by Ross Laidlaw
Which left only one avenue of escape from his present lot, the army, an alternative which for a gentle dreamer like Martin, held even fewer attractions than the life of a colonus. Like all magnates with large estates, the landowner was required by law to provide recruits for the service, on an ad hoc but fairly regular basis. Invariably, the ones selected were his least useful tenants, so it should have come as no surprise when the steward told Martin to present himself at the estate office the following morning, to await the recruiting-agents. But Martin was surprised. Surprised and appalled. The thought that (from the landowner’s view) he was an ideal recruit had never occurred to him. His only recourse, he realized with horror, was to amputate a thumb, preferably the right one — the standard way to render oneself ineligible for service.
Martin stared in shock at the severed thumb lying on the ground, then at the raw, gaping wound on his hand, where bone gleamed briefly white before vanishing in a tide of blood. Without the thumb, it no longer resembled a hand; more the clawed forefoot of an animal. Pain and nausea clubbed him; before fainting, he managed to staunch the bleeding with a pad of spiders’ webs secured with a bandage, both of which he had ready.
He stirred into consciousness, saw he was surrounded by bucellarii, one of whom was shaking him. He was dragged to the steward’s office where, besides that official, were three soldiers in undress uniform of undyed linen tunics, with indigo roundels on the hems and shoulders. Their height and flaxen hair suggested they were Germans, and therefore unlikely to have any local sympathies. Martin saw the steward pass a purse to their circitor, the one in charge.
When Martin displayed his thumbless hand, the circitor laughed and shook his head. ‘Another murcus,’ he declared, not unkindly. ‘You’ve lost your thumb for nothing, lad. We’ve orders now to take anyone, mutilated or not. Two murci equals one sound recruit.’ He pointed at Martin, then at the purse in his hand. ‘Two murci,’ he chuckled.
On the way to the town where his escorts were billeted, they crossed a bridge over a fast-flowing tributary of the Mosella. Martin seized his chance and threw himself over the parapet into the water. He was swept away by the current and carried a mile downstream before he managed to struggle ashore.
Coughing water from his lungs, Martin orientated himself from the sun’s position. Motivated more by instinct than a reasoned plan, he began to plod westwards through a sodden waste of osier beds and boggy scrubland. He could hardly return to the estate, not after good money had been paid to be rid of him and spare the landowner the 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 prepare
d 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.
‘Friends and fellow Gauls,’ he began, speaking in a clear, resonant voice, the voice of an educated man, but one who had the common touch, ‘for five hundred years, ever since Julius Caesar placed it on our necks, we have endured the yoke of Rome. It has been a heavy yoke, grown more and more oppressive, and at last become intolerable. None of you here present is guilty of wrongdoing — unless it is a crime to refuse any more to pay unjust taxes or render services grown too demanding. The poor toil yet starve, their earnings eaten up by rents and levies, while the rich pay nothing. We are forced to choose between death from hunger and a life of robbery. What choice is that? “Bagaudae” bandits — that is what Rome calls us. But it is Rome which has forced us to become so.’ Tibatto paused, and looked around the ranks of rapt faces, then went on, his voice rising to a passionate shout. ‘As Rome has rejected us, so shall we reject Rome. Let us throw off the yoke of our oppressors. Rome grows weak and is beset by enemies. Our time is at hand; be ready for the signal. When it comes, rise and strike — for Gaul and freedom!’
Silence. Then, scattered at first, gradually merging in a solid roar, from all over the amphitheatre voices took up the rallying-cry, ‘For Gaul and freedom!’
‘“His rebus confectis, Caesar cum copiis magnis in fines Germanorum progredit”,’ Marcus read from the scroll, slowly but without stumbling. It was his daily Latin lesson with Gaius Valerius.
‘Good,’ said Gaius warmly. ‘Splendid. Now, the translation?’ Little Marcus was proving an apt pupil. He had a quick mind and, unusually in one so young, an ability to concentrate and persevere until he succeeded in whatever task he set himself — damming a stream, climbing a tree, or teasing out the meaning of a Latin sentence.
Gaius was happy. He had adapted well to living among his daughter-in-law’s extended family, coming to like these Germans for their frank, open ways and genuine hospitality. Helped by his grandson, he was picking up German and could now converse fairly easily. Less and less did he miss the refinements of a Roman lifestyle — baths, plumbing, central heating, elaborate meals. In fact, the spartan conditions of a simple hut (Titus had ordered one especially constructed for his father, a typical oblong Grubenhaus with sunken floor) rather appealed to him, as being closer to the austere standards of his heroes from the great days of the Roman Republic: Regulus, the Scipios, Cato the Censor, et cetera. One luxury, however, he did permit himself: books. Titus had arranged for a consignment to be sent from the Villa Fortunata, which was prospering under the system Titus had initiated. (In fact, Titus was there at the moment, supervising a land-drainage project.)
