Attila

by Ross Laidlaw

  ‘Magister militum!’ breathed Litorius. ‘This – this is more than generous, sir.’

  ‘Hardly that, Count. “Sensible” is the word I’d use. Those Visigoths are hard nuts to crack. They’ll need close watching to keep them in their place. But I know I’m leaving the task in capable hands. You’ll earn your title, never fear.’

  1 Tours

  2 Savoy.

  3 Lisieux.

  4 The Seine.

  5 The Auvergne

  6 River Doré.

  7 River Allier.

  8 Nîmes; the Cévennes.

  9 Thiers, in Puy de Dôme.

  10 St-Paulien, in Haute Loire.

  11 Mediterranean Sea.

  12 River Hérault.

  TWENTY-SIX

  You cannot serve two masters, God and mammon – in other words Christ and Caesar

  Paulinus, Bishop of Nola, Letters, c. 400

  ‘Gaius says . . .’ Quoting from the famous jurisconsult’s Institutes, the defending lawyer continued to demonstrate why his client not only was innocent of the charge against him but was in fact the injured party.

  ‘Ah, but Ulpian maintains . . .’ countered the prosecutor.

  ‘Gaius . . .’

  ‘Papinian . . .!’

  ‘Paulus . . .’

  ‘Ulpian . . .?’

  ‘Modestinus . . .’

  And so it went on, the two trading legal precedents like sparring gladiators exchanging blows. The case, a dispute concerning alleged land encroachment, had dragged on inconclusively throughout the afternoon. The judge was an overworked decurion appointed by the provincial governor (of Second Narbonensis in the Seven Provinces) as defensor civitatis to deal with minor jurisdiction. He was impatient to wrap up the case and avoid an adjournment to the following day. It was already late: entering the courtroom within the great basilica of Nemausus, a slave began to light the lamps.

  ‘And what does Papinian say?’ asked the defensor wearily, turning to Crispus, the legal assessor. All magistrates – busy men usually too swamped with other business to be learned in the law – had an assessor, always a trained lawyer, to act as legal referee. In cases where a clear verdict could not be arrived at, the recently enacted Law of Citations, which called on the authority of the five leading jurisconsults, was invoked. If they disagreed, the Law decreed that the majority should carry the day; if there was a tie – as in the present case – Papinian was to have the casting vote.

  ‘Well, what does Papinian say?’ repeated the defensor in exasperation when, after a longish pause, Crispus had made no reply.

  But the assessor, a young barrister trained at Rome, hadn’t heard the question. Crispus was preoccupied by something that had recently begun to worry him to the point of his being almost constantly in a state of terror: the fate of his immortal soul.

  Unusually for a Christian, Crispus had been baptized in childhood, when he had fallen ill and been expected to die. Most Christians postponed baptism until their death-beds, leaving them free to sin until the last minute, when the rite would wash away all sin, thus ensuring that their purified souls would enter Heaven. Once baptized, any subsequent sins could be expunged by doing penance. But this could happen only once; further sins were unredeemable, and those who died in sin could expect to go to Hell. Even if one were careful to avoid committing obvious sins like adultery and fornication, it was very difficult, unless one became a hermit or a monk, for an ordinary citizen – especially if he were engaged in public service such as the army or the law – to avoid becoming contaminated by sin. ‘Those who acquire secular power and administer secular justice cannot be free from sin,’ one pope had declared.

  All this, while vaguely troubling the sensitive and imaginative lad as he grew to manhood, remained at the back of Crispus’ mind, existing only as an abstract set of concepts; besides, he comforted himself, there was always penance to fall back on in old age, when presumably both temptation and opportunity to sin would have largely evaporated. And so, although concerned at a subliminal level about the spiritual danger inherent in adopting the profession, the young man had embarked on a career in the law. Committed and conscientious, he had risen swiftly, becoming an assessor at an age when most of his contemporaries were struggling to master the Responses of Papinian. And his life might well have continued in that vein – busy, fulfilled, only occasionally troubled by vague fears concerning the hereafter.

