13
AZIMUNTIUM
It was late into the night when we came to an abandoned stone farmstead on a high plateau, with a half-broken stock wall. Aëtius gave the order to dismount here and take our rest, with sentries posted. We made a single small fire within the shelter of the wall and rolled ourselves in our blankets.
As if to honour their dead, the wolf-lords recited in low voices the lays of their people. Long wanderings of their doomed and tragic tribe, driven from their ancient homelands in icebound Thule by a still more warlike people they called the Sweotheoden. Then half-destroyed by nameless Easterlings in Hrefnawude, or Ravenswood, in a great and terrible battle when the arrrow-storm pelted the shield-wall in the dark pine forests of that land, a battle etched in the memory of their bloodstained lays. They fled east and then south to the shores of the Scythian Sea, and then westwards again like autumn leaves, to find their final heartland in sunwarmed southern Gaul.
At dawn, after only two or three hours’ sleep on the hard ground, we arose and smothered the fire and rode on. Coming to the edge of the plateau we looked down, and eastward across the burning plain below we saw a hill-town shimmering in the hazy morning air, set atop a single cone of golden rock amid the waterless flatland.
Azimuntium.
We had thought to come here having made our peace with Attila, though Aëtius always knew it would never happen. The emperor had expected us to come peaceably to Azimuntium, at a relaxed and serene pace, having seen Attila slain behind us and the Hun threat dissipated for good. I could still hardly believe such clumsy stupidity. We had tried to assassinate Attila himself! How we would pay for it in time. The whole world would pay for it. But we would be the first to suffer. Now we had to bring Her Majesty home urgently, ourselves already battered and reduced in numbers, with the darkest clouds rolling towards us, just over the horizon.
We rode round the edge of the plateau and down a narrow valley where a limpid brook flowed over rockfalls from pool to pool, and small trees grew and birds chittered, and eventually down and out onto the plain along a dirt track towards the town. We broke into a fast trot again here. The sun moving across the sky was our constant bane. Time was against us. Aëtius sent outriders far to our left and right, but they could see nothing, and on a plain like this, a hundred thousand horsemen would kick up some dust. After a while, though, approaching us from the north-west we saw a small band of vagabonds, mounted and spiky with spears. Aëtius reined in and we waited, the sun blazing down on us as if in angry warning.
Eventually the band came near, not slowing in their approach nor showing any sign of fear. There were but four of them and they made a motley crew. There was one youngish fellow, very scarred and bruised, a deserter perhaps; an arrogant-looking Easterner with long black moustaches; a grim-faced older fellow with cold eyes; and a fat, grubby oaf with a scarecrow thatch of hair, whose poor horse looked ready to collapse beneath him. None was clean-shaven, and all carried weapons and wore looted Roman armour. Aëtius rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. He detested looters of slain soldiers. Battlefield carrion crows.
‘Where did you come by that armour?’ he demanded peremptorily.
The four slowed and reined in. They seemed in no hurry to reply.
‘Answer me, damn you.’
The fat oaf, quite unafraid, looked round at his three bandit comrades and grinned. ‘Well, I should say we came by it at Viminacium.’
Aëtius’ hand tightened on his sword. He had executed looters on the spot before now. ‘Viminacium was destroyed.’
‘Quite so, your lordship, though not without a struggle, I should say, if you wanted to go and inspect the ruins, what’s left of ’em. And it’s bye bye to the field army, too, from what we heard on the road, over near the River Utus. Six whole Eastern legions gone up in smoke. Still, I always did say the Eastern legions wasn’t no match for the Western lot. Not that we been over River Utus way ourselves. There’s a few Huns about here and there these days, so you want to keep a low profile if you take my advice. Of course, if you’d rather—’
‘Shut it.’
Knuckles subsided into injured silence.
‘So you admit it? You are common looters?’
