Attila

by Ross Laidlaw

  Flaccus shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Blame the times,’ he said mollifyingly. ‘The state must collect the iugatio3 if the army’s to be paid. And without the army all this’– he indicated the countryside outside – ‘would soon be part of the barbaricum.’ Rather to his surprise, he had quickly grown a thick skin in the execution of his job. After all, a man had to look out for himself, especially in these uncertain times, and especially as the post was only for two years – not much time in which to set himself up. Besides, it wasn’t as though he had to live with these people.

  ‘But in some cases there’s a thirty-per-cent increase!’ protested the governor. ‘How can that possibly be justified?’

  ‘Well, let’s look at some examples,’ said Flaccus in reasonable tones. ‘Take this village, Subiacum. When we re-surveyed it, we found that several hundred productive iugera4 had been omitted in the returns for the past five Indictions.5 The tax equivalent has to be made up – plus, I’m afraid, the interest owed.’

  ‘“Productive”, you say! Look, I know the place. That was poor-quality land hardly worth the trouble of ploughing. It went out of cultivation when the owners fled to escape the tax-collectors. Now there aren’t enough coloni left to work it, so it’s become “deserted land”.’

  ‘But not officially. It’s not listed as such in the records, you see. All land, unless it’s taken out of registration, must be taxed.’ Flaccus assumed his most sympathetic smile. ‘Nothing personal, you understand. And then a number of coloni in Subiacum owe tax arrears. They claimed they didn’t – well, they would, wouldn’t they? – but when asked for proof, they couldn’t produce receipts.’

  ‘But no one thinks to keep receipts – especially not poor, uneducated farm labourers.’

  ‘That’s hardly my responsibility,’ countered Flaccus smoothly. He shook his head regretfully. ‘Believe me, if I could ignore these lapses, I would. I’m just—’

  ‘I know, “doing my job”,’ interrupted the governor bitterly. He gave Flaccus a searching stare. ‘Have you people the least idea how much misery and hardship the land tax causes? To say nothing of all these extra charges you seem able to discover.’

  ‘Times are hard. We must all make sacrifices.’

  ‘Some more than others, I daresay,’ retorted the governor, glancing significantly at Flaccus’ well-nourished frame and expensive byrrus, or hooded cloak. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your tax,’ he sneered. ‘The full amount. But only because the decurions, the poor overworked town councillors, who alone keep the machinery of state from seizing up, have to make up any shortfall out of their own pockets. No wonder they’re leaving in droves, seeking promotion or simply taking flight.’

  ‘They can always appeal, you know.’ Flaccus injected a note of helpful concern into his voice. ‘The courts of the Praetorian prefect and the finance minister are expressly charged with hearing such complaints.’

  ‘And much good would that do them,’ snapped the governor. ‘They aren’t rich enough to afford court expenses and tip the judge.’ He gathered up the rolls on his desk. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you. After all,’ he went on with heavy sarcasm, ‘you have your job to do.’

  1 5 April 434.

  2 ‘Backhander’.

  3 land tax.

  4 The iugerum was the basic Roman unit of land measurement. One iugerum = of an acre.

  5 Roman financial years.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Men live there under the natural law; capital sentences are marked on a man’s bones; there even rustics perorate and private individuals pronounce judgment

  Anonymous, Querolus (the Protestor), fifth century

  In that vast and dreary landscape, the three men looked like crawling dots, the only moving things in an expanse of soggy bottom land, intersected by sluggish tributaries of the lower Sequana.1 They had met by chance south of Samarobriva2 three days previously, and, discovering that they had all forsworn Rome and had a common destination, had decided to travel together for mutual security.

  The eldest, a spare man in his fifties whose careworn features bore the stamp of authority, had quickly emerged as their leader. His once fine but now travel-stained dalmatic hinted at curial status. He it was who, when the party discovered it was being followed by hunting dogs – lean shaggy brutes of British ancestry – had cajoled and bullied his companions into outrunning pursuit through unimaginable thresholds of pain and exhaustion, until they could throw off the scent by crossing running water.

