Burdunellus. Regulus Hispaniae

Patrizio Corda

To my mother

I

The little mule

Surroundings of Caesaraugusta, August 494 AD.

Tell me, have you heard what our dear King Alaric II has attention to do?

Old Anicetus, thin and shriveled to the point of looking like a natural extension of the gnarled olive root on which he was sitting, stood waiting for an answer. But Claudius continued to stare at his horses, intent on chasing each other in that large meadow surrounded on each side by a dense forest of cypress trees.

And in doing so, he also continued to envy them.

Not because of their power, or their innate charm.

But rather because of their absolute freedom. Or perhaps because they were oblivious to much of what was going on around them.

Hard to determine.

However, if there was one virtue Anicetus had not made his own in his seventy-nine years of life, it was patience. After smoothing his very long white mustache a number of times, the latter became annoyed and ended up tapping on his shoulder with his index finger.

"Do you hear me? I'm talking to you, Burdunellus ."

This was enough to rattle Claudius, causing him to turn away with an expression that was not at all reassuring. His already hard, square face deepened further, as his thick brown eyebrows arched and his broad forehead furrowed. As was usual when he became angry, his eyes went from being hazel to taking on a darker, gloomier hue.

He hated being called that.

But it was also true that there was only one person in the world who could afford that luxury. And that privileged person happened to be Anicetus himself. The man he had always known as his preceptor, and who had accompanied him throughout his life to the point of giving up having an existence of his own, preferring to remain by his side as confidant, friend, administrator or whatever other role he could fill.

Recessing his head into the bony shoulders, which protruded from the purplish tunic, Anicetus looked at him as if to justify that license.

Old age had made him a grotesque being, with an unhealthy pallor and almost skeletal thinness. But his vivacity and acumen continued to prevail over everything. Even over his creepy appearance, with his face reduced to a skull from which hung his long hair, resembling fine silvery strands.

As his ire waned, Claudius watched him carefully.

And he ended up envying him as well. Anicetus's green eyes shone, with wit but also with optimism. Good Lord, was there a subject on which he was incapable of joking?

Sighing, he brought his right knee to his chest, resting his mighty arm on it.

Come on, you old carcass. Let's hear it.

Oh, you'll see. This is a really good one. Our beloved Visigoth ruler has decided to call a new requisition of property, croaked Anicetus. "And mind you, I said requisition and not tax increase, he pointedly raised his index finger. Apparently, substantial funds are needed to finance your new venture. Namely, the war against the Franks of Clovis."

Returning livid, Claudius spat on the ground.

That bastard, he growled. First he delivers Aphranius Siagrius to the Franks as a good minion, and now he turns on him. Quite worthy of him, and of the animal people he commands.

Understanding his state of mind, Anicetus preferred to remain silent.

With almost paternal love, he merely looked at his favorite as the latter went back to focusing on the horses frolicking around what was only a tiny part of his boundless estate. He could see, however, from his eyes that his mind was elsewhere. And after all, that was more than reasonable.

A few minutes of silence passed, cadenced only by the chirping of cicadas and the distant neighing of beautiful steeds.

Then, as he recovered, Claudius spoke in a cavernous voice.

One thing is certain, Anicetus, and I know you will believe my words. From me, Alaric will not get a damn thing. And if he wants to make claims, he will have to do so in person by showing up here. Possibly, trying first to get right with my buccellarii.

That said, Claudius returned to entrench himself in his hermetic silence.

Everything around him vanished, giving way to distant and distressing memories from which he had now given up escaping.

On the contrary, already many years before, he had decided to draw from those same memories the spur to rebuild his own life.

And on balance, he had succeeded.

For that same reason, and for a thousand others, he would never have allowed Alaric II, king of the Visigoths, to take from him all that he had laboriously built after having already lost it once.

At the time, barely a child, he had no choice.

But now the situation had changed.

He was rich, powerful and well-known. And that lightning could incinerate him if he ever decided to obey that tyrannical imposition. No, he would never have done that. Now he had a chance to decide for himself. And his choice had already been made.

Yet, as determined as he was, he was seized by a certain sadness. The past, with which he had believed he had compromised, came back to distress him. And the magnificent stallions that ran before his eyes took on new features, far more humble and ungainly. Those of filthy, braying mules.

Reminding him, with a twinge that went through his chest like the blade of a dagger, where he really came from.

As well as that identity that he could never erase, even with all the gold in the world.

An identity that corresponded precisely to the way dear Anicetus had allowed himself to call him.

Burdunellus.

The little mule.

II

The roots of hatred

Surroundings of Caesaraugusta, August 494 AD.

The sun rose again, slowly, passing the soft contours of the hills, some used as vineyards, others left in their original state, covered with forests of oaks, firs, beeches and pines. A honeyed, opaque light spread across the firmament, gradually erasing the bluish darkness and giving the impression of having melted away the millions of star-bearing lights. Now tired and with numb legs, Burdunellus let himself go on a large rock covered with yellow moss. He looked at that landscape with a mixture of pride, wonder and melancholy.

