Attila:The Scourge of God

new breed of cleric that could be seen tramping the roads singly or in pairs: a vagrant monk. Roughly elbowing aside the priest, he faced the congregation and began to speak. The angry protests and the priest’s remonstrations died away as the man’s eloquence and sheer power of personality began to grip his audience.

‘I have a simple message for you,’ the monk declared. ‘You wish to save your souls? Then you must renounce the world and its temptations, abandon earthly pursuits. Why?’ He glared round the congregation with burning eyes, and his voice rose to a shout. ‘Because to embrace the world is to risk incurring sin, and to die a sinner is to enter Hell!’ Then his voice quietened, became mild, reasonable. ‘How many of you, thinking it no sin, keep a concubine or visit the theatre, watch wild-beast fights in the arena and chariot races in the circus? You may not realize it, but in so doing you have endangered your immortal souls, for all these things are sins. I daresay most of you attend the baths — not in itself a sin, I grant.’ Again his voice rose. ‘It is, however, an indulgence which can stimulate the carnal appetites, and tempt you to the sin of fornication. As is indeed the marriage bed itself; better by far for husband and wife to suppress desire and live in mutual chastity. Have you been a soldier? If so, you may have committed the sin of murder — for such is any killing, even of an enemy. Are you a lawyer or a magistrate? Then are you almost certain to have sinned, for which of you can truly say that all your judgments have been just? And if, in passing judgment, you have condemned a man to death, you are guilty of murder as surely as if you had killed him by your own hand. I tell you, the only certain way to enter Heaven is to-’

‘Enough!’ interrupted a member of the congregation, bolder than the rest — they, including Crispus, were both cowed and fascinated by the monk’s performance, almost as though they were under a spell. ‘Have you no care for the welfare of the state?’ continued the speaker, a ruddy-faced decurion. ‘If we were to heed your advice, what would happen to the empire? Who would defend us from the barbarians were soldiers to lay down their arms? Where would Rome find the sons and daughters she so desperately needs in these times of crisis, if we practised celibacy? What you advocate is tantamount to treason. I’m minded to report you to the governor and have you arrested for sedition.’

‘You are welcome to try, my friend,’ responded the monk with gloating scorn. Such was the veneration in which holy men were held, that any attempt by the secular authorities to curb their activities might easily provoke a riot. ‘You all accept that sinning leads to Hell,’ he went on, as his opponent bit his lip and fell silent. ‘But have you any concept of what Hell is truly like?’

In a dramatic gesture, the monk thrust out a hand above a candle burning on the altar. For several seconds, apparently unperturbed, he held it just over the flame; a horrified gasp arose from his audience as a smell of singeing flesh pervaded the building. Removing his hand, the monk declared, ‘Even I, schooled as I am in mortification of the flesh, can endure the pain for but a fraction of a minute. And if one little candle can inflict such pain, think of the agony you must endure when you are thrust into Hell’s fiery furnace. An agony, moreover, which will never end.’ His tone took on an edge of chilling menace. ‘Imagine the everlasting torment, the screams, the writhing of your bodies, which can never be consumed by the flames that sear them. A minute of such torment would seem like an eternity. Yet ten times ten thousand years would pass without release from anguish, to be repeated endlessly for all time. Weighed against your soul’s salvation, what can matter worldly things? Choose Christ or Rome — you cannot serve them both.’

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 Lerina¹ 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