by Ross Laidlaw
Paralysed by remorse, bereft of the decisive brilliance that had once enabled him to crush the Moors, the Count of Africa had mounted but a faltering resistance — and had seen his troops scattered by the triumphant invaders. Boniface groaned to himself; by one stupendous act of folly, he had lost the West its richest diocese and the source of half its grain.
It would have been a blessed relief to end his life. In similar circumstances, the ancestor who had first put on the armour he now wore would undoubtedly have fallen on his sword — the same sword that now hung at Boniface’s side. But that once honourable option was no longer open. For Christians, suicide was a mortal sin, as Augustine, perhaps fearing his friend’s intention, had gently reminded him: his life was not his to take, but was God’s.
It was cold comfort to reflect that his clash with the imperial government was now resolved. Partly through the good offices of Augustine, an influential court official named Darius had been persuaded to mount a full enquiry into the reasons behind Placidia’s recall of Boniface, and his refusal to obey. With Aetius temporarily absent in Gaul, the investigating commission was able to insist that Placidia surrender Aetius’ letters to her, maligning Boniface, which were compared with his letters to the Count, advising resistance. Aetius’ perfidy was exposed, and Placidia and Boniface were fully reconciled.
Boniface was hurt and baffled by Aetius’ betrayal. He had come to trust the general as a friend, and cherished a vision of their working together to rebuild Rome’s power in the West. Operating out of strong bases in Italy and Africa, between them they could surely have tamed or crushed the barbarians in Gaul and Hispania, then gone on to restore the Rhenus and Danubius frontiers. It had been done before: a hundred and fifty years earlier, Aurelian had achieved no less in circumstances just as desperate. He sighed. That bright vision lay in ruins, and Rome’s future looked dark and uncertain indeed.
A call from the sick-bed jerked Boniface from his gloomy reverie. ‘The light fades — it’s gone darker, much darker. I can hardly see you.’
Hurrying to the bedside, Boniface knelt and grasped Augustine’s hand.
‘No need to shield me from the truth, old friend,’ the bishop murmured. ‘It’s the end, isn’t it?’
‘Not the end Aurelius,’ replied Boniface, mastering a sob, ‘but a glorious beginning. Soon you will be with Christ and His company of angels.’
So they stayed, hand in hand, the tough soldier and the saintly scholar, until, a little later, the bishop gently breathed his last.
A pity his friend could not have lived a little longer, thought the Count, brushing away tears. The siege, now in its third month, would soon be raised; reinforcements were coming from Italy, to be joined by Aspar and an Eastern army — the same Aspar who had foiled Aetius’ attempted coup to install Ioannes as Western emperor. Gaiseric and his savages would be wiped out, or at the least defeated and driven from the soil of Africa. Perhaps, after all, the West’s future was not so dark.
The Roman army was drawn up on rising ground to the east of Hippo. Composed of powerful contingents from both empires, and supplemented by the remnants of Boniface’s Army of Africa, it made a brave showing. In the centre was the infantry: a few of the old legions still proudly displaying their eagles and standards, their ranks swelled by German mercenaries; the bulk of the force was formed of the new, smaller units, auxilia and cunei, the latter being attack columns intended to pierce the enemy’s front. To right and left (that is, to north and south) of the centre was the cavalry: Aspar with his seasoned Eastern troopers to the right, Italian horse to the left. (Conspicuous by their absence were the units of Aetius’ Gallic Horse.)
Opposite the Roman positions and about two miles distant, the Vandal forces were assembling on a hill to the south of the city. The churning mob of trousered warriors were armed mostly with spears and javelins, their only defensive equipment being a round shield with an iron boss. A few men, wealthy or important tribal leaders, carried swords; even fewer, from the same class, were mounted.
The setting in the fertile tell was idyllic. Vineyards and wheat-fields, interspersed with groves of oak and cedar, surrounded the neat little city, whose extensive harbour sheltered the two imperial fleets. Blue with distance, the Lesser Atlas rolled along the southern horizon, their foothills stippled with woods. Between the two armies, but closer to the Roman side, flowed the little River Sebus, its banks lined with trees.
