Attila:The Scourge of God

TWENTY-TWO

Tibatto raised his arms and a hush spread throughout the ruined amphitheatre, its tiers close-packed with humanity from every part of north-west Gaul between the Liger and the Sequana.¹ If the vast crowd could be characterized by one single factor, that factor was diversity. The majority were coloni, peasants and small-holders dressed in patched or ragged tunics; there were also many whose once-fine dalmatics betrayed their curial status; others bore on their arms the brands of slaves or conscripts, the latter distinguishable from the former by the callus under the chin from the knot securing the cheek-pieces of a helmet; here and there a cobbler or tailor with hunched shoulders, a smith with brawny biceps. All, whatever their origins, had this in common: they now belonged to the huge and growing class that officialdom had proscribed as perditi, criminals and outlaws, to be hunted down and exterminated without distinction and without pity.

Tibatto stood in the president’s box from which senators, and once the would-be emperor Magnus Maximus, had opened the games, and surveyed his audience. A bald, powerfully built figure, with strong yet sensitive features, the outlaw leader had a presence which commanded attention and respect. His background was a mystery. Some said he had been a soldier, others a judge; he had been a senator who, disgraced, had changed his name, a wealthy merchant who had lost his fortune, a courtier fallen from favour, et cetera, et cetera.

‘Friends and fellow Gauls,’ he began, speaking in a clear, resonant voice, the voice of an educated man, but one who had the common touch, ‘for five hundred years, ever since Julius Caesar placed it on our necks, we have endured the yoke of Rome. It has been a heavy yoke, grown more and more oppressive, and at last become intolerable. None of you here present is guilty of wrongdoing — unless it is a crime to refuse any more to pay unjust taxes or render services grown too demanding. The poor toil yet starve, their earnings eaten up by rents and levies, while the rich pay nothing. We are forced to choose between death from hunger and a life of robbery. What choice is that? “Bagaudae” bandits — that is what Rome calls us. But it is Rome which has forced us to become so.’ Tibatto paused, and looked around the ranks of rapt faces, then went on, his voice rising to a passionate shout. ‘As Rome has rejected us, so shall we reject Rome. Let us throw off the yoke of our oppressors. Rome grows weak and is beset by enemies. Our time is at hand; be ready for the signal. When it comes, rise and strike — for Gaul and freedom!’

Silence. Then, scattered at first, gradually merging in a solid roar, from all over the amphitheatre voices took up the rallying-cry, ‘For Gaul and freedom!’

‘“His rebus confectis, Caesar cum copiis magnis in fines Germanorum progredit”,’ Marcus read from the scroll, slowly but without stumbling. It was his daily Latin lesson with Gaius Valerius.

‘Good,’ said Gaius warmly. ‘Splendid. Now, the translation?’ Little Marcus was proving an apt pupil. He had a quick mind and, unusually in one so young, an ability to concentrate and persevere until he succeeded in whatever task he set himself — damming a stream, climbing a tree, or teasing out the meaning of a Latin sentence.

Gaius was happy. He had adapted well to living among his daughter-in-law’s extended family, coming to like these Germans for their frank, open ways and genuine hospitality. Helped by his grandson, he was picking up German and could now converse fairly easily. Less and less did he miss the refinements of a Roman lifestyle — baths, plumbing, central heating, elaborate meals. In fact, the spartan conditions of a simple hut (Titus had ordered one especially constructed for his father, a typical oblong Grubenhaus with sunken floor) rather appealed to him, as being closer to the austere standards of his heroes from the great days of the Roman Republic: Regulus, the Scipios, Cato the Censor, et cetera. One luxury, however, he did permit himself: books. Titus had arranged for a consignment to be sent from the Villa Fortunata, which was prospering under the system Titus had initiated. (In fact, Titus was there at the moment, supervising a land-drainage project.)

‘“His rebus”. . “By these things”?’ offered Marcus, in German, his mother tongue. He looked at his grandfather hopefully, then frowned and shook his head. ‘No, that’s not right.’

‘Ablative absolute?’ Gaius prompted.

‘Of course,’ the boy acknowledged. He scrutinized the passage. ‘I’ve got it now. “Having completed these matters, Caesar advanced into the territory of the Germans.”’

‘Rather risky to do that on his own, wouldn’t you think?’ said Gaius solemnly.

‘Forgot. “Cum copiis magnis — with large forces”. There, finished.’ He looked at Gaius with a triumphant grim. ‘Was that all right, Grandfather, and can I go and play now?’

‘The answer’s yes on both counts. Off you go, and don’t be late for supper. Your mother’s grilling those trout you caught yesterday.’

