Attila:The Scourge of God

by Ross Laidlaw

  ‘I want you to take a message to Galla Placidia,’ Aetius told Titus. They were in the villa outside Ravenna that the general had commandeered for his headquarters. (Since the incident with the catafractarius, Aetius had taken Titus more and more into his confidence.) ‘Tell her my terms are these: that my Huns be paid off in gold; that I dismiss them on condition that they be ceded Pannonia; and’ — Aetius grinned wolfishly — ‘that I be made Count.’

  ‘You can’t mean it, sir!’ exclaimed Titus, shocked by the cool effrontery of the general’s demands. ‘We’re hardly in a position to bargain, surely? The battle with Aspar was a stalemate. And with Ioannes betrayed and executed three days before we arrived, it seems to have been, well, a bit of a futile gesture, if you ask me. Pannonia — you’re actually proposing to give it away? To use a Roman province as a bargaining chip?’

  ‘My dear Titus,’ sighed Aetius, in the tones of a patient school-master explaining a point to a slow-witted pupil, ‘you’re failing to grasp the bigger picture. In fact, we’re in an excellent position to put pressure on our beloved Empress. Aspar can’t wait around indefinitely; he’s needed back in the East. And with the Franks and Burgundians flexing their muscles in Gaul, Placidia daren’t withdraw troops to counter any moves I might make. Also, she’s desperate to see the last of my Huns. As to Pannonia, it’s finished anyway; devastated during the Gothic Wars and never really recovered since. If we let the Huns have it, at least it becomes a useful barrier against further German encroachment. And Ioannes? He was never destined to be more than a puppet, with me pulling the strings. With him gone, at least I can play an open game.’

  ‘Sir, may I ask you a question?’

  ‘You may, young Titus, you may.’

  ‘There’s something that’s been bothering me for some time, sir.’ Titus paused uncomfortably, then pressed on. ‘Why is it, sir, that you’re so against Placidia taking power in the name of her son? After all, Valentinian is the legitimate heir. To some, your stance might seem like treason.’

  ‘Careful, Titus,’ rapped Aetius. ‘“Treason” is a dangerous word to use around generals. I’ll let it pass, as you obviously speak from ignorance. The position is this. Placidia in full control would be a disaster for the West. She’s achieved a status vastly exceeding her actual ability, through a series of colourful adventures: prisoner of the Goths after the sack of Rome; married to Athaulf, Alaric’s brother-in-law; dragged in chains by Athaulf’s assassin; sold back to the Romans; married General Constantius, who went on to become co-emperor. . She’s vain, stubborn, stupid, and ambitious. Unfortunately, she’s also beautiful and alluring, which enables her to attract and use powerful men. As for her ensuring that Valentinian gets the proper training to fit him for the purple-’ Breaking off, Aetius smiled wryly and shook his head. ‘She’s hopelessly indulgent, gives in to his every whim and tantrum. Result: a spoilt brat eventually ruling the West. We might end up with another Nero or Commodus. That’s why, for the sake of Rome, their power must be curbed. Satisfied?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Titus contritely. ‘I should have realized. .’

  ‘Yes, you should, shouldn’t you?’ replied Aetius tartly. ‘Anything else troubling you?’

  ‘Naturally, sir, I’m honoured you’ve asked me to approach the Empress on your behalf. But why send me? Surely a visit from yourself in person would carry much more weight.’

  ‘You should study the politics of animals, Titus. Ever watched how street cats behave? The lower-ranking ones approach the head tom, never the other way round. By sending you, I’m not conceding dominant status to Placidia.’ Aetius shrugged, then his face broke into a disarming grin. ‘I know — it all sounds utterly childish. Small boys scoring points. Important, though.’

  They rehearsed the items Titus was to present to Placidia, then the general waved in dismissal. ‘Right, off you go. I’ll want a full report when you get back.’

