Chanat clasped his son’s hands in his own and bowed his head and nodded.
Then he called the wives in, and had them bath their lord one last time, and anoint him with oil, and comb his long hair and his fine black moustache. They dressed him in his finest robe, as he stood clinging to the tent post for support, ashen-faced, his vision swimming, his forehead running with sweat, breathing in short, painful gasps. At last he was dressed. He kissed each of his wives chastely on the top of their heads, and commended his sons and daughters to their care, and was helped outside by his aged father.
His mother wept and would not be comforted, trying to cling to him, though if she had he would have fallen like a day-old fawn. In the end she dropped to the earth and buried her face in the dust, her sobs terrible to hear. Two of Aladar’s wives came with little bowls of red and black paint, and brushed his hair back and decorated his face with the symbols of war.
A mounting-block was brought and he was helped up into his wooden saddle by his peers, Orestes and Noyan. He rode the finest white horse of the eastern steppes. He clasped the reins in his left hand, and they handed him a spear which he clasped in his right. His father mounted another horse and reined in beside him. Aladar’s head was bowed and he sagged in the saddle.
‘My son,’ said Chanat softly, his eyes bright with tears.
Aladar stirred himself, and bade his mother and his wives and comrades ‘bayartai’, the farewell to those one will see no more. He raised his head and straightened in the saddle, gazed heavenwards into the Eternal Blue Sky, and held his spear aloft. ‘It has been good to ride with the Lord Attila all these years!’ he cried. ‘Bless you, Great Tanjou! In the name of Astur and Savash and the Lady Itugen and all the Gods, this is a good day to die.’
His spear dropped down again, his arm trembling with the effort. Then father and son rode out of the camp, the wives and concubines kneeling on the ground, wailing and throwing dust over their heads. The Lord Attila himself did not appear from his tent, but the people lined the way in silence, for such reverence do a noble people feel for death.
The rain had ceased again, and the two horses splashed through shallow puddles gilded by the setting sun, their tails swishing. Ahead loomed the high walls of the city, the foreground strewn with the wreckage of broken walls and engines and mounds of the slain yet unburied.
As they neared the walls the two warriors saw men stir and rise behind the battlements. Chanat raised his right arm and Aladar his left, and they clasped hands above their heads, and gave the battle-cry. Then they dug their heels into their horses’ flanks, and the beasts reared, whinnying, came down and broke into a canter, then a gallop.
Aëtius was watching from the walls.
Arapovian said, ‘The warrior on the right, I know him. It’s the old general who met us on the road, the one we captured at Azimuntium.’
Aëtius nodded. ‘And the one on the left?’
‘I do not know him. He is younger. He seems wounded, or sick.’
‘Ah.’
The two Huns were already approaching the flooded moat, slowing to a trot, picking their way across a half-broken pontoon.
Jormunreik and Valamir came near.
‘Ready your bows,’ said Aëtius. ‘When you can hit him cleanly, kill the one on the left, the sickly one.’
The wolf-lords looked faintly disgusted.
‘Trust me,’ said Aëtius. ‘It’s what he wants.’
The horsemen were across the moat now, and kicking their horses into a gallop across the shattered terrace below the walls, yowling their battle cries, waving their spears, shouting defiance in the very faces of the defenders. Aladar made it as far as the base of the walls, and had his shaking hand outstretched upon a remnant of net which would not even have supported his weight, when three arrows slammed into him from above, two angled into the shoulder and one straight through his heart. His hand fell back from the net, his spear dropped from the other hand, and he sat his horse, bowed forward, still. The horse shifted its hooves uncertainly but did not move.
‘No more!’ cried Aëtius. ‘Lower your bows!’
The old warrior rode over to the dead man in his saddle, put his arm round him and pulled him across his own horse, face down. Let him sleep now, face turned away from the sun. For did not his warrior soul already soar with his heavenly father, a great eagle, into the eternal blue sky? High over the measureless green grasslands of his beloved homeland where the flowers would bloom again yellow next spring, soaring for ever and ever over the white and gleaming mountains of the Holy Altai? For the earth itself was heaven.
The old warrior took the reins of the riderless horse and turned round and headed back towards the moat with his son across his lap and the riderless horse walking close behind. At the last moment he turned again and gazed up at the walls. His old eyes were very bright, even as he stood there darkly silhouetted against the sinking sun, the sky a blaze of colour behind him.
For a moment the old warrior and the defenders on the walls gazed at each other, and Chanat tried to identify the commander who had understood so well and given the order. His eyes were tired, and a little blurred, and he could not see so far. Yet it seemed to him that some of those on the walls raised their hands to him, without weapons. So he raised his hand likewise, then pulled his horse round again, with the second horse following, and walked them back over the broken pontoon bridge and away over the darkening plain.
24
BLOOD AND GOLD
That night Aëtius and his men slept. At dawn he was summoned to the palace.
Before he went, Captain Andronicus sent word that he should step up onto the platform of the tower. He did so, and looked out.
There was nothing but a low haze of dust. The Huns had vanished, like a people who had never been.