  The youngest was a rangy lad of eighteen, whose chapped hands and incipient stoop denoted a farm labourer. A pus-stained bandage concealed the wound where his right thumb had been. His gentle face had the stricken expression of a dog whose master has unexpectedly kicked it.

  The third man, who could have been any age between thirty and fifty, had eyes bleared from much close stitching, and a palm calloused from the pressure of a cobbler’s awl. He had the slack, desperate expression of one whom circumstances had conspired to break.

  For days, the trio struggled westwards through the wetlands, where possible following broken causeways, more often splashing knee- or waist-deep through morasses. As recently as the reign of Gratian, this land had been fertile and well-drained. Now, thanks to depopulation resulting from the combined effects of a crushing land tax and growing insecurity, it was fast reverting to its pristine state – to swell the Register of Deserted Lands in the archives of Ravenna. But at last the ground began to rise, allowing swifter progress, and, ten days after they had met, when they were down to their last scraps of stale bread and rancid pork, they crossed a height of land to find the streams now flowing westwards and to see, in the far blue distance, their goal: the granite hills of Aremorica.

  Looking around, Marcellus, the eldest of the trio, saw that the glade in which they had been resting was now fringed by men: nut-brown stalwarts, dressed in an assortment of skins, patched homespun, and the tattered remnants of army uniform or civilian Roman dress. A tall man, whose silver neck-torque and air of command suggested he was the leader, stepped from the ring and addressed the fugitives. ‘Welcome to Aremorica. You travel light, I see; business or pleasure?’

  An educated voice, Marcellus noted. ‘We flee the tyranny of Rome,’ he replied, holding the other’s gaze. ‘We were hoping to start a new life among the Bagaudae who, we’ve heard, respect freedom and justice – unlike the Roman government.’

  ‘Freedom and justice,’ repeated the tall man wryly. ‘Noble concepts, but perhaps expensive luxuries when times are hard. Still, we do our best. Our motto is:

  “If each gives what he is able,

  Then all can share a common table.”

  It seems to work.’ He grinned, and added disarmingly, ‘Well, most of the time it does.’

  ‘So you are Bagaudae?’

  ‘Bandits? That’s what the Romans call us. We prefer the name “Free Aremoricans”. Once, we were Roman citizens like you. But, also like you, finding Roman rule oppressive and unjust, we removed ourselves from it and set up our own republic, here in the far north-west.’ He surveyed the group appraisingly. ‘You’ll understand that before we can accept you you’ll have to prove you can make a useful contribution to our society. We can’t afford to carry passengers. First, however, we’ll give you a good meal, which you certainly look as though you could do with.’

  For some hours, Marcellus and his companions were escorted along woodland paths. Several times they saw by the side of the track a grim signpost: a stout pole bearing a wooden placard and surmounted by a skull. On asking what they signified, Marcellus was told, ‘They’re the heads of our executed criminals, with a notice of their sentence.’

  Eventually, they arrived in a large clearing containing a dozen long huts, of rough but workmanlike construction. Around them, noisy children played and women cooked. Carrying farming implements, men were filing into the clearing – from nearby fields or plots, Marcellus assumed.

  ‘The capital of my own little fief,’ declared the
Bagaudae leader. ‘We Free Aremoricans are a very loose society, with lots of little communities like this one, each with its own headman and elders. There’s an overall Grand Council, and a President – one Tibatto. Also a code of laws that all must subscribe to.’

  ‘And if the laws are broken?’

  ‘Small matters are settled at community level. Major transgressions are dealt with by courts appointed by the Council. Now, my nose tells me supper’s almost ready. Come and eat.’

  After a welcome and plentiful meal of game pottage, washed down with tart beer, the newcomers were summoned to a meeting of the elders in the largest hut. Here, they were requested to give an account of themselves, in turn. ‘My name is Marcellus Publius Bassus,’ began the eldest, ‘decurion of the imperial city of Augusta Treverorum, in the province of First Belgica.’

  It was the time of the Indiction again, the first of September, the beginning of the fiscal year when the annual budget had to be made up and balanced, from the collection of taxes.