  But a few weeks previously he had experienced a traumatic epiphany which brought those fears surging to the surface, and made them burgeon and expand to the point where they threatened to dominate all his waking thoughts. In the middle of the Sunday service at Crispus’ church in a village outside Nemausus, a stranger had invaded the building, a gaunt, wild-looking fellow with a shaven head and wearing a black robe. This was one of a new breed of cleric that could be seen tramping the roads singly or in pairs: a vagrant monk. Roughly elbowing aside the priest, he faced the congregation and began to speak. The angry protests and the priest’s remonstrations died away as the man’s eloquence and sheer power of personality began to grip his audience.

  ‘I have a simple message for you,’ the monk declared. ‘You wish to save your souls? Then you must renounce the world and its temptations, abandon earthly pursuits. Why?’ He glared round the congregation with burning eyes, and his voice rose to a shout. ‘Because to embrace the world is to risk incurring sin, and to die a sinner is to enter Hell!’ Then his voice quietened, became mild, reasonable. ‘How many of you, thinking it no sin, keep a concubine or visit the theatre, watch wild-beast fights in the arena and chariot races in the circus? You may not realize it, but in so doing you have endangered your immortal souls, for all these things are sins. I daresay most of you attend the baths – not in itself a sin, I grant.’ Again his voice rose. ‘It is, however, an indulgence which can stimulate the carnal appetites, and tempt you to the sin of fornication. As is indeed the marriage bed itself; better by far for husband and wife to suppress desire and live in mutual chastity. Have you been a soldier? If so, you may have committed the sin of murder – for such is any killing, even of an enemy. Are you a lawyer or a magistrate? Then are you almost certain to have sinned, for which of you can truly say that all your judgments have been just? And if, in passing judgment, you have condemned a man to death, you are guilty of murder as surely as if you had killed him by your own hand. I tell you, the only certain way to enter Heaven is to—’

  ‘Enough!’ interrupted a member of the congregation, bolder than the rest – they, including Crispus, were both cowed and fascinated by the monk’s performance, almost as though they were under a spell. ‘Have you no care for the welfare of the state?’ continued the speaker, a ruddy-faced decurion. ‘If we were to heed your advice, what would happen to the empire? Who would defend us from the barbarians were soldiers to lay down their arms? Where would Rome find the sons and daughters she so desperately needs in these times of crisis, if we practised celibacy? What you advocate is tantamount to treason. I’m minded to report you to the governor and have you arrested for sedition.’

  ‘You are welcome to try, my friend,’ responded the monk with gloating scorn. Such was the veneration in which holy men were held, that any attempt by the secular authorities to curb their activities might easily provoke a riot. ‘You all accept that sinning leads to Hell,’ he went on, as his opponent bit his lip and fell silent. ‘But have you any concept of what Hell is truly like?’

  In a dramatic gesture, the monk thrust out a hand above a candle burning on the altar. For several seconds, apparently unperturbed, he held it just over the flame; a horrified gasp arose from his audience as a smell of singeing flesh pervaded the building. Removing his hand, the monk declared, ‘Even I, schooled as I am in mortification of the flesh, can endure the pain for but a fraction of a minute. And if one little candle can inflict such pain, think of the agony you must endure when you are thrust into Hell’s fiery furnace. An agony, moreover, which will never end.’ His tone took on an
edge of chilling menace. ‘Imagine the everlasting torment, the screams, the writhing of your bodies, which can never be consumed by the flames that sear them. A minute of such torment would seem like an eternity. Yet ten times ten thousand years would pass without release from anguish, to be repeated endlessly for all time. Weighed against your soul’s salvation, what can matter worldly things? Choose Christ or Rome – you cannot serve them both.’

  Shaken and afraid, Crispus stumbled from the church. Most of the monk’s hearers, he suspected, would strive for a week or two to follow his advice, then lapse back into worldly ways. Perhaps from time to time they might experience a thrill of guilty terror as they made love to a mistress, or cheated on a sale, or bet money on a charioteer; but the fear of Hell would soon recede to the back of their minds, especially as the majority would not yet have been baptized – thus holding an insurance against the risks of sinning.

