Attila:The Scourge of God

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 Dore.

⁷ River Allier.

⁸ Nimes; the Cevennes.

⁹ Thiers, in Puy de Dome.

¹⁰ St-Paulien, in Haute Loire.

¹¹ Mediterranean Sea.

¹² River Herault.

TWENTY-SIX

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