Neither ‘common’ nor ‘looter’ could be tolerated by Arapovian. He snapped back crisply, indicating Knuckles, ‘This one’s birth was not of the noblest, it is true, though beneath that ape-like exterior he has a noble heart. But I am Count Grigorius Khachadour Arapovian, the son of Count Grigorius Nubar Arapovian, the son of—’
‘Oh, ’ere we go,’ sighed Knuckles. He shook his head at Aëtius. ‘I hope you’re not in a hurry, though you look like you might be. Now you’ve got him started, we’ll be listening to the names of his forefathers till tomorrow nightfall.’
‘Silence, both of you.’
Knuckles ignored him. ‘We’re from Viminacium.’
‘No one survived from Viminacium.’
The legionary looked around at the other three and grimaced with down-turned mouth. ‘Well, comrades, seems like we must be fucking ghosts of ourselves, then - thought I was feeling a bit funny.’ He looked back at Aëtius. ‘Ghosts can’t commit crimes, sir. If there weren’t no survivors out of Viminacium, we’re the walking dead. And if we’re the walking dead, we ain’t no looters and we don’t belong to no legion except the legion of the damned.’
It was impeccable logic.
Aëtius’ hand on his sword-hilt relaxed again. Though these four were as irritating as hell, he began to sense they were indeed no ordinary looters, and spoke the truth, or something like it. He threw his cloak back over his right shoulder to show his general’s epaulettes. The scarred young fellow and the cold-eyed older man immediately sat straighter in their saddle and saluted.
Aëtius smiled grimly. ‘So you are deserters, not looters.’
Still holding his salute, the older man rasped back icily, general or no, ‘We are no deserters, sir. There was nothing left to desert from.’
Aëtius eyed him. ‘Name, rank and legion.’
‘Marcus Tatullus, centurion, primus pilus, the VIIth Legion, Claudia Pia Fidelis.’ He spoke these last words with exaggerated emphasis, his gaze fixed on Aëtius, a look of agony behind his deep-set, unblinking eyes.
Likewise still holding his salute, the younger scarred fellow loudly pronounced the legionary motto, ‘Six times brave, six times faithful.’
‘Make that seven,’ said the centurion. His voice sounded strange.
‘Gaius Malchus,’ said the young fellow, ‘cavalry captain, VIIth Legion, sir!’
Aëtius began to understand, though it was hard to believe. He felt a flood of emotion within him, and fought to control it. He looked at the last of the four, the thatch-haired troglodyte. ‘And you?’ he said, more quietly.
‘Anastasius, sir, son of the whore Volumella, one of the most noted whores on the Rhineland frontier in her day. Though most people call me Knuckles. I believe it suits me better.’
Aëtius couldn’t help but smile, though his heart was heavy with emotion. ‘And your rank?’
‘An ordinary boot, obviously, sir. Of the lowest possible class, and common as muck in a cowshed.’
Aëtius looked them over and saw them anew. I saw his breastplate heave and I knew his great heart shook. These were no common men, sitting their horses battle-scarred and travel-stained, unspeakably weary, and yet not broken. These were the backbone of the old empire, and with such the empire would live to fight again.
‘You survived Viminacium? You fought against the Huns there and survived?’
‘If you could call it surviving,’ said Knuckles.
‘You survived,’ affirmed Aëtius. ‘Ride with us.’
‘You’re headed back to Constantinople, I take it, sir?’ asked Malchus.
Aëtius nodded. ‘Via Azimuntium, that hill-town yonder. To provide escort home for the Empress Ath—Eudoxia. She is in residence at the convent there.’
‘The empress?’ Malchus whi
stled. ‘The Huns are all over this plain. From what I’ve heard, they’re operating in at least four different battle groups.’
‘At least,’ said Aëtius. ‘We’ve already met one of them - only a thousand men or so. Yes, they’re everywhere. And,’ he smiled grimly, ‘they are no more favourably disposed towards us than before.’ He turned back and raised his hand. ‘Column: fast trot!’
