by Ross Laidlaw
‘No matter,’ observed Attila in a deep voice, adding wryly with a glance at the other’s richly embroidered dalmatic, ‘I am glad to see your clothing did not suffer. Tell me, Roman, the reason why your master sent you here.’
‘Your Majesty, the Patrician has authorized me to say on his behalf that he wishes — in all humility and sincerity — that the friendship which was once between you both, can be restored.’
‘By “friendship” he means soldiers,’ rumbled Attila. ‘What can he offer in return? My informants tell me that the West’s coffers are as empty as the skulls of the Romans that yet lie on the battlefield of the Chersonesus of Thracia.
‘He feels, my lord, that with your help he could restore the West — recover Africa and Britain, crush the Suebi in Hispania, compel the federates in Gaul to forswear the use of arms and settle down as tax-paying Romans, like ordinary citizens. Then, with peace and security established, and tribute flowing into the imperial treasury once more, the fiscal anaemia presently afflicting the West would be cured. He would be in a position to offer you, as well as the titles of joint Patrician and Magister militum, that of co-Emperor with Valentinian, also one half of the revenue from the West’s taxes.’ His confidence returning, Constantius proceeded, with his natural eloquence and enthusiasm, to paint a vivid and enticing picture of a vast Romano-Hunnish confederacy stretching from the Oceanus Atlanticus to the Imaus Mons,1 the greatest political unit the world had ever seen, encompassing in a single whole an empire greater than Alexander’s. He was wildly exceeding his brief. Aetius had said nothing about co-Emperorship; Attila’s share of the imperial revenues was to be a fifth not a half; the confederacy that had, in Constantius’ grandiose description, included the Eastern Empire in its sweep, in fact referred to the West and Attila’s dominions alone. But mundane details could always be amended and scaled down later; the essential thing at this moment was to capture Attila’s interest.
It was impossible to tell what effect, if any, his words were having. Attila listened impassively, motionless on his throne, his features without expression. ‘We will consider Aetius’ words,’ he pronounced, when Constantius had finished. ‘Meanwhile, it is our pleasure that you remain in our capital until further notice.’
Long after Constantius had gone, Attila sat pondering the implications of Aetius’ message, his great mind — like some vast and intricate machine devised by Archimedes or Hero of Alexandria — appraising, comparing, evaluating. . The young man sent by Aetius was unscrupulous and self-centred — that much was obvious. His story about losing his baggage in the Tisa was a transparent lie; from the moment of his entering Hun territory, Constantius’ every move was observed, and no such incident had been reported to Attila. But the offer he carried from Aetius, though clearly embellished, was worthy of serious deliberation. Perhaps, after all, Attila reflected, his dream of founding a Greater Scythia was capable of being resurrected. It was a tempting prospect; yet dreams were dangerous, for they could seduce and betray you — as he had found to his cost. But without dreams, what was a man? Nothing: a brute, a savage. He would ponder the matter long and hard, and then decide.
Meanwhile, he could make use of Constantius. The young Roman might be a self-serving opportunist, but he was also articulate, amiable, and sophisticated — potentially far more effective as an envoy than the arrogant and uncouth Huns he had been sending to Constantinople, following the Peace of Anatolius. That treaty had been thrashed out with the Eastern Empire the previous year. The terms had been punitive: Attila’s tribute had been trebled to the gigantic yearly sum of two thousand one hundred pounds of gold, plus an immediate payment of six thousand pounds of gold; all escaped Roman prisoners to be returned, or ransomed for a heavy fee; and all fugitives to be handed over on pain of drastic retribution. The negotiations had been decided between Attila’s representative, Scotta, and Anatolius, one of the East’s top generals. Knowing what accomplished procrastinators the Romans were, Attila had sent a stream of envoys to Constantinople to maintain pressure on the East to fulfil its treaty obligations. Personable and persuasive, Constantius might be just the person to infiltrate the court and discover the East’s intentions towards the Huns. Attila would dictate a letter to his secretary, Orestes, requesting a meeting between Constantius and Chrysaphius, the wily eunuch who, next to Pulcheria, pulled the strings that manipulated Theodosius.
