before us lay a long, level road, a true Roman highway, straight for
mile after mile. By this road the Visigoths must have marched after the
sack of Rome. In approaching Cosenza I was drawing near to the grave of
Alaric. Along this road the barbarian bore in triumph those spoils of
the Eternal City which were to enrich his tomb.
By this road, six hundred years before the Goth, marched Hannibal on
his sullen retreat from Italy, passing through Cosentia to embark at
Croton.
CHAPTER III
THE GRAVE OF ALARIC
It would have been prudent to consult with my driver as to the inns of
Cosenza. But, with a pardonable desire not to seem helpless in his
hands, I had from the first directed him to the Due Lionetti, relying
upon my guide-book. Even at Cosenza there is progress, and guide-books
to little-known parts of Europe are easily allowed to fall out of date.
On my arrival----
But, first of all, the dazio. This time it was a serious business;
impossible to convince the rather surly officer that certain of the
contents of my portmanteau were not for sale. What in the world was I
doing with tanti libri? Of course I was a commercial traveller;
ridiculous to pretend anything else. After much strain of courtesy, I
clapped to my luggage, locked it up, and with a resolute face cried
“Avanti!” And there was an end of it. In this case, as so often, I have
no doubt that simple curiosity went for much in the man’s pertinacious
questioning. Of course the whole dazio business is ludicrous and
contemptible; I scarce know a baser spectacle than that of uniformed
officials groping in the poor little bundles of starved peasant women,
mauling a handful of onions, or prodding with long irons a cartload of
straw. Did any one ever compare the expenses with the results?
A glance shows the situation of Cosenza. The town is built on a steep
hillside, above the point where two rivers, flowing from the valleys on
either side, mingle their waters under one name, that of the Crati. We
drove over a bridge which spans the united current, and entered a
narrow street, climbing abruptly between houses so high and so close
together as to make a gloom amid sunshine. It was four o’clock; I felt
tired and half choked with dust; the thought of rest and a meal was
very pleasant. As I searched for the sign of my inn, we suddenly drew
up, midway in the dark street, before a darker portal, which seemed the
entrance to some dirty warehouse. The driver jumped down—”Ecco
l’albergo!”
I had seen a good many Italian hostelries, and nourished no
unreasonable expectations. The Lion at Paola would have seemed to any
untravelled Englishman a squalid and comfortless hole, incredible as a
place of public entertainment; the Two Little Lions of Cosenza made a
decidedly worse impression. Over sloppy stones, in an atmosphere heavy
with indescribable stenches, I felt rather than saw my way to the foot
of a stone staircase; this I ascended, and on the floor above found a
dusky room, where tablecloths and an odour of frying oil afforded some
suggestion of refreshment. My arrival interested nobody; with a good
deal of trouble I persuaded an untidy fellow, who seemed to be a
waiter, to come down with me and secure my luggage. More trouble before
I could find a bedroom; hunting for keys, wandering up and down stone
stairs and along pitch-black corridors, sounds of voices in quarrel.
The room itself was utterly depressing—so bare, so grimy, so dark.
Quickly I examined the bed, and was rewarded. It is the good point of
Italian inns; be the house and the room howsoever sordid, the bed is
almost invariably clean and dry and comfortable.
I ate, not amiss; I drank copiously to the memory of Alaric, and felt
equal to any fortune. When night had fallen I walked a little about the
scarce-lighted streets and came to an open place, dark and solitary and
silent, where I could hear the voices of the two streams as they
mingled below the hill. Presently I passed an open office of some kind,
where a pleasant-looking man sat at a table writing; on an impulse I
entered, and made bold to ask whether Cosenza had no better inn than
the Due Lionetti. Great was this gentleman’s courtesy; he laid down
his pen, as if for ever, and gave himself wholly to my concerns. His
discourse delighted me, so flowing were the phrases, so rounded the
periods. Yes, there were other inns; one at the top of the town—the
Vetere—in a very good position; and they doubtless excelled my own
in modern comfort. As a matter of fact, it might be avowed that the
Lionetti, from the point of view of the great centres of
civilization, left something to be desired—something to be desired;
but it was a good old inn, a reputable old inn, and probably on further
acquaintance----
Further acquaintance did not increase my respect for the Lionetti; it
would not be easy to describe those features in which, most notably, it
fell short of all that might be desired. But I proposed no long stay at
Cosenza, where malarial fever is endemic, and it did not seem worth
while to change my quarters. I slept very well.
I had come here to think about Alaric, and with my own eyes to behold
the place of his burial. Ever since the first boyish reading of Gibbon,
my imagination has loved to play upon that scene of Alaric’s death.
Thinking to conquer Sicily, the Visigoth marched as far as to the
capital of the Bruttii, those mountain tribes which Rome herself never
really subdued; at Consentia he fell sick and died. How often had I
longed to see this river Busento, which the “labour of a captive
multitude” turned aside, that its flood might cover and conceal for all
time the tomb of the Conqueror! I saw it in the light of sunrise,
flowing amid low, brown, olive-planted hills; at this time of the year
it is a narrow, but rapid stream, running through a wide, waste bed of
yellow sand and stones. The Crati, which here has only just started
upon its long seaward way from some glen of Sila, presents much the
same appearance, the track which it has worn in flood being many times
as broad as the actual current. They flow, these historic waters, with
a pleasant sound, overborne at moments by the clapping noise of
Cosenza’s washerwomen, who cleanse their linen by beating it, then
leave it to dry on the river-bed. Along the banks stood tall poplars,
each a spire of burnished gold, blazing against the dark olive foliage
on the slopes behind them; plane trees, also, very rich of colour, and
fig trees shedding their latest leaves. Now, tradition has it that
Alaric was buried close to the confluence of the Busento and the Crati.
If so, he lay in full view of the town. But the Goths are said to have
slain all their prisoners who took part in the work, to ensure secrecy.
Are we to suppose that Consentia was depopulated? On any other
supposition the story must be incorrect, and Alaric’s tomb would have
to be sought at least half a mile away, where the Busento is hidden in
its deep valley.
Gibbon, by the way, calls it Busentinus; the true Latin was Buxentius.
To make sure of the present name, I questioned some half a dozen
peasants, who all named the river Basenzio or Basenz’; a countryman of
more intelligent appearance assured me that this was only a dialectical