by Ross Laidlaw
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.
It was all the fault of Arnegliscus, the new Eastern Master of Soldiers, thought Aspar bitterly. Ambitious, brutal, and slow-witted, Arnegliscus had murdered the previous Magister militum, a fellow German, and usurped his post. He’d have had no difficulty in persuading his imperial master, the weak and pliable Theodosius, that he’d done so to forestall a plot against the Emperor, say. And the fact that he was supported by the circus faction of the Greens (the people’s party) would have put Theodosius under extra pressure to confirm him in the post or risk provoking a riot. By the time that ponderous Teutonic mind had got round to deciding that something should be done about the Huns, Attila would probably be battering at the gates of Constantinople.
Being a fair-minded man, however, after a little reflection Aspar reluctantly admitted that he was being less than just to Arnegliscus. He was allowing frustration and impatience to colour his assessment of the man. Coarse-grained and limited the German might be, but the very fact that he had become Master of Soldiers showed that he at least possessed two sterling qualities, leadership and courage. Otherwise, the legions would never have accepted him. For the same reason, he could hardly be considered stupid: fools did not become top generals. Nor, as Aspar could testify from personal experience, did paragons of gentle forbearance. In the dog-eat-dog world of Roman power politics, Arnegliscus might have been compelled to eliminate his predecessor in order to forestall his own assassination by one who feared a rival. As for his embroidering the truth in order to influence Theodosius, well, hadn’t every successful general and politician been compelled to play that game, from Pericles to Constantine and beyond?
Suddenly, Aspar’s pulse began racing. Oars flashing in the sunlight, a fast galley shot from behind the islet of Ortygia and raced towards the entrance of the Great Harbour. Backing water with a stylish flourish as it neared the mole, it shipped oars and glided gently to its moorings. Surely this, at last, must be the ship bringing the orders for the expedition to return to the Golden Horn. The Alan general waited expectantly for a messenger to arrive, and, sure enough, a little later a biarchus was ushered into his presence. The man handed Aspar a sheaf of scrolls. The general scanned each briefly, with growing impatience and concern: fodder returns for the new cavalry barracks at Nicomedia; a complaint about the quality of a batch of javelin heads from the state arms factory at Ratiaria; a plea for a diploma of discharge on behalf of a standard-bearer claiming disablement. .
‘You’re quite sure there’s nothing from the palace?’ he asked.
The biarchus looked in his satchel and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. Wish I could say different. There’s not a soldier in the empire but wishes you and the army were back home.’ He added anxiously, ‘Er, best forget I said that, sir.’
‘Said what?’ smiled Aspar. He suddenly came to a bold decision; this farce had gone on long enough. ‘What’s your ship’s next destination?’
‘Cyrene, sir.’
‘No it isn’t. Tell the captain I’m requisitioning his vessel to take me immediately to Constantinople.’
‘Yes, sir!’ With a delighted grin, the man saluted and hurried off to deliver the general’s command.
Theodosius, the second of that name, Emperor of the East Romans, the Calligrapher (of all his royal titles, the one of which he was most proud), laid down his pen from the task in which he was engaged: copying, in beautiful Rustic capitals, Jerome’s Third Attack on the Pelagian Heresy. ‘Will it do, sister?’ he enquired anxiously of the handsome but dowdily dressed woman in her early forties who had just entered the scriptorium.
‘I’m sure the monks of my new monastery will be impressed,’ sighed Pulcheria wearily. She went on with a hint of impatience, ‘There are, however, also worldly matters which have a claim on your attention. I would remind you, brother, that the generals have been waiting more than an hour.’
‘Oh dear, as long as that?’ murmured the Emperor contritely. ‘Well, we’d better see them, I suppose.’ He rose from the writing-desk; two slaves dressed him in a purple robe and slippers, then placed the imperial diadem on his head. Meekly, he followed his sister, the Augusta, along a succession of corridors to the audience chamber. This was a grand colonnaded affair, overlooking the jumble of splendid but asymmetrical series of buildings, cascading downhill towards the Propontis,3 that made up the rest of Constantinople’s imperial palace.
