by Ross Laidlaw
‘Your words are fair, Roman,’ he declared judiciously, ‘but I would remind you that in the past, where the West is concerned, I have given much but received little. You offer the same terms as did your predecessor, Constantius — allowing for his exaggerations. I was tempted to believe him, until it transpired that what he had told me was but a ruse in order to deceive me. Why then, should I believe you?’
‘That I cannot say, Your Majesty,’ responded Titus, with a sinking feeling that things were slipping away from him. His fears about Constantius had proved justified. To himself, he cursed the smooth-talking young aristocrat, and Aetius for having allowed himself to be taken in. ‘Attila is famous as a judge of men,’ he pressed on. ‘I am happy that my honesty should stand upon his verdict. May I ask, Your Majesty, in what way Constantius played you false?’
‘He is here. You may see him if you wish.’
His mind in a whirl, Titus could only nod. What could Attila possibly mean? Had Constantius turned traitor, to spy for Attila against the West?’
The King flung open the shutters of a window and invited Titus to look out. The Roman did so — and gasped in horror. In the middle of a grassy space stood a tall cross, on which was suspended a hideous thing that had once been a man — a skeleton, to which still adhered tattered scraps of skin and flesh. Things crawling in the empty eye sockets, lent to the skull a horrible semblance of life.
‘I keep Constantius to serve as a warning to others who may be tempted to deceive me,’ said Attila in sombre tones. ‘How can I be sure, Roman, that you yourself do not harbour such intentions?’
Titus felt an icy knot of fear twist in his stomach. To end like that! He wetted lips which had suddenly gone dry. ‘Your Majesty, I fear Constantius deceived us all,’ he protested, keeping his voice steady with some difficulty. ‘My master sent him to you in good faith — as he sent myself. Aetius’ only fault lay with his judgement, not his heart. I myself distrusted Constantius, and tried to warn Aetius against him.’
‘I am minded to believe you,’ said Attila heavily, after a pause. ‘You are, perhaps, that rare thing: an honest Roman. Though I have little reason to trust any of your race. To answer the question you asked earlier, Constantius was bribed to kill me — by the Eastern Emperor’s chief minister, Chrysaphius.’
‘But. . you entertained Maximin, with kindness and generosity, Maximin, the emissary of that same Emperor!’ exclaimed Titus, astonished and impressed. Theodosius could hardly have been unaware of Chrysaphius’ plot, and so must have been involved, even if that meant merely looking the other way.
‘We Huns may be barbarians,’ remarked Attila dryly, ‘but we respect the laws of hospitality.’ He gave Titus a long and searching look. ‘Go now, friend,’ he said, in oddly gentle tones. ‘Tell Aetius I thank him for his gift, and will reflect upon his words.’
After the Romans had departed, Maximin and Priscus for the East, Titus and his party for the West, Attila rode out alone into the steppe, to decide what should be his policy towards both empires. His instincts told him that further campaigns against the East would be unproductive. The Battle of the Utus had convinced him that, despite their huge superiority in numbers, the Huns could not expect to keep on winning against properly led and equipped Roman armies. Best, then, to settle for what he could get, while still in an apparent position of strength. The timid Theodosius would always favour a policy of appeasement; so let the Huns continue to accept tribute (which the wealthy East could certainly afford), but, as the Roman envoys suggested, not call it that. A face-saving formula could be devised by which the Huns would become the paid protectors of the East’s frontiers. Actually, this would fit neatly with his present war against the Acatziri, a brave but primitive people to the east of his dominions. His campaigns there could be presented as a strategic move to guard the Eastern Empire’s rear.
