Attila (11 page)

‘Which of you is the priest?' repeated Gaiseric in the same slow monotone. This time, a tall, middle-aged man stepped forward from the crowd. Though visibly shaking, he made an effort to comport himself with dignity as he addressed the Vandal leader. ‘I am the priest, barbarian. I protest against your treatment of my flock, and the murder of this innocent man. I demand that—' He was abruptly silenced as a spear-butt smashed against his mouth, pulping his lips.

Gaiseric issued a few curt orders; a party of his men proceeded to drive the villagers into the church, encouraging the tardy with shouts, and blows from spear-staves. Ominously, before locking the doors they conveyed combustible materials – furniture, firewood, handcarts, oil, hangings – into the building.

Gaiseric turned to the priest. ‘Where are your church's treasures, jewelled reliquaries, silver ewers and the like? I know you Romans would rather beggar yourselves than see your altars go unadorned.'

‘We cannot afford expensive plate,' mumbled the priest, spitting bloodied teeth from his ruined mouth. ‘We are only poor fishermen and peasants. ‘That is all of value that our church possesses.' And he indicated the pewter vessels.

‘Then we shall be generous and return them to you. Tell me, priest, do you believe that Christ the Son is equal to God the Father?'

‘He is very God of very God, of the same substance as the Father, and equal to the Father.'

‘Deluded heretic,' snarled Gaiseric. ‘How can a son be equal to his father? He is younger, therefore inferior.' A fanatical Arian, he despised Nicene Catholicism almost as much as he hated
Romans. ‘Drink your Saviour's blood, them. Not in wine, but in the cup itself.'

A cauldron was produced, a fire kindled, and the missorium and chalice soon reduced to a bubbling pool of liquid. The priest's arms were gripped, a funnel rammed between his jaws, and a stream of molten metal poured into the opening. He convulsed in silent agony; released, he writhed and flailed on the ground, then shuddered and lay still.

‘The king comes!' called a Vandal warrior, pointing to the sea. A large galley, its sail embroidered with Gunderic's personal symbol, a charging boar, was moving into the harbour; the vessels blocking the entrance rowed back hastily, to give clear passage.

Ignoring this, Gaiseric called for torches to be lit and thrown inside the church. The men were about to comply when Gunderic, a commanding figure with yellow hair swinging about his shoulders, strode into the square followed by his retinue.

‘Hold!' he roared. ‘Have I not said, brother, we must befriend the Romans, not give them cause to hate us? If we intend to live among them, we should remember that.'

‘Better they should fear us – brother,' replied Gaiseric with studied insolence. Taking a flaming brand from one of his men, he tossed it through an unshuttered window high up in the wall. Within seconds, smoke began to gush out; mingled with screams, loud crackling issued from the building. The screaming rose in intensity as flames leapt from the roof and shot from the windows.

Gunderic's face whitened with anger. ‘I came to tell you, brother,' he said, raising his voice above the roar of the flames, ‘that the Romans have appealed to us for help. The Count of Africa has sent an envoy. He asks that we join forces with him to resist the Emperor.'

In Gaiseric's cunning mind, a train of thought began to run. Africa. Here might lie the fulfilment of his own and his people's destiny.

In the Vandal camp that night, he approached an ancient crone, skilled in the preparation of salves. And poisons.

 

¹
Cartagena

²
On 31 December 406.

Could any other name but that of barbarian, which signifies savagery, cruelty and terror, fit them [the Vandals] so well?

Victor of Vita,
History of African Persecution
, after 484

‘It grows dark, old friend, yet surely at latest it can only be the eighth hour.' Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, scourge of heretics, the foremost intellect and most influential churchman of the West, raised his wasted head from the pillow of his sick-bed, and gazed at the Count of Africa with a puzzled smile.

Looking through the window of the upper room, Boniface pretended to scan the sky: it was a brilliant blue without a speck of cloud. Beyond the walls of Hippo Regius (so named because it had once been the capital of Numidian kinglets), he could see the Vandals sweltering in the August heat to build yet another of their versions of a siege tower. Like all its predecessors, it was a hopeless construction, destined to fall apart under a few well-aimed shots from one of the
ballistae
mounted on the ramparts.