At the hut’s entrance, Marcus paused and looked back. ‘Grandfather, if Julius Caesar was Roman, why would he attack the Germans? You’re Roman. Father’s Roman, Mother’s German, Grandfather Vadomir’s German. I thought the Romans and the Germans were friends.’

‘Bless you, boy,’ laughed Gaius. ‘And so they are. Romans and Germans get on fine. Julius Caesar lived a long time ago. Things have changed since his day.’

But had they really changed? Gaius wondered, when the boy had gone. When he had first come to live in the Burgundian Settlement, he had felt that a genuine rapport was possible between the Gallo-Romans and the new settlers, which boded well for the future. After all, the Gauls themselves had strenuously rejected Rome at first, and look at them now — more Roman than the Romans. On a personal level, he had experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality from his German hosts, and was finding it easier to adapt and integrate than once he could have imagined possible.

Of late, however, he had begun to wonder if perhaps a change of attitude was taking place among the Burgundians. It was nothing he could put his finger on: a shade more abruptness on the part of local Germans in their dealings with him, a touch less warmth in their greetings. With the exception of Clothilde, wife of Titus and mother of little Marcus, his German in-laws, though still friendly, sometimes seemed stiff and awkward in his presence, almost as if they should not be talking to him. Gaius told himself that he was imagining things, that any perceived change of mood was not directed at him personally, but probably resulted from a poor harvest followed by a hard winter; the newest of the grave-rows outside the village had lengthened markedly during the cold season just past. His soldier’s instinct, however, told him not to relax his vigilance — just in case. In case of what? But to that he had no answer.

‘Sorry, Mark, Father says I’m not to play with you any more.’ Hariulf, the blacksmith’s son and Marcus’ best friend, hung his head and scratched the earth apologetically with a bare toe.

‘Komm zuruck, Junge,’ called the blacksmith, appearing in the doorway of the forge.

‘I’d better go back,’ muttered Hariulf. Avoiding Marcus’ eyes, he turned and shuffled back towards the smithy.

Disconsolately, Marcus wandered off through the scatter of thatched longhouses which made up the village, passed through one of the entrances of the surrounding timber palisade, then struck out over the common pasture to the edge of the forest. This made the fifth day in a row that Hariulf had avoided his company. On the other days he’d made excuses; but this time-he’d actually been forbidden. Why? Except for that time when he’d crossed the stream on a fallen tree, and Hariulf had followed him and fallen in, Marcus hadn’t got his friend into any scrapes. It just didn’t make any sense. Well, in the absence of a playmate, he would visit the otter’s holt he’d discovered in a hollow tree by the river. With luck, he’d be able to watch the cubs playing with their mother.

A sudden sharp blow on his back made him turn. On the ground lay the stone that had struck him. Two boys, the swineherd’s sons, stood facing him twenty paces away. Oafish and stupid, they tended to pick on boys younger or smaller than themselves. ‘Schwarzkopf! Schwarzkopf!’ they taunted, alluding to the dark hair Marcus had inherited from his Roman father, which marked him out from fair-haired German boys. ‘Blode Constantinople Romer.’ One still had a stone in his hand, and now threw it. Easily dodging, Marcus grabbed the stone on the ground, hurled it, and had the satisfaction of seeing it smack into his assailant’s knee. The boy yelled in surprise and pain, then both rushed at Marcus.

Marcus raced into the forest, hoping to throw them off among the trees. Naturally agile and fleet of foot, he began to draw ahead, diving into a thicket when he was sure that he was out of sight and earshot of his pursuers. A short time later, snapping twigs and rustling undergrowth told him they were heading in his direction. The sounds grew nearer, stopped close to where he was sheltering. Marcus crawled to the edge of the coppice and peered out. A few paces off, the swineherd’s sons were talking. Marcus strained to hear their words.

‘We’ve lost him,’ said the elder. ‘Let’s go back.’

‘May as well, I suppose,’ agreed the other. ‘Though I don’t like letting him get away with hurting my knee. Roman pig. Anyway, he and the other Romans have got it coming to them. I overheard Father talking about a meeting of the tribe’s leaders on the night of the coming full moon. At the Wotan Stein. They’re going to be told about a plan to-’

‘Sssh, Dummkopf,’ interrupted the elder angrily. ‘We’re not supposed to know anything about that, never mind talk about it. Come on, let’s go.’

Marcus counted slowly to a thousand, before leaving the thicket and heading for home.

From the ruined watchtower built back in the time of Marcus Aurelius as part of the Rhenish frontier defences, Gaius looked down on the moonlit scene. A vast and growing crowd was assembling on the floor of the huge chasm, its walls seamed with crags and precipices, with here and there a lofty pine sprouting from a crevice where soil had gathered. This was a natural fault, a titanic gash in the rocks which, so ran the legend, was the result of a blow from Wotan’s sword. In the centre of the space loomed a massive rock, the Wotan Stein, on which stood Gundohar, King of the Burgundians: a gigantic figure, majestic in embroidered cloak and richly decorated Spangenhelm, the conical segmented helmet favoured by German warriors who could afford it. The whole wild scene put Gaius in mind of one of those German legends featuring gods and warrior-heroes, engaged in epic battle set in some grim rock-girt wilderness.