The two men who bowed low, ‘adoring the Sacred Purple’, at the entry of the royal pair were very different in appearance. Aspar, the Alan general, was slight, with delicate aquiline features and olive colouring. The other was tall, of massive build, with shoulder-length yellow hair and fair skin, a magnificent specimen of manhood. This was Arnegliscus, the Master of Soldiers. Their dress pointed up the contrast between the pair. Aspar’s simple military tunic and leggings still bore the marks of travel, for he had come straight from the docks on the Golden Horn. The German was got up in the full regalia of a Roman general, complete with silvered cuirass and bronze-studded pteruges, leather strips protecting the shoulders, and the lower body from waist to knee.
Theodosius and Pulcheria seated themselves on thrones. ‘Aspar,’ declared the Emperor, ‘we are displeased that you have taken it upon yourself not only to return to Constantinople without our permission, but to commandeer a naval vessel, thus preventing it from transacting important business in Cyrene.’ Striving for stern censoriousness, Theodosius succeeded in sounding merely peevish. He turned to Pulcheria. ‘His presumption is inexcusable, do you not agree?’
‘Let us hear what he has to say, before we judge him,’ replied the Augusta. ‘You may speak, Aspar.’
‘Your Serenities must excuse me if I speak in plain terms,’ began the Alan. ‘The situation as I see it is approaching crisis. Our army is absent and divided — half on the Persian frontier, the rest in Sicily. Meanwhile Attila is rampaging freely throughout Illyria, destroying cities, massacring or enslaving the people. It makes no sense that our troops are not here. As a matter of the most urgent priority, I say we must recall both forces without further delay.’ All at once, Aspar realized that any appeal to reasoned compromise would probably fail. To make sure it was his view that prevailed, he was first going to have to daemonize the big German. Reluctantly switching to attack mode, he went on, ‘Frankly, I am at a loss to understand why the Master of Soldiers has not done this already.’ Despite having an Asiatic contempt for petticoat politics, Aspar was thankful for the presence of Pulcheria. Strange, he thought, that each half of the empire was run by a strong-willed woman controlling a weak Emperor. But where Pulcheria was sensible and decisive, Placidia was inept and devious; where Theodosius was merely ineffective, Valentinian was vicious and a liability.
‘Arnegliscus?’ invited Pulcheria.
The commander shrugged. ‘Come the autumn,’ he said slowly, ‘Attila must return to his meadows beyond the Danubius. Already his horses grow thin; he has all but exhausted the pastures of Illyria.’
‘And next year?’ sneered Aspar. ‘Having discovered that the empire provided such easy pickings, do you really suppose that Attila will fail to return? Or that he won’t keep coming back year after year — until the empire takes a
stand? Or is it perhaps that Arnegliscus is afraid to match himself against the Hun?’ In fact, as Aspar well knew, Arnegliscus was no coward; few Germans were. But if it took a confrontation to unblock the log-jam of inactivity, so be it.
The German rose to the bait. ‘Anyone who says Arnegliscus is afraid, lies,’ he growled.
‘Fine words!’ retorted Aspar. ‘But words are cheap. Let us see if you dare match them with fine actions.’
An angry flush suffused the German’s cheeks. ‘Perhaps now is not the time for action,’ he countered, his tone defensive and his blue eyes flashing with resentment. ‘To confront Attila at this moment is to risk the destruction of our armies. I say let the Huns ravage Thracia, Dacia and Macedonia.4 Poor, thinly populated, in the last resort they are expendable. It is the wealthy east and south — Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Libya — that we must safeguard above all. To attack them, Attila must first take Constantinople. And that he cannot do.’
