Attila (32 page)

Shaken and afraid, Crispus stumbled from the church. Most of the monk's hearers, he suspected, would strive for a week or two to follow his advice, then lapse back into worldly ways. Perhaps from time to time they might experience a thrill of guilty terror as they made love to a mistress, or cheated on a sale, or bet money on a charioteer; but the fear of Hell would soon recede to the back of their minds, especially as the majority would not yet have been baptized – thus holding an insurance against the risks of sinning.

How he wished he could be like those others, but he knew he wished in vain. His nature was less coarse-grained than that of most, or, put another way, more sensitive and impressionable, therefore more vulnerable. It was as though that monk had got inside his head and unloosed a Pandora's box of terrors, which could never be put back. True, he still had one more chance of absolution: penance. But suppose he should fall victim to a fatal accident, or be taken sick with a swiftly fatal disease before he
could perform the required act of penitence? The monk's horrifying depiction of Hell kept returning to his mind, and he was powerless to exorcise it. ‘Choose Christ or Rome – you cannot serve them both.' The cleric's message held a stark and dreadful warning which, however much he might wish otherwise, he knew he was compelled to heed.

Crispus was vaguely conscious of someone shaking his shoulder. As though emerging from a trance, he became aware of his surroundings: the courtroom dimly illuminated by flickering oil-lamps, the
defensor
, looking both concerned and irritated, leaning forward in his chair, flanked by the two lawyers and their clients. A servitor handed him a beaker of water.

‘Are you unwell?' enquired the
defensor
with some asperity. ‘If so, we could I suppose, adjourn proceedings for today.'

Crispus blinked and shook his head. ‘No, I'm all right, sir,' he mumbled apologetically. ‘A sudden headache; it's gone now.'

‘Good. Then perhaps we may proceed. To refresh your memory: we seem to have reached an impasse in this case, and to settle it we require to know how Papinian would find.'

With an effort, Crispus forced himself to recall the details of the case. A had accused B of filching some of his land while he, A, was absent on business, by altering the boundaries – a charge which B denied. Witnesses for both parties had been called and the weight of evidence for each claim, supported by reference to the standard authorities, compared. The result had been finely balanced, hence the need to consult Papinian in order to obtain a decisive verdict.

During the progress of the case, Crispus had become convinced that B, who had come over strongly as greedy and unscrupulous, had bribed at least one witness, and was guilty as charged. He was also certain that Papinian favoured A's claim. And – something which was potentially extremely serious for B – during the hearing it had been established beyond doubt that B had made certain intimidating statements to A concerning the disputed property. Did these remarks constitute a threat of force or injury? No, according to two of the subordinate jurisconsults. Yes, according to the remaining pair: an opinion which was, Crispus knew, supported by the supreme authority, Papinian.

The trouble was that B would then be guilty not just of
misappropriation, but of
latrocinium
, robbery. The
defensor
would then be obliged to refer B to the criminal courts, which would almost certainly mean an extended wait in gaol before B came to trial. Conditions for remand prisoners were notoriously appalling; many died before they could appear in court. If that should happen to B, Crispus, in the Church's eyes, would be guilty of the mortal sin of murder, with all the peril that implied for the salvation of his soul.

Smarting with shame for traducing the ethics of his profession, Crispus heard himself solemnly pronounce a total fabrication: ‘According to Papinian, in cases involving possession, where the validity of competing claims cannot be determined in favour of either party, the disputed property shall be equally divided between the claimants, according to the decision of an impartial arbiter.'

‘So you wish to join our little brotherhood?' the Abbot of Lerina
¹
asked the nervous young man standing before him in the Superior's Lodging. A kindly and perceptive man, the abbot regarded Crispus with a mixture of curiosity and concern. From the cut and quality of his dalmatic, he was clearly from the upper middle class, a stratum of society not noted for supplying recruits for the monastic life. There were exceptions – notably the ex-senator Paulinus of Nola – but they were rare. This young man, in contrast to the confidence displayed by most of his kind, had a troubled look which spoke of inner turmoil.

‘With all my heart, Father,' Crispus replied, with desperate eagerness.