Surrounded by senior officers, prefects of legions, and praepositi, or commanders of smaller units, Boniface surveyed the scene. As supreme commander of the joint enterprise, on him fell the responsibility of devising a plan to defeat the Vandals. For the first time in many months, he felt cheerful and positive. Like all barbarians, the Vandals lacked the skill and patience to invest walled cities and had given up the siege, at least for the time being. They might be individually brave but they lacked discipline, and their only tactic consisted of a wild charge. Break that, Boniface told himself, and victory was virtually assured for, in the event of a charge stalling, the Vandals, lacking helmets and body armour, were very vulnerable. The one factor that gave them cohesion and direction was their king. War-leader as well as monarch — functions not normally combined in German kings — Gaiseric inspired in his warriors an awed respect which commanded total obedience. This did not stem from fear, an emotion to which the Vandals, like all Germans, seemed impervious. A war-leader was accepted only for as long as he brought success; should he fail, he was quickly replaced.
Looking at their army on its hill, Boniface felt encouraged. The Romans outnumbered them greatly. Really, all he had to do was wait. His disciplined troops would keep formation indefinitely. But that was not in the Germans’ nature; they would soon grow restive and impatient, until not even Gaiseric’s iron will could hold them. Then they would rush down from their vantage-point — to break in red ruin on the Roman line.
He turned to the Commander of the Eastern army and smiled. Well, Aspar,’ he said, ‘this time I think we have them.’
‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t rely on it. Gaiseric’s a cunning fox. Something tells me he may have a nasty surprise in store for us.’
Aspar’s suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later, when a scout came galloping up. ‘Vandals in the wood, sir,’ he gasped to Boniface, pointing to a stand of pines on the far side of the river. ‘They’re well concealed. I dismounted and crawled as close as I dared; I’m not sure of their numbers, sir, but I’d say they’re there in force. I got away without being spotted; I’m certain of that.’
The elation that had begun to lift the Count’s spirits suddenly evaporated. Should the scout be right, the situation was completely changed. If he stuck to his plan to await the German attack, he would be caught between two fires — the Vandals on the hill would engage his front, while those in the wood would strike him on the flank. But if he took the initiative and advanced to the attack, the ones in the wood would join their comrades on the hill before he could intercept them. Together, they would launch a charge which their combined impetus would render irresistible.
Suddenly, Boniface felt exhausted; tired to his very bones. He knew he must make a decision — and rapidly — but his mind refused to function. The terrible guilt resulting from his causing the Vandals to invade Africa came surging back, coupled with lingering depression over the death of his friend Augustine, eroding his confidence, petrifying his will. Dimly, he became aware of Aspar trying to communicate, and forced himself to pay attention.
‘Sir,’ Aspar said urgently, ‘don’t you see? We can turn this to our advantage. Gaiseric’s made the mistake of splitting his force. Assuming the scout wasn’t seen, Gaiseric doesn’t know that we’ve discovered his dispositions. If we send our best infantry round behind the wood, we can flush the Vandals out. If our men advance along the river, they’ll be screened by the trees, and can take them by surprise. Once the Vandals are in the open, our cavalry can hit them hard. With the slope in our favour, they’ll be cut to pieces be
fore the ones on the hill have time to intervene. Those we can then deal with separately. With half their force destroyed, they won’t stand a chance.’ Aspar paused, waiting for the Count’s reaction. When none came, he almost shouted, ‘It will work, sir, but only if we don’t delay — surely you can see that? Give the orders now, sir.’ And he proffered his own set of diptychs, hinged pairs of waxed tablets, used by commanders in the field to transmit messages.
Aspar’s plan was bold, simple, and would probably succeed, Boniface acknowledged to himself. But the thought of detaching the cream of the infantry and leaving his centre exposed, if only temporarily, was worrying. He opened his mouth to summon gallopers who would convey the appropriate orders. But no sound came. Frozen by fear and irresolution, he hesitated while the precious moments bled away.