As an officer, Malchus rode just behind Aëtius, on his shield side. Tatullus rode behind him, and Knuckles and Arapovian brought up the rear. The wolf-lords whispered among themselves, and soon it was known throughout the column that these four were the sole survivors of a terrible battle with the Huns, which had seen over a thousand Romans slain. Some of the Visigoths could not help glancing round at Knuckles and Arapovian and seeing those ragged wanderers with new respect. The wolf-lords admired nothing so much as valour in battle.
Knuckles nodded back at them. ‘Got a biscuit?’
One of the wolf-lords grinned and rummaged in his saddlebag and threw him a hunk of stale bread. Knuckles caught it in his huge paw and began to gnaw it with a certain awkwardness as he trotted.
‘So I got a noble heart then, have I?’ he rumbled, spraying crumbs at his companion beside him.
Arapovian rode looking straight ahead, aquiline features expressionless. ‘Accept the compliment graciously, and do not expect me to repeat it.’
‘I don’t do graciously,’ said Knuckles, ‘son of a whore like me.’
‘I believe,’ said Arapovian, ‘though I do not understand it, that you are almost as proud of your ancestry as I am of mine.’
Knuckles snorted with laughter, and breadcrumbs flew out of his nose.
Azimuntium was a town of less than a thousand souls, though its numbers were now swollen with terrified refugees. Thick walls ringed it round, built into the jagged bedrock, and a steep cobbled ramp led up to the stout wooden gates. Once the column was within the gates, a great cheer went up from the people, as if we were come as liberators. Little did they know. Aëtius could not look them in the eye. Our mounted column snaked up a narrow cobbled lane to the Upper Town, high-battlemented gatehouses marking the way. It was a fine defensive site.
The Lord of Azimuntium, Ariobarzanes by name, met us at the entrance to the courtyard of his tumbledown palace. He was a weak old man in a less than spotless gabardine, supported on a vine-staff, crouched in the wooden gateway with an ancient hound at his side.
‘The empress is in the convent,’ he said. ‘She is finishing mass.’
‘There is no time to finish mass,’ said Aëtius. ‘We ride out immediately.’
‘She left strict instructions.’
Aëtius cursed under his breath. Then he ordered lookouts posted on the walls.
‘The enemy are near,’ said Ariobarzanes.
He turned sharply. ‘How do you know?’
‘Ask any of the refugee shepherds in the town.’ He waved a hand knotty with purple veins. ‘Shepherds without sheep - the Scythian heathen have taken them all. May the Lord of Hosts defend us.’
And cold steel, thought Aëtius.
‘We also hear they have razed Philippopolis.’
Aëtius said softly, ‘The entire city?’
Ariobarzanes tilted his head. ‘The entire city. The Flower of the River Hebrus. The waters of the river ran red, and the savages hung the body of the bishop naked from the walls.’ His watery eyes searched Aëtius, and his voice trembled. ‘I tell you, Christendom has never before faced an enemy such as this. They will raze the world flat.’
‘He who lives longest will see the most.’
And they were standing there, kicking their heels while the empress finished saying her Kyrie and her Agnus Dei. It was madness. He sent his new centurion, Tatullus, to demand entrance to the convent. Tatullus returned, saying that his way had been barred by nuns.
‘Nuns,’ breathed Aëtius. ‘In the Name of Light!’
Frustrated, he went down to the Church of Saint Jude, with a long, low hospital building behind. In the gloom, a very tall, thin old man with an unkempt beard was striding about, ordering the shutters to be thrown open and pots of fresh flowers to be brought in. ‘End of summer, but anything you can find!’ his voice boomed down the room.