When Bleda heard that Constantius not only was to be included in the next batch of ambassadors to travel to Constantinople, but was to be granted an exclusive interview with Chrysaphius, he immediately became excited. Leaving his domain north of the Pontus Euxinus, he hastened to his brother’s capital on the pretext of visiting one of his wives, who owned a nearby village. For Bleda had himself for some time been carrying on a correspondence with Chrysaphius concerning a plot of potential benefit to both: nothing less than the murder of Attila. For ten years Bleda had lived in his brother’s shadow, scorned and ignored at every turn. For someone of his limited yet ambitious character, the rankling humiliation had grown more and more insupportable, until at last his cunning and devious mind had turned to schemes for getting rid of his hated sibling. As for Chrysaphius, being instrumental in bringing about the death of Attila would make him appear as the saviour of the East, and immensely increase his already huge influence and power.
The plot hinged on finding a third person, bold and venal enough to do the deed. For reasons of security, and safeguard against possible betrayal, that eliminated any of the Hun ambassadors. Now, it seemed, in the person of Constantius, the perfect solution might have presented itself. All that Bleda had heard concerning Attila’s new envoy seemed to confirm this. Being a Roman, Constantius owed no loyalty of blood or nationality to the Hun monarch. If the rumours that he had misappropriated Aetius’ gifts for Attila were true, there was every chance that he would be susceptible to a hefty bribe. And apparently he had performed creditably in a recent battle in which the West Romans had defeated the Franks, so could be expected to have sufficient nerve to carry out the murder. Chrysaphius was a better judge of character than himself, Bleda knew. Let him assess the young man and, if he thought him suitable, put the suggestion to him along with half the ‘fee’, the balance to be paid on completion of the task. Bleda decided that he would send a letter by fast courier to Chrysaphius immediately. And he would make a point of getting to know Constantius, with a view to assessing the Roman’s suitability for himself.
‘They say the world is round, Balamir,’ said Attila. He had rescued the young man from the Danubius, just before his accession, and ever since then Balamir had been the most loyal and devoted of all Attila’s servants; now, ten years later, he was more a companion and confidant than a menial. The two men had reined in on a spur of the Carpathus to breathe their horses, and were contemplating the undulating grassland that rolled away like a sea to the farthest horizon. Attila had chosen to confer with Balamir in this remote spot because there was no possibility of their conversation being overheard.
‘Sire, a clever Greek called Eratosthenes, assuming the earth to be a ball, was said to be able to measure its circumference.’ From talks with the freedman of Onegesius and other East Roman prisoners of war, Balamir had picked up a considerable amount of knowledge pertaining to Graeco-Roman culture and ideas. (Having a quick ear for tongues, he had acquired a useful smattering of Greek, enough to follow the gist of most conversations.)
‘And what was this Greek’s measurement?’
‘Eight thousand leagues, Sire, I think was what he reckoned. Of course, it may just all be theory. From up here, it certainly looks flat.’
‘So it does, yet I believe the Greek was right. Have you ever watched a ship come over the horizon? But I was forgetting — you’ve never seen the sea. Well, then, a wagon approaching over the steppes. First, the tent appears, then the body, last of all the wheels, which wouldn’t happen unless it was moving up a curve.’
‘It might be curved, Sire, but still not be round. Like, say, an egg.’
>
‘But the earth’s shadow on the moon is part of a perfect circle. You see, my friend, by simple observation anyone can know the earth is round. He does not need to be a philosopher or mathematician. What is the secret of my power, Balamir? I will tell you: it is observation. A successful hunter observes his quarry over many months. He learns when it is safe or dangerous to approach, when it is bold and careless as in the rut, when it is cautious and wary, and so forth. Likewise, by observing men I learn their strengths and weaknesses, and thus am able to exploit and control them. What proportion of your Greek’s eight thousand leagues would my dominions represent, do you suppose?’
‘From Pannonia to the Imaus Mons, Sire, is — what? Perhaps a thousand leagues? An eighth of the earth’s circumference — its widest measurement, remember.’
