The Mystery of Theoderic’s Tomb Solved!

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One of the most mysterious buildings in all of Western architecture—the tomb of Theoderic (454–526 C.E.), king of the Ostrogoths (see the sidebar to this article)—glowers at the end of a tree-lined avenue in Ravenna, Italy. The tomb’s heavy, brooding presence has prompted one modern observer to describe it as a “monstrous object flung from a distant planet”.¹

The story of the tomb’s construction and improbable survival is a crucial episode in Western history, when the Roman Empire and Christianity set out on the common course they were to share for hundreds of years.

The Goths, a loose affiliation of Germanic peoples native to western and central Europe, had been present in northeastern Italy for centuries. In 476 C.E. the Gothic general Odoacer ousted the Western Roman emperor, Romulus Augustulus, and declared himself king of Italy. In 488, with the support of the Eastern Roman emperor Zeno, Theoderic attacked Odoacer and took control of most of the Italian peninsula. In 493 he made Ravenna the capital of his Ostrogothic kingdom.

The Gothic rulers of Italy in the late fifth and early sixth centuries C.E. were not only members of an ethnic minority. They also espoused a form of Christianity different from the contemporaneous Christian orthodoxy. Toward the end of the fourth century C.E., the Goths had been converted to Arian Christianity (how this happened remains a mystery). Arianism took its name from Arius (c. 250–336 C.E.), 048a North African church leader and theologian. According to Arius, Jesus was created by God as an instrument for the formation of the world. As God’s creation, he was not co-eternal or co-equal with God but simply the highest of all finite beings. Jesus was a perfectible man, adopted by God as the most beloved example of human moral striving.

The discrepancy between the Arian position and that of orthodox Christianity on this fundamental doctrine—the divinity of Jesus—could not have been more stark.^a In 325, after Arian teachings had begun to gain ground, Emperor Constantine I (306–337 C.E.) convened the First Council of Nicaea—a meeting of about 250 church leaders, held in modern-day Iznik, Turkey. Partly to defend orthodox doctrine from the threat of Arianism, the bishops in attendance adopted the so-called Nicene Creed, which declared that the Son (Jesus) is consubstantial (homoousios) with the Father (God); that is, both are of the same divine substance. Despite the bishops’ efforts, Arianism continued to find adherents—among them the Eastern Roman emperor Constantius II (337–361 C.E.)—until it was officially denounced as apostasy at the Council of Constantinople in 381 C.E. By this time, however, Christian Arianism had gained a foothold among the Germanic Goths.

Although Theoderic tried to foster a climate of tolerance in his kingdom—which included native Italians, Goths, Jews and Christians, all of whom were treated with deference and respect—his Arian faith and German ethnic identity set him apart from the majority of his subjects. This tension is crucial for understanding the tomb he built for himself—an extraordinary monument symbolizing his Arian beliefs.

By most accounts, Theoderic was an enlightened ruler, whose predicament resulted from chaotic circumstances. If he had anti-Arian detractors, his contemporaries also described him as a philosopher 049noted for his sapientia (wisdom). Although Theoderic ruled wisely, his death ushered in a period of instability—which, I believe, he foresaw and prepared for by building his tomb, his final statement on what it meant to be Arian in sixth-century C.E. Italy.

Though it is now landlocked, in Theoderic’s day the tomb stood at the end of a finger of land, surrounded on three sides by water. It is constructed of large blocks of white limestone and Istrian marble (an especially fine marble quarried at Istria, on the Adriatic coast of modern Croatia). The tomb is the only building in Ravenna of this period that was not made of brick. The king was either an egomaniac, or he was trying to make a point with this extravagant gesture.

From a distance, the tomb appears to be a round, squat tower of two stories. The first story, in fact, is a decagon (ten-sided polygon) with nine deeply arched niches and an arched doorway, which leads to the cruciform interior chamber.^b The tomb recalls other Roman imperial tombs, which Theoderic, an admirer of classical Roman culture, would have emulated.²

Inside the bare, undecorated tomb is a porphyry sarcophagus, which may have held the remains of Theoderic. The sarcophagus’s lid is gone, the lip of the oblong basin is chipped and the contents are missing—perhaps long ago scattered by orthodox Christians venting displeasure at the Arian king.

The tomb’s upper story is set in from the lower story, leaving space on the exterior for a walkway that circles the entire structure. Today an iron railing borders the open walkway; originally, however, a covered gallery (perhaps barrel-vaulted) may have crowned the tomb, its roof supported by a ring of thin columns (see reconstruction drawing of Theoderic’s tomb).

The bottom half of the upper-story is also a decagon, consisting of nine pairs of mullioned false doors, each topped by a lunette, and a doorway directly above the lower story’s doorway. This structure is capped by a circular architrave, or molding, that projects over the wall and walkway. Resting above the architrave is the tomb’s famous domed roof. This astonishing feature distinguishes the tomb; the dome, carved from a single block of Istrian marble, is 36 feet in diameter and weighs 051some 300 tons. We do not know how the roof was cut from the rock, transported to the site of the tomb, or hoisted into place.

Around the perimeter of this great megalith are 12 projections in the shape of right angles. These odd elements are often referred to as “buttresses.” One theory holds that they are the remains of devices used to hoist the roof into place.³

It would, of course, have been extremely difficult and perilous to dismount the dome. This, in fact, seems to be the purpose of the roof’s design: to discourage “vandalism.” Because the exceedingly heavy roof locks the lower masonry into place, would-be vandals might have brought that great mass down on their own heads if they tampered with the tomb’s walls. Indeed, those who wished Theoderic (or his Arianism) ill never did take such a risk.

