It was the first time I had heard the word in use. It comes from the Celtic; it’s employed fairly loosely to describe any band of homeless or marauding peasants. I remembered when he spoke that some years before serious risings in Armorica had compelled the attentions of an entire Legion. I asked him, with suitable deference, whether there was a chance of similar trouble in Aquitania. He shrugged indifferently. ‘There’s always an element of risk in a Province like this,’ he said. ‘Nothing serious at the moment, though. As I said, things are settling down. You only get Bacaudae in any number when the big estates start feeling the squeeze. Most of the poor bastards are starving anyway, it’s a shame to knock ’em over. We were called out a couple of years back. About the time Arbogast started making an idiot of himself. Big place a few miles north of here. People couldn’t keep going, sold out to the government. Had to turn ’em off the land at swordpoint. Then they tried to crawl back. All they knew.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s progress for you....’
Ruricius was waiting for me, when I was finally dismissed. Somewhat, I think, to his annoyance, I insisted on first making a circuit of the walls. The endless fighting in Gaul had left its mark on Burdigala, as it had on most of the larger towns. The defences, though in good repair, enclosed a mere fragment of the former extent of the city. Beyond were ruined streets and buildings, dotted with the fires of peasants and squatters. What was left of the town, however, still seemed to me an improvement on Rome. The thoroughfares were broad, well paved and tolerably clean; the place exuded an air of prosperity and peace. Burgundian dress and manners were much in evidence; the Arcadians had obviously made a considerable-impression on the local population during their stay. Everywhere I saw wide-bottomed trousers, sleeveless gaudy-patterned jerkins, hair worn long and flowing in imitation of the Germans. Most of the more exotic styles were sported by youngsters in their teens; these, I was interested to hear, were students from the University, which still attracted scholars from many parts of the West. ‘Not that I ever fancied ruining my sight with study,’ said Ruricius, leering at a stout, matronly woman being borne past in a chair. ‘It’s the wineshops for me every time. Eh, sir . . .?’
He was a lugubrious character; an incurable chatterer, wholly devoid of ambition. He had entered the Army merely because his father had served before him; like Marcus, he had had no choice. In five years, he told me, he could start looking round for a cabbage patch and a wife; his only fear was that he might find it difficult to secure his release. In these days, with the shortage of manpower in every department of the Army, long-service veterans were frequently refused demobilisation; and the Frigidus had been costly in lives, the Western defence forces were in poorer shape than they had been for years. ‘Bad business, that,’ said Ruricius, shaking his head. ‘Thank God we never got tangled up in it. Saw it coming a mile off, I did. Really bad affair....’
He persuaded me finally into a tavern, where we ran to earth Tonantius, the other occupant of the billet. He turned out to be an Hispanian himself, from Corduba. I spent a pleasant hour swapping local reminiscences while Ruricius listened gloomily, from time to time hopefully rattling a pair of dice. Eventually, when I headed back, I found I couldn’t sleep. The streets of Burdigala were quiet; only the calling of the watch, and the bark of a stray dog, disturbed the silence. I missed the rumble and creak of wheels to which I had grown accustomed; the sky was lightening before I closed my eyes.
Later that morning I had my first real glimpse of Burgundians en masse. Ruricius took me on a tour of the horse lines and billets. I don’t know quite what I was expecting but I know I was agreeably surprised. Everywhere I saw order and neatness, clean-scrubbed walls and floors. Even the master farrier’s quarters had more of the air of an office than a workshop, with equipment disposed carefully along the walls, each tool hanging from its own precisely spaced hook. The men themselves paid little attention to me. ‘Leave them alone, sir,’ said Ruricius sagely, ‘and they won’t bother you….’
Most of the troopers were big, strapping fellows. I am tall, but some of them topped me by half a head. Popular legend has it they all stand at least seven feet high. That isn’t correct, but the other tale that’s told about them, that they smear their long hair with butter, certainly is. Why they do it I never really established. What’s odd is that in other respects they can be as fastidious as any Roman. I’ve never seen a German willingly drink stagnant water, for instance, or take meat that’s been hung longer than a day; but none of them seem in the slightest put out by the smell of old grease. The rancidness gets in their clothes, clings to any room they enter; in fact give me a favouring wind and I’d pick out a troop of Burgundians from at least half a mile away.
