he had ruled for eighteen months, Cleph was
assassinated, in 574, by one of his servants, and after this there was an
interregnum for ten years.
|
