Attila (23 page)

Although sceptical about its chances, Aetius had been touched and profoundly moved by Attila's vision. That an unlettered barbarian could conceive such a noble project put him, Aetius, to shame, and made him reflect on his own narrow ambitions. Compared to Attila's, they suddenly seemed sordid and petty. Was he really content to be merely a successful warlord, with Gaul as his fief, pulling up the drawbridge while all around him the Western Empire crumbled? After all, did he not owe the Empire an act of reparation? It was his selfish rivalry with Boniface, he at last admitted, that had resulted in the loss of Africa – a potentially fatal blow to the West. With Gaul stabilized by means of Hunnish help, and, he hoped, the federates in time integrated as Roman citizens – a status the Visigoths were already aspiring towards, surely it was not impossible that the lost territories of Britain, Africa, and Galicia in Spain, could be recovered. Their resources and revenue from taxes, could then pump fresh blood into the arteries of Empire.

Why, only six years ago,
⁴
Germanus, a former officer of his father's who had turned churchman and become Bishop of Autissiodorum, had shown what could be achieved in Britain, long abandoned by the legions. Sent by Pope Celestine to combat the Pelagian heresy, Germanus had stayed on to organize resistance among the eastern Britons, against a Saxon–Pict alliance. Inspired by the warlike bishop, the British host had raised a mighty cry of ‘Alleluia!' and had so demoralized the enemy that they turned and fled without a blow.

The West
could
be made whole again, and Rome perhaps begin a new revival, as in the days of Diocletian and Constantine. It was a task, Aetius knew, which called not only for military reconquest but for a rekindling of patriotic spirit. That would necessitate the rooting out of official corruption, and a fairer distribution of the tax burden. An enormous challenge, certainly – but, given dedicated leadership, surely not an impossible one. The voices of conscience that had so often troubled him in the past suddenly returned – this time with a message not of condemnation but of hope. ‘
In hoc signo vince
,' they seemed to say, echoing the words of Constantine, when he saw his vision of the Cross: ‘In this sign shalt thou conquer.' But what sign?

Then it came to him. Attila's unselfish ambition to build a ‘Greater Scythia' –
that
was the examplar he had been vouchsafed. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, Aetius felt that he had been shown a new and worthier path to follow. He arrived back in Gaul filled with optimism and renewed energy. The iron had begun to leave his soul.

 

¹
Brittany.

²
The Baltic.

³
Scandinavia.

⁴
In 429; Autissiodorum is now Auxerre.

They put out a smokescreen of minute calculations involved in impenetrable obscurity

Edict of Valentinian III against corrupt financial officials, 450

‘I've a friend who works in the Treasury at Ravenna,' Synesius, a rising lawyer, said musingly to Flaccus, son of a small landowner. The two young men were in the
calidarium
or hot room of Verona's last functioning bath-house. Flaccus, who had just come into a legacy, was consulting his friend about finding a profitable way to invest some of it. ‘For a small consideration,' Synesius went on, ‘I daresay I could get him to pull some strings. I happen to know that the post of
canonicarius
– financial overseer – for the land tax from First Belgica is about to fall vacant. It's in the gift of the Praetorian prefect. If your application were successful, the prefect would naturally expect some, ah, “compensation” shall we call it?'

‘But . . . isn't that illegal?' exclaimed Flaccus in shocked tones.

‘Don't be naive,' sighed Synesius, rolling his eyes. ‘Of course it's illegal; I thought everyone knew that. But as long as those in the system turn a blind eye, who cares? Pass that strigil, would you? Thanks. Honestly, you'd think they could manage to lay on a slave or two to scrape you down. Cutbacks – that's all you hear about these days. Well, shall I contact my friend?'

Written at Ravenna, the Treasury, in the consulships of Areobindus and Aspar. Nones Aprilis.
¹

My dear Synesius, your
sponsio
²
much appreciated. I have seen the Praetorian prefect re your friend's application, and he says to tell him that the
suffragium
or going rate for the post is a hundred
solidi
. Of course, your friend will still have
to present himself for interview, but that should just be a formality. What's termed ‘general merit' (
id est
, good birth, education, and loyalty) is more important than financial aptitude. Anyway, he'll have a small staff of clerks to deal with technical matters.

A hundred
solidi
may seem a largish sum to secure the appointment, so you should point out to your friend that, if he uses his imagination and initiative, he can expect to recoup his outlay at least fourfold during the two years the job will be his. The post does carry a salary: virtually nominal, but then you could hardly expect otherwise, could you?

By the way, in order to arrange my meeting with the prefect, I had to proceed via the
tractator
, his intermediary with the relevant provincial governor. So you'll appreciate that I had to grease a few extra palms. Which alas made quite a dent in the
sponsio
. The things we do for friends! Do you know Rufio's wine shop in Verona, near the amphitheatre? Well, if you were feeling generous, an amphora of Falernian (or Massic at a pinch) despatched by wagon, wouldn't go amiss . . .

‘This is nothing short of naked robbery!' shouted the governor of First Belgica. He flung down on his desk the last of the rolls containing the revised assessments for the province's land tax, which Flaccus had presented for his inspection. The two men were in the
tablinum
of the governor's fortified villa overlooking the River Mosella. The room commanded a view of a blighted landscape: ruined vineyards, abandoned villas, fields reverting to scrub and swamp, the results of insecurity caused by recurring Frankish raids. The same landscape that, a mere two generations before, the poet Ausonius had described as smiling and fruitful.