  How he wished he could be like those others, but he knew he wished in vain. His nature was less coarse-grained than that of most, or, put another way, more sensitive and impressionable, therefore more vulnerable. It was as though that monk had got inside his head and unloosed a Pandora’s box of terrors, which could never be put back. True, he still had one more chance of absolution: penance. But suppose he should fall victim to a fatal accident, or be taken sick with a swiftly fatal disease before he could perform the required act of penitence? The monk’s horrifying depiction of Hell kept returning to his mind, and he was powerless to exorcise it. ‘Choose Christ or Rome – you cannot serve them both.’ The cleric’s message held a stark and dreadful warning which, however much he might wish otherwise, he knew he was compelled to heed.

  Crispus was vaguely conscious of someone shaking his shoulder. As though emerging from a trance, he became aware of his surroundings: the courtroom dimly illuminated by flickering oil-lamps, the defensor, looking both concerned and irritated, leaning forward in his chair, flanked by the two lawyers and their clients. A servitor handed him a beaker of water.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ enquired the defensor with some asperity. ‘If so, we could I suppose, adjourn proceedings for today.’

  Crispus blinked and shook his head. ‘No, I’m all right, sir,’ he mumbled apologetically. ‘A sudden headache; it’s gone now.’

  ‘Good. Then perhaps we may proceed. To refresh your memory: we seem to have reached an impasse in this case, and to settle it we require to know how Papinian would find.’

  With an effort, Crispus forced himself to recall the details of the case. A had accused B of filching some of his land while he, A, was absent on business, by altering the boundaries – a charge which B denied. Witnesses for both parties had been called and the weight of evidence for each claim, supported by reference to the standard authorities, compared. The result had been finely balanced, hence the need to consult Papinian in order to obtain a decisive verdict.

  During the progress of the case, Crispus had become convinced that B, who had come over strongly as greedy and unscrupulous, had bribed at least one witness, and was guilty as charged. He was also certain that Papinian favoured A’s claim. And – something which was potentially extremely serious for B – during the hearing it had been established beyond doubt that B had made certain intimidating statements to A concerning the disputed property. Did these remarks constitute a threat of force or injury? No, according to two of the subordinate jurisconsults. Yes, according to the remaining pair: an opinion which was, Crispus knew, supported by the supreme authority, Papinian.

  The trouble was that B would then be guilty not just of misappropriation, but of latrocinium, robbery. The defensor would then be obliged to refer B to the criminal courts, which would almost certainly mean an extended wait in gaol before B came to trial. Conditions for remand prisoners were notoriously appalling; many died before they could appear in court. If that should happen to B, Crispus, in the Church’s eyes, would be guilty of the mortal sin of murder, with all the peril that implied for the salvation of his soul.

  Smarting with shame for traducing the ethics of his profession, Crispus heard himself solemnly pronounce a total fabrication: ‘According to Papinian, in cases involving possession, where the validity of competing claims cannot be determined in favour of either party, the disputed property shall be equally divided between the claimants, according to the decision of an impartial arbiter.’

  ‘So you wish to join our little brotherhood?’ the Abbot of Lerina1 asked the nervous young man standing before him in the Superior’s Lodging. A kindly and perceptive man, the abbot regarded Crispus with a mixture of curiosity and concern. From the cut and quality of his dalmatic, he was clearly from the upper middle class, a stratum of society not noted for supplying recruits for the monastic life. There were exceptions – notably the ex-senator Paulinus of Nola – but they were rare. This young man, in contrast to the confidence displayed by most of his kind, had a troubled look which spoke of inner turmoil.

  ‘With all my heart, Father,’ Crispus replied, with desperate eagerness.

  ‘I have to warn you that the life is hard,’ cautioned the abbot, ‘one that you may not find easy to adapt to, and for which your life to date has not, perhaps, prepared you. I must be satisfied that your calling is sincere. You’d be surprised at how many try to enter the monastic life in order to escape the retribution of the law, or simply to be assured of life’s basic necessities.’ He looked appraisingly at Crispus. ‘Tell me, my son, why it is you would become a monk.’

  ‘I wish above everything, to live a life free from temptation to sin.’

