Attila:The Scourge of God

ONE

Although it was only October, the wind from the Alpine passes that ruffled the leaden surface of Lacus Brigantinus¹ and roared around the barrack blocks of Spolicinum was bitterly cold and held a hint of snow. The Roman sentries pacing the walkway of the fort’s crumbling walls shivered beneath their cloaks and blew on reddened hands gripping spear-shafts. Unlike the tough German mercenaries whose cantonment lay a few hundred yards off beside the lake, not all these men would survive the coming winter. For the Roman element in the increasingly Germanized army tended these days to be drawn from the sweepings of the great estates: coloni too puny or infirm to work their farms profitably, and so handed over by their landlords for arrears of rent.

In his tiny office, Titus Valerius Rufinus, the fort’s senior clerk, made a swift calculation on his abacus and entered the latest consignment, a cartload of iron pigs and mouflon horn for bow laths, in the codex tagged ‘Supply’. Before replacing the bulky record, he removed from its hiding-place at the back of the shelf a scroll bearing the label ‘Liber Rufinorum’. He unrolled a foot or two of blank papyrus, weighting it down on his desk with a bronze inkwell and an oil lamp. Then, after checking through the window that the duty tribune wasn’t on the prowl, he dipped a reed pen and began to write:

Spolicinum Fort, Province of 2nd Raetia, Diocese of Italia. The year of the consuls Asclepiodotus and Marinianus, IV Ides Oct.²

Following a terrible quarrel with my father, Gaius Valerius Rufinus, retired general and veteran of Hadrianopolis and the Gothic Wars, I’ve decided to take up the task that he began, namely the keeping of the Book of the Rufini. Aware that these are critical times for Rome, my father wanted to record for posterity the key events he had lived through and in some of which he had taken part; he also expressed a wish that his successors carry on the task after his death. Having broken the old man’s heart, I feel I must pick up the baton — if only as an act of reparation. For I doubt if Gaius Valerius now has the will to continue the compilation of the Liber.

The cause of our quarrel was twofold: my decision a) to become a Christian, and b) to marry a German. Now, to Gaius, a diehard pagan and a Roman of the old school, two things, Germans and Christianity, are anathema: Germans because to him they are unruly savages who threaten the very fabric of the empire; Christianity because, by turning men’s minds away from earthly affairs to the afterlife, it is sapping Rome’s will to survive. (To me, faith in a single loving God, incarnated for a short time on earth in the form of Jesus, seems infinitely more valid than belief in a pantheon of beings who, if they exist at all, behave like so many petty criminals or malicious children. Also — let me be honest — being a Christian has practical advantages: pagans are debarred from promotion in the army and civilian administration.)

Foolishly (as I now realize), I convinced myself that I could talk Gaius round to accepting my position. When I paid a visit to the Villa Fortunata, our family home near Mediolanum,³ to introduce him to Clothilde, my beautiful betrothed, a dreadful scene erupted.

‘They don’t look very dangerous,’ laughed Clothilde as they waited beside the atrium’s central pool, pointing at an array of little bronze figurines on a low table. They represented the household gods, the lares et penates, which until lately would have been found in practically every Roman home. By openly displaying them, as Titus had explained to Clothilde, Gaius Valerius risked incurring savage penalties.

‘Don’t be fooled. These little fellows could land us in a lot of trouble. The government’s determined to stamp out all pagan practices, even something as trivial as this.’

‘Wouldn’t it be sensible just to keep them somewhere private?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But that’s Father for you. Principle. He should have been a Christian back in Diocletian’s time; he’d have made a splendid martyr. Ah, here he is.’

Accompanied by the slave sent to summon him, Gaius Valerius shuffled into the atrium, supporting himself on a stick. At sixty-five, he was hardly ancient, but with his bald head, wrinkled skin, and stooped posture, he could have passed for eighty. A lifetime of hard campaigning and the cares of running an estate in straitened times had taken their toll.

The old man’s face lit up. ‘Titus! It’s good to see you, my son,’ he cried in a reedy quaver. ‘You should have let us know you were coming.’ He propped his stick against a wall and they embraced warmly. Releasing the young man, Gaius regarded him fondly. ‘That uniform suits you. Pity that as a civilian you can’t wear armour. In a muscled cuirass and crested helmet you’d look splendid.’ He paused and added wistfully, ‘As I did myself once. You should have seen me at the victory parade after the Battle of the Frigidus. .’ He trailed off as a faraway look came into his eyes.

Titus was afraid that his father was about to embark on one of his rambling reminiscences, but Gaius collected himself and announced briskly, ‘But you’ve heard all that before. Now, some wine. There’s still an amphora or two of Falernian in store.’ He paused and seemed to notice Clothilde for the first time, then shot Titus a quizzical glance which held a hint of disapproval. ‘Your companion. .?’ He left the question hanging in the air, his breeding preventing him from putting into words what he obviously wondered: was she his son’s personal slave, or perhaps a concubine? (To Gaius she had to be one or the other; no alternative relationship was conceivable between a Roman and a German. And Clothilde, from her dress and colouring, was clearly of Teutonic origin.)

Titus took Clothilde’s hand. ‘Father, this is Clothilde, from a noble Burgundian family. We hope that you will give us your consent and blessing for our marriage.’

Gaius’ face paled and he stared at his son in shocked disbelief. ‘But. . you can’t,’ he faltered. ‘She’s German. It’s against the law.’

