Letter 1002: You have asked me many times — since Theodoric, King of the Goths [Theodoric II, r.

Sidonius ApollinarisAgricola, nobleman|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
arianismbarbarian invasiondiplomatichumorimperial politics

Sidonius to his friend Agricola.

You have asked me many times — since Theodoric, King of the Goths [Theodoric II, r. 453-466], has a reputation among the peoples for his civilized conduct — to describe in a letter what he looks like and how he lives. I am happy to oblige, as far as the limits of a letter allow, and I commend the refined curiosity that prompts your request. He is a man worth knowing even for those who have never met him in person. God and nature, working in concert, have heaped upon him the gift of a thoroughly accomplished bearing; and his character is such that even the jealousy that kingship attracts cannot diminish the praise it deserves.

As for his appearance: he is well-proportioned in build — shorter than the very tallest, but taller and more commanding than men of average height. His head is rounded, and his hair curls slightly back from the flat of his forehead toward the crown. His neck swells not with fat but with sinew. Bristling arches of eyebrow crown his twin eyes; when the lids droop, the fringe of his lashes nearly reaches his cheekbones. The lobes of his ears, as is the custom of his people, are hidden beneath overhanging locks of hair. His nose is most handsomely curved. His lips are thin, not broadened by wide-set corners of the mouth. The hairs sprouting inside his nostrils are trimmed daily. His beard is thick in the hollows of the temples, and in the lower part of his face, where it grows upward, a diligent barber uproots it from cheeks that are still youthful.

His chin, throat, and neck — not fat but full of sap — have a milky skin that, when examined closely, flushes with a youthful ruddiness. This color comes not from anger but from modesty. His shoulders are rounded, his upper arms powerful, his forearms hard, his hands broad. His chest juts out beyond a receding belly. A spine that sits lower than the ridge of his ribs divides the plain of his back. On either side, the flanks are knotted with prominent muscles. Vigor reigns in his compact waist. His thigh is hard as horn, his knees well-formed with no wrinkles, and there is a fine dignity about them. His legs are supported by swelling calves, and a modest foot sustains those mighty limbs.

If you ask about his daily routine — the part of his life that is publicly visible: before dawn, with a minimal retinue, he attends the services of his Arian priests with great diligence and apparent devotion. Though, confidentially speaking, you might conclude that he observes this worship more from habit than from conviction. The rest of the morning he devotes to the business of ruling his kingdom. His throne is surrounded by armed retainers; the crowd of fur-clad bodyguards is admitted close enough to be present but kept far enough away not to make noise — murmuring behind the curtains at the doors, shut in behind the barriers. Foreign embassies are introduced. He listens at length and replies briefly. If a matter requires deliberation, he defers it; if a matter is ready for resolution, he dispatches it at once. By the second hour [around 8 a.m.], he rises from his throne, either to inspect his treasury or his stables.

If a hunt is announced and he rides out, he considers it beneath his royal dignity to have a bow strapped to his side. But if, whether on the hunt or on the road, chance brings a bird or a beast within close range, a page places the bow — with the string and strap dangling free — into his hand, which he bends behind his back. He thinks it childish to carry the bow in its case, and womanish to receive it already strung. So he takes it unstrung, and now with the tips of the bow pushed inward he bends and strings it, now he turns the knotted end downward and runs his finger along the slack string to find the loop. Then instantly he takes his arrows, nocks, draws, and releases. He tells you in advance what he intends to hit — you choose the target, and he strikes it. If either man is to miss, the archer's shot goes astray less often than the pointer's eye.

When it comes to banquets — which on ordinary days resemble a private man's dinner — no panting servant heaps an unpolished pile of tarnished silver on groaning tables. The greatest weight at that table is in the conversation, since nothing is discussed there but serious matters — or nothing at all. The furnishings displayed are sometimes of shell-purple, sometimes of fine linen. The food pleases by its preparation, not its cost; the dishes impress by their elegance, not their size. The goblets and wine bowls are offered so infrequently that thirst is more likely to complain of their rarity than drunkenness to refuse them. In short, you would see there Greek refinement, Gallic abundance, Italian speed, the ceremony of a public occasion, the attention of a private household, and the discipline of a royal court. As for the luxury of his Saturday banquets [the Sabbath dinner], I will say nothing — it cannot escape notice even among those who wish to remain unnoticed.

To return to the subject: after dinner, the midday nap is often skipped entirely, always kept brief. In the hours when the man's heart turns to the gaming board, he scoops up the dice eagerly, examines them carefully, rolls them skillfully, throws them decisively, addresses them playfully, and waits patiently. On good rolls he says nothing; on bad ones he laughs. In neither case does he lose his temper; in both he plays the philosopher. He disdains second chances — refuses both to fear them and to inflict them, ignoring opportunities offered and brushing past obstacles. You would think that even in dice he is handling weapons: his only concern is to win.

When it is time to play, he sets aside his royal severity for the moment and encourages free and easy companionship. I will say what I think: he fears being feared. He is delighted by the frustration of a beaten opponent, and only then believes that his partner has not thrown the game when the other man's genuine irritation proves the victory was real. And remarkably, this good humor — arising from the smallest occasions — often decides the fate of serious petitions. Cases long tossed about on the shipwreck of patronage suddenly find the harbor of a favorable decision. On such occasions I too, when I have something to ask, find it helpful to lose — because when my game is lost, my case is won.

Around the ninth hour [3 p.m.], the great burden of ruling resumes. The petitioners return; the ushers return to clear them out. Everywhere the clamor of contentious ambition buzzes — which, drawn out into the evening, thins only when interrupted by the royal dinner, and then disperses through the courtiers, each following his own patron, to keep vigil until bedtime. Occasionally — though rarely — comic entertainments are admitted during dinner, but always so that no guest is stung by any sharp tongue. There are no hydraulic organs, no trained chorus intoning a rehearsed piece in unison under a conductor; no lyrist, no flutist, no choir leader, no drummer, no psaltery player performs — the king is charmed only by those melodies where virtue soothes the soul no less than song pleases the ear.

When he rises, the palace guard begins its nighttime watches. Armed men take their posts at the entrances to the royal residence, where they will keep vigil through the first hours of sleep. But why should I go on? I promised you a brief portrait of the man, not an account of his kingdom. Besides, it is time to end this letter — you wished to know only the habits and the person of the man, and I have aimed to produce a letter, not a history. Farewell.

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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