In a way I suppose they’re a childish race. They love bright colours, both in their clothing and their surroundings. I became quite hardened to the sight of hulking cavalrymen walking round jangling with necklaces and rings, their long hair tied back like the tails of their own horses. They loved ceremonial too, for its own sake. I found they tended to obey anybody, whether he had legal authority over them or not, provided he made a big enough noise. It was a trait of which Vidimerius took full advantage; they seemed positively to enjoy his tongue-lashings, standing stiffly to attention while he marched round them turning the air blue with his cursing. Yet on some matters they were oddly sensitive. They were very aware of tribal links and ancestries and quick to resent affront, real or imaginary, either to themselves or their clan. Many of them carried detailed genealogies in their heads and could trace back their family history generation after generation to this or that heroic forbear. They were slow-thinking, and unless stirred to anger slow-moving; but once roused they were awe-inspiring fighters. They seemed to have no fear of death and would fling themselves into situations where more sophisticated troops would quail; it was both their strength and their weakness. Vidimerius held them not so much by threats as by the sheer force of loyalty. Each man, I found, had taken a personal oath to serve him; and their word, once given, was their bond. In fact I came to realise they embodied instinctively many of the traits lauded as the essence of the Roman character, with greater justification than we can claim ourselves. I once remarked to the Duke in an unguarded moment that given an army of Burgundians we could hold the world for ever, but it unleashed such a tirade about the perfidy of the Roman State that I was glad to make my escape, and never mentioned the touchy subject again.
On my way back to the Praetorium I questioned Ruricius about their religion. He it seemed neither knew nor cared. Tonantius was afterwards more enlightening. ‘A few of them are Christians,’ he said, ‘but not as many as with some of the other nations. As yet it’s only a smattering, and what converts there are are usually bashful about it. Most of the rest still worship old tribal Gods. It’s difficult to talk to them and they can get pretty awkward about it, but from what I can make out most of them believe in creatures called the Vanir. They’re to do with growth and fertility and tilling the fields; that sort of thing. Then there’s the Aesir; they’re a higher order that can take on human shape. They have a Divine Triad too: Wotan, Ziu and Donar. Wotan is the lord of storms; he kindles battle-lust in their hearts. Donar gives strength to their sword-arms, and Ziu is the Judge who decides whether or not they’re to fall. That’s why they’re such good soldiers: they believe if they do die fighting, Ziu will take them up and give them a seat in his banqueting hall. Sort of a permanent carouse, with drink and women and all the rest thrown in.’
I thanked him, and complimented him on his detailed knowledge. He looked at me a bit oddly, and muttered something about not being able to avoid picking up bits here and there. I wondered at the time, as I’ve wondered since, how many Romans are at heart like Tonantius and myself. We’re brought up to think nothing of the
bar-bar
, the people outside the Empire who can’t even make noises like sensible men; then we meet a few of them and start to have doubts, but we never admit them because it isn’t done. Well, so much for fine ideals; they’re dead and gone now for the most part, along with a lot of other things.
As events turned out I wasn’t allowed to study either Burdigala or my new companions for very long. A few days after I arrived Vidimerius ordered me to mount my first patrol.
He had had reports, he said, of Bacaudae in the neighbourhood; one of those wandering bands of brigands he’d mentioned to me the night I first arrived. Now seemed as good a time as any to try out my military prowess; I was to take a detachment of a hundred men and sweep the country two days’ ride to the north. Maps were produced; Vidimerius jabbed at the parchment with a thick forefinger, indicating last sightings of the enemy and their probable present position. Two villages had been molested, and a man killed very unpleasantly. There was, the Duke suggested, a secondary reason for the expedition. Despite Burdigala’s apparent prosperity the town was wholly dependent on grain levies from the surrounding districts; many of the taxes were late in arriving and tended to be of poor quality. Vidimerius, like any good general, never lost an opportunity of supplementing his stores; so if I could see my way clear to procuring the odd couple of cartloads he would be indebted to me. I left with the unspoken understanding that it would be better not to come back than to return without supplies.