  Wearing the better of his two uniforms (red long-sleeved tunic, short cloak, broad military belt, and pilleus pannonicus, the round undress pillbox cap worn by soldiers of all ranks and by clerks attached to the army), Titus approached the imperial palace. The huge rectangular building with its guard-turrets and massive outer walls, each pierced by an arched gateway, was more like a fortress than a royal residence. At the west gate, he was challenged by two guards of the household troops. With their long spears, enormous round shields, and ridge helmets whose central crests had been extended into huge, flaring cockscombs, they seemed like throwbacks to the time of Horatius Cocles and his defence of the Tiber Bridge. Titus produced a scroll made out by Aetius’ secretary in the general’s name, requesting that the bearer be granted audience with the Empress.

  ‘You’ll need to see the Master of Petitions,’ said one of the soldiers, after scrutinizing the document. ‘Straight through the gardens, then you’ll come to a passage between the four main blocks. You want the second block on your left. Ask at the chamberlain’s office. Can’t miss it.’

  But miss it Titus did. Seduced by the beauty of the gardens, with their fountains, pergolas, flower-beds, and statuary, he decided to treat himself to a brief tour of exploration before attending to his mission. Some time later, after several futile casts to find his bearings amidst a mane of hedge-lined walkways, he was about to seek out a gardener to ask directions, when there was an outburst of squawking nearby. Curious, he turned a corner — and witnessed a bizarrely repulsive sight.

  In a low-walled enclosure caged off at one end, a boy of about six was engaged in plucking the feathers from a struggling chicken. Cackling in distress, terrified birds, some of them naked of plumage, rushed distractedly about the feather-strewn yard, or flapped against the walls in a vain attempt to scale them. Such was the child’s concentration that he failed to notice the stranger vaulting into the enclosure.

  ‘You vicious little brute!’ shouted Titus. In two long strides he reached the boy. Tearing the tortured fowl from his grip, Titus upended the infant and delivered a ringing slap to his bottom.

  The boy wriggled free and whirled to face his chastiser. His face, white with astonished fury, worked silently for a few seconds. Then he screamed in outrage, ‘How-dare-you-how-dare-youhow-dare-you!’ He gulped for breath then added, ‘You’ll be sorry you did that.’ This last was uttered with such venom that, although coming from a child, it was disturbingly chilling. Then, in a swift movement, the boy reached for a whistle hung round his neck and blew a shrill blast.

  After that, things happened very quickly.

  Like actors responding to cues in a Terence farce, palace guards appeared from behind hedges and pavilions, and raced towards the chicken-yard.

  ‘Kill him! Kill him!’ shrieked the child as two of the guards leapt into the enclosure. ‘He attacked me.’

  A spear whirred past Titus’ head and clanged against the cage. The near miss had a steadying effect on the young man; his mind clicked into focus and began to function fast and clearly. Unlike the frontier units or the mobile field armies, palace guards were recruited more for their fanatical loyalty than for their fighting abilities. Titus was sure that, man for man, he was more than a match for any of them.

  After Titus’ riding accident, his father had purchased an exgladiator to instruct the lad in self-defence. (The closing of the gladiatorial schools a few years previously had flooded the market with slave fighters, so Gaius was able to pick from the best.) Titus proved an apt pupil; hours of daily practice with a wooden sword against a post, or fighting with staves, or using only hands and feet as weapons, had honed his skills to a level which more than compensated for his disability. ‘You’re a dead man walking,’ his instructor used to intone during these sessions, repeating a catch-phrase of his own lanista. On the day when Titus was able to catch a fly in flight, the old gladiator stopped saying it.

  As the guard drew his sword and rushed forward, Titus grabbed the fallen spear with his right hand and feinted. The guard parried; flicking the spear to his left hand, Tit
us swept it in a scything blow across the other’s shins. The man collapsed, his shield and helmet flying. Titus reversed the spear and whacked the butt against his opponent’s skull, stunning him. Then, whirling the weapon round his head, he charged two guards closing on him and drove them back against the enclosure wall. A savage kick between the legs sent one man rolling on the ground in agony; a split second later the spear-shaft slammed into the other’s sword-arm, snapping it with a brittle crack. With a howl of pain, the guard clutched the injured limb, his weapon thudding to the ground.