‘It's the sand-wind, Aurelius,' replied Boniface; the hot south wind could at times obscure the sun with whirling veils of sand. Dread clutched at his heart. It had come, then. Death was stalking the room, about to take from him his dearest friend and only source of comfort in this dreadful time. He thought, with guilt and horror, of the consequences of his appeal for help to Gunderic, King of the Vandals.

In the midst of preparations to mobilize assistance, Gunderic had died suddenly, of a mysterious sickness. His half-brother Gaiseric had assumed the kingship and, with a fleet of captured Roman vessels and ships eagerly donated by their ‘hosts' in Hispania, had transported the entire tribe across the narrow strip of water between the Pillars of Hercules.
¹
Once in Africa, however, instead of coming to Boniface's aid the Vandals under their terrible
leader had rampaged eastwards, wreaking havoc and destruction, their numbers swelled by Moorish rebels, slaves, and Donatists – these last a numerous and savagely persecuted sect spearheaded by gangs of Rome-hating ruffians.

Paralysed by remorse, bereft of the decisive brilliance that had once enabled him to crush the Moors, the Count of Africa had mounted but a faltering resistance – and had seen his troops scattered by the triumphant invaders. Boniface groaned to himself; by one stupendous act of folly, he had lost the West its richest diocese and the source of half its grain.

It would have been a blessed relief to end his life. In similar circumstances, the ancestor who had first put on the armour he now wore would undoubtedly have fallen on his sword – the same sword that now hung at Boniface's side. But that once honourable option was no longer open. For Christians, suicide was a mortal sin, as Augustine, perhaps fearing his friend's intention, had gently reminded him: his life was not his to take, but was God's.

It was cold comfort to reflect that his clash with the imperial government was now resolved. Partly through the good offices of Augustine, an influential court official named Darius had been persuaded to mount a full enquiry into the reasons behind Placidia's recall of Boniface, and his refusal to obey. With Aetius temporarily absent in Gaul, the investigating commission was able to insist that Placidia surrender Aetius' letters to her, maligning Boniface, which were compared with his letters to the Count, advising resistance. Aetius' perfidy was exposed, and Placidia and Boniface were fully reconciled.

Boniface was hurt and baffled by Aetius' betrayal. He had come to trust the general as a friend, and cherished a vision of their working together to rebuild Rome's power in the West. Operating out of strong bases in Italy and Africa, between them they could surely have tamed or crushed the barbarians in Gaul and Hispania, then gone on to restore the Rhenus and Danubius frontiers. It had been done before: a hundred and fifty years earlier, Aurelian had achieved no less in circumstances just as desperate. He sighed. That bright vision lay in ruins, and Rome's future looked dark and uncertain indeed.

A call from the sick-bed jerked Boniface from his gloomy reverie. ‘The light fades – it's gone darker, much darker. I can hardly see you.'

Hurrying to the bedside, Boniface knelt and grasped Augustine's hand.

‘No need to shield me from the truth, old friend,' the bishop murmured. ‘It's the end, isn't it?'

‘Not the end Aurelius,' replied Boniface, mastering a sob, ‘but a glorious beginning. Soon you will be with Christ and His company of angels.'

So they stayed, hand in hand, the tough soldier and the saintly scholar, until, a little later, the bishop gently breathed his last.

A pity his friend could not have lived a little longer, thought the Count, brushing away tears. The siege, now in its third month, would soon be raised; reinforcements were coming from Italy, to be joined by Aspar and an Eastern army – the same Aspar who had foiled Aetius' attempted coup to install Ioannes as Western emperor. Gaiseric and his savages would be wiped out, or at the least defeated and driven from the soil of Africa. Perhaps, after all, the West's future was not so dark.

The Roman army was drawn up on rising ground to the east of Hippo. Composed of powerful contingents from both empires, and supplemented by the remnants of Boniface's Army of Africa, it made a brave showing. In the centre was the infantry: a few of the old legions still proudly displaying their eagles and standards, their ranks swelled by German mercenaries; the bulk of the force was formed of the new, smaller units,
auxilia
and
cunei
, the latter being attack columns intended to pierce the enemy's front. To right and left (that is, to north and south) of the centre was the cavalry: Aspar with his seasoned Eastern troopers to the right, Italian horse to the left. (Conspicuous by their absence were the units of Aetius' Gallic Horse.)

