Attila (44 page)

The fighting raged on until dusk. By then the Roman line had narrowed to a ribbon a mere two ranks deep – but still valiantly holding firm. As daylight began to bleed away, the Huns withdrew. Loading as many of the wounded as could be found on to the wagons, the Romans left the field and began to retreat eastwards, in good order. The formations they had maintained throughout the day were exactly delineated on the battlefield by the corpses of the slain, all facing the west. Whole
numeri
and legions had perished: the Third and Fourth Decimani, the Stobensian Horse, the Dafne Ballistiers, the Saracen Horse, the First and Second Isaurians, and many, many more. Though few had survived, their morale remained unbroken, for they had fought the Huns to a standstill, giving such an account of themselves that Attila must surely hesitate before again taking on a Roman army.

The following day, Attila inspected the field with a heavy heart. He had not taken part in the battle, for such was not his way; his was the mind that planned, not the hand that fought. The scale of the slaughter on the Hun side was immense – far, far worse than that suffered at Tolosa. It would take a generation
to make good such losses. With a feeling akin to despair, Attila wondered, for the first time, if he could ever really beat the Romans, at least the Romans of the East. They were perhaps too populous, too organized, their cities too strong, for a barbarian people to defeat permanently. Especially now that they seemed, under strong leadership, to have discovered a new determination and fighting spirit. Or perhaps it was more a case of them having re-discovered the qualities that had made Rome great in the first place.

Had his life, despite all his fame and conquests, been a failure? In his dream of a Greater Scythia he had reached for the stars, but they had proved beyond his grasp. And now, perhaps, his invincibility as a warrior might begin to disappear, as the snows of the Caucasus melted in the spring. The Chinese had a saying: ‘He who rides a tiger cannot dismount, lest it rend him.' Well, he was riding a tiger, the tiger of his people. He was old now and beginning to tire, but he had no choice except to continue to lead them in the course he had embarked them on, the course of slaughter and rapine. Even should that, in the end, bring about his and their destruction.

‘What now, friend?' Areobindus asked Aspar, as the two generals, with what was left of the army, came in sight of the rebuilt walls of Constantinople.

‘Now we ride out the storm,' replied the new Master of Soldiers, with a grim smile. He had no illusions about how terrible would be the vengeance that Attila would wreak on the Eastern Empire, for having the temerity to stand against him and inflict tremendous damage on his forces. The East would raise another army, as Rome had done after Cannae, but that would take time. Meanwhile, they must prepare to endure the whirlwind that the Scourge of God would surely unleash on them.

The battered but proud remnant of the great army that had marched out from Marcianopolis just weeks before, entered the capital by the Hadrianopolis Gate, to be cheered to the echo through the streets by the vast throng that had turned out to give them a heroes' welcome: news of their stand against Attila had preceded them. Shrewd and tough, the citizens of Constantinople knew the greatness of the debt they owed such men and their leaders. The Emperor might hide from the national crisis in his
palace, and his chief minister Chrysaphius scheme only to enrich himself, but with men of the calibre of Aspar, Anatolius, and Constantine to steer the ship of state through the perilous waters that lay ahead, they were confident the empire would be saved.

That night, Aspar had a dream; a solemn funeral procession moved along the Mesé, which was lined by the mourning citizens of Constantinople, through the five great fora, past the Hippodrome and the great square of the Augusteum, to the Cathedral of the Holy Wisdom. The pallbearers placed the open coffin on the marble catafalque, which bore the inscription ‘
THEODOSIUS
'.

He woke feeling disorientated. The vision had been so real, so vivid – it was more like a memory than a dream. He tried to put it out of his mind, but it kept recurring. Was it a portent? A warning? A sudden chill ran through him, as a third possibility presented itself. An admonition? Immediately, he closed his mind against the thought. He was no traitor; all his life he had served the Emperor loyally, and he would continue to do so. But a part of his mind – the Cassius part, he thought ironically – seemed to ask, ‘But if the Emperor is unworthy, should not your loyalty be to the empire?' And so began a dialogue in his mind between ‘Brutus' and ‘Cassius', Cassius urging that the well-being of the state would be served by the removal of its present ruler, Brutus countering with the argument that the curse of the Roman Empire in the past had been ambitious generals wading through blood to seize the throne.

