Attila:The Scourge of God

ELEVEN

Shock gripped Titus, as he drew rein at the entrance of the Villa Fortunata. The gate drooping drunkenly from a single hinge, and the glimpse of untended weed-choked fields beyond, told their own story. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. As he rode slowly down the grass-grown drive, Titus spotted in the distance a figure bent over a plough drawn by two draught-mules. Tethering his horse to a tree, he walked towards the ploughman. The man was old, dressed in a dirty, worn tunic, his thin shanks wrapped in mud-spattered cloths. The plough halted as it struck a rock, and the old man bent down to try to remove the obstruction. Something familiar in the set of his head struck Titus. . It was his father — ploughing his own land, like a latter-day Cincinnatus.

He joined the struggling figure, gently pushed aside the blue-veined hands with their bleeding cracks and swollen knuckles. Gripping the boulder, he wrenched it free with a single vigorous heave.

Gaius, his cheeks covered in a three-day growth of stubble, stared at his son with rheumy eyes. ‘Titus!’ he exclaimed in a breaking voice. ‘I–I hoped you’d come. But. .’

‘But you were too proud to ask,’ rejoined Titus, his heart seeming to fill his chest. ‘Oh, Father, what am I going to do about you? Come here.’ He extended his arms, and father and son embraced.

They separated, and looked at each other with moist eyes. ‘You lead the mules,’ said Titus, a lump rising in his throat. ‘I’ll take the plough-stilts. We’ll finish this furrow-length, then go to the house. There’s much for us to talk about.’

‘. . and if that’s how the empire rewards its loyal subjects, there’s something rotten at the heart of Rome,’ said Gaius. His account of the hardships he had suffered since their last meeting, nearly eight years before, had been a long catalogue of injustices, and confirmed all that Titus had heard from friends of the family. With mingled rage and pity, he looked round the familiar tablinum: the scrolls thick with dust, cobwebs festooning the room’s corners. The house-slaves had all had to be sold, leaving a single freed-woman to deal with all the domestic tasks. It was persecution by petty-minded officials, the bishop and mayor in particular, that had reduced his father to these present straits.

‘I began to think about your views concerning Germans,’ Gaius went on, ‘and decided that, after all, perhaps there was something in what you’d said. It would seem they have virtues which our ancestors once possessed, but which modern Romans have abandoned for the most part. As you know, I correspond with a wide circle of friends from the curial class to which I once belonged. One of them lives in Aquitania, the part of Gaul assigned to the Visigoths as their homeland. Instead of being evicted from his villa without compensation, he received a sum of money from its Gothic occupier. How many Romans would have done the same, had the position been reversed? And his case, apparently, is far from unique. Perhaps his Christ God, which now is also yours, is worthier of adoration than the old gods of Rome.’ Gaius paused and, for the first time that Titus could recall, looked abashed. ‘And now,’ the older man went on, ‘regarding your marriage to Clothilde: if it is not too late, accept the blessing and apologies of a foolish old man.’

‘Gladly, Father,’ replied Titus, experiencing a rush of huge relief and joy. ‘But do not say “foolish”. Soon, I hope, you’ll see your grandson.’

‘Let us drink to that. You can’t imagine what pleasure it would give me.’ The old man recharged their beakers with Falernian from the last of the cellar’s amphorae. ‘Now, you wished for my advice concerning Aetius.’ Some of the old steel entered Gaius’ voice as his eyes locked with his son’s. ‘End your service with him. For the basest of reasons, he has betrayed Rome and done her irreparable harm. You worry that leaving him would smack of breaking faith? But such a man, by his actions, has forfeited all claims to loyalty. Your duty is to Rome, not to the man who has weakened her. If you wish to serve anyone, it should be Boniface.’

‘But it was Boniface who let the Vandals in. Surely-’

‘Granted, he was guilty of a huge misjudgement,’ Gaius interrupted. ‘But he has a noble heart, and wishes above all to make amends. He served under me once as a young tribune, you know, and was one of my bravest and most conscientious officers. I believe he is the only man living who can save Rome in her present crisis.’