  ‘Well, there is certainly little enough to tempt you here,’ confirmed the abbot with a smile. ‘But you are young to wish to leave the world.’ Rising from his throne, he placed a hand on Crispus’ shoulder and turned him to face through a window. ‘Look: over there, across that little strip of sea, is Grinnicum2: the stir and bustle of a busy city, beautiful women, the excitement of the Games, song and laughter, rich food and fine wines, poetry, music, the theatre. Are you really ready to abandon these things? Here, on this barren island, you will find only solitude, work, and prayer.’

  ‘And communion with God, through avoidance of sin?’

  ‘That too, perhaps, should He bestow His Grace,’ conceded the abbot gently, moved by the young man’s sincerity. ‘Very well, I shall accept you as a postulant. If your commitment remains firm, in a little while you will enter upon your novitiate.’

  Sobbing with relief and gratitude, Crispus fell to the ground and kissed the abbot’s feet.

  1 Lérins.

  2 Cannes.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There are men who shun the light and call themselves monks; because of their fear they shun what is good; such reasoning is the raving of a madman

  Rutilianus Namatianus, On His Return, 417

  Valentinian’s eyes widened in delight as, carried by two slaves, the architect’s model was placed on a plinth before him. Made of wood coated with plaster to simulate marble, it represented a triumphal arch, with panels showing in relief victorious Roman cavalry riding down fleeing Burgundians and Visigoths. For the record, a few Huns, squat and uncouth, had had to be included. But the message above all was that this was a Roman triumph, masterminded by none other than the Emperor himself, whose gilded effigy held the reins of the quadriga surmounting the whole. It was Aetius who had actually conducted the campaigns, Valentinian conceded to himself, but then that’s what generals were for. After all, when people thought of the conquest of Britain, it was Claudius, not Aulus Plautius, whom they remembered.

  ‘Magnificent!’ breathed the Emperor, walking round the model, admiring the artistry with which terror or resolution had been rendered on the faces of barbarians and Romans respectively. It would of course be erected in Rome (which he much preferred to provincial little Ravenna surrounded by its foggy marshes) and outdo in size and splendour the arches of Titus and Constantine.

  There was unfortunately one tiresome matter to be negotiated before the p
roject could go ahead: funding. The Treasury officials were bound to prove their usual difficult selves; but with his mother’s help they could probably be persuaded.

  In a reception chamber of Ravenna’s imperial palace, the Emperor and his mother – the Augusta Galla Placidia – enthroned, confronted the two chief financial ministers, the comites rei privatae and sacrarum largitionum, the Counts of the Privy and Public Purses respectively. Between the two groups stood the model of the projected Arch of Valentinian.

  ‘It can’t be done, Your Serenity,’ said the Privy Purse, shaking his head regretfully. A thin, intense man, he had the manner of an anxious schoolmaster. ‘The expense for such a capital project would be enormous – far exceeding any surplus from the rents of imperial lands. Surplus did I say?’ The man gave a weary smile. ‘Serenity, there is no surplus. The income from your patrimony is barely enough to cover the expenses of your household. In fact, even as I speak, the wages of the secretariat are considerably in arrears.’ He coughed discreetly. ‘If I might presume to suggest, a certain, ah, “readjustment”, shall we call it, of the palace budget would help to balance the books. Last week’s banquet for the Eastern Empire’s ambassadors on the publication of the Theodosian Code, for instance. Snow to cool the wine, brought from the Alpes in baskets by relays of runners; pigs’ testicles from Provincia; dormice stuffed with larks’ tongues . . . A trifle excessive, perhaps? Oysters, pork, and hare, obtained locally – at a fraction of the cost – would surely have sufficed.’

  ‘I see,’ sneered Valentinian. ‘To save a few tremisses, you would have us serve distinguished guests sausage from Bononia1 garnished with prime Ravenna cabbage, and washed down with that Mantuan vinegar they call wine. Cato the Censor would have approved, I’m sure.’ He turned to the other count, a thickset florid man. ‘If the Privy Purse is too mean to let us celebrate our victories, perhaps the state will prove more generous.’