Attila (31 page)

‘Supply wagons?' repeated Quintus, who had long ago learnt that deferential curiosity could be an aid to advancement.

‘Loaded with flour. The campaign's Praetorian prefect of supplies has assured me the wagons are scheduled to arrive any day, from state storehouses in the provinces of Viennensis and the First Narbonensis.'

He handed Quintus a brimming goblet. ‘Only Massilian, I'm afraid – best I could get. The plan is this. Those poor devils in Narbo Martius are starving; no food's got in for months. According to a scout who managed to get through the Gothic lines the other day, they're on the point of surrendering. If we can get the flour in, that won't happen and Narbo will be saved. Aetius is on his way from Burgundy; our joint forces will far outnumber the Goths, and they'll have to raise the siege. However, we can't afford to wait for Aetius. We must deliver the flour now.'

‘Just one point, sir,' Quintus said delicately.

Litorius raised his eyebrows.

‘How do we get the flour through the Goths' entrenchments? With an army the size of ours, they're bound to get word of our coming and prepare to resist. Also, wagons are slow, cumbrous things, not easy to defend.'

‘You said one point, Quintus,' Litorius chided gently, recharging their goblets. ‘I make that two.' Eyes shining with enthusiasm, he began to pace the tent. To answer both: one, the Goths won't get word of our coming because we'll approach silently, by night; two, using cavalry we'll dispense with the wagons to get the flour through – each horseman will carry behind him two sacks of flour. The scout has prepared a sketch-map showing where the enemy lines are weakest; that's where we'll strike. Marcus' men have been primed to guide us in. Well, what do you think?'

‘It's a brilliant plan sir,' conceded Quintus, before continuing more dubiously, ‘but risky, if you ask me. Night operations are tricky things – so much can go wrong. Given perfect planning, preparation, and discipline, it
could
work, I suppose.'

‘It
will
work,' affirmed Litorius, adding with a smile, ‘thanks to you.' He placed a hand on the other's shoulder. ‘My dear Quintus, I have complete faith in your ability to ensure that those
details you've just mentioned function smoothly. ‘So you'd best get started. But finish your wine first.'

Wakened by a distant sound, the Goth sentry blearily opened his eyes. Guiltily, he stared about him in the grey half-light at the familiar scene: the tracery of scaffolding surrounding Bishop Rusticus' half-rebuilt cathedral showing above the great North Gate in Narbo's walls; the arches of the aqueducts striding above the clumsy earthworks thrown up around the city; the pole of a battering-ram, abandoned after its protective shed had been shattered by rocks dropped from the walls by the defenders; a rickety siege-tower, stuck in the space between the walls and the trenches, its wheels sunk to the axles in the soft ground. The man listened; he could hear it clearly now: a low rumbling like distant thunder, growing steadily louder. Then it dawned on his sleep-fogged brain what it was he was hearing – cavalry! Grabbing the horn suspended by a baldric from his shoulder, he blew a warning blast.

Too late. As the nearest Goths stumbled from their tents and shelters, a tide of mailed Roman horsemen swept up and over the entrenchments, and fell on the besiegers in their path. The fight was short and bloody. Taken by surprise while the bulk of their army still slumbered, the Goths in the path of the Romans fell swiftly to the chopping
spathae
that rose bright silver in the morning rays, swept down, then rose again; but this time red. Their preliminary task done, the cavalry formed two outward-facing lines in front of the North Gate, creating a clear passage for the Huns who followed, each galloping warrior with two sacks of flour tied behind his saddle.

To the cheers of the besiged, the North Gate swung open to admit the Huns. For two hours, the Roman cavalry, reinforced by Marcus' troops, threw back wave after wave of Goths, while the Huns poured into the city like a river in spate. When the last Huns were inside, the cavalry followed, fighting every foot of the way as they backed through the entrance. Then the valves of the gate were slowly pushed shut against a howling press of Goths, and the great securing bars dropped into their holding-braces. A few Goths who had pursued the cavalry too closely found themselves trapped inside and were cut down without quarter.

‘Congratulations, Count – a brilliant operation,' Aetius told Litorius. They were in Aetius' tent outside Narbo, ten days after
the relief of the city, and the day after he had arrived at the head of his Huns and smashed the Gothic host. (The survivors had retreated to their assigned homeland, leaving eight thousand corpses behind them.) ‘Your relief of Narbo is an object lesson in the two key principles of war, innovation, and what I call “operational command”. The successful general is one who is not afraid to apply original ideas and who, while overseeing general strategy, trusts his subordinates to use their own initiative and implement details on the ground. You have truly shone regarding both these points.'

‘Thank you, sir,' acknowledged Litorius, flushing with pleasure. ‘But, as I've said, much of the credit must go to Quintus here, my second-in-command. The overall plan to get flour to the besieged may have been mine, but the execution was largely his doing.'

‘An excellent example of operational command in action,' said Aetius with a smile. ‘Well done, Quintus. Promotion's in order, I think. “Duke Quintus Arrius” – it has a certain ring, you'll agree. Don't worry,' he laughed, turning to Litorius. ‘He won't be usurping your position. I'm putting you in sole command here while I make a trip to Italia. A little bone to pick with our beloved Empress. You'll be acting Master of Soldiers pending my return.'

‘
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.

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.'