Attila:The Scourge of God

need to provide a second — and sound — recruit. Besides, that would be the first place the recruiting agents would look. Somewhere to the west — how far he didn’t know — he’d heard there was a land called Aremorica. A place where men were free and equal, where there were no landlords or coloni, no laws tying workers to the land. A place of refuge for a poor, desperate outcast? Well, there was only one way to find out.

When all the tax returns were in and he’d had time to study them, Marcellus, as senior decurion, called an emergency meeting of all the councillors of Augusta Treverorum, to be held in the basilica. The yield in cash and kind was risible — barely half the amount the government demanded, worse by far than for any previous Indiction.

‘Well, gentlemen, what’s to be done?’ said Marcellus, after announcing the results to a shocked curia. ‘That’s what we’re here to decide. I’m open to suggestions.’ After having faced up to and absorbed the sheer enormity of the problem, he felt strangely calm.

‘How — how could this have happened?’ exclaimed the newest member of the Council, a portly, youngish man; his face was ashen and he trembled visibly.

‘I think it’s been coming for a long time,’ replied Marcellus gently, ‘but we chose not to see it. This year we’ve been caught out by a particularly unfortunate combination of circumstances, any one of which alone would have caused us a serious problem. Coming together, their effects have been catastrophic. A terrible harvest, devastating barbarian raids, the field army unable to help because of being tied up in Aquitania and Italia: all that has put an unprecedented strain on taxpayers already hard put to it to pay their dues. The result — predictably in hindsight — has been mass flight to Aremorica or to the landlords of great estates. In the latter case, in exchange for binding themselves over to serfdom, the fugitives will at least be protected from barbarians and rapacious tax- collectors.’

‘Disgraceful!’ shouted an elderly decurion. ‘They should be brought back, flogged, and branded. ‘What’s the empire coming to, I’d like to know?’

‘A premature end, if we adopt your solution,’ snapped Marcellus. ‘Look, I accept that the government needs money from taxes to pay the army. But the burden’s unfairly loaded on to the poor. If the rich could be made to pay in proportion to their wealth, and corruption stamped out among the tax officials, we’d be halfway to solving the problem.’

‘No doubt,’ put in another councillor in a world-weary voice. ‘But we’ll have a heat-wave in January before that happens. Meanwhile, we have the little matter of making up the shortfall. Paying it out of our own purses will drive many of us to the wall.’

The meeting dissolved into hubbub, some decurions declaring that they would be ruined, others speculating that they might be forced to pawn the family silver, or sell property in Italia or other parts of Gaul.

Eventually, Marcellus called the meeting to order: ‘Gentlemen!’ The authority in his voice stilled the uproar. ‘If I may make a suggestion, there is a precedent for tax relief being granted to provinces which have suffered from barbarian invasion. For example, in the nineteenth year of the reign of our late Emperor, Honorius, the taxes due for the Suburbicarian provinces of Italia were reduced to one-fifth. I shall write today to the provincial governor, presenting our difficulties as cogently as I can, and requesting that he put our case before the Consistory in Ravenna. Even allowing for the imperfect functioning of the imperial post, I think we may expect a reply within a month. I suggest, therefore, that we meet again whenever that arrives, and review the situation.’

But even before the last of the decurions had left the basilica, Marcellus had quietly made up his mind that he himself would not be present at that meeting. There would, he suspected, be no remission from Ravenna. Valentinian’s inefficient administration lacked the will or competence either to reform its tax-gathering machinery, or to make adjustments to ease the financial burden on hard-hit communities. He would no longer, he decided, serve a government that was prepared to crush the poorest of its citizens in order to maintain itself. He would this very day leave for Aremorica, and with luck begin a new life among the Bagaudae. (A widower, whose children had long left home, he had no ties.) Rome, its resources stretched to the limit to retain control in Gaul, had virtually abandoned any pretence of ruling what was still officially the province of Lugdunensis III.

Marcellus had no illusions as to the momentousness of his decision. For a man of his age and position to abandon the life he knew, and take his chance among the outlaws, would test his strength and courage to the utmost. But strangely, as he walked home through streets still bearing the scars of the last barbarian sack of twenty years before, to prepare for his journey, he felt a lifting of the spirit, as though an oppressive burden had been lifted from him.

When the last of the fugitives, Martin, had finished telling his story, the three were sent outside the Council hut to await the elders’ decision.

‘Let the decurion stay,’ pronounced the leader. ‘He is old, beyond working in the fields, but he has integrity and wisdom. He would be an asset in helping us run our community. I suggest we also keep the cobbler. His spirit may be broken, but that hardly affects his practical skills — skills we are in sore need of. Are we all agreed so far?’

There was a general murmur of assent.

‘Good. The boy, however, is a different matter. He is young and strong, but his self-inflicted wound severely curtails his usefulness. Also, someone who is prepared to cut off his thumb to avoid military service shows a lack of moral fibre.’

‘Are we to send him away, then?’ asked an elder.

‘That would not be wise. The lad is a liability — to himself as well as to us. If we let him go, he might become a security risk by turning informer to the Romans.’ The leader paused expectantly, but no voice was raised in dissent. ‘That’s settled, then.’ He nodded at a burly member of the group. ‘See to it. Make sure there are no witnesses, and that the body won’t be found.’

¹ The Seine.

² Amiens.

³ Tours and Poitiers.

TWENTY-TWO

The poor are being robbed, widows groan, orphans are trodden down, so that many seek refuge with the Bagaudae

Salvian, On the Government of God, c. 435

Tibatto raised his arms and a hush spread throughout the ruined amphitheatre, its tiers close-packed with humanity from every part of north-west Gaul between the Liger and the Sequana.¹ If the vast crowd could be characterized by one single factor, that factor was diversity. The majority were coloni, peasants and small-holders dressed in patched or ragged tunics; there were also many whose once-fine dalmatics betrayed their curial status; others bore on their arms the brands of slaves or conscripts, the latter distinguishable from the former by the callus under the chin from the knot securing the cheek-pieces of a helmet; here and there a cobbler or tailor with hunched shoulders, a smith with brawny biceps. All, whatever their origins, had this in common: they now belonged to the huge and growing class that officialdom had proscribed as perditi, criminals and outlaws, to be hunted down and exterminated without distinction and without pity.

Tibatto stood in the president’s box from which senators, and once the would-be emperor Magnus Maximus, had opened the games, and surveyed his audience. A bald, powerfully built figure, with strong yet sensitive features, the outlaw leader had a presence which commanded attention and respect. His background was a mystery. Some said he had been a soldier, others a judge; he had been a senator who, disgraced, had changed his name, a wealthy merchant who had lost his fortune, a courtier fallen from favour, et cetera, et cetera.