Riding towards Tremeratae, the market town which bought the Villa Fortunata’s produce, Titus reviewed the measures he’d adopted in the past few days to improve the estate’s (and his father’s) fortunes. He’d called a meeting of the tenants, the coloni, and made a radical proposal, which he’d already discussed with Gaius, and to which the old man had gratefully assented. Let the estate be run in the Egyptian manner, with all, including Gaius, sharing in the profits, and some of the surplus being ploughed back. That way, everyone would benefit and the estate remain viable. He’d hired some of the tenants to give the house a thorough cleaning and refurbishment (including the unpleasant task of clearing out the hypocaust), and drawn up a duty rota to maintain the work on a permanent basis. The plan was received with enthusiasm and, after a conductor or foreman had been chosen, was formally adopted.

Now, Titus thought as he entered the town, time to settle scores with the bishop. Tremeratae, though not a city, had its own see, like many other even smaller places. Bishop Pertinax, despite being disliked by most of the curiales or leading citizens, had been foisted on Tremeratae by the metropolitan bishop in Mediolanum, at the end of Honorius’ reign. Owing to the unfortunate rule which laid down that bishops, once appointed, could not transfer to another see, Tremeratae was stuck with an unpopular bishop; while Pertinax, ambitious and energetic, felt increasingly frustrated by having to preside over what he no doubt considered to be a rural backwater. One of the new thrusting and intolerant breed of clergy that had come in with the Theodosian reforms, Pertinax saw it as his vocation to root out paganism in all its manifestations. That he pursued his goal with fanatical zeal was, Titus thought, partly due to the bitterness he felt about his career being stalled.

As a result of Pertinax’s campaign, pagan practices — even acts as apparently innocuous as making offerings to images, burning incense, or hanging up garlands — quickly disappeared, at least overtly. Except in the case of Gaius, who accordingly bore the full brunt of the bishop’s displeasure. The carrying out of the consequent restrictions placed on him fell to the mayor, a genial weakling who had once been Gaius’ friend, but who now, for the sake of a quiet life, found it expedient to conform with the new order.

Titus’ knock at the gatehouse of the bishop’s palace was answered by a beefy manservant.

‘You have an appointment?’ he said, in answer to Titus’ request to see the bishop. He looked Titus up and down with bored indifference.

‘Just tell him the son of General Rufinus wants to see him.’

‘Get an appointment.’ The porter began to close the gate.

Titus’ hand shot out, gripped the other’s elbow, and squeezed. The man gave a gasp of pain and his face whitened.

Pushing him aside, Titus strode through the vestibule into the atrium, followed by the protesting porter. The sound of a raised voice coming from behind a closed door, alerted Titus.

‘. . seen lighting a lamp before an image of Serapis.’ Uttered in strident tones, the words carried clearly. ‘Think yourself lucky that you’re getting off with a heavy fine. Next time, it’ll be gaol.’

Titus burst into the room. Seated at a desk, a richly clad personage confronted a shabby townsman — a carpenter from the wood-shavings adhering to his tunic.

‘I tried to stop him, Your Grace,’ whined the porter, ‘but he. .’ He tailed off as Titus turned towards him and began to raise his hand.

‘Out,’ snapped Titus. Then, turning to the tradesman, he said more mildly, ‘You too, I’m afraid.’ The porter slunk out, followed by the carpenter.

‘How dare you!’ exclaimed the seated man, his face reddening with anger. ‘What is the meaning of this outrageous intrusion?’

Pertinax was nothing like the lean, burning-eyed ascetic whom Titus had imagined. He was a plump, sleek figure in early middle age, dressed in the fashionable finery of a Roman noble, rather than the simple vestments of a cleric.

‘General Rufinus — Gaius Valerius Rufinus. I’m his son.’

‘If you wish to see me, make an appointment with my secretary,’ said the bishop. ‘Now, kindly leave.’