‘“His rebus”. . “By these things”?’ offered Marcus, in German, his mother tongue. He looked at his grandfather hopefully, then frowned and shook his head. ‘No, that’s not right.’
‘Ablative absolute?’ Gaius prompted.
‘Of course,’ the boy acknowledged. He scrutinized the passage. ‘I’ve got it now. “Having completed these matters, Caesar advanced into the territory of the Germans.”’
‘Rather risky to do that on his own, wouldn’t you think?’ said Gaius solemnly.
‘Forgot. “Cum copiis magnis — with large forces”. There, finished.’ He looked at Gaius with a triumphant grim. ‘Was that all right, Grandfather, and can I go and play now?’
‘The answer’s yes on both counts. Off you go, and don’t be late for supper. Your mother’s grilling those trout you caught yesterday.’
At the hut’s entrance, Marcus paused and looked back. ‘Grandfather, if Julius Caesar was Roman, why would he attack the Germans? You’re Roman. Father’s Roman, Mother’s German, Grandfather Vadomir’s German. I thought the Romans and the Germans were friends.’
‘Bless you, boy,’ laughed Gaius. ‘And so they are. Romans and Germans get on fine. Julius Caesar lived a long time ago. Things have changed since his day.’
But had they really changed? Gaius wondered, when the boy had gone. When he had first come to live in the Burgundian Settlement, he had felt that a genuine rapport was possible between the Gallo-Romans and the new settlers, which boded well for the future. After all, the Gauls themselves had strenuously rejected Rome at first, and look at them now — more Roman than the Romans. On a personal level, he had experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality from his German hosts, and was finding it easier to adapt and integrate than once he could have imagined possible.
Of late, however, he had begun to wonder if perhaps a change of attitude was taking place among the Burgundians. It was nothing he could put his finger on: a shade more abruptness on the part of local Germans in their dealings with him, a touch less warmth in their greetings. With the exception of Clothilde, wife of Titus and mother of little Marcus, his German in-laws, though still friendly, sometimes seemed stiff and awkward in his presence, almost as if they should not be talking to him. Gaius told himself that he was imagining things, that any perceived change of mood was not directed at him personally, but probably resulted from a poor harvest followed by a hard winter; the newest of the grave-rows outside the village had lengthened markedly during the cold season just past. His soldier’s instinct, however, told him not to relax his vigilance — just in case. In case of what? But to that he had no answer.
‘Sorry, Mark, Father says I’m not to play with you any more.’ Hariulf, the blacksmith’s son and Marcus’ best friend, hung his head and scratched the earth apologetically with a bare toe.
‘Komm zuruck, Junge,’ called the blacksmith, appearing in the doorway of the forge.
‘I’d better go back,’ muttered Hariulf. Avoiding Marcus’ eyes, he turned and shuffled back towards the smithy.
Disconsolately, Marcus wandered off through the scatter of thatched longhouses which made up the village, passed through one of the entrances of the surrounding timber palisade, then struck out over the common pasture to
the edge of the forest. This made the fifth day in a row that Hariulf had avoided his company. On the other days he’d made excuses; but this time-he’d actually been forbidden. Why? Except for that time when he’d crossed the stream on a fallen tree, and Hariulf had followed him and fallen in, Marcus hadn’t got his friend into any scrapes. It just didn’t make any sense. Well, in the absence of a playmate, he would visit the otter’s holt he’d discovered in a hollow tree by the river. With luck, he’d be able to watch the cubs playing with their mother.
A sudden sharp blow on his back made him turn. On the ground lay the stone that had struck him. Two boys, the swineherd’s sons, stood facing him twenty paces away. Oafish and stupid, they tended to pick on boys younger or smaller than themselves. ‘Schwarzkopf! Schwarzkopf!’ they taunted, alluding to the dark hair Marcus had inherited from his Roman father, which marked him out from fair-haired German boys. ‘Blode Constantinople Romer.’ One still had a stone in his hand, and now threw it. Easily dodging, Marcus grabbed the stone on the ground, hurled it, and had the satisfaction of seeing it smack into his assailant’s knee. The boy yelled in surprise and pain, then both rushed at Marcus.
Marcus raced into the forest, hoping to throw them off among the trees. Naturally agile and fleet of foot, he began to draw ahead, diving into a thicket when he was sure that he was out of sight and earshot of his pursuers. A short time later, snapping twigs and rustling undergrowth told him they were heading in his direction. The sounds grew nearer, stopped close to where he was sheltering. Marcus crawled to the edge of the coppice and peered out. A few paces off, the swineherd’s sons were talking. Marcus strained to hear their words.