At length, after protracted mental debate, Aspar faced the stark truth. So long as Theodosius lived, the Eastern Empire would continue to pay tribute to the Huns – a disgraceful humiliation which no self-respecting state should endure, especially if that state was the heir to the greatest civilization the world had known, and the tribute extorted by a race of illiterate savages. And Theodosius was not yet fifty; he might live another twenty, even thirty, years. But if Aspar were to contrive the death of Theodosius and himself assume the purple, he would be condemned as yet another murdering usurper, an Arian and barbarian to boot, motivated by selfish ambition; the consequence might well be bloody civil war. No: the successor must be a man of stature, with a career of solid achievement to his credit, acceptable to Senate and Consistory, but a man who could never be accused of acting
solely from ambition. A man also of spotless integrity, proven courage, and highest principle. Did such a paragon exist? Yes, Aspar knew just such a one. This very day he would approach him.

Cassius had prevailed over Brutus.

 

¹
The Vid, in Bulgaria.

²
The Balkan Mountains, in Bulgaria.

The river banks were covered with human bones, and the stench of death was so great that no one could enter the city
¹

Priscus of Panium,
Byzantine History
, after 472

‘“After the Battle of the Utus, in which, though victorious, he sustained heavy losses, Attila appeared before the walls of Constantinople. He did not linger; their massive strength obviously convinced him that it would be a waste of time to invest the capital. Instead, the Scourge of God went on to vent his heathen fury on the dioceses of Thracia and Macedonia, ravaging without resistance and without mercy everything in his path from the Hellespontus to the Pass of Thermopylae. The most strongly defended cities like Heraclea and Hadrianopolis may have escaped, but seventy others have been utterly destroyed: Marcianopolis, Thessaloniki, Dyrrachium . . .”' Titus looked up from the letter, just arrived by express courier from the Imperial Secretariat in Constantinople, which he had been reading aloud to Aetius. They were in the general's temporary headquarters, a suite in the archbishop's palace at Lugdunum
²
in the Gallic province of Lugdunensis. ‘I'll pass over the other sixty-seven, shall I, sir?'

‘And the rest,' sighed the general, nodding wearily. ‘Just cut to the end, and tell me what it is they want.'

‘“After our gallant army sacrificed itself at the Utus,”' continued Titus, after briefly scanning the remainder of the missive, ‘“we looked to the West for help, but sadly it was not forthcoming. This despite the fact that our Invincible Augustus, the Most Sacred Theodosius, the Calligrapher, has in the past given aid most generously, and on more than one occasion, to his Royal Cousin, Valentinian, Augustus of the West. Our distinguished general, the
Illustrious Anatolius, Count of the First Order, has had to make the best terms he can with Attila. These, however, are harsh indeed: the yearly tribute to be greatly increased, and a strip of territory south of the Danubius, from Singidunum to Novae,
³
to be ceded to the Huns – three hundred miles in length, and in breadth as much as a fifteen days' journey will encompass.

‘“In hopes of mitigating these heavy conditions, a special embassy is to travel from Constantinople to Attila, who has agreed to receive it. This mission will be headed by a respected courtier, the Most Perfect Maximin, accompanied by one Priscus,
⁴
of Panium in Thracia, a scholar and historian of note. The observations of the latter, as to the mores of the Huns, may yield a useful insight as to how best to treat with these barbarians. It is greatly to be hoped that ambassadors from the West will join our embassy, as their presence could add weight to our pleas.

‘“Esteemed Patrician, it is no secret that you have, or have had, ties of friendship with our present oppressor, the monarch of the Huns. This consideration might help to sway him in our favour. The citizens of the Eastern part of our One and Indivisible Empire beseech the Patrician of the West, in the event he cannot come himself, at least to send persons of substance to speak on his behalf. Such men should be familiar with both courts and camps, be of noble lineage and of consular rank. The Emperor Himself prays you will accede to this request; you would then leave the East a grateful memory of the name of Aetius. Farewell. Signed by the hand of Nomus, Master of Offices, the Most Perfect . . .” et cetera, et cetera. Sounds as if they're pretty desperate, sir.'

