Free Attila by Ross Laidlaw Page A

sides; they were joined by stands of holm oak, pine, and laurel as he neared his destination. The
cursus velox
, the express post, enabled him to change horses every ten miles, and he made excellent progress, reaching Bulla Regia in the afternoon.
    When he entered the city, Titus passed a theatre (clearly of recent construction) on his left, then turned right into the main
cardo
. Leaving his mount at the post station, he proceeded on foot past a busy market to the forum, which was flanked on opposing sides by an ancient temple (boarded up) and a huge basilica. He enquired in the latter where he would find the president of the
decemprimi
, the inner committee of the city council, and was directed to a villa at the north end of the town. His route took him past a disused temple fronted by statues of city fathers, and a monumental fountain enclosing the Springs of Bulla around which the city was founded. Titus was enchanted by the beauty of the place – the gleaming marble of its splendid public buildings made a striking contrast with the dark foliage of pines and cypress, which everywhere gave grateful shade. Could this really be the place that Augustine, the Church’s moral mouthpiece, when haranguing the citizens in the very theatre Titus had just passed, had denounced as a sink of sin and a den of iniquity?
    At the villa, Titus was conducted by a slave through a peristyle, then, to his astonishment, down a flight of steps to a vaulted hallway. This led to a large
triclinium
, or dining-room, flanked by pillars and with a splendid floor mosaic depicting Venus riding a seahorse; several corridors led off the room. The soft glow of oil lamps made a welcome change from the glaring sunlight. In all respects the house resembled a well-appointed Roman villa, except that it was all built underground.
    â€˜Cool, even on the hottest days,’ said a languid voice. ‘African summers can be
so
trying.’ The speaker, an elderly man in a loose white robe which Titus guessed owed more than a little to native dress, rose from a couch. ‘Our subterranean dwellings are quite a feature of Bulla, you know. Romans of Rome affect to despise us, calling us cave-dwellers. Little we care; at noon they sweat while we stay comfortable. Well, young man, now that you’vedisturbed my midday sleep, you’d better tell me what it is you want.’
    Titus obeyed.
    â€˜Count Boniface is away on his annual inspection of the central provinces,’ said the president, ‘which suits us decurions – means we can relax a bit and work six instead of twelve hours a day.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Don’t misunderstand me; we all love the Count. It’s just that trying to keep pace with him can be exhausting, to put it mildly. No one takes any liberties when Boniface is around, I assure you. Why, on tour last year, he tracked down one of his own soldiers who’d seduced a native’s wife, and cut the fellow’s head off. What a man!
    â€˜Where is he now? Let me see. He’s due back in Carthage soon, so he’ll probably have finished his sweep of the desert frontier and be heading north. My best advice would be to take the main road south to Sufetula. That way you’ll probably meet him.’
    The president’s offer of a bath and a meal was gratefully accepted, and Titus was on his way later that afternoon. He crossed a vast plain where a large river joined the Majerda, after which the terrain rose steadily. By sundown, when he stopped for the night at a lonely mansio, he had reached the foothills of the Dorsale Mountains whose crest delineated the boundary between the provinces of Africa and Byzacena. The following day he pushed on into the mountains (the road looping in most un-Roman fashion to accommodate the gradients), past dense stands of holm oak and Aleppo pines. Crossing the summit ridge in the late afternoon, he found himself in a changed world. Southwards, in the rain-shadow of the