  Three down. Titus looked around — and knew despair. From every direction guards were racing towards him. He was indeed a dead man walking. Retrieving his first opponent’s shield, Titus backed against the cage, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.

  ‘Stop!’

  The command came from a tall and beautiful woman in her early thirties. Everyone froze, except for the child, who with a yell of ‘Mother!’ rushed through a gate in the wall to be scooped up by her.

  ‘Valentinian, tell us what this is about.’ Concern showed through the regal tones.

  Valentinian? Titus went hot then cold, as the enormity of his predicament dawned on him. He had assaulted the Emperor.

  ‘I was convinced my last hour had come, sir,’ said Titus, when he was safely back at Aetius’ headquarters. ‘When they bound my hands I thought I was about to be marched off for summary execution. Then, when I told Galla Placidia you’d sent me, she ordered me to be released, although it was obvious she was longing to have me put to a horrible death for daring to smack her son. I was escorted down this long peristyle and through a portico to the imperial apartments, where I was given an audience in the reception chamber.’ He looked at Aetius with admiration. ‘You must have huge influence where she’s concerned, sir. When I told her your demands I could see she hated them and felt deeply humiliated, yet she agreed to everything — in writing.’ Titus handed the general a scroll. ‘I witnessed this myself. The whole thing was bizarre. There was Valentinian, all decked out in a purple robe and diadem, with me having to put your points through him to his mother. I actually had to place my finger against the little monster’s forehead — to make the procedure binding, I suppose.

  ‘Well, sir, I seem to have failed spectacularly as your emissary,’ Titus went on bitterly. ‘I’ve embarrassed you, and made a fool of myself. You can have my resignation now, sir, if you like.’

  For a few seconds Aetius regarded him inscrutably. Then, to Titus’ astonishment, he burst out laughing. ‘My dear Titus,’ he chuckled when his mirth had subsided, ‘you’re so refreshingly unsophisticated. Far from wanting your resignation, I wouldn’t part with you for all the corn in Africa. You’ve done me the best service you could possibly imagine. Remember what I told you about animal politics? Well, by smacking the royal arse in loco meo, you’ve reinforced — in a uniquely powerful way — my dominant status in relation to Placidia and Valentinian. Unfortunately, as far as you’re concerned the Empress won’t rest until she’s evened the score.’ The general spread his hands apologetically and gave a wry smile. ‘As from today, you’re a marked man.’

  In other words, a dead man walking, thought Titus grimly.

  THREE

  A large head, small deep-seated eyes, a flat nose, a few hairs in place of a beard, broad shoulders, and a short square body — powerful but ill-proportioned

  Description of Attila: Jordanes, Gothic History, 551

  The first the bear knew of something being wrong, was when a chamois — a creature not normally found this far down the mountain — trotted across the glade he was resting in. The wind changed; snuffing the air, he caught a whiff of the hated man-scent. Instinct prompted him to retreat downhill, but intelligence combined with experience told him that that way lay death. To survive, he must take cover and let the hunters pass him, or break through them to the safety of the higher slopes.

  He was a huge animal; at twenty, past his prime, but still extremely powerful and with his cunning unimpaired. These traits he owed to his inheritance. He was perhaps the great-great-grandson of a pair whose strength and intelligence alone had ensured survival from the Roman venatores, gangs who, until a few years previously, had been employed in large numbers by contractors to capture wild beasts for the games. Their depredations over centuries had wiped out most large animals from the Baltic to the Sahara.

  Moving with surprising agility, the bear began to climb, looking for a suitable spot where his great bulk could be concealed.

  ‘Get back, Roman dog.’

  ‘All right, I can hear you, Hun savage.’ Using the most insulting gesture he knew, Carpilio extended the index and little fingers of his left hand at Barsich, the beater immediately to his right. Nevertheless, he obediently backed his horse until the other’s signal told him he was once more in line with the other beaters.