Mistaking the Count’s silence for contempt, Aspar exclaimed furiously, ‘I see. You think because I’m an Alan — to you a barbarian — my opinion can be overlooked!’ His fine-boned, delicate features, the result of the strong admixture of Persian blood possessed by members of his race, darkened with anger. ‘Then fight Gaiseric your own way, Roman. You deserve each other.’ Wheeling his horse, he cantered off to join the Eastern cavalry.
With numb horror, like that experienced in a nightmare when safety depends on speed but the limbs refuse to move, Boniface watched the Vandals descend the hill, and swarm across the intervening ground towards the Roman front. With a deafening clash, the two sides came together. The sheer ferocity of the German attack sent the Romans reeling, forcing them to give ground. Their line bent, but held, then slowly straightened again. Protected by armour, welded by discipline and training into an efficient fighting-machine, the Romans began to push the Vandals back. The Germans in the Roman ranks fought particularly well. Unlike the untrustworthy federates — whole tribes allowed to settle in the empire in return for a promise to fight for Rome under their own chiefs if called on — the Germans were individually recruited volunteers, and provided Rome with the best and bravest of her soldiers. Once sworn in, they always stayed loyal, even when required to fight against their fellow Germans.
Suddenly, just when it seemed that the tide was turning in its favour, the Roman line began to crumple from the right, as the Vandals in the wood launched their flank attack. The onslaught compressed the ranks on the Roman right, sending a destabilizing shock wave along the entire line. Cohesion crumbled and the Roman advance wavered to a halt, the men jammed together, unable to wield their weapons properly. With no orders issuing from their commander, demoralization then panic swept through the Roman army. Yelling in the sheer exultation of battle, which seemed to lend them near-superhuman strength, the Vandals inflicted terrible damage with their spears, which sometimes punched clean through scale armour or chain mail to deliver a mortal wound. Like a wax figure placed too near a fire, the Roman formations lost definition and began to dissolve. Then, with horrifying speed, the army disintegrated, transformed in a twinkling into a fleeing rabble inspired by a single thought: escape.
The cavalry fared best. A man on a horse is always intimidating to a man on foot; by sheer weight and speed, most troopers and their officers were able to cut their way through the disorderly press of Vandals. The footsoldiers were less fortunate. Vast numbers were killed or taken prisoner, and only a sorry remnant reached safety behind the walls of Hippo; so few, in fact, that it was decided to embark the civil population along with the surviving soldiers. A broken man, Boniface watched from the deck of his transport ship, as the African coast slowly vanished in the distance. In the space of a few months, he had lost two battles, the flower of Rome’s armies, and the richest part of the Western Empire.
1 The Straits of Gibraltar.
NINE
If God the Father and Son accept this holy plaint, my prayer may once again restore you to me
Ausonius, Letter to Paulinus, c. 390
Villa Basiliana, Ravenna, Province of Flaminia and Picenum, Diocese of Italia [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum]. The year of the consuls Bassus and Antiochus, pridie Kalendas Sept.1
The capital buzzes with rumours about Aetius, who is in Gaul, considering his next move as regards Placidia. The situation is this: Boniface has returned from Africa, not, as one might expect, in disgrace for bringing in the Vandals and losing the diocese, but in something like triumph: given a hero’s welcome by Placidia, raised to the rank of Patrician, made master-general of the Roman armies, and showered with medals! How can one believe it? Aetius, on the other hand, has been vilified at court — blamed for the African disaster, and now persona non grata as far as the Empress is concerned. People are saying he drove Boniface into appealing to the Vandals for help, by misrepresenting him to Placidia. Which puts me in a quandary: I hate the idea of showing disloyalty to Aetius (who has always been good to me) by even listening to the rumours. On the other hand, it would be irresponsible to ignore them — at least until I’m satisfied that they’re unfounded. But if they should turn out to be true, what then? Could I, in conscience, go on serving a master whose scheming has so damaged Rome? Perhaps prayer to my new God will help me to see the way ahead clearly.