  In his office in Augusta’s vast brick basilica, built a hundred years before by Constantine, Marcellus – one of the councillors responsible for collecting the revenues within the city’s fiscal catchment area – groaned aloud. Once, he reflected sadly, men of good family had competed eagerly for the honour of serving the community. But that was back in his great-grandfather’s time, before Diocletian had ushered in an era of grim austerity and crushing taxes, to save a sinking empire. Now decurions were mere agents of an oppressive government, required to carry out its more unpopular policies – squeezing money taxes and levies in kind from their fellow citizens, helping to manage imperial mines and estates, and drumming up recruits for the army. Most of the money went to pay for the army, which, ironically, seemed less and less able to protect citizens from barbarian incursions.

  Every year the task became harder and more repugnant. But there was no way out, Marcellus thought grimly. Men like himself, owners of twenty-five Roman acres, were compelled to serve as decurions. But not the very rich – senators and knights – who, to add insult to injury, always found ways of evading or postponing paying tax, which left those least able to pay, the poor, to shoulder the bulk of the burden.

  This year, the collection of the revenue was going to prove even more difficult. The harvest looked to be the worst in a decade, and a particularly destructive raid by a Frankish war-party (the latest in a long series), had left a swathe of smoking villages and blackened fields in its wake. A compassionate man, Marcellus hated the business of extracting money from poverty-stricken peasants and artisans; for many of them, payment of the standard seven solidi might spell financial ruin.

  A servitor appeared in the doorway. ‘They’re here, sir,’ he announced nervously. (Marcellus’ temper was notoriously short at Indiction time.)

  ‘Well, send them in then, send them in,’ Marcellus barked.

  Into the office filed two groups of rough-looking men: the susceptores responsible for collecting the normal dues, and the compulsores charged with enforcing payment of arrears.

  ‘Here’s your list.’ Marcellus handed a scroll to the susceptores’ foreman, distinguished from his fellows by a patched and grubby dalmatic. The man nodded and led his team out.

  ‘And here’s yours.’ Marcellus glared at the leader of the second gang, a brutal-looking thug appointed by the provincial office. ‘Just remember,’ he grated, ‘that like yourselves these people are Roman citizens. They’re to be treated with restraint and consideration. If I hear there’s been any . . .’ Marcellus trailed off in impotent frustration: any threat he made would be an empty one. Failure to collect outstanding dues meant that the shortfall would have to be made up from his own purse and those of his fellow decurions. A blind eye had, perforce, to be turned to methods of extraction.

  ‘Persuasion?’ With an insolent grin, the foreman completed Marcellus’ phrase. ‘We’ll be as gentle as lambs, won’t we, boys?’ he continued, turning to his men, who responded with a chorus of ironic assent. In a significant gesture, some touched the cudgels in their belts.

  When the last of the compulsores had trooped from the office, Marcellus found that his hands were shaking and his heart was thumping in his chest. A wave of helpless fury swept over him. He felt ashamed – and dirty.

  Apprehension gnawed at Petrus the cobbler, making it difficult for him to concentrate on his work. Spraying nails from his mouth, he cursed for the third time that morning, as his hammer struck his fingers instead of the nail he was driving through the sole of the shoe on his last. Replacing the dropped ‘sparrow-bills’ between his lips, he tried once more to focus on his task. It was no good. The dread that had been building up relentlessly for weeks before the Indiction, seemed to have formed a permanent cold lump in his stomach. The tax-collectors would be arriving at any time, and he could pay them but a fraction of their seven solidi – to say nothing of the arrears he owed from the previous Indiction. That none of this was his fault would, he knew, make no whit of difference to the agents of the tax officials.