I had no clear idea how to set about the job. The Bacaudae, if they existed, had by this time in all probability fled; while wringing grain from overtaxed peasants didn’t strike me as part of a soldier’s duties. Complaints to the Diocesan Prefecture could lead to a reprimand or worse; and I was equally certain that in the event of trouble Vidimerius would airily disclaim all knowledge of the activities of underlings, especially underlings who couldn’t speak his language. All told, I was fairly caught; and Ruricius, when he came to hear of the undertaking, gave no help at all. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘it seems he’s determined to have his knife into you, sir. What have you been doing to upset him? I’ve been stuck with the odd job like this myself; but he’s usually left the nasty part to his own people, or let me palm him off with excuses. Seems you stand a fair chance of getting your throat cut, sir, one way or another....’
I glared at him. He was either grossly insubordinate or stupid; and I didn’t think he was stupid.
None the less the words were hardly conducive to optimism. Still less was I comforted by the sight of the detail I was supposed to lead. They lined up stony-faced, each man staring blankly in front of him. I had managed to secure the services of an interpreter, but he only spoke Celtic and Latin; how I was to control this mob was beyond me. At least they understood the order to walk; we set out from Burdigala in fairly good order but I had an unpleasant feeling that were we to run into trouble they would be better at extricating themselves than rallying to their officer. As it happened the first two days were uneventful. I rode due north, following the coast. On the third morning I began my eastward sweep; when dusk came down I had seen no sign either of the enemy or of any human habitation. This part of Aquitania, though fertile enough, seemed to have suffered more than most in the wars that had swept the Province, and had not as yet been fully resettled. I camped that night uneasily aware that our own rations were running short. Next morning the Arcadians still went about their duties poker-faced; it was obvious it was I, not they, who was on trial. I set my own face in what I hoped was an expressionless mask, and rode on. By mid-afternoon the situation, from being farcical, had grown desperate; I was at my wits’ end when we came in sight of the stockade and round-topped huts of a village.
It was a biggish place, covering more ground than I realised at first; but as we came closer my hopes fell once more. It was a wretched little township. Dogs and children skirmished in the dust; at a few hut doors sullen-faced men stood staring, as if daring us to come any closer. There was an air of dilapidation and decay; whatever we might win from the place in the way of stores would barely be worth the effort of carrying away. However, an attempt had to be made. I rode in through the stockade gate, the Burgundians bunching behind me. The headman of the village, or an insanitary, wizened-looking creature I took to be the headman, was shoved forward. I regarded him sternly, and called the interpreter. ‘Ask him,’ I said, ‘what is the name of this place.’
I was rewarded by three or four guttural syllables that told me precisely nothing. I eased my helmet back and wiped my forehead. ‘Ask him,’ I said, ‘if the robbers we seek have passed this way.’ The words sounded ridiculous even to me.
The second question was more productive. Both the chief and his subjects burst into voluble abuse; a dozen arms pointed in as many different directions. We were, I took it, supposed to gallop wildly off in pursuit of an imaginary foe. I silenced the din with an upraised hand and tried again. ‘Ask the chief,’ I said, ‘where he stores his grain, and what he might have to spare. Tell him I will write a paper remitting the proper amount at his next tax-giving; tell him also how much we need.’
How well the interpreter made himself understood I couldn’t say. This time the whole village burst into uproar; fists were shaken, staffs waved in our faces. The interpreter turned to me. ‘No grain,’ he said unnecessarily. He added a variety of suggestions, some I suspect of his own invention, as to where we could go for our stores. Any of them could, I suppose, have been construed as treason or rebellion; but I hadn’t the heart to set about hanging insolvent peasants. If I had failed, then I had failed; at least I had done my best, though that was small comfort. I turned my horse, stepping back through the dried mud with its circles of old post-holes, to the gate.
Something stopped me. I reined again, thoughtfully. I knew nothing of the ways of these people, but I doubted if their habits were much different from those of the peasants of Hispania. They nearly all dig storage pits to hoard their grain. They line them with clay, and they serve well enough for a season or two; then the damp gets to them, mildew sets in and the simplest answer is to scrap them and dig some more. In that way whole areas get covered with old pit mouths, but I had never yet known peasants to move their huts. I glanced round the compound. There were the storage pits, sure enough; a dozen of them, some still covered 'by rough gables of straw thatch supported on poles. All were open; all palpably empty. I looked back towards the entrance. There, equally definitely, were the faint annular marks where the huts had previously stood.