There in council were the emperor and the empress, and inevitably the emperor’s sour-faced sister, misnamed Pulcheria; and Themistius, an aged scholar and orator, and also the chief chamberlain, and the bishop of the city, Epiphanius. When Aëtius entered, to his embarrassment several present bowed down to him and touched their foreheads to the ground. The emperor hastily ordered them to their feet again.
‘General Aëtius,’ he said, ‘we have done well. You have seen the results? The enemy is’ - he spread his hands wide and smiled - ‘gone!’
Aëtius nodded. ‘But not forgotten.’
‘Against the stone of sickness they stumbled,’ intoned Bishop Epiphanius, ‘the steeds and their riders both. The sinners drew the bow and put their arrows to the string, and then sickness blew through them and hurled the host back into the wilderness. Glory to God in the Highest.’
There were murmured affirmations and many crossings of chests.
A little poetic, thought Aëtius, biting his tongue. The horses didn’t actually suffer from camp fever. But the people were dying like flies. He thought his men deserved a little praise as well, but that was probably too much to hope for.
‘Peace has been made,’ said the emperor. ‘See, we have the paper.’
Old Themistius passed it to the general. Attila himself had signed it. Attila, Tashur-Astur. Flagellum Dei, the Scourge of God.
‘His royal sign,’ added Theodosius eagerly.
Aëtius shook his head. ‘It is not his royal sign. It is Hunnish.’
Theodosius sat back. ‘And you speak that rough tongue, of course.’
Aëtius did not answer.
‘Well,’ said Theodosius impatiently, ‘what is it that makes you look so solemn, man? This is the paper of peace! This is the signal for the end of bloodshed, and surely a cause for celebration! Or do you want still more war?’
‘Not I,’ murmured Aëtius.
Themistius glanced at him, but the jubilant emperor had not heard.
‘Once more,’ he said, rising to his feet and stepping down from his throne, ‘as of old in the days of King Uldin, the great Hun nation, those fierce, barbarian yet, I think, noble-hearted steppe warriors, are our alli
es!’
‘Allies!’ cried Aëtius. ‘But he has signed himself Attila, Scourge of God.’
Theodosius laughed an uncertain little laugh. ‘The name given to him by a Gaulish chronicler, apparently, which he has adopted with alacrity. And with good humour! A Royal moniker. They have fierce names, those Germanic tribesmen, you know. Godric the Wolf-Slayer, Erik Blood-Axe and so forth. Like our own emperors. Why,’ he asked jovially, ‘do they not call me Theodosius the Calligrapher?’
Aëtius could have wept with frustration. ‘Majesty, this is not so innocent a name. He believes he is our punishment, sent by the Eternal Blue Sky - by his heavenly father - to be our destruction, and to announce the end of our world to us. He will never be our ally, nor at peace with us. He was mocking you even as he signed this paper. He will always be our enemy.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense.’ Theodosius came forward and actually put his sovereign arm around the broad shoulders of his grim and difficult general. He walked him round the vast audience chamber. ‘Indeed, far from being our enemy, it seems that Attila might even have become one of the imperial family, if a certain plot of the Princess Honoria’s had not been uncovered.’
‘Plot?’
But at a signal from his sister Pulcheria, Theodosius shook his head. ‘Never mind; all that is discovered and dispensed with. Nevertheless, as things stood, I was quite prepared to trust his word, and to meet his demands in full.’
Aëtius stopped abruptly. Even while he and his men had been fighting to the death on the walls, the Imperial Court had been secretly negotiating with Attila himself. Was that possible? He felt sick to his stomach.
‘Demands? What demands? We’d beaten him - or stalled him, anyway. He knew he couldn’t take this city, these walls, without sustaining terrible losses, even undermanned as we were. Then disease broke out in his camp. He had to fall back, he had no choice.’ The general was glaring most rudely full in the emperor’s face. ‘What demands?’
‘My lord,’ interrupted the chamberlain.
Theodosius raised a pacific hand, and replied to Aëtius, ‘Demands in response to our demands, of course. We demanded that he retire from our territories and molest our people no more. In return for ... recompense.’
Aëtius’ grip on the treaty parchment tightened visibly. ‘You mean gold.’
‘I mean ... recompense.’ Theodosius’ arm dropped away from Aëtius’ shoulders. He was tiring of this. This coarse soldier should be grateful for his Earthly Lord having negotiated such a delicate treaty with the Huns, for having saved so many of his people’s lives, and secured a lasting peace. Instead, he was positively leaking resentment and bile. Jealousy, really, Theodosius presumed. His own diplomacy had stolen Aëtius’ martial thunder.
‘You mean gold,’ repeated Aëtius in his harsh and gravelly voice, like the voice of a waterless desert. ‘How much gold? What have you given him?’
The man’s eyes blazed. He was unstable, so moody. It was very displeasing. The chief chamberlain snapped back, ‘The finances of the Imperial Court are of no matter to a Western general.’
The general would not let go; he was like a mastiff locked on a hind. His gaze was still on the emperor. ‘You cannot buy off a man like Attila. Look how he has mocked you. The Scourge of God. Can you buy off the Scourge of God? Can you divert his barbaric Almighty God of War with mere gold?’