‘I’ll leave when I’m ready, you greasy tub of lard,’ grated Titus, stepping forward and grabbing the other by the front of his expensive dalmatic. He jerked the bishop to his feet. ‘And that will be when you’ve given me some answers. My father’s been reduced to penury, thanks to you. I want to know why.’ He released his grip on the bishop, who slumped back in his chair.

Pertinax licked his lips nervously, cowed by Titus’ menacing manner. ‘He — he brought it on himself,’ he protested. ‘I was only enforcing the law, which I’m duty bound to do.’ As he spoke, his fat, ringed hand slid surreptitiously along the edge of the desk towards a hand-bell — then retreated when Titus gave a warning shake of the head.

‘Your duty? To persecute a defenceless old man for the terrible crime of venerating the old gods? You’re going to have to do better than that.’

‘A law of the Augustus Theodosius the First, passed on the twenty-fourth of February in the thirteenth year of his reign, is unequivocal,’ declared Pertinax, a note of shrill defensiveness creeping into his voice. ‘“All pagan practices, whether public or private, are to be banned.” How else was I supposed to act?’

‘By showing a bit of humanity and compassion, that’s how. Scripture says, “Jesus was moved with compassion toward the people, because they were as sheep not having a shepherd.” A fine shepherd you are! My father was guilty of nothing worse than refusing to give in to petty officialdom. You didn’t like that, did you? So you decided he had to be taught a lesson.’

‘When laws are broken, examples must be made.’

‘Your sort make me vomit!’ spat Titus. ‘Sheltering behind words on parchment, to justify bullying those who can’t hit back. Gaius Valerius is worth twenty of you. He was saving Italy from the Goths when your pedagogue was leading you to school.’

Titus glanced round the richly furnished room, with its profusion of ornaments and plate. He picked up a beautiful porphyry miniature group, showing Orpheus with his lyre soothing a lion and a wolf.

‘Put it down!’ cried the bishop in alarm. ‘It’s priceless.’

‘It’s pagan,’ responded Titus. ‘You of all people shouldn’t be keeping such things. Oops!’ And he dropped the miniature, which shattered on the mosaic floor. He strolled over to an array of silverware on a low table. ‘Tut, tut,’ he said in mock dismay, examining a chased goblet. ‘Look: Diana with her bow; and here’s Apollo. Surely this must be Venus? And what’s this? Cupid lurking in the bushes?’ Crumpling the goblet in his fist, he shook his head disapprovingly. ‘It really won’t do, you know.’ And pursued by a frantically pleading Pertinax, he progressed around the room, smashing carvings, stamping on gold and silver vessels or hurling them against walls; anything was fair game, provided it had a pagan motif.

His tour completed, Titus advanced towards Pertinax, who scuttled behind his desk.

‘Feels different when the boot’s on the other foot, doesn’t it?’ sneered Titus, looming over the cowering cleric. ‘You oily hypocrite. Listen — and listen well. As of this moment, you’ll leave my father alone. If I ever hear that you’ve done him the slightest injury in future, I’ll be back. That’s a promise. Then this’ — he indicated the wreckage in the room — ‘will seem like a gentle game of harpastum¹ at the baths. All right?’

The bishop nodded.

‘Good. I’m glad we understand each other.’ As a parting gesture, Titus lifted a brimming wine-jug from the desk and emptied its contents over the bishop’s head. Then, turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

In the atrium he was confronted by a row of servants armed with staves. Something in his look and bearing, however, made them fall back, and he left the palace unmolested.

As he rode back to the villa, his elation began to evaporate. He was in deep trouble, he realized. If, as he had already decided to do, he acted on his father’s advice concerning Aetius, he would be forfeiting the protection of the most powerful man in the Western Empire. As if that were not enough, he already had the Empress’s hand against him. Soon, she might be joined by Pope Celestine; Pertinax was said to have his ear. ‘Well, David had only a sling,’ he reminded himself, ‘but he prevailed against Goliath.’

¹ A ball game involving passing between players.