As for the West: could he after all have misjudged Aetius, have allowed Constantius to poison his mind against his one-time friend and ally? The Patrician’s splendid present had moved him more than he had allowed Titus to see. Surely such a gift could come only from the heart? If Aetius was sincere about his proposal that they resume their alliance, should not Attila take up the offer? He was tempted, greatly tempted: wealth and titles, an honourable outlet for his warriors’ fighting instincts, a possible union between two great empires. Perhaps he could dare once more to hope that his dream of a Greater Scythia might one day be fulfilled. Nothing need be decided at this juncture. In the meantime, he would stay his hand against the West, despite the clamourings of so-called ‘friends’ that he attack.
He was under pressure from Gaiseric; from the anti-Merovech faction among the Franks; and from Eudoxius, a one-time physician, now leader of the newly resurgent Bagaudae, who had sought refuge at the court of Attila. All these were urging him to invade, citing the present weakness of the West as providing a golden opportunity. They were parasites, he thought with contempt, jackals who followed the lion, hoping to snatch the leavings from his kill. He would resist their blandishments — at least until he had made up his mind regarding what his policy should be towards Aetius.
At that moment, the king’s eye was caught by two birds, a plover, and a falcon in pursuit. The falcon soared above its quarry to prepare for its deadly stoop, but the plover had been at the game before and knew what to do. It dropped like a stone till only feet above the ground, then, keeping at that height, raced for the shelter of a distant copse. The falcon, easily pacing its prey, kept a parallel flight, yet dared not strike; it would have killed the plover, but the impetus of its stoop would have caused it to break its own neck. The two became specks in the distance; the lower speck reached the trees and disappeared, the upper soared above the tops and flew away, knowing it could do nothing against a bird in a wood. Attila laughed and turned his horse’s head for home. The little drama he had witnessed could, he thought, serve as an exemplar of his own position.
In the spring of the following year,3 — the consulships of Valentinian Augustus (his seventh) and of Avienus — Anatolius and Nomus crossed the Danubius to confer with Attila. The meeting was marked by a spirit of concord and goodwill on both sides, with Attila generously agreeing to abandon the strip of territory south of the Danubius, to drop demands for further return of fugitives and prisoners, and to draw a tactful veil over the plot to murder him. Tribute, rephrased as compensation for guarding the empire’s frontiers, would continue to be paid, but reduced from that imposed by the terms of the previous treaty. For the general and the Master of Offices, the Third Peace of Anatolius was a diplomatic triumph, their years of patient and persistent effort crowned at last with success. For Attila, it meant a welcome, and honourable, reprieve from the necessity of waging constant war. Against this background, a resumption of his alliance with Aetius seemed increasingly attractive. Sunlit uplands of the spirit seemed to be beckoning the tired old warrior.
But these bright hopes were about to be dashed: by something tiny and insignificant, round, and of a blood-red colour.
1 4 June 449.
2 Orestes, as already noted, became the father of the last Roman emperor of the West, Romulus Augustus. Edecon was to be the father of Odoacer, who deposed Romulus to become the first barbarian king of Italy. An eerie coincidence.
3 450.
FORTY-ONE
The Emperor Theodosius was thrown from his horse, injuring his spine
Theophanes, Chronographia, c. 800
Perhaps in compensation for his ineffectiveness as a ruler, Theodosius liked to ride large and spirited horses. It was as if he felt a need to demonstrate that here was a field, one not without an element of danger, in which he could display mastery. On the twenty-sixth day of the month named for Julius Caesar, in the year that the Third Peace of Anatolius was made, the Emperor, accompanied by a groom, was riding by the banks of the River Lycus, near the capital. After a spirited canter, as was his wont he dismounted and gave the reins to the groom, with instructions to walk the bi
g bay stallion for a space and then return. Leaving his master resting by the waterside, the groom complied, but before rejoining the Emperor he made a small adjustment to the stallion’s saddle.
On remounting, Theodosius found the horse suddenly uncontrollable. It began to buck and rear violently. His desperate efforts to calm it and retain his seat proved vain, and Theodosius was hurled from the saddle, to land with a crash on boulders by the river’s edge. He tried to rise but his legs failed to respond. ‘My back,’ he whispered to the groom, ‘I think it’s broken.’ Before going to summon help, the groom removed from beneath the stallion’s saddle a tiny seed-capsule, scarlet, prickly, the fruit of a lowly shrub called ‘burning bush’.