‘Now double it. Unless Constantius is lying, Aetius has offered to share with me the rule of the Western Empire. Think of it, Balamir, two thousand leagues. Assuming all is Ocean between China and the Pillars of Hercules, nearly half the known world would come under Attila’s sway.’
‘A heady prospect, Sire. Even Alexander didn’t achieve that.’
‘But can I trust Aetius? We were close once; you were there, remember, when we shot the rapids of the Iron Gate. No better friends than Attila and Aetius could anywhere be found. Although our friendship has since been broken, perhaps it is not past mending. I would like to believe him. Yet I do not fully trust his emissary, this Constantius. He and my brother Bleda have been seen much together of late. And where Bleda goes, trouble follows — as the lammergeier follows the flocks. I am going to ask you to undertake something for me. You are free to refuse, for if you accept, you may be putting your life in danger.’
‘Did I refuse you, Sire, when once you asked me to spy on Bleda?’ responded Balamir hotly. ‘There was danger then, as I recall.’
‘That’s my Balamir,’ laughed Attila. ‘Forgive me — I should never have doubted that you would agree. Now, listen well; here is what I want you to do. .’
1 The Urals.
THIRTY-THREE
The Emperor has promised Constantius a rich wife; he must not be disappointed
Priscus of Panium [quoting Attila], Byzantine History, after 472
This was the life, thought Constantius as, with Attila’s other envoys, he approached the capital of the Eastern Empire. His fortunes were riding high: special ambassador to the Court of Constantinople, his stipulated reward a rich and noble wife. He relished the thought of returning in a year or so, wealthy and distinguished, to the home he’d left as a disgraced and penniless adventurer.
The walls of Constantinople came in sight, an immense bulwark extending for nearly five miles between the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara, forty feet high, with massive square towers every two hundred feet or so. The variegated courses of white stone alternating with red brick created a dramatic, unforgettable impression on Constantius. He reminded himself that these were not Constantine’s original walls, now demolished. Following the general panic that had swept the Roman world with Alaric’s capture and sack of Rome nearly forty years before, these ramparts had been erected early in the reign of the present emperor, more than a mile to the west of the old ones, to incorporate the great cisterns and the mass of suburbs that had sprung up in the interim.
Entering the city via the marble Porta Aurea with its four bronze elephants and huge statue of the first Theodosius, the envoys and their retinue proceeded along the main thoroughfare, the Mese, and through the five forums of Arcadius, Bovis, with the great bronze ox for which it was named, Theodosius, Amastrianum and Constantine, to the imposing complex of buildings comprising the Hippodrome, the royal palace, and the church of the Holy Wisdom.1 Constantius was intoxicated by the profusion of splendid public buildings — baths, porticoes, basilicas, churches, et cetera — and by the heady mix of old and new. Brashly uncompromising structures of the Constantinian and Theodosian dynasties (many embellished with statues ‘borrowed’ from both empires) clashed with venerable buildings from the time of Septimius Severus, when today’s mighty capital was merely the small Greek city of Byzantium.
Installed in quarters in the sprawl of buildings that made up the imperial palace, Constantius revelled in the luxury of Roman living after the privations of his stay among the Huns. What bliss to sleep on a feather bed instead of a pile of stinking pelts, to dine on honey-glazed sucking-pig washed down with wine, instead of greasy mutton accompanied by fermented mare’s milk. The days following his arrival were pleasant: relaxing in the baths, attending chariot races in the Hippodrome, flirting with the ladies of the court, and wooing the high-born widow selected as his bride — a congenial task, as she was as beautiful as she was wealthy. The other envoys depended on interpreters to converse with their hosts, but communication was no problem for Constantius, whose education had included the study of Greek. His facility in the language was already reaping rewards in terms of his spying obligations to Attila. From casual conversation and chance remarks overheard, he was gradually compiling a list of names of fugitives and deserters from Attila’s jurisdiction who were still being protected by the empire. More importantly, he was discovering that, through the efforts of Nomus, the brilliant Master of Offices, the northern frontier was being unobtrusively re-fortified, and its slaughtered garrisons replenished. Then, on the morning of the sixth day, a messenger from the senior notary’s office presented him with a scroll tied with a silk ribbon. Unfurling it, he found that it was from Chrysaphius, inviting him to attend for interview at the eighth hour the following day.