  For most of the last year, by drastic scrimping and saving, and working far into the night by flickering lamplight until his eyes ached, Petrus had managed to earn enough nummi – the little copper coins worth seven thousandth of a solidus – to cover both amounts owed. Then the Franks, ferocious yellow-haired giants, came rampaging through the district. Fondly, he had thought his hoard – in sealed bags, or folles, each containing a thousand nummi, and buried inside a jar beneath the earthen floor of his workshop – would be inviolate. But with practised efficiency, the raiders had forced him to disclose it, by the simple expedient of holding his wife’s feet to an open fire. Though superficial, the burns had turned septic; a week after the Franks had gone, she had died from blood-poisoning, leaving behind Petrus and their twelve-year-old daughter.

  ‘Let him go,’ sighed the compulsores’ leader in disgust. ‘He’s telling the truth. Seems the Franks did take his savings.’ Reluctantly, his men released Petrus – minus three teeth, and with a broken nose.

  The foreman cast an expert eye around the workshop. ‘Take the tools and stock,’ he ordered. ‘They’ll fetch something at auction. Then strip the house.’

  Petrus’ pleas – that without tools he could no longer earn a living and would therefore be unable to pay future tax – were ignored. His few pathetic possessions – an iron cauldron, a bronze skillet, some sticks of furniture and kitchen crockery – joined his work gear on the gang’s cart. Then one of the compulsores appeared in the workshop, dragging a weeping girl. ‘Look what I found hiding in the privy,’ he announced with a lascivious leer. ‘Skinny as a plucked chicken and a bit on the young side.’ He grinned at the foreman. ‘But not too young, eh?’

  The foreman shrugged and said carelessly, ‘Go on, then.’

  Helpless in the grip of his tormentors, Petrus roared and wept, while his daughter was raped by all the gang in turn.

  ‘Think of it as part payment in kind,’ sneered the foreman, as they departed.

  Hours later, Petrus was roused from his stupor of misery and helplessness by an ominous creaking from the living-quarters adjoining his workshop. He rushed into the room and saw his daughter’s body gyrating slowly, suspended from a roof beam.

  Numb with grief, Petrus buried her in the weed-choked yard behind his cottage. Then, making a bundle of a spare tunic and a stale loaf, all that the tax-collectors had left him, he set out for the west. In Aremorica, so he’d heard, men lived freely and paid no taxes. Now without family or means of livelihood, it seemed he had but one option: to seek a new life beyond the reach of Rome.

  Awkwardly, young Martin hefted the axe in his left hand and raised it above his right, which was pressed flat against the log, with thumb extended. His mouth dried, and a red mist seemed to form before his eyes. He could feel his pulses racing. Twice he laid down the axe, his courage failing him at the last moment. Suddenly, he heard the distant calls of searching bucellarii, the private retainers whom the landown
er, like most Gallic magnates, employed in these times of insecurity. Realizing that if he didn’t act now, he might be leaving it too late, Martin gritted his teeth and swung the blade down with all his strength.

  From the moment he could walk, Martin had been put to work on the estate where his parents laboured as humble coloni. He had always hated the back-breaking drudgery of farmwork, and at every opportunity slipped off to the woods bordering the fields, to study the wild creatures and plants there, to fish, or just to dream. He longed above all to enter a monastery like those he had heard of in far-off Caesarodunum and Limonum,3 founded sixty years before by his namesake Martin, who had been a peasant before enlisting in the legions. In such a community his knowledge of plants and animals might, he hoped prove an asset. But when he had asked the landowner for permission to follow his vocation, he had been curtly informed that a recent edict of the Emperor specifically forbade such a thing. He was adscriptus glebae – tied to the land – and tied he would remain.

  Which left only one avenue of escape from his present lot, the army, an alternative which for a gentle dreamer like Martin, held even fewer attractions than the life of a colonus. Like all magnates with large estates, the landowner was required by law to provide recruits for the service, on an ad hoc but fairly regular basis. Invariably, the ones selected were his least useful tenants, so it should have come as no surprise when the steward told Martin to present himself at the estate office the following morning, to await the recruiting-agents. But Martin was surprised. Surprised and appalled. The thought that (from the landowner’s view) he was an ideal recruit had never occurred to him. His only recourse, he realized with horror, was to amputate a thumb, preferably the right one – the standard way to render oneself ineligible for service.