‘I should at least have
tried
to help them!' cried Aetius, an expression of anguished guilt on his face. He looked appealingly at Titus. ‘But how, in all conscience, could I? My army would have mutinied if I'd ordered it to the East, as Julian's legions did – and that was eighty years ago. Besides, Attila is, or was, my friend. It's hard to fight a man you've broken bread with. Anyway, all that's by the way. How could I have left Gaul, with the federates always ready to break out the moment my back's turned?'

‘No one, if he's fair, can blame you, sir,' said Titus gently, thinking how tired and lined the general's face had become, and how much his hair had greyed in recent months. ‘You've got your hands more than full holding things together in the West.'

‘I can't disagree with that,' concurred Aetius with gloomy emphasis. He began to pace the spacious chamber overlooking the confluence of the Rhodanus and the Arar,
⁵
which, since it had become his office, had been reduced to the usual state of chaos. ‘With my field army shrinking steadily – like an icicle in the sun – these days I'm having to be more diplomat than soldier. Wielding the big stick's no longer the option it once was; I must now placate, where once I could compel. Never did I need Attila's Huns more. Keeping these touchy federates in line would try the patience of a saint. When King Chlodio died recently, the Franks couldn't decide which of his sons should succeed. So whom did they ask to arbitrate? Me. I chose the younger, Merovech, a decent lad who's showing promise as a ruler. But in spite of primogeniture not being a deciding factor with the Franks, the elder brother felt aggrieved and flounced off to Attila, whom he's asked to help put him on the throne.'

‘And that could be serious?'

‘It might. They've become formal allies, it would seem. That
could
give Attila a pretext for invading the West, I suppose. I just hope, for old times' sake, he'd never go that far. Half my time's spent ingratiating myself with the Frankish nobles, so as to persuade them that Merovech is the right choice.'

‘And the other half?' ventured Titus with a smile, hoping to lighten the general's mood.

‘What's this, a Socratic dialogue?' replied the other, with a wry grin. ‘Don't humour me, my friend. You know the answer very well yourself. Ever since Theoderic and Gaiseric fell out over the latter's mutilation of the former's daughter, I've been working hard to build up a friendly relationship with Theoderic. We hope to be able to mount a jount Romano-Visigothic invasion of Africa, to punish Gaiseric and, with luck, get rid of him – which won't be easy, mind, as he's now Attila's ally. Still, he's played into my hands by making an enemy of Theoderic, who otherwise might be getting ideas again about expanding his territory eastwards
into Provincia.' The general paused in his pacing to secure a banging shutter. He stood looking out of the window for a short while. ‘The times we live in, Titus,' he mused. ‘From here I can see, between the houses and the city walls, great empty spaces and derelict buildings. This city, once among the greatest in the West, has shrunk to half its size. Insecurity, declining trade . . . The aqueducts have stopped working, always the first sign that things are breaking down. Lead thieves; they strip the lining from the water channels. The city council's too strapped for cash to employ maintenance staff or an adequate force of
vigiles
.'

‘To change the subject, sir, what, if anything, do we do about this appeal from Constantinople?'

‘Not “we” my dear Titus: you. A trip to Eastern Europe as part of a diplomatic mission – it'll be a pleasant change for you.'

‘Me!' exclaimed Titus, perturbed. ‘Is that a good idea, sir? Remember what happened last time. And if Attila's only prepared to meet people of consular rank, that rather puts me out of the race, doesn't it?'

‘It wasn't your fault that your mission to Attila failed. The timing was wrong, that's all. Litorius' blundering at Tolosa had just cost the lives of sixty thousand Huns, if you recall. As for your not having been a consul, well, while Caligula may have made his horse one, I can't do the same for you, I'm afraid. Not that it matters. Attila's stipulation isn't to be taken too literally. I doubt this Priscus fellow boasts a title to his name. Still, you'd better have one of some sort, I suppose. Let's see, top-ranking
agentes in rebus
became Most Distinguished under Gratian, but I'm pretty sure that went up to Notable early in the present reign. So, in order that you qualify, I now promote you to
princeps
, the highest rank in the courier service. Titus Valerius Rufinus, Vir Spectabilis: how does that sound?'