Balamir was making his own preparations to attend the interview between Constantius and Chrysaphius. Quartered, like most of the ambassadorial retinue, with the palace servants, he had made a point of striking up a friendship with a Hun named Eskam, one of the interpreters who translated the speeches of foreign envoys. These men came under the authority of Nomus, with whom Chrysaphius worked closely, so Eskam was in a good position to discover details concerning the eunuch’s timetable. With this in mind, Balamir decided to take Eskam into his confidence. He told Eskam that Attila had entrusted him with a difficult and dangerous mission — namely eavesdropping on the interview (which Attila had requested) between Constantius and Chrysaphius — and appealed to his fellow Hun for help. Swayed by pride at being able to help his people’s great leader (also by the generous sum that Balamir had been authorized by Attila to pay any accomplice he might need to enlist), Eskam agreed.
Between them, the two Huns devised a bold but simple plan. With funds supplied by Balamir, Eskam bribed one of the eunuch’s clerks to find out the place, date, and time for the interview. Such was the universal terror inspired by Attila’s name that Eskam was confident there was little risk of the man betraying them. Next, he had the clerk arrange to let Balamir inspect the eunuch’s office, at a time when it was unoccupied.
The dominant feature of the tablinum was a great book-cupboard, with pairs of folding shutters top and bottom. The upper section, with openwork shutters, contained documents required for frequent reference: returns from the secretariats, the imperial couriers, the palace guards, et cetera. The nether section, with solid shutters, was stuffed with texts which were consulted on rare occasions only, such as the Codex Theodosianus, the recently updated compilation of imperial laws. The plan consisted of temporarily removing these seldom-used works, thus creating a space to accommodate Balamir, from which he could listen to the interview unobserved. The wooden slats separating the two divisions were not tightly joined; the interstices would allow him to breathe freely and overhear anything said in the room. It was of course possible that Chrysaphius might decide to consult one of the volumes in the lower compartment — with resulting exposure and disaster. But the clerk assured the two Huns that the risk was so slight that it could be ignored.
Early on the appointed day, before the house-slaves had arrived to clean the office, the bottom section was cleared of its dusty tomes, which were re-housed in a nearb
y storeroom, then Balamir installed in their place. Making himself as comfortable as the cramped space would permit, he settled down to wait out the long hours before the interview.
When he was shown into Chrysaphius’ office, Constantius found himself in the presence of a grotesquely obese figure perched incongruously on a tiny folding stool. From the pear-shaped head with its multiple chins downwards, the eunuch seemed to consist of successive rolls of fat, putting Constantius in mind of a rotund ivory figure in his family home, which was said to have come from China and to represent an Asiatic sage, one Buddha.
‘Your Gloriousness,’ began the young Roman, bowing, ‘I am honoured, more than any poor words of mine can express, that you have condescended to meet one so humble as myself.’ Already, he had mastered the absurdly overblown rhetoric without which, it seemed, official procedure in the Eastern court was unable to function. To his surprise, the other cut him short with an impatient wave.
‘Yes, yes,’ the eunuch snapped testily. ‘Tell me,’ he went on, shrewd little eyes sunk in their beds of fat shooting an appraising glance at the other, ‘is the widow of Armatius — or more to the point, her fortune — to your liking?’
Constantius relaxed, knowing that he was in the company of another man of the world. He seated himself on the stool the minister indicated. ‘Very much so, sir,’ he replied with a smile.
‘She ought to be able to maintain you in the style to which you are accustomed, at least,’ observed the eunuch drily. ‘But, in addition to acquiring an income for life, perhaps you would not be averse to earning yourself a generous. . fee?’ His gaze flicked over Constantius, probing, assessing. ‘Very generous.’
‘How generous is “very generous”, sir?’ asked Constantius, intrigued. He had been expecting a tedious discussion about implementing the Peace of Anatolius. This unexpected line was far more to his liking.
