Alaric was buried close to the confluence of the Busento and the Crati.
If so, he lay in full view of the town. But the Goths are said to have
slain all their prisoners who took part in the work, to ensure secrecy.
Are we to suppose that Consentia was depopulated? On any other
supposition the story must be incorrect, and Alaric’s tomb would have
to be sought at least half a mile away, where the Busento is hidden in
its deep valley.
Gibbon, by the way, calls it Busentinus; the true Latin was Buxentius.
To make sure of the present name, I questioned some half a dozen
peasants, who all named the river Basenzio or Basenz’; a countryman of
more intelligent appearance assured me that this was only a dialectical
form, the true one being Busento. At a bookseller’s shop (Cosenza had
one, a very little one) I found the same opinion to prevail.
It is difficult to walk much in this climate; lassitude and feverish
symptoms follow on the slightest exertion; but—if one can disregard
the evil smells which everywhere catch one’s breath—Cosenza has
wonders and delights which tempt to day-long rambling. To call the town
picturesque is to use an inadequate word; at every step, from the
opening of the main street at the hill-foot up to the stern mediaeval
castle crowning its height, one marvels and admires. So narrow are the
ways that a cart drives the pedestrian into shop or alley; two vehicles
(but perhaps the thing never happened) would with difficulty pass each
other. As in all towns of Southern Italy, the number of hair-dressers
is astonishing, and they hang out the barber’s basin—the very basin
(of shining brass and with a semicircle cut out of the rim) which the
Knight of La Mancha took as substitute for his damaged helmet. Through
the gloom of high balconied houses, one climbs to a sunny piazza, where
there are several fine buildings; beyond it lies the public garden, a
lovely spot, set with alleys of acacia and groups of palm and
flower-beds and fountains; marble busts of Garibaldi, Mazzini, and
Cavour gleam among the trees. Here one looks down upon the yellow gorge
of the Crati, and sees it widen northward into a vast green plain, in
which the track of the river is soon lost. On the other side of the
Crati valley, in full view of this garden, begins the mountain region
of many-folded Sila—a noble sight at any time of the day, but most of
all when the mists of morning cling about its summits, or when the
sunset clothes its broad flanks with purple. Turn westward, and you
behold the long range which hides the Mediterranean so high and wild
from this distance, that I could scarce believe I had driven over it.
Sila—locally the Black Mountain, because dark with climbing
forests—held my gaze through a long afternoon. From the grassy
table-land of its heights, pasturage for numberless flocks and herds
when the long snows have melted, one might look over the shore of the
Ionian Sea where Greek craftsmen built ships of timber cut upon the
mountain’s side. Not so long ago it was a haunt of brigands; now there
is no risk for the rare traveller who penetrates that wilderness; but
he must needs depend upon the hospitality of labourers and shepherds. I
dream of sunny glades, never touched, perhaps, by the foot of man since
the Greek herdsman wandered there with his sheep or goats. Somewhere on
Sila rises the Neaithos (now Neto) mentioned by Theocritus; one would