Now Theodosius was angry. ‘You talk gibberish, man. His god does not exist, or he is at most some outcast demon.’
‘He exists in Attila’s heart. That is a mighty engine.’
Theodosius replied crisply, ‘Soldiers should stick to soldiering, and leave theology to higher minds.’
‘How much?’
It was outrageous that he should be addressed like this, but Theodosius would not have his judgement questioned. ‘Seven thousand pounds,’ he snapped, walking back to his throne.
Aëtius’ ears rang. ‘How much? ’
‘Attila received the treasure chests gracefully, my ambassadors report, the night before last. He even referred to them, with a pleasing laconic humour, as reimbursement for “the expenses of war”! A small price to pay for the happiness and well-being of my peace-loving people, Master-General, from the Holy City to the Danube border, from the Euxine to the—’
The vast audience chamber echoed to a furious roar: ‘You fool! He has already slaughtered thousands of your innocent people, and now you think you can make peace with him? You have welcomed the enemy within your gates, and you have paid in advance the bill for your own destruction!’
A collective gasp went round. Bishop Epiphanius drew sharp breath, Themistius cried out ‘My lord!’ and the emperor paused on the steps up to the dais, his back still to Aëtius. The empress gazed down on the enraged general, her hands twisting in her lap.
‘Have a care, Master-General,’ said the emperor quietly.
Aëtius at that moment looked like a man with many cares. He did a swift mental calculation. Seven thousand pounds of Byzantine gold, much of it ingots stamped for purity by the Imperial Treasury. Enough to buy - his blood ran hot and cold - twenty thousand of the best mercenaries for a year or more. Maybe thirty thousand. Alan lancers, Gepids, Sueves, Teutonic axemen, Sarmatian cavalry, maybe even renegade Persians. Why had Constantinople not bought those mercenaries for its own protection? The reason was simple. The mercenaries would not have fought for Theodosius, nor for Rome. They would only take gold to fight for what they believed was a winning cause.
Attila’s finest and most loyal Hun warriors could have numbered no more than thirty thousand. The rest were Kutrigurs, Hephthalites, lesser tribal followers, nameless easterners who would soon melt away. But seven thousand pounds: Attila’s command of crack troops had just doubled. And the great sacrifice so many had made in the East - at Viminacium, Ratiaria, calamitously on the Utus, and here on the walls of the City - was wretchedly degraded. They had saved the Holy City, and the Asian provinces. But Rome now stood in a danger beyond all reckoning, and perhaps beyond all opposition.
He spoke dazedly. ‘Not even the treasuries of Byzantium can have held this much. How ... ?’
Theodosius seated himself again, seeing with relief that the general was growing calmer - though he hoped he would be sailing back west soon.
‘The city’s loyal senatorial classes responded with alacrity. Some even handed in their wives’ jewellery and most precious heirlooms. And we ourself have parted with many of our private possessions, for the sake of our people.’
The courtiers murmured sycophantic assent. Themistius added, ‘Although in consolation an ambassador from the court of an Indian king has recently sent His Majesty a tiger for his menagerie.’
There were gentle chuckles, and a smile from the emperor. He inclined his head gracefully.
The frightful general only glowered the more.
Theodosius added, ‘We have also ceded to our new ally Attila the territory of Pannonia Secunda, for his people to settle.’
Settle. A fine euphemism. But damn Pannonia Secunda - he’d have taken it soon enough anyway.
Aëtius was striding about and muttering. The emperor looked pointedly at his Palatine Guards.
‘I had him,’ said the over-wrought and over-tired commander, his fist before his face, ‘in the palm of my hand. Sickness stalked his camp. He would not have fled before it. I knew there was something else. He was haughty, even as a boy. He never bowed the neck, neither to prince nor to pestilence. His own pride had him trapped there. “Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust, Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.” He would have been so cut, and his warriors laid out across the plain. Windrows of the dead, scythed down like a wheatfield after a hailstorm.’
He turned violently back towards the imperial throne. ‘And you have paid him off, enriched the gorgon’s purse! Oh, merciful heaven!’
Theodosius rose again and declared that the council was ended, adding acerbically, ‘This Attila, who makes you tremble with such unmanly cowardice,
is a man of reason and candour. More so than you, I think, Master-General Aëtius. And he has already moved away north.’
‘With his gold!’ cried Aëtius. ‘Gone to buy more troops! How they will flock to his banner now, the wealthiest robber and ruler in all of Europe! How dazzled they will be by his gold - by your gold, our gold, the gold of your hard-pressed, hard-taxed people. Sweet Jesus, did they not deserve better than this? For their oppressor to be paid off, like a thug intimidating a market-stall? Now he will turn his vast army, twice, three times as strong, against the West. Is this your idea of Christian solidarity?’
Theodosius had had enough. ‘Get him out! Now! He offends my ears!’
But, to the horror of the assembled courtiers, Aëtius began tearing the treaty parchment to shreds before their eyes. The man was mad. Two Palatine Guards moved nervously near him, but neither dared to lay a hand on him.
Attila: The Judgement Page 40