‘I have to warn you that the life is hard,' cautioned the abbot, ‘one that you may not find easy to adapt to, and for which your life to date has not, perhaps, prepared you. I must be satisfied that your calling is sincere. You'd be surprised at how many try to enter the monastic life in order to escape the retribution of the law, or simply to be assured of life's basic necessities.' He looked appraisingly at Crispus. ‘Tell me, my son, why it is you would become a monk.'

‘I wish above everything, to live a life free from temptation to sin.'

‘Well, there is certainly little enough to tempt you here,' confirmed the abbot with a smile. ‘But you are young to wish to leave the world.' Rising from his throne, he placed a hand on Crispus' shoulder and turned him to face through a window. ‘Look: over there, across that little strip of sea, is Grinnicum
²
: the stir and bustle of a busy city, beautiful women, the excitement of the Games, song and laughter, rich food and fine wines, poetry, music, the theatre. Are you really ready to abandon these things? Here, on this barren island, you will find only solitude, work, and prayer.'

‘And communion with God, through avoidance of sin?'

‘That too, perhaps, should He bestow His Grace,' conceded the abbot gently, moved by the young man's sincerity. ‘Very well, I shall accept you as a postulant. If your commitment remains firm, in a little while you will enter upon your novitiate.'

Sobbing with relief and gratitude, Crispus fell to the ground and kissed the abbot's feet.

 

¹
Lérins.

²
Cannes.

There are men who shun the light and call themselves monks; because of their fear they shun what is good; such reasoning is the raving of a madman

Rutilianus Namatianus,
On His Return
, 417

Valentinian's eyes widened in delight as, carried by two slaves, the architect's model was placed on a plinth before him. Made of wood coated with plaster to simulate marble, it represented a triumphal arch, with panels showing in relief victorious Roman cavalry riding down fleeing Burgundians and Visigoths. For the record, a few Huns, squat and uncouth, had had to be included. But the message above all was that this was a
Roman
triumph, masterminded by none other than the Emperor himself, whose gilded effigy held the reins of the quadriga surmounting the whole. It was Aetius who had actually conducted the campaigns, Valentinian conceded to himself, but then that's what generals were for. After all, when people thought of the conquest of Britain, it was Claudius, not Aulus Plautius, whom they remembered.

‘Magnificent!' breathed the Emperor, walking round the model, admiring the artistry with which terror or resolution had been rendered on the faces of barbarians and Romans respectively. It would of course be erected in Rome (which he much preferred to provincial little Ravenna surrounded by its foggy marshes) and outdo in size and splendour the arches of Titus and Constantine.

There was unfortunately one tiresome matter to be negotiated before the project could go ahead: funding. The Treasury officials were bound to prove their usual difficult selves; but with his mother's help they could probably be persuaded.

In a reception chamber of Ravenna's imperial palace, the Emperor and his mother – the Augusta Galla Placidia – enthroned, confronted the two chief financial ministers, the
comites rei privatae
and
sacrarum largitionum
, the Counts of the Privy and Public
Purses respectively. Between the two groups stood the model of the projected Arch of Valentinian.

‘It can't be done, Your Serenity,' said the Privy Purse, shaking his head regretfully. A thin, intense man, he had the manner of an anxious schoolmaster. ‘The expense for such a capital project would be enormous – far exceeding any surplus from the rents of imperial lands. Surplus did I say?' The man gave a weary smile. ‘Serenity, there
is
no surplus. The income from your patrimony is barely enough to cover the expenses of your household. In fact, even as I speak, the wages of the secretariat are considerably in arrears.' He coughed discreetly. ‘If I might presume to suggest, a certain, ah, “readjustment”, shall we call it, of the palace budget would help to balance the books. Last week's banquet for the Eastern Empire's ambassadors on the publication of the Theodosian Code, for instance. Snow to cool the wine, brought from the Alpes in baskets by relays of runners; pigs' testicles from Provincia; dormice stuffed with larks' tongues . . . A trifle excessive, perhaps? Oysters, pork, and hare, obtained locally – at a fraction of the cost – would surely have sufficed.'