  He and Barsich, a Hun lad of his own age, had become firm friends during the hunt, now in its final day. Sitting among the adult hunters round the evening camp fires, the two boys had shared their food, chunks of mutton roasted on sticks over the embers, and swapped lies about boyhood exploits. During the day, when unobserved by their seniors they had shown off to each other, making their horses caracole and dance near cliff-edges, or swinging under their bellies then remounting at full gallop.

  Carpilio couldn’t remember being happier. He had accompanied his father, Aetius, on a diplomatic trip beyond the Danubius river to visit the general’s friends, the Huns. He thought with quiet glee of his schoolfellows back in Ravenna, scratching away at their waxed tablets under the ever-present threat of the master’s birch. Even that snivelling little beast Valentinian would be hard at it. Everyone had heard and laughed about the Emperor’s misadventure with the chickens, and that his Greek tutor had been replaced by a stern disciplinarian imported from Rome. Meanwhile, his formal Roman dalmatic exchanged for baggy trousers and loose tunic, Carpilio was enjoying a glorious freedom, with nothing to do all day but ride, swim, wrestle, and shoot, with other boys. His greatest joy had been riding the Arab-Libyan stallion that was a gift from Attila, his father’s closest friend among the Huns, nephew of Rua, an important chieftain. The Arab showed as much endurance as the hardy though ill-conformed Hun horses, but unlike them displayed spirit and intelligence — invaluable assets in an animal with whom a rider could establish rapport.

  The hunt was the climax of the visit. Five days previously, the Huns and their Roman guests had ridden out from their encampment to form a huge circle, extending for many miles, among the wooded foothills of the Carpathus mountains. The circle then began to contract, with the result that the animals within it were driven into a smaller and smaller area which eventually became the scene of mass slaughter. The secret of a successful hunt lay in ensuring that the containing cordon remained intact, with no gaps where animals could slip through. Carpilio marvelled at the skill and discipline with which the beaters — young men and boys with a stiffening of veterans — maintained the line over difficult terrain: ravines, rivers, dense scrub, and clumps of woodland.

  The line was moving again. Using only the lightest knee-pressure, Carpilio guided his mount down a scree-covered incline. Away in the distance, flashing sunbursts marked the course of the Tisa. Beyond the river stretched the steppe, a sea of grass rolling to the far horizon, its wind-rippled surface creating an uncanny illusion of waves. A thousand feet below, Carpilio could see the natural amphitheatre that would form the killing-ground. Ahead, the thickets boiled with game, with here and there a deer or goat-antelope breaking cover to race across a clearing. Excitement surged through Carpilio. Like the other boys, he would not be allowed to touch large or dangerous animals such as bison, lynx, or wolf; those were reserved for adults. But there would be plenty of pickings for the youngsters: marmots, blue hares, and the smaller hoofed creatures.

  ‘Carpilio!’

  The young Roman looked back. Above him, just beginning to descend the scree, was Aetius, mounted on
Bucephalus, his favourite steed. Beside him rode Attila, a short but powerful figure, with a huge head and immensely broad shoulders.

  ‘Good hunting, Father,’ Carpilio called eagerly, returning the general’s wave.

  ‘The same to you, son.’

  At the bottom of the slope, the line of beaters paused to straighten out, the delay allowing Aetius and Attila to close the gap, then it pressed on into a tract of dense-packed bush.

  Suddenly, from a copse directly to Carpilio’s fore, burst an enormous brown bear, the biggest animal the boy had ever seen. With its powerful muscles bunching and sliding beneath the shaggy pelt, its little red eyes blazing with fury, its open jaws revealing its vicious fangs, the creature was terrifying. Carpilio was gripped with paralysing fright and his bowels seemed to turn to water. He felt the horse beneath him start to tremble. On either side of him, he was aware of the young beaters’ mounts beginning to rear and plunge. Knowing that a horse’s instinct is to flee when faced with danger, but aware too that attempted flight, with the bear directly in his path, was probably his worst option, he placed a reassuring hand on the stallion’s neck. Such was the empathy he had already established with the animal that it quietened immediately.