‘Strictly speaking, that’s true,’ Titus conceded. ‘But you know as well as I do there are ways round it if you can pull the right strings. After all, Honorius himself was married to the daughter of Stilicho, who was a Vandal. If you were to put in a good word for us with the bishop, I’m sure the provincial governor would-’

‘Never!’ interrupted Gaius, a red spot burning on each cheek. ‘A son of mine marry a German? Unthinkable. It would bring eternal shame on the house of the Rufini.’

This was all going horribly wrong — beyond Titus’ worst imaginings. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled wretchedly to Clothilde, signing urgently to the hovering slave to show her out, until the storm should have passed.

‘That was uncalled for, Father,’ Titus said accusingly, once they were alone. ‘Clothilde’s a fine girl. You couldn’t ask for a better daughter-in-law. Just because she’s German. .’ He stumbled to a halt, anger making him incoherent.

‘Germans are the enemy of Rome,’ declared Gaius, a steely edge creeping into his voice. ‘They are the cancer that is eating at the empire. We must drive them out or they will destroy us.’ He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had softened, held a note of appeal. ‘You can see that, Titus, surely? Look, we can’t talk here; the slaves will start eavesdropping. Let’s continue this discussion in the tablinum.’

Limping, the young man followed his father down a short corridor to his study-cum-library. (A childhood riding accident had left Titus lame in one leg, debarring him from military service which, as the son of a soldier, he would otherwise have been compelled to take up. However, his post as a clerk attached to the army conferred quasi-military status and entitled him to wear uniform.) The room overlooked the peristyle with its fountains, statues, and pillared arcades. A pleasant blend of sounds drifted through the open shutters; plash of falling water, distant lowing of cattle, the soft cluck of chickens. The walls were lined with all the old classics, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Caesar, Suetonius and others. There were even a few moderns, such as Claudian and Ammianus Marcellinus. The two men sat on folding chairs facing each other.

‘We can never mix with those people, my son,’ said Gaius with earnest urgency. ‘They’re illiterate barbarians. They have disgusting manners, they stink, let their hair grow long, dress in furs and trousers instead of decent clothing, despise culture. . Need I go on?’

‘They may be everything you say, Father,’ Titus replied. ‘But I’ve found them also to be brave and honourable — unlike many of today’s Romans. And once you’ve made friends with him a German’s loyal to a fault. Anyway, whether we like them or not is academic. They’re here to stay. We can’t beat them, we need them in the army; the best thing we can do is try to get along with them. You know, they actually admire most things Roman, and want to integrate with us as stakeholders in the empire. We’d be insane not to take full advantage of that. Constantius made a good start, forging friendships with the tribes before he died. And this new general, Aetius, seems to have the same idea.’

‘Defeatist talk,’ retorted Gaius, his voice hardening again. ‘Aetius is a traitor to his people. We destroyed the Cimbri and the Teutones under Marius. We can do the same again.’

‘That was five hundred years ago,’ Titus exclaimed in exasperation. ‘Things have changed just a little since then, don’t you think. What about Hadrianopolis? You were there, remember? Rome’s worst disaster since Cannae, they say.’

‘Rome recovered after Cannae,’ Gaius retorted, ‘and went on to defeat Hannibal.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Titus sighed. He plucked the first scroll of the Liber Rufinorum from its pigeon-hole, unrolled a section and began to read: ‘“Having inflicted severe losses on the Goths, as we ourselves had sustained many casualties we decided on a tactical withdrawal to the city in order to regroup.”’ He furled the scroll and replaced it. ‘You’ve convinced yourself Hadrianopolis really was like that, haven’t you? You know what your trouble is, Father — you can’t face the truth about what’s happening to Rome. You blame the Germans, when you should be blaming Rome herself.’

‘Explain yourself,’ snapped Gaius, nettled by his son’s blunt criticism.

‘If Rome really wants to get rid of the Germans, she needs one thing above all else: patriotism. Well, that’s being very efficiently destroyed by the Roman government’s corrupt tax policy. The “barbarians”, as you call them, are being welcomed as deliverers by the poor, who are being taxed out of existence. People are ceasing to care whether Rome survives or goes under. Is any of this registering with you? No, I can see it isn’t. I take it, then, you’re not having second thoughts about my marrying Clothilde?’

‘Once he has made his mind up, a true Roman does not change it.’

‘That’s the most pompous, stupid thing I’ve ever heard!’ Titus shouted, aware that he was widening the gulf that yawned between them, but past caring. ‘There’s something else you should know. I’d meant to break it gently, but we seem to have gone beyond such niceties. I’ve decided to become a Christian.’

A terrible silence grew. At length Gaius rose. ‘Go,’ he said, in a flat, expressionless voice. ‘And take your German slut with you. You are no longer my son.’

With his ties to home and family irrevocably sundered, Titus felt a huge loss and sadness. But in a curious way he also felt free. He knew that, like Julius Caesar five hundred years before, he had reached a crossroads in his life, a Rubicon. In a flash of insight, he saw what he must do. First, he would send Clothilde back to her own people, pending arrangements for his baptism and their marriage. (There might be tribal barriers to overcome, but no religious ones; unlike most of her fellow Germans, who were Arians, Clothilde had been raised a Catholic.) Then he would try, somehow, to join Aetius, whose policy of integrating the German tribes into the structure of the empire seemed to offer the best, perhaps the only, way forward for Rome. Having come to a decision, Titus felt relief tinged with excitement sweep over him. The die was cast.

¹ Lake Constance

² 12 October

³ Milan.