Privately, Aspar was forced to concede that what Arnegliscus said had much to recommend it. The mighty walls of Constantinople could withstand the worst assault that Attila could hurl against them, and, with the capital inviolate, the security of the Eastern Empire’s heart was guaranteed. But abandon Illyris Graeca5 to the fury of the Huns? Unthinkable. Wasn’t it? For the first time, Aspar was assailed by a creeping doubt regarding the wisdom of taking the field against the Huns — at least until the armies of the East had developed effective tactics against the terrible archery of the nomad hordes. But it was too late to row back now.
‘So you would have the army sit safe behind the ramparts of Constantinople,’ he sneered, ‘without lifting a finger to help, while Attila’s savages wreak havoc and destruction throughout Illyria, Thrace, and Macedonia? To settle for a shameful policy of appeasement — that is the coward’s way.’
‘Enough!’ said Pulcheria sharply. ‘Rather than fight among ourselves, we should be planning how to deal with our common foe. Aspar is right. Things must not be allowed to drift any further. Let us recall our legions from Sicilia and the east; the situation on neither of these fronts is critical, and anyway operations can be resumed when the present danger is past.’ She turned to Theodosius. ‘Agreed, my lord?’
‘Oh, very well,’ assented the Emperor testily. Then, as if to avoid giving the impression that he was passively yielding to pressure, he sat up erect on his throne and announced loudly, ‘It is our word and our command that the African Expedition and the troops now serving on the Persian frontier be immediately recalled to Constantinople, and that they be put in readiness to march against the Huns. You, Arnegliscus, will be in overall charge, with Aspar as your second-in-command.’
Surveying the Roman dispositions from a low hill behind the cavalry wing on the army’s left, Aspar was overwhelmed by uneasiness. The terrain was hot, barren, and dusty; in the distance, the Thracian trading-port of Kallipolis6 huddled beside the blue waters of the Hellespont. A splendid opportunity to check ‘the Scourge of God’, as Attila was becoming known, had been squandered by the folly of the Emperor.
Following the recall of the troops from Sicilia and the Persian front, Aspar, with Arnegliscus’ agreement, had bought time by arranging a truce with Attila, through promising the return of fugitives, also paying part of the arrears of tribute fixed by the Treaty of Margus. Time which he had made good use of to begin to hammer the two halves of the army into a disciplined, united force capable of taking on an unfamiliar and terrible enemy. But, to Aspar’s fury, these solid gains had been needlessly thrown away. With a false confidence inspired by the return of the legions, Theodosius had forced Aspar to renege on his promises to the Hun king. By order of the Emperor, fugitives were not after all to be returned, nor was any further tribute to be paid. Predictably, Attila had been enraged, and had responded by launching a strike to the east: taking Ratiaria (an important state arms factory and the base of the Danubius fleet), Naissus, Serdica7, and Philippopolis. With the Huns now dangerously near his capital, Theodosius had ordered a reluctant Arnegliscus to take the field against them. Unsurprisingly, the half-trained army had suffered two reverses. Pressed ever eastwards by the victorious Huns, it had been outflanked by Attila and now, its retreat cut off, had been forced into the Chersonesus of Thracia, the narrow peninsula bounding the northern shore of the Hellespontus.8
Never was a position more hopeless, thought Aspar despairingly, looking at the way Arnegliscus had drawn up the army. The infantry were arranged in a solid block twenty-five ranks deep, with a cavalry wing on either side. The formation resembled a plump partridge, a partridge ready for plucking. The two engagements with the Huns so far had been running skirmishes rather than full-scale encounters. Now, boxed into the Chersonesus, the Romans had no choice but to fight a pitched battle. What on earth was Arnegliscus’ tactical thinking? By concentrating his men in a solid mass, the German presumably imagined he was maximizing their effectiveness. That might have made sense in the days of the Macedonian phalanx, but against a highly mobile and — in terms of numbers — vastly superior enemy, armed moreover with long-range weapons, it was suicidal folly. Ultimately, however, the blame must lie largely with himself, Aspar admitted, with a sick feeling of guilt. If he hadn’t overridden Arnegliscus and persuaded the Empress to take the battle to the Hun. .
