Attila:The Scourge of God

FIVE

Pacing nervously in the palace of his friend the Bishop of Carthage, Aurelius Augustinus — Bishop of Hippo in the diocese of Africa, famed author of Confessions and City of God, universally revered for his piety and spiritual example — was apprehensive. For today was the first of January, the day of the naming of the consuls, and of the most popular and eagerly anticipated festival of the year, which from time immemorial had been celebrated throughout the Roman world, the Feast of the Kalends. And he, Augustine, was about to go into the forum of Carthage and denounce it.

It had not been an easy or a quick decision. It came to him that, in a sense, it was a decision for the making of which his whole life had been a preparation.

The world into which he had been born, the golden afterglow of the reign of the great Constantine, was, Augustine reflected, very different from the one he now inhabited. Then Christians, their faith established by Constantine as the official religion of the Roman state after years of savage persecution, had been willing partners in a compact with the empire, and Christianity had become a unifying force in a realm once riven by divisions and disharmony.

But the empire, apparently so strong and stable, had within a generation descended into crisis. Disaster had succeeded disaster: Adrianopolis, the Gothic invasions, the crossing of the Rhenus by German hordes, the sack of Rome. In place of stability and confidence — chaos and insecurity. Yet, even as the empire weakened, its child the Church grew in power and authority. Had not Ambrose, Bishop of Mediolanum, forced the mighty Theodosius to kneel before him and do penance for his sins? The recent consensus between Church and state broke down as Christian leaders increasingly stressed the irrelevance of earthly matters, and began to contemplate what had previously been unthinkable: a Church surviving in a world without the Roman Empire.

All this, happening within Augustine’s lifetime, had strangely mirrored the events of his own career. His hedonistic student days when, not yet a Christian, he had lived for the sweet embrace of women and the addictive thrill of the arena, had been matched in the world by an easy-going co-existence between Christianity and other faiths. Then had come that blinding moment of epiphany, when he had seemed to hear a child’s voice exhorting him to seek inspiration in the Christians’ Bible: ‘Tolle, lege — Take up and read.’ From that moment, even while storm-clouds gathered round the empire, and the Church — abandoning its relaxed attitude to pagan gods — declared virtual war on heresy, he had tried to give himself completely to the service of Christ, eschewing worldly affairs and pleasures. It had not been easy. ‘Give me chastity and continence — but not yet’ had epitomized the sharpness of his struggle, as he had recorded in Confessions. Others too, like his friend Paulinus, Bishop of Nola, in rejecting the world for God, had had to make agonizing personal choices. In Paulinus’ case, this had meant ending relations with his dearest friend, the cultured and worldly poet Ausonius.

It was the terrible trauma engendered by the sack of Rome that had crystallized these aspirations, and prompted Augustine to begin writing his magnum opus, the City of God. No more should men concern themselves with the Earthly City, he had argued; instead they should strive towards the New Jerusalem, the Heavenly City, with its promise of union with God. With this vision had grown a conviction that men could not gain entrance to the City of God by their own striving. Sin barred the way. All men were sinners, but could not of their own free will purge themselves of sin. For this they needed Grace, a dispensation God alone could grant. But those who were vouchsafed this gift — the Elect — were already predestined to receive it. In the matter of salvation, God’s will was everything, man’s nothing. The bishop intoned to himself the rubric that formed the bedrock of his theology: ‘Grace, predestination, divine will.’

The moment of truth was now at hand. If the beliefs expressed with such passionate conviction in his sermons and writings were not to appear so much hypocrisy, he could not allow the Feast of the Kalends — given over to drunkenness, gluttony, debauchery, exchange of gifts, and competitive displays of wealth — to pass while he remained silent. The feast was a flagrant celebration of everything the old pagan Rome had represented. To stand by and say nothing would be shamefully to condone it. With thumping heart but with mind resolved, Augustine left the palace and set out for the forum.

Of the great Phoenician city of Carthage that Hannibal had known, barring the harbours nothing remained. Its conquerors had, with truly Roman single-mindedness, destroyed it then rebuilt it according to their own models. The second city of the West, through whose streets Augustine now walked, was, with its forum, basilicas, theatre, and university, barely distinguishable from other great urban centres of the Imperium Romanum.

Halfway up Byrsa Hill leading to the capitol and forum, Augustine had to pause for breath. Age was catching up with him, he thought ruefully; soon he would be seventy-five. Drawing in grateful lungfuls of cool winter air, he surveyed the scene. To the north, beyond the city limits, loomed the headland of Cape Carthage, while below him to the east extended the vast double harbour — the elliptical one for merchant vessels, the circular for warships. Westwards, beyond the (deconsecrated) Temple of Neptune, stretched the suburbs of Megara, dominated by the circus and the vast oval of the amphitheatre, with the arches of Hadrian’s mighty aqueduct striding away into the far distance towards the spring of Zaghouan, sixty miles inland.

Augustine entered the forum. It all looked innocent and joyful he thought, looking at the gently swirling crowds, the happy, excited faces, the cheerful colours of best garments looked out for this most special of occasions. But this smiling persona hid an ugly reality. Augustine’s sacred duty must now be to tear away that mask and expose the lust and depravity that lurked beneath. Suddenly, he felt calm and confident, as though God’s grace had touched him; the pounding of his heart stilled. He held up his hands, and — such was the greatness of his prestige — the murmurous jubilation in the forum died away as people recognized the tall, spare figure and began to spread the word: ‘It’s the Bishop of Hippo. . It’s Augustine himself. . He’s come to bless us.’

