by Ross Laidlaw
‘Tell your master, the Patrician, Flavius Aetius,’ Attila said at length, in his deep, guttural voice, ‘that I will not see him. It is finished between us. I trusted him, put the flower of my army at his disposal. And how does he repay me? By contriving their destruction. You say he swears to make good the debt he owes me. How, then, does he propose to give me back my sixty thousand warriors? By sowing dragon’s teeth perhaps?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I had thought Aetius to be that rare thing among Romans, a man of honour whose word was good. Now I see his promises are worthless, like those of all his race. For the sake of the friendship that was once between us, I will allow his son Carpilio, my hostage, to return with you. Go now, Roman, and tell your master this: should we meet again, it will be as enemies, not friends.’
When Titus and Carpilio had departed, Attila rode out of the encampment alone, to nurse his fury and sorrow. Fury that his trust had been betrayed, sorrow for the ending of an old and valued friendship; both fury and sorrow for the loss of so many fine warriors, and the collapse of his vision of a Greater Scythia. If he and Aetius had been the only players in the game, perhaps their friendship could have survived. Perhaps. But, with the Council to answer to, that was no longer an option. Especially as Bleda could be guaranteed to exploit the crisis to the maximum, in order to undermine his brother’s position. Attila’s credibility was on the line; once the disaster of Tolosa became generally known, recriminations and divisions in the Council, with discord and disunity spreading like a cancer through the nation, would inevitably follow. Unless . . .
In a flash of intuition, Attila realized what he must do. At this critical juncture, what was needed above all was decisive leadership – leadership which he alone could supply. If he could no longer give his people greatness, he could at least give them what they lusted after. Gold. And the source of that gold? The empire of the Romans.
His powerful mind teeming with plans and ideas, Attila returned to the palace. Which empire to attack, East or West? He would spare the West – he perhaps owed Aetius that much. Besides, the West’s treasury was depleted, half its territory ceded to German federates who paid no tribute. Whereas the East was wealthy beyond computation, its cities populous and rich, its churches and cathedrals crammed with treasure. And the time was ripe for an assault on the Eastern Empire. Its Emperor, Theodosius II, was weak and irresolute. And the East was distracted on two fronts. It was involved in a campaign against the Persians on its eastern frontier; and its remaining legions had been sent to Sicily, to help the West recover Africa from Gaiseric. In fact, the Vandal King, that implacable enemy of Rome, had already sent emissaries to Attila, proposing a Vandal–Hun alliance: a suggestion which Attila, hoping to establish good relations with the Romans, had so far ignored. But now such an offer seemed uncannily fortuitous. He would dictate a letter to Gaiseric, agreeing to the pact. He sent for Orestes, his young Roman secretary.4
While he waited, the words in which Wu Tze had described the second part of his vision suddenly rang in Attila’s head: ‘Now the ass pursues another eagle, wounding it before it can fly away.’ As before, when he had sent his Huns to help Aetius, the meaning became clear. The wild ass of the plains was the Huns, the another eagle the Second Rome: the Huns would attack and harm the Eastern Empire. A chill foreboding gripped the monarch, even as he insisted to himself that the seer’s prediction was merely coincidence.
. . . and so Fortune, who only a short time ago smiled on Aetius [Titus wrote, tying up the threads of the entry in his journal], has now spun her wheel against him. In a twinkling, all his hard-won gains have been put in jeopardy. Gaul, which had seemed secure, is again under threat: the Visigoths, their power so nearly broken, are once more strong and ambitious, with eyes fixed upon Provincia; the Franks are encroaching in the north-east.
Money is the crying need – cash to pay the troops, to replenish supplies, arms and armour. Man for man, the Roman field army remains more than a match for its enemies, but for lack of cash is gradually eroding away. And the treasury is empty. Africa, once the jewel in the imperial crown, whose grain and tribute once filled Rome’s stomach and her coffers, is now totally lost (although a joint East–West expedition for its recovery is now preparing in Sicilia).