Arnegliscus had positioned the Roman force on open ground facing the direction the enemy must approach from, with the supply wagons some distance to the rear. What he had failed to grasp was that there was no rear. He was inviting the Huns to employ their most successful tactic: to move round behind their opponents and encircle them. Unless something was done, the Battle of Kallipolis would prove to be another Hadrianopolis. Well, he, Aspar, wasn’t going to stand by and let disaster overtake them, without first putting some suggestions to his superior. Dispatching a galloper to summon Areobindus, the commander of the cavalry on the right wing, Aspar spurred over to Arnegliscus’ command tent behind the infantry. Dismounting, he strode inside.
Arnegliscus was seated at a table strewn with maps and documents; there were also a flagon and goblets. He stared at Aspar with some irritation, but retained enough manners to offer the general some wine.
‘Thank you, but I prefer to keep a clear head,’ retorted Aspar. ‘I have several suggestions that must be made.’
‘“Must”?’ growled Arnegliscus, his blue eyes widening. ‘You forget yourself, I think.’
‘Yes, “must”, snapped Aspar. At that moment, Areobindus, a tall German with hair cut short in the Roman fashion, entered the tent. ‘As things stand,’ Aspar pressed on, ‘you face almost certain defeat. Your flanks are exposed, therefore the Huns will surround you. The infantry are packed together in a solid mass, a formation far too deep to allow the rear ranks to help those in front.’ He turned to Areobindus. ‘You can see that, surely?’ he appealed.
‘Aspar does have a point, sir,’ Areobindus observed tactfully. ‘Our front would become more effective if you were to expand it; eight ranks are quite sufficient to give staying power. May I also suggest that the wagons are brought up closer to the line? They would then be protected and could, if occasion arose, be deployed to form a protective screen. Left where they are, they will certainly be looted and destroyed.’
‘Above all, you must protect the flanks,’ urged Aspar, his heart sinking as he noted a look of stubborn defensiveness settle on Arnegliscus’ face. ‘Only a mile from here, there’s a steep-sided valley, not too broad for our troops to span. Our flanks would then be secure.’ Actually, what he was suggesting was, Aspar knew, a desperate enough alternative; to form an unbroken front across the valley would mean stretching the Roman line perilously thin. But almost any plan would be preferable to the present arrangement.
‘I had thought guarding the flanks was the duty of the cavalry,’ said Arnegliscus sourly. ‘I must have been mistaken.’
Areobindus stiffened and an angry gleam appeared in his eye. Determined not to be drawn, Aspar said coolly, ‘I shall
ignore that, sir. Another thing. The men have been standing in the sun for hours. They’re hot, thirsty, and demoralized. Issue them with food and water, and give them permission to stand down until the enemy’s sighted. They’ll fight better rested and on a full stomach. Also, a few words from yourself might help to raise their spirits.’
‘Very well,’ conceded Arnegliscus, ‘it shall be done. And I shall extend the line as you suggest. Also the wagons will be brought up closer to the rear. These things are only sensible, I grant. But I see no need for other change. The army stays where it is.’
Further argument was pointless, Aspar realized. He glanced at Areobindus, who shrugged resignedly. ‘On your head be it,’ Aspar said to Arnegliscus. ‘If the year of the consuls Maximus and Paterius9 is remembered in Rome’s annals for another Cannae, Rome will know whom to blame.’ Saluting, he left the tent, mounted, and rode back to his station.
A murmur passed along the Roman lines as a galloping scout hove into sight. A little later, the commanders assembled in front of their units to announce that the enemy was close; and that from this moment on the men were to maintain silence, observe orders, and keep position.
A bank of what seemed like mist or smoke had appeared on the horizon. Extending on either hand to the limit of visibility and growing taller by the second, it rolled swiftly towards the waiting Romans. A distant murmur changed to a steady pattering, which in turn became a rumbling roar. The earth began to tremble. Now dots could be made out in the dust-cloud, dots which rapidly grew into galloping riders.