Opposite the Roman positions and about two miles distant, the Vandal forces were assembling on a hill to the south of the city. The churning mob of trousered warriors were armed mostly with spears and javelins, their only defensive equipment being a round shield with an iron boss. A few men, wealthy or important tribal leaders, carried swords; even fewer, from the same class, were mounted.

The setting in the fertile
tell
was idyllic. Vineyards and wheat-fields, interspersed with groves of oak and cedar, surrounded the neat little city, whose extensive harbour sheltered the two
imperial fleets. Blue with distance, the Lesser Atlas rolled along the southern horizon, their foothills stippled with woods. Between the two armies, but closer to the Roman side, flowed the little River Sebus, its banks lined with trees.

Surrounded by senior officers, prefects of legions, and
praepositi
, or commanders of smaller units, Boniface surveyed the scene. As supreme commander of the joint enterprise, on him fell the responsibility of devising a plan to defeat the Vandals. For the first time in many months, he felt cheerful and positive. Like all barbarians, the Vandals lacked the skill and patience to invest walled cities and had given up the siege, at least for the time being. They might be individually brave but they lacked discipline, and their only tactic consisted of a wild charge. Break that, Boniface told himself, and victory was virtually assured for, in the event of a charge stalling, the Vandals, lacking helmets and body armour, were very vulnerable. The one factor that gave them cohesion and direction was their king. War-leader as well as monarch – functions not normally combined in German kings – Gaiseric inspired in his warriors an awed respect which commanded total obedience. This did not stem from fear, an emotion to which the Vandals, like all Germans, seemed impervious. A war-leader was accepted only for as long as he brought success; should he fail, he was quickly replaced.

Looking at their army on its hill, Boniface felt encouraged. The Romans outnumbered them greatly. Really, all he had to do was wait. His disciplined troops would keep formation indefinitely. But that was not in the Germans' nature; they would soon grow restive and impatient, until not even Gaiseric's iron will could hold them. Then they would rush down from their vantage-point – to break in red ruin on the Roman line.

He turned to the Commander of the Eastern army and smiled. Well, Aspar,' he said, ‘this time I think we have them.'

‘Perhaps. But I wouldn't rely on it. Gaiseric's a cunning fox. Something tells me he may have a nasty surprise in store for us.'

Aspar's suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later, when a scout came galloping up. ‘Vandals in the wood, sir,' he gasped to Boniface, pointing to a stand of pines on the far side of the river. ‘They're well concealed. I dismounted and crawled as close as I dared; I'm not sure of their numbers, sir, but I'd say they're there in force. I got away without being spotted; I'm certain of that.'

The elation that had begun to lift the Count's spirits suddenly evaporated. Should the scout be right, the situation was completely changed. If he stuck to his plan to await the German attack, he would be caught between two fires – the Vandals on the hill would engage his front, while those in the wood would strike him on the flank. But if he took the initiative and advanced to the attack, the ones in the wood would join their comrades on the hill before he could intercept them. Together, they would launch a charge which their combined impetus would render irresistible.

Suddenly, Boniface felt exhausted; tired to his very bones. He knew he must make a decision – and rapidly – but his mind refused to function. The terrible guilt resulting from his causing the Vandals to invade Africa came surging back, coupled with lingering depression over the death of his friend Augustine, eroding his confidence, petrifying his will. Dimly, he became aware of Aspar trying to communicate, and forced himself to pay attention.

‘Sir,' Aspar said urgently, ‘don't you see? We can turn this to our advantage. Gaiseric's made the mistake of splitting his force. Assuming the scout wasn't seen, Gaiseric doesn't know that we've discovered his dispositions. If we send our best infantry round behind the wood, we can flush the Vandals out. If our men advance along the river, they'll be screened by the trees, and can take them by surprise. Once the Vandals are in the open, our cavalry can hit them hard. With the slope in our favour, they'll be cut to pieces before the ones on the hill have time to intervene. Those we can then deal with separately. With half their force destroyed, they won't stand a chance.' Aspar paused, waiting for the Count's reaction. When none came, he almost shouted, ‘It will work, sir, but only if we don't delay – surely you can see that? Give the orders now, sir.' And he proffered his own set of diptychs, hinged pairs of waxed tablets, used by commanders in the field to transmit messages.