Most serious of all has been the slaughter of the Huns at Tolosa, through the folly of Litorius (who, Rome has learnt, has been put to death by his Goth captors). As a result, Aetius has lost the friendship and support of Attila, his oldest and most powerful ally. And without Hun help the West is dangerously weakened. If they should ever turn against us . . .
One bright ray shines through the gathering clouds: Aetius and Theoderic, King of the Visigoths and son of the mighty Alaric, have become reconciled. When the Roman army and the Goth host confronted one another, following Aetius’ return from Italia to Gaul, the two generals decided that a bloody encounter whose issue was uncertain was not in the interests of either. Avitus arranged peace terms which have been accepted by both sides.
Boniface and Litorius: these two may prove to be Aetius’ Nemesis. Had he not made an enemy of one and put his trust in the other, Africa and Gaul, whose fate may decide that of the West, would today be secure within the empire.
1 13 November 440.
2 In 438, one of the last major public works projects carried out in the Western Empire.
3 The last time an official pagan sacrifice was ever held.
4 Father of the last West Roman Emperor, Romulus Augustus (see Notes p.434).
TWENTY-NINE
They [The Huns] gallop about inflicting tremendous slaughter; what makes them the most formidable of warriors is that they shoot arrows from a distance
Ammianus Marcellinus, The Histories, c. 395
‘Three across, two down, Gallus,’ the soldier called to his comrade. They were limitanei, despised frontier troops, on lookout duty on top of a small fort that formed part of the defensive chain along the Eastern Empire’s Illyrian frontier. Half a mile away stood a hilltop signal station, visible to the stations on its left and right, and to the intervening forts. It consisted of a timber scaffold, with apparatus for raising and lowering long beams, four on each side; on a clear day, these could be seen over a distance of several miles. At night or in misty conditions this system was replaced by one of timed flares synchronized with gradations on a water-clock; on the flare being extinguished, the final mark was noted by the recipient, who then consulted a table of messages corresponding to the gradations.
Gallus checked the reference chart, a square board divided into sixteen smaller squares, each marked with a letter of the alphabet: A–Q. Four squares across and two down, that was ‘M’. He consulted the message table: ‘M: hostile cavalry approaching, strength maximum.’ That was odd; and alarming. Incoming messages almost always referred to tiny isolated groups of Huns, Goths, or Sarmatians, who had crossed to the Roman side of the Danube, and were ‘A: small mounted party passing, armed’, ‘B: small foot party passing, armed’, or ‘C: nomads with herds, passing’. Large concentrations of warriors were rare. ‘Hostile’ was a first, as was ‘maximum’. ‘Sure you got the signal correctly, Paulus?’ he called.
‘See for yourself.’
Gallus crossed the keep’s flat roof and mounted the steps to the battlements. He looked towards the signal station. Sure enough, the distant installation, which resembled a giant rake with upward-pointing tines, showed three upright arms on the right side, two on the left, starkly silhouetted against the sky.
Any doubts concerning the accuracy of the message were about to be dissolved. ‘Domine!’ breathed Paulus, pointing. Five miles or so ahead, stretching to right and left as far as the eye could see, a shimmering wall of dust, dotted with winking points of light, was rolling swiftly towards them. There came to their ears a sound like the distant booming of breakers, which swiftly grew to a thunderous drum-roll. Now, they began to make out figures in the dust-cloud, skin-clad warriors with flat yellowish faces, bows slung on back and swords on hip, mo
unted on huge, ugly horses.
Like a tidal wave breaking on a reef, the horde of Huns crashed against the line of forts – strongholds which had held firm against Alaric’s Goths – pausing only long enough to overwhelm the defenders and torch the interiors before sweeping south, leaving a row of blazing shells, like beacons, in their wake.
On the roof of their tower, Gallus and Paulus, joined by comrades from below, strove desperately to dislodge the grapnels that showered over the crenellations. As well try to keep back the tide with a broom; no sooner was one hook removed than two more came thudding on to the walkway. Powerless to hold back the mass of Huns that swarmed over the parapet, they died where they stood. Blazing bales were hurled into the keep’s interior from the trapdoor in the roof, forcing those guarding the gate from inside to open it – and meet the fate of those above.