Everything he could see, all the way to the horizon, was his thing.

His name was Claudius Aemilius Iberus, and he could claim to be one of the men, or rather, one of the wealthiest Romans in what had once been the Tarraconian province. Now, those lands were part of the Visigothic kingdom. Yet he could not accept that reality, that change that had coincided with his personal drama. He had tried to do so once more that night, wandering with the unattainable goal of crossing all his properties. But dawn had already come, and he in addition to failing to achieve his goal had ended up succumbing to sadness again. It had been enough to think about himself, and his origins.

His name was Claudius Aemilius Iberus.

And, if he really had to look at reality objectively, he was none other than one of Alaric II's richest subjects.

The money and land he possessed could not erase his past. Not as long as the Visigoths remained in Hispania.

And this was because they were the very ones responsible for the tragedy that had destroyed his family and his life.

Bowing his head, Burdunellus bitterly recalled the day when Euricus, the then Visigoth king, had arrived in Caesaraugusta.

Accomplice to the immobility of a Western empire now in its final days, the barbarians had decided to embark on an expansionist plan that had enabled them to grab much of Gaul but also Hispania with impunity.

And that would have been acceptable, after all. Not that it was much better to remain subjects of the bumbling augusts who succeeded each other in Ravenna, utterly incapable of reversing the sad fate of that empire in total disintegration.

But Euricus, on that day twenty-one years ago, had arrived in Caesaraugusta with a very specific intent. Not to win the love of the Romans of Hispania, but rather to squeeze them beyond all decency so as to have enough money to start a war with the Swabians, who had first settled in those lands.

Until then, Burdunellus had lived in comfort. His father's talent in business had made his family wealthy through the cattle trade, guaranteeing him a peaceful and uneventful childhood. But then Euricus had arrived, with his hordes of guards more like blond demons than human beings, and with a wave of his hand he had taken everything that belonged to them.

Like thousands of other families, Burdunellus' family had suddenly found itself in poverty. And so the magnificent horses, oxen, bulls, pigs and even camels had disappeared from their stables. The estate had been sold in order to make ends meet, and his father, rather than give up his dignity as a man and go begging, had been reduced to peddling a few rakish and plague-ridden mules in the more modest city markets.

As a good son, Burdunellus had done what he could to help his parent, and that was precisely how he earned that detestable nickname. Not a day went by, in fact, that he could not be spotted wandering around Caesaraugusta riding a mule so old and tired that it was feared it might collapse under his weight. This is how Burdunellus had been born.

From then on, no one had called him Claudius.

Not even when the pain of their misfortune had taken away both his father and mother in a few years, making them sick and leaving him an orphan. Nor when, by indulging in a variety of illegal activities, he had managed to slowly rebuild the family empire, had he felt called by name.

Clinging desperately to his pride, Claudius had recovered all that he had lost, becoming one of the richest and most renowned landowners and cattle traders in the entire Visigothic kingdom. But he still remained Burdunellus, the little mule of Caesaraugusta.

He clenched his fists as he remembered those mortifying days.

But he still felt pride in what he had done.

He, Claudius Aemilius Iberus, known as Burdunellus, had hit rock bottom. But he had also been able to climb back up, until he found the light again.

Because that was how real Romans behaved.

And he was a Roman . He still felt like one, and he would never stop considering himself a legitimate son of that great empire that now existed only in the East.

He returned to look at the endless expanse of his possessions.

Satisfaction, however, remained only partial.

And the cause of this was sadly known to him.

It was true. He had rehabilitated himself, enriching himself disproportionately and performing a real miracle. At that moment, he was perhaps richer than many Italic senators, or some members of the nobler gens .

But as long as the Visigoths remained in Hispania, his status would still remain that of a slave.

A man forced to obey the barbarians, by circumstances never determined by his own will. This made him incredibly furious. More than the other times he had examined it.

Feeling his every fiber tense with anger, Burdunellus looked at the sunlit horizon. It seemed to him that he could hear King Alaric's evil laughter, ready to throw thousands of Romans into misery.

And at that point, shaking his fists in silence, he invited him to come forward.

Let him come, the king of the Visigoths.

Let him try to take from him all that he had earned at the cost of immense sacrifice. He would learn, in that way, a valuable lesson. Namely, that not all Romans were now resigned.

There was still someone willing to fight for what was his.

III

The solid

Surroundings of Caesaraugusta, September 494 AD.

Good morning, sir!

Good morning to you, Aegidius, and good work.

That conversation, trivial as it was, redeemed Anicetus from the monthly audit he had been working on for a few days.

Lifting his head, the old man laid his gaze outward.