When he heard the news, Aspar at once sent word to Marcian, a senator and distinguished army veteran, then hastened to attend the bedside of the dying Emperor. Theodosius lingered for two days before expiring, unlamented, in the fiftieth year of his age and the forty-third of his reign. One month later, a retired officer, Marcian, a modest, upright man who had given Aspar nineteen years of loyal service, was invested with the imperial purple. Renouncing the feeble policy of his predecessor, the first act of the new Emperor was to send, via his ambassador Apollonius, a polite but unequivocal message to Attila: the East would pay no further tribute to the Huns.
FORTY-TWO
Sapor trampled upon the pact and laid hands on Armenia 1
Ammianus Marcellinus, The Histories, c. 395
The wind blowing from Mount Ararat had a bitter edge. In the darkness, huddled beneath his cloak in a narrow gorge on the boundary between Roman and Persian Armenia, Julian shivered, and blew on cold-stiffened fingers. For at least the hundredth time since setting out from Antioch, he cursed the day he had accepted the lonely and dangerous commission on which he was now engaged. Of course, as a serving officer in the East Roman army, and from a family (connected to the distinguished soldier and historian Ammianus Marcellinus) with a long and distinguished military tradition to uphold, refusal had been virtually impossible. His mind drifted back twenty days to that fateful meeting with Aspar, East Rome’s most powerful general, and the man behind the elevation to the purple of the present Emperor, Marcian.
It was with excitement mingled with trepidation that Julian presented himself at the commander’s house in Antioch, the second city of the Eastern Empire. Antiochan born and bred (like his illustrious forebear Ammianus), Julian thought the city justly deserving of its titles ‘Antioch the Beautiful’ and ‘the Jewel of the East’. Ushered by a cursor or messenger through the usual suite of halls to the building’s colonnaded garden, he found himself in the presence of a soldier in plain undress uniform — undyed lined tunic with indigo roundels at shoulders and thighs, broad military belt, and round pillbox cap. Though the man bore no insignia of rank, something about his air of quiet authority told Julian he was in the presence of someone of consequence. Coming closer, he recognized those delicate aquiline features in the dark-skinned face; they belonged to Aspar, great commander and hero of the Utus, under whom Julian had served in that selfsame battle.
‘Welcome, young Julian,’ said Aspar with a smile. ‘I see you’ve recovered from that Hun arrow you stopped at the Utus. Nasty things, arrow wounds. Prone to infection unless they’re treated straight away. Now, I expect you’re wondering why you’ve been summoned from your unit at short notice. It concerns a spying mission in Armenia. I’m looking for someone young and fit, a good horseman with a proven military record. Oh, and preferably a bachelor. As a decorated tribune, candidatus of the top regiment of scholae2 in Constantinople, and an unmarried man to boot, I’d say you fitted those requirements pretty neatly.’
‘I’m flattered, sir,’ replied Julian, feeling his pulse quicken. ‘But. . surely there must be plenty of other officers as well as, or better qualified than, myself for whatever job you have in mind.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short, young man,’ said Aspar briskly. ‘I’m seldom wrong in my assessments. The qualities I’ve listed are not as common as you seem to think. At least not in the same person.’
‘You said, sir, a bachelor would be preferred,’ observed Julian, adding, with just a touch of asperity, ‘I take it, then, the mission’s dangerous.’
‘There is some risk; I won’t deny it,’ said Aspar. ‘But before you decide whether or not to accept the commission — and you have an entirely free choice in the matter — let me tell you what’s involved.’ Telling a slave to bring wine, he conducted Julian to a stone bench overlooking the valley of the Orontes, studded with vineyards and fruit trees, with the rugged spire of Mount Casius towering in the distance.