There was a single middle-aged woman bustling about to do his bidding, and two plump older men standing in one corner arguing. In another stood three of the Visigothic wolf-lords, their wounds from the skirmish in the mountains freshly bandaged, looking uncomfortable. In one of the eight narrow beds along the wall lay an old peasant, eyes glazed, mouthing to himself, and in another was a tired-looking woman, having recently given birth, her newborn at her breast. Sickness always made Aëtius feel uncomfortable and he moved to leave, but something about the commanding old man held his attention. He frowned.
‘You, man,’ he called out. ‘I remember you.’ The old man turned and regarded Aëtius vaguely. ‘I remember your face. But it was . . . many years ago. What is your name?’
‘I thought I might be of use here,’ said the old man with airy evasiveness. ‘I came to Azimuntium to examine some remarkable old texts in the synagogue here, you know, dating from the time of the Maccabees—’
‘Do not play games with me. Where have I seen you before?’
‘I have been around a bit,’ he continued, still airy. ‘In an empire of a hundred million souls, a few second meetings are not unlikely. All is for the best, et cetera. Now, where did I put that ewer?’
Aëtius stepped up to him and held him. ‘Your name.’
The old man looked fractionally down at him, he was so tall. His eyes were deep-set and serious now. ‘My name is Gamaliel.’
Aëtius stared. ‘It was you who came to the camp of the Huns, with that British officer, in search of his son. It was you. Spinning tall tales of how you once knew Aristotle.’
‘I am a citizen of the world.’
‘But that was years ago, decades ago. You’ve hardly aged - well, not much. How old are you?’
‘Older than you and younger than Methusaleh,’ said Gamaliel blithely. ‘Nuts and berries, nuts and berries. But I eat very little. Now, madam, please will you open those shutters?’
At this, the two men arguing in the corner approached.
‘Forgive us for interrupting,’ said one. ‘We are trained medical men on our way back to Constantinople.’
‘Seeking shelter here from the rumoured horsemen of the steppes,’ said the other. ‘Though not afraid, we are careful.’
‘Not a good place to seek shelter,’ muttered Aëtius, still half lost in memories of his own boyhood. ‘They’ll be here before we finish yakking.’
One of the men regarded Aëtius with alarm, but the other drew in breath and addressed Gamaliel.
‘As a strict Pneumatist of the Alexandrian school, founded by the revered Athenaeus of Attalia, in Pamphylia, as I’m sure you know, himself a pupil of the stoic Posidinius of Apamea, a purist of the noblest standing, in the face of multifarious insults and contumely from those wayward and contemptible Episynthetics, those magpies of medical learning, led - or should I say misled? - by that scoundrel Leonidas of Alexandria—’
Gamaliel who had begun his examination of the ailing peasant, but the two learned doctors followed him over.
‘Your point being?’ interrupted Gamaliel, a little testily.
‘My point being, my dear man,’ said the doctor, ‘that this demand of yours that the shutters be opened, on, I take it, grounds of fresh air, is, I’m afraid, woefully ill-advised. Such fresh air might be fatal to a man in this one’s condition,’ he indicated the old peasant, ‘although with brief perscrutation I can see that he will shortly be in the grave, come what may. However, since we must abide by our Hippocratic oaths until that melancholy end, I refer you to the teachings of the Alexandrian Pneumatists, who have made it very clear that the pneuma - that is, the vital breath - being not the whole soul, but rather only the potentiality of it—’
Another woman brou
ght in a jug of late flowers. Nearby, Prince Torismond appeared and was saying something to Aëtius about a large dust-cloud to the north.
‘—a compound,’ continued the erudite man of science, ‘of varying proportions of air and fire, the vehicle of cosmic sympatheia, and in truth quite unlike that preposterous agglomeration of indivisible Democritean particles hypothesised by the Peripatetic Atomists . . . The pneuma, I say, is the seat of corporeal vigour, from which flows the vital breath throughout all the nerves and vesicles of the body. And the pneuma is only diluted, perhaps fatally, by the admixture of lifeless outdoor air—’
Attila: The Judgement Page 28
