Attila:The Scourge of God

But now, my old and much esteemed commander, I must speak my mind concerning certain points you raised in your letter. I realize that in so doing I risk destroying whatever amicitia exists between us. I am prompted only by the high regard in which I hold you, and by concern for your happiness. If this sounds presumptuous coming from one who was once a junior officer under your command, I beg forgiveness. I recall your advice to young tribunes reporting on a battle situation: ‘Tell it as it is, not how you think I would like to hear it.’ That precept I shall now apply.

First, regarding your sentiments regarding the Germans, and your prescription that we get rid of them. How do you propose that this policy — even supposing it were desirable — should be accomplished? Repatriation? Extermination? The plain fact is that the Roman government in the West is far too weak to have any hope at all of enforcing either of these ‘solutions’. The Germans are here to stay, and Rome would be wise to accept it. Properly treated, the Germans could be a tremendous asset to the empire. Though admittedly lacking in refinement, they are, with few exceptions, brave and honourable; they admire Romanitas and, if encouraged to assimilate, would in time, I believe, make model Roman citizens. But how does Rome treat them? With hostility and contempt. Intermarriage between Romans and Germans is forbidden; the wearing of furs and trousers in Rome is declared illegal; Germans are treated as heretical untouchables because their Arian form of Christianity differs somewhat from our own. Such attitudes are purest folly. They will succeed in turning a formidable minority, who at present wish for nothing more than friendship, into dangerous enemies. Having lived among Germans for some thirteen years now, I think I can speak with some authority.

You say that Rome should return to the old gods, and imply that by abandoning them we incurred their wrath, and were punished for that apostasy by the barbarian invasions. If that is so, why has the Eastern Empire, which is if anything more Christian than the West, been largely spared? In any case, it is far too late to attempt to restore the Pantheon. Do you seriously think that anyone believes in Jupiter, Juno, and the rest any more? If Julian tried, and failed, to reverse things seventy years ago, what chance is there of doing so today?

You say you believe that Rome will rise again. With all my heart I hope that you are right. But she will do so only if men see clearly whence her troubles stem, and, instead of taking refuge in comforting illusions, are willing to take radical measures to deal with them. To think otherwise is to indulge in culpable self-deception. As for the notion that Rome should contemplate annexing new territories, when she cannot even retain those she already has. .! Tact alone restrains me, Gaius, from expressing what I think, except to say that such opinion is unworthy of you.

There — I have said too much already, and fear in doing so may have given mortal offence to one whose good opinion I value above most others’.

Your kind invitation to visit you is much appreciated. If you would still find me welcome as a guest, nothing would give your old tribune greater pleasure than to come to the Villa Fortunata. It would be good to fight the Frigidus again over a flagon of Falernum. Here, alas, the only drink is German beer or Massilian vinegar. Farewell.

Sent by the hand of the bearer who brought yours.

¹ 1 September 431.

² Budapest.

³ Africa’s. The god Bacchus was associated with the Libyan goat, symbolic of wine. By extension, Libya becomes a metaphor for all Africa.

⁴ Leisured scholarship.

⁵ Toulouse.

⁶ 27 September 431.

⁷ Bordeaux.

ELEVEN

All pagan practices, whether public or private, are to be banned

Edict of Theodosius I, 391

Shock gripped Titus, as he drew rein at the entrance of the Villa Fortunata. The gate drooping drunkenly from a single hinge, and the glimpse of untended weed-choked fields beyond, told their own story. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. As he rode slowly down the grass-grown drive, Titus spotted in the distance a figure bent over a plough drawn by two draught-mules. Tethering his horse to a tree, he walked towards the ploughman. The man was old, dressed in a dirty, worn tunic, his thin shanks wrapped in mud-spattered cloths. The plough halted as it struck a rock, and the old man bent down to try to remove the obstruction. Something familiar in the set of his head struck Titus. . It was his father — ploughing his own land, like a latter-day Cincinnatus.

He joined the struggling figure, gently pushed aside the blue-veined hands with their bleeding cracks and swollen knuckles. Gripping the boulder, he wrenched it free with a single vigorous heave.

Gaius, his cheeks covered in a three-day growth of stubble, stared at his son with rheumy eyes. ‘Titus!’ he exclaimed in a breaking voice. ‘I–I hoped you’d come. But. .’

‘But you were too proud to ask,’ rejoined Titus, his heart seeming to fill his chest. ‘Oh, Father, what am I going to do about you? Come here.’ He extended his arms, and father and son embraced.

They separated, and looked at each other with moist eyes. ‘You lead the mules,’ said Titus, a lump rising in his throat. ‘I’ll take the plough-stilts. We’ll finish this furrow-length, then go to the house. There’s much for us to talk about.’

‘. . and if that’s how the empire rewards its loyal subjects, there’s something rotten at the heart of Rome,’ said Gaius. His account of the hardships he had suffered since their last meeting, nearly eight years before, had been a long catalogue of injustices, and confirmed all that Titus had heard from friends of the family. With mingled rage and pity, he looked round the familiar tablinum: the scrolls thick with dust, cobwebs festooning the room’s corners. The house-slaves had all had to be sold, leaving a single freed-woman to deal with all the domestic tasks. It was persecution by petty-minded officials, the bishop and mayor in particular, that had reduced his father to these present straits.

‘I began to think about your views concerning Germans,’ Gaius went on, ‘and decided that, after all, perhaps there was something in what you’d said. It would seem they have virtues which our ancestors once possessed, but which modern Romans have abandoned for the most part. As you know, I correspond with a wide circle of friends from the curial class to which I once belonged. One of them lives in Aquitania, the part of Gaul assigned to the Visigoths as their homeland. Instead of being evicted from his villa without compensation, he received a sum of money from its Gothic occupier. How many Romans would have done the same, had the position been reversed? And his case, apparently, is far from unique. Perhaps his Christ God, which now is also yours, is worthier of adoration than the old gods of Rome.’ Gaius paused and, for the first time that Titus could recall, looked abashed. ‘And now,’ the older man went on, ‘regarding your marriage to Clothilde: if it is not too late, accept the blessing and apologies of a foolish old man.’

‘Gladly, Father,’ replied Titus, experiencing a rush of huge relief and joy. ‘But do not say “foolish”. Soon, I hope, you’ll see your grandson.’

‘Let us drink to that. You can’t imagine what pleasure it would give me.’ The old man recharged their beakers with Falernian from the last of the cellar’s amphorae. ‘Now, you wished for my advice concerning Aetius.’ Some of the old steel entered Gaius’ voice as his eyes locked with his son’s. ‘End your service with him. For the basest of reasons, he has betrayed Rome and done her irreparable harm. You worry that leaving him would smack of breaking faith? But such a man, by his actions, has forfeited all claims to loyalty. Your duty is to Rome, not to the man who has weakened her. If you wish to serve anyone, it should be Boniface.’

‘But it was Boniface who let the Vandals in. Surely-’

‘Granted, he was guilty of a huge misjudgement,’ Gaius interrupted. ‘But he has a noble heart, and wishes