As usual, the view he could enjoy when the door to his office was open warmed his heart. From under the porches of the immense two-story mansion, it was possible to see a maze of paved driveways that extended to the stables and pastures. Before him was then a delightful pearly pond, surrounded by weeping willows whose irregular foliage allowed the sun's rays to spread all around. The air was crisp, and everywhere was a verdantness that enticed one to lose oneself in the lush nature.

Intrigued by the hubbub, Anicetus strained his ear. Elderly as he was, he should have been half-deaf. But the Lord evidently must have taken a liking to him, for despite his age he had retained all his senses. He heard other greetings, deferential but imbued with sincere appreciation, and after each of these he heard a polite reply, accompanied by the sound of a horse's hoofs as it walked briskly down the avenue.

It was then that he saw Burdunellus, wrapped in a sumptuous white robe edged in gold thread, intent on talking to his servants.

Washerwomen, stable boys, blacksmiths and laborers passed by him and bowed before him, but with the lightness of those who were aware that they had a good and just master.

And that was enough for Anicetus to go backwards with the memoir.

Now Burdunellus appeared as a high-ranking landowner, but he remembered the days when he had been little more than a beggar.

When his family had fallen into disgrace, the old man had not felt like abandoning it out of pure gratitude for how he had been treated. And then when the boy had been orphaned of both parents, he had not had the heart to leave him alone in the world. Of course, he knew how he had rebuilt his own fortune. Forced by circumstances, Burdunellus had had to engage in many illicit deeds, incurring heavy debts with unsavory people and even trying his hand at smuggling weapons, contraband goods and usury. But although those practices were undeniably deplorable, the young man he now saw as an adopted son had never lost his sense of justice.

He had gotten his hands dirty, and very dirty, solely to recover what misfortune had taken from him. And he had been wise enough to pull himself out of those circles once he regained economic stability.

Anicetus looked at him again, his eyes moist with emotion.

He loved him immensely, and was infinitely grateful for how Burdunellus had cared for him over time.

He, who had become a slave because of gambling debts, had found love and freedom by his side. And because of this, He would never abandon him. At least, not as long as the Lord would keep him in an acceptable state.

With those thoughts in his head, Anicetus did not even notice that Burdunellus had stopped his horse and got out of the saddle. He stopped seeing him as a ragged child on the back of a mule only when the latter burst into his office. His appearance struck him.

Compared to usual, Burdunellus had trimmed his beard, making it shorter and neater. His curls also seemed less ungovernable than usual, and from the shape of his shoes and the amount of necklaces and rings he wore, he seemed to be headed somewhere decidedly important.

Scooting the vacant chair in front of him, Burdunellus greeted him smilingly and then took a seat. Intrigued, Anicetus shook off all the papers on which he had been racking his brains until the previous night, and arched his eyebrow.

May I know the reason for such care? he questioned him. I can't even remember the last time I saw you so well dressed.

But Burdunellus ignored that question.

Stroking his prominent jaw, the latter looked behind him, where were cabinets loaded with documents and some chests.

How are the orchard yields doing? The summer is now over, and you should already have an idea of how much we collected.

The question would have been legitimate. But Anicetus was displaced by it because of how direct Burdunellus had been in asking it. Not that the latter was not a pragmatic man, far from it. But there was something strange in his voice, like an inexplicable frenzy.

Excellently, he replied, shrugging as if deeming it a truism. Of course, I still have to finish counting, but...

Very well, Burdunellus interrupted him while maintaining an unflappable expression, as if he had asked that question to a mere subordinate and not to his lifelong companion. Then I must ask you to register a withdrawal on today's date. I need a gold solid.

Almost, Anicetus did not fall out of his chair.

He knew very well how rich Burdunellus was, and that his estate amounted to far more than a solid. But never had he asked him to withdraw such a sum.

Widening his eyes, the old man leaned toward him, while Burdunellus barely yielded to hilarity by hinting at a smile.

"Good God, son! A golden solid? repeated Anicetus, his voice even higher and shriller in surprise. Forgive me for being indiscreet, but...what would you need such a fortune for?"

IV

The announcement

Caesaraugusta, September 494 AD.

Good morning, noble Burd...er...ah!

Burdunellus' hand came up lightning fast, ready to strike the reckless owner of the forge, the largest and best-stocked in Caesaraugusta. The poor man, a stocky middle-aged man with a large ashen mustache, covered his face by crossing his arms and took to bellowing a succession of plaintive apologies.

Believing he had terrified him enough, Burdunellus lowered his arm and stifled a snarl of annoyance. Years passed, but people seemed unwilling to stop calling him that.

And yes, several stories were already circulating in the city about how he had reacted to being apostrophized by his own nickname. But for some reason, Burdunellus preferred not to turn on the man.

First, because he needed him and the unparalleled quality of his weapons, which often even ended up in the hands of Alaric's soldiers. Second, because he knew his true strength.

A single backhand from him could have sent that wretch to the next world. Although he had never fought and was certainly not a giant, Burdunellus had uncommon power. More importantly, he knew how and where to strike to really hurt. When you tried your hand at usury and