In the basilica of Sirmium,1 the mighty Illyrian city which had been the headquarters of the first Valentinian in his campaigns against the Germans, and where the great Theodosius had been proclaimed Emperor, there was an air of near-panic among the decurions assembling for an extraordinary meeting of the council. When all were seated and after the ritual acclamations had been made, the president, a chubby figure with a blandly beaming face, ascended the rostrum. He was immediately greeted by a barrage of questions: ‘Is it true that the Huns have taken Singidunum2 . . . Are they heading this way? . . . What’s the army doing? . . . Have the limitanei really been wiped out?’
The president raised his arms and gradually silence spread throughout the great hall. ‘Fellow decurions,’ he declared, assuming his most reassuring smile, ‘it is indeed unfortunately true that Singidunum has fallen.’ Uproar. ‘However,’ he continued, when the hubbub had died down, ‘it was to a large extent the citizens’ own fault. They kept no watch and were consequently taken by surprise. They had allowed their defences to fall into disrepair, and they made no effort to treat with the enemy. We in Sirmium, however, are in an infinitely stronger position. Our walls, the strongest in Illyria, are virtually impregnable. We’ve had ample warning, so we can strengthen any weak points and maintain a twenty-four-hour lookout. Also, I propose that we select a certain number from among our inner committee, the principales, to meet the Hun leaders and negotiate with them. We know how much they love gold. If we present them with valuable gifts, and promise a handsome subsidy to boot, I have every confidence they will leave Sirmium unmolested.’
Privately, the president intended to make quite sure that any delegation to the Huns would be headed by himself. For he had decided, as a personal insurance policy, to take a leaf out of the Bishop of Margus’ book. Just in case the projected negotiations failed. The bishop had provided the Huns with a pretext for their invasion. They alleged that he had plundered certain burial sites of their kings, north of the Danubius, removing valuable grave-goods. When, in order to appease the Huns, the Roman authorities had been about to hand the bishop over, the wily cleric had stolen a march. Making a secret deal with the Huns, he opened the gates of Margus to them, in return for his life being spared and a substantial reward. Whereupon Margus, the city that six years earlier had witnessed an important treaty with the Huns, was given over to fire and sword.
As anything that offered hope of averting a visitation by the Huns was what all the councillors wanted to hear, the president’s suggestion was eagerly seized upon, and a deputation quickly appointed, headed, with general consent, by the council’s president. Soon afterwards it was reported that the Huns had been sighted approaching the city; the delegation prepared to head for the main gate. But as they left the basilica, they were surrounded by an angry, frightened crowd. Word of the plan – which had perhaps been overheard by an eavesdropping janitor on duty in the basilica – had leaked out. The ordinary citizens of Sirmium, who had long ago lost the right to elect the council, suspected that the delegates were preparing to effect a sell-out in order to save their own skins. These suspicions were reinforced when, as a result of the deputation being jostled and rough-handled, some of the intended gifts came to light.
What had started as a heated demonstration soon flared up into a full-scale riot – something deeply feared by all Roman councils, whose authority was backed up by an often inadequate police force. Sirmium had only the night watch and a skeleton garrison of superannuated limitanei; both, on this occasion, conspicuous by their absence. Through some malign alchemy, the truculent crowd was transmuted in a twinkling into a raging mob which, after beating up the delegates and robbing them of the gifts intended for the Huns – thus effectively destroying any hopes of buying them off – proceeded to storm the basilica and give chase to the departing councillors.
At the first sign of trouble, the president, streetwise and cunning, had darted for cover behind a row of stalls. Now, under cover of the fighting and confusion, he slipped into a side alley and made his way to the city walls. Removing a massive key from under his dalmatic, he unlocked a postern gate and stepped outside the ramparts – to find himself confronted by six mounted warriors: from an advance party sent to reconnoitre the environs of the city, ahead of the main Hun force. Switching on his most ingratiating smile, he moved towards the riders, holding aloft in one hand the postern key, and in the other a heavy bag which chinked.