Gaius had listened with mounting concern to Marcus’ account of the conversation he had overheard in the forest. The meeting at such a charged spot as the Wotan Stone, with its association with heroic German myth, might have a military significance, especially in the context of veiled threats against Romans. The Burgundians might now be Christians (although only recently converted, and of the heretical Arian persuasion) and officially allies of Rome. But these constraints might well be skin-deep. The old general knew from experience how readily the German fighting spirit could flare up, and once aroused make them ferocious opponents. Even now, the Visigoths — the most Romanized of the German tribes, after tramping round the empire for nearly two generations before being granted a homeland — couldn’t be trusted to remain at peace. On the other hand, the meeting at the Wotan Stone might be nothing more than a festive or ritual gathering, the boys’ chauvinistic words concerning Romans mere childish boasting. Still, his vague feelings of a cooling of attitude towards himself on the part of the Burgundians — something now apparently extended to his grandson — couldn’t be ignored. Gaius had decided that the only thing to do was to attend the gathering in secret, and learn for himself what was afoot.

He had said nothing about his intention to Marcus’ mother, Clothilde, or to the boy himself, merely stating that he had to go on a short journey. Then, exchanging his dalmatic for a coarse woollen tunic and the once-despised trousers, he had pulled on stout rawhide boots, flung a cloak over his shoulders, and, early in the morning of the day before the meeting, set off, carrying a satchel of provisions prepared by Clothilde. It was a full day’s journey to the Wotan Stone; arriving shortly before sunset, Gaius had taken up position in the old watchtower, before settling down for a night’s sleep prior to his vigil.

Before the King had uttered a dozen words, Gaius felt a thrill of horror as his worst suspicions were confirmed.

‘Burgundians, are we sheep, meekly to obey the Roman shepherds?’ Gundohar began, in a growling shout. ‘Thirty years ago, I led you across the frozen Rhenus to claim our present homeland by right of conquest. Our nation since has prospered and multiplied, and now we need more land — land to the west and the north that is there for the taking. The Romans say we must be satisfied with what we have. But Rome has grown too soft and weak to stop us. If they lack the spirit or the power to defend what they claim is their territory — land which they themselves once seized from the Gauls — they no longer deserve to hold it. I say to you, let us take it for ourselves.’

A roar of approval greeted his words. When the acclamation had subsided, Gundohar continued: ‘Let us choose the moment of attack to our advantage. My spies tell me that the Visigoths in Aquitania intend shortly to invade Provincia. More importantly, the Bagaudae in the north-west are planning a general uprising, to begin on the fifteenth day of May. Let us strike on that same day. Rome will then have two enemies to fight at the same time, perhaps even three if the Visigoths march. Weak, her forces divided, Rome can surely never stand against our warriors. Their dead will be our gift to the raven and the wolf. Return now to your homes, and send out the summons for all men aged sixteen to sixty to assemble here in arms upon the day.’

Long after the last man had departed from the scene, Gaius struggled to resolve an agonizing dilemma. The Ides of May — only four days away! His immediate thought was that he must return home with all speed to warn Clothilde that, as the wife of a Roman, she might be at risk in the upsurge of anti-Roman feeling that would accompany the rising. And Marcus, as the son of a Roman, would be in even greater jeopardy. Also, in the event of a Roman counter-attack, the Burgundian Settlement would become a war zone, with perilous consequences. There was still time for Clothilde and Marcus to flee the Settlement and reach the safety of the province of Maxima Sequanorum, under Roman administration, before the fatal day; but only if he set out immediately to warn them of their danger.

And there lay the rub. The nearest Roman garrison, Spolicinum on Lacus Brigantinus (coincidentally, the fort where Titus had once served as a clerk) lay many miles to the south-east — too far for Gaius to warn them in time, were he first to make a journey to alert Clothilde. With a heavy heart, the old soldier realized where his first duty lay: he must set out for Spolicinum at first light, even though it meant abandoning his daughter-in-law and grandson to an uncertain fate. The thought that his exemplars — those iron men of Rome’s heroic age — would have taken the same course without hesitation was little comfort. But, like that Roman (or was it Spartan?) matron who would rather have seen her son’s body brought home on a shield than that he should shun the battle, he must be strong. In a mood of sombre resolution, Gaius began to plan his route to Spolicinum.

¹ The Loire and the Seine.