Flaccus shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Blame the times,' he said mollifyingly. ‘The state must collect the
iugatio
³
if the army's to be paid. And without the army all this'– he indicated the countryside outside – ‘would soon be part of the
barbaricum
.' Rather to his surprise, he had quickly grown a thick skin in the execution of his job. After all, a man had to look out for himself,
especially in these uncertain times, and especially as the post was only for two years – not much time in which to set himself up. Besides, it wasn't as though he had to live with these people.

‘But in some cases there's a thirty-per-cent increase!' protested the governor. ‘How can that possibly be justified?'

‘Well, let's look at some examples,' said Flaccus in reasonable tones. ‘Take this village, Subiacum. When we re-surveyed it, we found that several hundred productive
iugera
⁴
had been omitted in the returns for the past five Indictions.
⁵
The tax equivalent has to be made up – plus, I'm afraid, the interest owed.'

‘“Productive”, you say! Look, I
know
the place. That was poor-quality land hardly worth the trouble of ploughing. It went out of cultivation when the owners fled to escape the tax-collectors. Now there aren't enough
coloni
left to work it, so it's become “deserted land”.'

‘But not officially. It's not listed as such in the records, you see. All land, unless it's taken out of registration, must be taxed.' Flaccus assumed his most sympathetic smile. ‘Nothing personal, you understand. And then a number of
coloni
in Subiacum owe tax arrears. They claimed they didn't – well, they would, wouldn't they? – but when asked for proof, they couldn't produce receipts.'

‘But no one thinks to keep receipts – especially not poor, uneducated farm labourers.'

‘That's hardly my responsibility,' countered Flaccus smoothly. He shook his head regretfully. ‘Believe me, if I could ignore these lapses, I would. I'm just—'

‘I know, “doing my job”,' interrupted the governor bitterly. He gave Flaccus a searching stare. ‘Have you people the least idea how much misery and hardship the land tax causes? To say nothing of all these extra charges you seem able to discover.'

‘Times are hard. We must all make sacrifices.'

‘Some more than others, I daresay,' retorted the governor, glancing significantly at Flaccus' well-nourished frame and expensive
byrrus
, or hooded cloak. ‘Don't worry, you'll get your tax,' he sneered. ‘The full amount. But only because the decurions, the poor overworked town councillors, who alone keep the
machinery of state from seizing up, have to make up any shortfall out of their own pockets. No wonder they're leaving in droves, seeking promotion or simply taking flight.'

‘They can always appeal, you know.' Flaccus injected a note of helpful concern into his voice. ‘The courts of the Praetorian prefect and the finance minister are expressly charged with hearing such complaints.'

‘And much good would that do them,' snapped the governor. ‘They aren't rich enough to afford court expenses and tip the judge.' He gathered up the rolls on his desk. ‘Well, don't let me keep you. After all,' he went on with heavy sarcasm, ‘you have your job to do.'

 

¹
5 April 434.

²
‘Backhander'.

³
land tax.

⁴
The
iugerum
was the basic Roman unit of land measurement. One
iugerum
=
of an acre.

⁵
Roman financial years.

Men live there under the natural law; capital sentences are marked on a man's bones; there even rustics perorate and private individuals pronounce judgment

Anonymous,
Querolus
(the Protestor), fifth century

In that vast and dreary landscape, the three men looked like crawling dots, the only moving things in an expanse of soggy bottom land, intersected by sluggish tributaries of the lower Sequana.
¹
They had met by chance south of Samarobriva
²
three days previously, and, discovering that they had all forsworn Rome and had a common destination, had decided to travel together for mutual security.

The eldest, a spare man in his fifties whose careworn features bore the stamp of authority, had quickly emerged as their leader. His once fine but now travel-stained dalmatic hinted at curial status. He it was who, when the party discovered it was being followed by hunting dogs – lean shaggy brutes of British ancestry – had cajoled and bullied his companions into outrunning pursuit through unimaginable thresholds of pain and exhaustion, until they could throw off the scent by crossing running water.

The youngest was a rangy lad of eighteen, whose chapped hands and incipient stoop denoted a farm labourer. A pus-stained bandage concealed the wound where his right thumb had been. His gentle face had the stricken expression of a dog whose master has unexpectedly kicked it.

The third man, who could have been any age between thirty and fifty, had eyes bleared from much close stitching, and a palm calloused from the pressure of a cobbler's awl. He had the slack, desperate expression of one whom circumstances had conspired to break.

For days, the trio struggled westwards through the wetlands, where possible following broken causeways, more often splashing knee- or waist-deep through morasses. As recently as the reign of Gratian, this land had been fertile and well-drained. Now, thanks to depopulation resulting from the combined effects of a crushing land tax and growing insecurity, it was fast reverting to its pristine state – to swell the Register of Deserted Lands in the archives of Ravenna. But at last the ground began to rise, allowing swifter progress, and, ten days after they had met, when they were down to their last scraps of stale bread and rancid pork, they crossed a height of land to find the streams now flowing westwards and to see, in the far blue distance, their goal: the granite hills of Aremorica.

Looking around, Marcellus, the eldest of the trio, saw that the glade in which they had been resting was now fringed by men: nut-brown stalwarts, dressed in an assortment of skins, patched homespun, and the tattered remnants of army uniform or civilian Roman dress. A tall man, whose silver neck-torque and air of command suggested he was the leader, stepped from the ring and addressed the fugitives. ‘Welcome to Aremorica. You travel light, I see; business or pleasure?'