‘People of Carthage, friends and fellow Christians,’ Augustine began, ‘I rejoice to see you gathered here today, as a loving father rejoices to see his children playing. But what if the youngsters’ games should cause them to stray into a wadi, where deadly snakes and scorpions lurk concealed? Would he not warn them? And would he not be wanting in a father’s duty if he failed to do so?’ A ripple of agreement passed through the throng. Not one among them but could recall a parent’s anxious warning not to play in scrubland or deserted buildings.

A good start, Augustine thought. The trick when addressing an audience was always to speak with them, not at them; the Homilies of Chrysostom, the ‘Golden-mouthed’ Archbishop of Constantinople, had taught him that. His confidence growing, he pressed home his argument.

‘God your Heavenly Father loves you, and would warn you through me, His unworthy servant, of the perils you incur by partaking of this holiday. Because you are blinded by its pomp and glitter, deafened by the noise of its seductive music, you cannot see the cockatrice beneath the stone, nor hear the serpent’s angry hiss. With all my heart I urge you to turn aside from the temptations of this profane festival. Think instead of God’s love, and ask yourselves: “Will I deny that love, and place my soul at risk?” For, by celebrating this sinful feast, that is what you do.’

Augustine paused, suddenly aware that, carried away by the power of his own eloquence, he had forgotten his audience, the time and place, everything except the urgent need to impart his warning. He glanced at the sun: it was past its meridian. He had begun speaking at the fourth hour, so he must have been speaking for. . over two hours! He looked at his listeners. Constrained by respect for his authority, they had not drifted away, but they had become restless and inattentive. Many seemed puzzled or anxious; more looked bored and sullen, resentful of this intrusion into their merrymaking. Realist enough to recognize that he had failed to win them over, that if he continued he would merely antagonize them further, Augustine prepared to wind down his address. ‘And so, friends, I would conclude by saying-’

‘Oh, spare us, please — you’ve said enough already.’ The interruption came from a stocky, plump young man whom Augustine vaguely recognized. Macrobius was the author, he seemed to remember, of a treatise on the Saturnalia, and a rhetor at the university, the very institution where Augustine himself had won the prize for rhetoric. Appalled, the bishop heard a titter greet the young scholar’s sally. The crowd, sensing conflict, perked up. Augustine fought to retrieve the situation.

‘If, among these poor words of mine you remember but one thing, let — let it be this. .’ Augustine floundered to a halt, aware that he sounded weak, apologetic. It would never do to end thus. He began again. ‘Bear only this in mind, my friends. Without God’s Grace we are helpless. By ourselves, we can-’

‘Do nothing?’ Macrobius turned Augustine’s statement into a query. ‘Most Reverend’ — the formally correct mode of address was tinged with subtle irony — ‘you keep stressing the Grace of God. But what about the will of man? Are you suggesting that we cannot help ourselves?’

‘Are you implying that man, by his own unaided free will, can achieve goodness without help from God?’ countered the bishop hotly. Self-control, he urged himself, self-control; give way to anger in an argument, and you were lost.

‘Not at all,’ replied the other easily. ‘Since it appears you’re unwilling to answer my question, I shall answer it for you. God’s Grace may well exist; I don’t deny it. But only as a form of divine assistance. Heaven helps those who help themselves.’

Augustine was horrified. To deny the supremacy of God’s will was tantamount to heresy. The man was dangerous, clearly a disciple of that misguided Scottish monk Pelagius, who insisted that salvation could be attained through individual endeavour.

‘In fact, your theory of Grace and Predestination leads to some very bleak conclusions,’ Macrobius went on. ‘According to your philosophy whatever happens is predetermined anyway, so we should let the barbarians overrun the Roman Empire — your Earthly City — without lifting a finger to stop them.’

A muted growl of approval swept through the audience. Though nominally Christian, most still retained a pagan, worldly cast of mind; as a guarantee of personal security, the survival of the empire was to them a matter of no small concern.

‘The Roman Empire and the Earthly City are not the same,’ protested Augustine, unhappily aware that he was being forced on to the defensive, even being made to appear unpatriotic. He felt a stab of something very like panic as his grip on the situation seemed to slip. Desperately, he glanced around. Where were the defensores, the Church’s guards, who had the power to arrest religious agitators? Nowhere to be seen, of course, he thought bitterly; on this day of public rejoicing, any attempted arrest might easily stir up mob violence.

‘The Earthly City is the realm of the unrighteous — fallen angels, the souls of the wicked, sinners alive in the world,’ he heard himself shout, knowing as he did so that his words were falling on deaf ears. With a shock, he realized that, for the first time in his life, he had lost his audience.

The forum darkened as sudden storm-clouds raced across the sky: a typical north-west winter squall. Hailstones bounced on paving-stones and tiled roofs, scattering the crowd. Macrobius waved an ironic farewell to Augustine and called out cheerily, ‘A timely intervention, Bishop — by the Grace of God?’

Shaken and humiliated, Augustine returned to the bishop’s palace, thankful that the streets had emptied. He had failed. But that, he vowed, would not stop him continuing the fight. God’s enemies were powerful and ever-present. They must always be engaged and, God willing, defeated.