The first arrow transfixed his stomach, the second his throat, cutting off his screams of agony. Within seconds, he resembled an oversized pincushion which twitched briefly on the ground, then lay still. Picking up the key and the bag of solidi, one of the scouts galloped back to report to his captain while the others, laughing, resumed their circuit of the city.
Despite its massive fortifications, Sirmium held out against the Huns for an even shorter time than Singidunum. Within an hour of their first being sighted, the city, like a rock in an angry sea, was surrounded by a swirling horde of Huns. With a courage born of terror, the citizens, using improvised weapons – kitchen knives, gardening-tools, even prised-up cobblestones – strove to stem the flood of Huns that threatened to engulf the ramparts, as ladders and grapnels thumped against the battlements, and siege-towers, constructed under the direction of captured Roman engineers, were wheeled against the walls. For a time, they succeeded in keeping the enemy at bay. Infected by a mood of febrile triumph, they redoubled their efforts, hurling ladder after ladder crashing to the ground, each scattering its load of Huns, or fighting with such desperate fury that even the ferocious savages who had gained a footing on the walkway were daunted.
But their optimism was premature. Suddenly, the defenders found themselves embattled on two fronts, as Huns who had infiltrated the city through the unlocked postern poured on to the ramparts from the staircases on the inside face of the walls. The Sirmians’ new-found confidence evaporated as suddenly as it had arisen, and they began to throw down their weapons in droves; in a few minutes all had surrendered.
The inhabitants were assembled on a plain near the city and divided into three parts. The first class consisted of the garrison and men capable of bearing arms. They were massacred on the spot by Huns who, with bended bows, had formed a circle round them. The second class, consisting of the young and attractive women, and skilled tradesmen such as smiths and carpenters, were distributed in lots. The remainder, being neither useful nor a threat to the nomads, were turned loose – many to perish of starvation in the fire-scorched wasteland to which the Huns had reduced northern Illyria. Emptied, the city was looted of anything of value, then systematically demolished, with a thoroughness which almost justified a saying that was already gaining currency: ‘The grass never grows where the horse of Attila has trod.’
In furious impatience, Aspar, son of the great Ardaburius, veteran of the campaigns against Ioannes (successful) and Gaiseric (unsuccessful), and now commander of the joint East–West army assembled in Sicilia for the reconquest of Africa, paced the colonnade of his headquarters in the Neapolis district of Syracusa. For perhaps the tenth time that morning, he looked down at the Great Harbour, crammed with the e
xpedition’s warships, hoping to spot the arrival of a fast galley – one must surely soon bring word from Constantinople. News of Attila’s onslaught on Illyria had arrived weeks before. The expedition had immediately been suspended, but the expected imperial missive ordering it to return to the capital, to counter the Hun threat, had so far failed to arrive.
The Romans were letting Gaiseric run circles round them, Aspar thought, in frustration mingled with contempt. The combined naval and military armament of both empires had been ready to move against the Vandal tyrant. And Theoderic, King of the Visigoths, in a bizarre reversal of his recent anti-Roman operations, had been burning to lend his support to the expedition! (His daughter, married to Gaiseric’s son, was suspected of involvement in a plot to poison the Vandal king, and had been sent back to her father by Gaiseric – minus her nose and ears.) But Gaiseric, as cunning as he was cruel, had stolen a march on the Romans and their new Goth friends by forming an alliance with Attila, who had promptly obliged by invading the Eastern Empire.
If only he could be given a free hand, Aspar fumed. There was that business over the usurper Iohannes sixteen years ago, for instance. He’d just about had Aetius stalemated, and could have gone on to beat him if he hadn’t been summoned back to the East over a trifling border dispute with Persia. Then there was that chaotic shambles in Africa, when the Vandals had been allowed to destroy the joint forces of both empires, because the commander-in-chief, Boniface, had lost his nerve. Had the command been his, Aspar told himself, the result would have been very different. (Of course, the fact that he was an Arian had all along probably blocked any chance of his being appointed Master of Soldiers.) And now, when the safety of the Eastern Empire’s northern dioceses depended on getting an army there as quickly as possible, here he was stuck in Sicilia, while Attila ravaged Illyria at will.