To increase the stony security, Theoderic included another protective feature. Built into the structure is a system of interlocking masonry joints.

On first glance, the tomb’s walls seem to consist of regular ashlars (stone blocks) of squared masonry joints. In fact, despite their regular appearance, many of the blocks are not a standard size and therefore not interchangeable. These ashlars, mostly around the windows and in the vaulting of the lower chamber, have joints or protrusions that neatly interlock with the adjacent stones (This is clearly visible in the arch above the main entrance in the photo at the beginning of this article). The historian Richard Krautheimer claims that this notch-and-groove stonework is a mark of the decline of classical masonry traditions in the West, and that “the joggling of the voussoirs [the wedge-shaped stones forming an arch]—so evident on Theodoric’s tomb—is a hallmark of building in Syria and Palestine.”⁴ Even if this feature was imported from the East, however, it serves to enhance the inviolable character of the tomb. The irregular, interlocking joints make it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to dismantle the structure.

This fitted stonework makes the building like a Chinese puzzle: One particular piece must be removed before subsequent pieces can be. Unless the correct piece is chosen, the whole structure remains intact, a solid, interlocked mass. In the case of Theoderic’s tomb, the one key piece that can be moved weighs 300 tons and hangs two stories in the air. All the other pieces are tightly locked together. Clearly, permanence was the goal of this interlocking design.

No pranksters, not even an angry mob of orthodox Christians, could have substantially damaged this building. Razing Theoderic’s tomb would have required an organized and well-financed army of workmen. Nobody seems to have been willing to pay 053to dismantle the tomb. At some time (exactly when is not clear), the mausoleum was indeed vandalized, but in a haphazard fashion. The gallery on the upper story was pulled down, but the building itself remained intact.⁵

Why did Theoderic lavish such thought, labor and expense on his tomb? I think he had two reasons: He wanted a structure that would remain inviolable, and he wanted a structure that would reflect his Arian beliefs.

It is not surprising that Theoderic was concerned about the durability of his tomb. For one, the line of succession was far from secure. Theoderic had two daughters, one of whom was already a widow, and a son. The king took the drastic step of appointing his eight-year-old grandson, Athalaric, as his successor, with his son and older daughter serving as regents for the young king.⁶ Theoderic clearly hoped—desperately hoped—that Athalaric would have a stable, successful and lengthy reign.

This came after a century of upheaval. In 410 C.E. the Visigoths had sacked Rome and then invaded France and Spain; in 429 C.E. the Vandals established a North African kingdom, from which they harried the Italian mainland; and in 476 another northern people, the Heruleans, conquered Italy. Then, as we have seen, came the ouster of the last Roman emperor, Romulus Augustulus, by the Gothic king Odoacer and the defeat of Odoacer by Theoderic himself. It was a tumultuous time, and Theoderic, though hoping for the best, prepared for the worst—the possible defeat of the Ostrogoths and the destruction of their memory.

Then there was theology. Arianism (later called the Arian “heresy”) appealed to the Germanic tribes because it presented a heroic, human Jesus. Although Jesus had been created by God, he became by his own actions the most perfect of earthly beings, one worthy of being adopted as God’s “son.” If Arian Christians followed Jesus’ example, they too could attain the same blessed status.

Theoderic’s tomb is a splendid monument to the idea of moral and spiritual perfection. It is complete, 057unalterable. It is a perfect whole, with each part linked to every other part. Built by human hands, its very perdurability suggests eternity and immortality.

From the moment of Theoderic’s death in 526 C.E., orthodox Christians began to vilify the king.⁷ One contemporary source, the Anonymous Valesii (which consists of two works, one compiled about 390 C.E. and one compiled about 550 C.E.), attributes Theoderic’s death to God’s anger at the Arians’ oppression of the faithful.

The Byzantine emperor Justinian I (the builder of Hagia Sofia in Constantinople) took advantage of Theoderic’s death to invade Italy, bringing an end to Ostrogothic rule. In 540 C.E., Ravenna fell to orthodox Christians, who did their best to obliterate the city’s Arian heritage. For example, they destroyed almost all of the splendid Arian mosaics with which Theoderic had decorated both religious and civic buildings. One of the famous mosaics in the church of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo, built by Theoderic, shows a cityscape of Ravenna and a building labeled “Palatium” (Palace). In the original mosaic, the figures of King Theoderic and members of his court were shown standing in pillared archways; sometime after Theoderic’s death, however, these figures were removed and replaced with hanging curtains.⁸

If Theoderic’s tomb is a statement of perdurability in the face of what became Roman Catholicism, it is the world’s only intact artistic expression of the Arian creed. It celebrates the existential heroism of mankind, raising a defiant fist to eternity. It proclaims, in stone, what devout Arians believed: that human beings are perfectible and can achieve salvation through their own good acts freely 058performed. A virtuous man can be elevated and loved by God. Daring the orthodoxy to gainsay him, Theoderic built a monument that retains its symbolic power even today.

One of the most mysterious buildings in all of Western architecture—the tomb of Theoderic (454–526 C.E.), king of the Ostrogoths (see the sidebar to this article)—glowers at the end of a tree-lined avenue in Ravenna, Italy. The tomb’s heavy, brooding presence has prompted one modern observer to describe it as a “monstrous object flung from a distant planet”.1 The story of the tomb’s construction and improbable survival is a crucial episode in Western history, when the Roman Empire and Christianity set out on the common course they were to share for hundreds of years. The Goths, a loose affiliation […]