‘I see,' sneered Valentinian. ‘To save a few
tremisses
, you would have us serve distinguished guests sausage from Bononia
¹
garnished with prime Ravenna cabbage, and washed down with that Mantuan vinegar they call wine. Cato the Censor would have approved, I'm sure.' He turned to the other count, a thickset florid man. ‘If the Privy Purse is too mean to let us celebrate our victories, perhaps the state will prove more generous.'

‘Your Serenity, forget this folly,' declared the Count of the Public Purse brusquely. ‘The Treasury needs every
nummus
it can wring in taxes, just to pay the army in Gaul.'

‘You dare address your Emperor thus!' shrieked Valentinian, spittle flying from his lips. ‘I'll have you dismissed, banished. A life among the goats of Cephalonia might cure you of your insolence.'

‘Aside from the fact that Cephalonia now falls within the jurisdiction of the East,' rejoined the count smoothly, quite unperturbed by the emperor's outburst, ‘what would that achieve?' The count was secure in the knowledge that, without the backing of Placidia and Aetius, Valentinian's threat was an
empty one. Even mighty emperors like the first Valentinian or Theodosius the Great, had been unable to bully or manipulate (beyond a limited extent) a bureaucracy grown all-embracing, powerful, and quasi-independent, since its virtual creation under Diocletian. Nor, despite sustained efforts, had they been able to rid the system of its greatest evil: endemic corruption. This, combined with the disbursement of salaries for the army of tax and administrative officials, accounted for a serious erosion of funds reaching the Treasury.

‘Perhaps Your Serenity does not fully appreciate just how parlous the situation has become,' the count continued. ‘Apart from Italia, Provence, and central Gaul, there's nowhere left
to
tax. Africa and Britain are both gone. Hispania's in turmoil from encroachments by the Visigoths, the Suebes' occupation of Gallaecia, and Bagaudian resurgence. The federates are exempt from levies, and it'll be years before Aremorica recovers sufficiently to—'

‘But Uncle Honorius had
his
arch,' said Valentinian, cutting short the minister and turning to his mother.

‘Yes; finished just in time for the sack of Rome as I recall,' chuckled the Public Purse. ‘The Goths – any who could read, that is – must have been amused by the inscription: “Subdued for all time – the Goth nation.” To build another might be tempting Providence.'

‘My royal half-brother perhaps could not really afford such an expensive monument,' said Placidia soothingly to Valentinian. She turned to the Count of the Public Purse. ‘Could we not settle for a compromise: triumphal games in a refurbished Colosseum? That wouldn't empty the coffers, surely?'

The ministers exchanged glances, a reciprocal nod confirming mutual acceptance of this olive branch. ‘Well, I suppose it
might
be managed,' said the Count of the Patrimony grudgingly. ‘It'll mean economies,' and he glanced meaningfully towards Valentinian.

‘And an overhaul of the tax net,' took up the other minister, ‘to ensure that no one who can pay slips through the meshes.'

‘Who, pray,
is
escaping their fiscal obligations?' demanded Valentinian.

‘Apart from mass desertions by decurions and
coloni
to the great estates and, until their revolt was crushed, to the Bagaudae of
Aremorica,' the count replied, ‘we have these monks – a huge and growing class of parasites, whose priority is not to save the empire but to save their souls. Also, quite apart from the fact that they make no contribution to the state in dues or labour, their vow of celibacy is causing the population to diminish, thus further reducing the tax base and eroding recruitment for the army.'

‘Then we must stop the rot!' exclaimed Valentinian, pleased to have found a target on which to vent his disappointment. ‘I'll have the Senate ratify an edict forbidding anyone to enter the monastic life without permission.' He looked at Placidia, seeking her approval. ‘A good idea, Mother?'

‘A splendid one,' confirmed the Empress warmly, casting an indulgent glance towards her son.

‘I would remind Your Serenities that such legislation has already been enacted,' put in the Public Purse tartly. ‘It states that no one can leave the land on which they work, to become a monk, without their lord's permission – which is to be granted only in the most exceptional of circumstances.'