Meanwhile, on Aetius’ orders I stay here at his headquarters near Ravenna, gathering what information I can about political developments. He wants a full report on his return from Gaul. It’s far from easy; as one can imagine, I’m not exactly in Placidia’s good graces since that wretched business with the chickens. With Aetius out of favour, the palace is barred to me, so I’m reduced to snooping around the markets and wine-shops for scraps of gossip, which I then have to sift and evaluate.
Now, on a personal matter, some good news. I am a father! Recently Clothilde gave birth to a boy. We’ve christened him Marcus; he’s a sturdy little chap with a fine pair of lungs. For the moment he and his mother are living with Clothilde’s people, the Burgundians, in that part of eastern Gaul ceded to them first by the usurper Ioannes, then confirmed by Honorius. So for the time being, until I can afford a little farm in Italy, he’s being brought up as a German. And I’m glad of that. He’ll grow up strong and hardy, and learn to value loyalty and courage — qualities in short supply among today’s Romans. Time enough for him to acquire some Roman polish later. I visit them from time to time when I get leave, which is fairly frequently — or rather was, prior to Aetius’ departure for Gaul. He may be a hard taskmaster, but stinginess isn’t one of his faults.
I worry about my father. The rift between us seems as wide as ever; he doesn’t answer my letters, but family friends keep me informed. Poor, stubborn old Gaius! It appears he’s much reduced in health and circumstances. It’s his own fault, of course. If he’d moderate his pagan stance a little, or just pay lip-service to Christian rites, the authorities would probably turn a blind eye. With him, though, where principles are concerned it’s a matter of honour not to give an inch. He’s been fined, stripped of his civil decurion status and of his army pension. He survives through the generosity of friends and the kindness of the coloni on his estate. If only there were a way to resolve this senseless breach between us.
It was cool and dark inside Ravenna’s great cathedral, a suitable place for Titus to focus his thoughts. He stared at the great, recently finished mosaic of the Enthroned Christ separating the damned from the saved on the Day of Judgement. The Saviour seemed to gaze back at him, calm, strong, filled with loving compassion, but also with the stern authority of a terrible judge. Titus opened his heart in prayer, pouring out in silent words his dilemma concerning Aetius. But it didn’t help; he had no sense of a caring, listening Presence. Perhaps that image on the wall, formed of tiny cubes of coloured stone and glass, was all there was. Perhaps, after all, Christ was not Risen, was just a heap of mouldering bones in a forgotten sepulchre in Palestine. He continued to pray, increasingly unable to prevent the feeling that it was futile.
He failed to notice a cloaked and hooded figure, which had been watching him from behind a pillar, glide silently from the building.
Titus was always sympathetic to the plight of such ex-soldiers, whose pension instalments were often late, or subject to fleecing by corrupt officials. ‘Which unit?’ he asked.
‘African Horse,’ replied the other proudly, ‘and before that the Twentieth Legion — the old “Valeria Victrix”, stationed at Castra Deva2 in Britain for nigh on four hundred years in all.’ He indicated his leg, which had been severed above the knee. ‘Doctors took it off after the recent battle with the Vandals. A right shambles that was, I can tell you.’
Interest displacing his concern for the lateness of the hour, Titus pressed the man for details. Perhaps he might learn something.
‘We were doing well against the Vandals, until they launched a surprise attack on our flank. Then our commander, Count Boniface, seemed to freeze up. With no orders telling anyone what to do, there was chaos. In the end we broke, and what began as a rout became a massacre. Myself, I wasn’t that surprised. Boniface, poor devil, lost his grip the moment the Vandals invaded — blamed himself for asking them to come over from Spain to help him. Ah, but you should have seen him in the old days, sir. What a soldier! Suevi, Goths, Moors — take your pick; he’d thrash the living daylights out of any of them.’