‘What do you know about Armenia?’ asked the general, pouring wine.
‘Not a great deal sir,’ confessed Julian. ‘Isn’t it a mountainous plateau between the Pontus Euxinus and the Mare Caspium, populated by tough individualists? I seem to remember it used to be an independent kingdom, until its partition into separate zones of influence between Rome and Persia, about sixty years ago.’
‘A fair summary,’ conceded Aspar, ‘and correct as far as it goes. It’s important also to bear in mind that the people have been Christian from at least the time of Constantine’s conversion. The place has always been a cockpit between the great warring powers of East and West, even before the days of Darius and Alexander. Neutral zone or disputed territory? Take your pick. The present Great King of Persia, Yazdkart II, is, according to our contacts in the region, about to embark on an aggressive military venture. He apparently intends to invade eastern Armenia — the Persian zone — impose direct rule from Ctesiphon, and replace Christianity with Zoroastrianism, the official religion of Persia.’
‘And the reason?’
‘Oh, the usual thing — boosting his reputation by military conquest. Rome herself can give plenty of examples: Julius Caesar in Gaul, Claudius I in Britain, Trajan in Dacia, Septimius Severus in Caledonia; I could go on. If Yazdkart succeeds, that may well encourage him to try to extend his rule over West — Roman — Armenia. Which of course would constitute both a challenge and a military threat to the Eastern Empire. But he’s made one big miscalculation which could prove to be his Achilles’ heel.’
‘And that is, sir?’
‘Forcing the Armenians to accept the Zoroastrian religion. They’re a proud, stubborn, independent lot, who’ll resist tooth and nail any attempt to convert them from Christianity.’
‘Especially if they get Roman help?’ suggested Julian innocently. ‘Unofficially, of course.’
‘Quite,’ confirmed Aspar with a smile. ‘Unofficially. We mustn’t be seen to be breaking the Treaty of Partition. Already, one Vardan Mamikanian is rallying the nobles in East Armenia to head a national resistance movement against the Great King. From our point of view, for Persia to get bogged down in a war of attrition, in difficult terrain, against a fanatical irregular army, would be highly desirable. Any ambitions Yazdkart may be harbouring to renew the age-old conflict between Rome and Persia, would then have to be shelved. Indefinitely. With Attila undecided as to which of the two Roman Empires to attack next, that can only be a good thing. There’s just one problem.’
Julian looked dutifully expectant.
‘The Tome of Leo.’
‘The Tome of Leo?’
‘It’s all rather complicated,’ said Aspar, refilling their goblets. ‘I’ll do my best to explain. Pope Leo in Rome has produced a treatise propounding the dual nature of Christ. Claiming, in fact, that He is both human and divine — a view the Western Empire apparently has no problem in accepting. Here in the East, it’s quite a different matter. Most citizens believe, passionately, that Christ has only one, divine, nature, called monophysite.’
‘Sir, I don’t quite see-’
‘Bear with me, young Julian,’ interrupted Aspar with a smile. ‘To prevent a damaging schism splitting religious opinion throughout the Roman world and further widening the growing rift between our two empires, plans are afoot to thrash out the merits of both
points of view in a grand meeting of ecclesiastics, to be held most likely at Nicaea or Chalcedon. Probably the latter, as a mark of courtesy to Marcian, as it’s just across the Bosporus from the capital. Its purpose will be to decide which is the correct position, monophysite or dual nature. The decision will have the force of dogma, to be accepted by Christians everywhere, on pain of excommunication. Unfortunately for the East — and in particular for the monophysite patriarch of Alexandria — the signs are that Leo’s argument will prevail, as it has the support of our new Emperor. What on earth has all this to do with Armenia? you must be wondering. Well, the people are conservative, profoundly monophysite in their religious outlook. The chances of our forming a secret alliance with them might be put in jeopardy if the Eastern Empire were to abandon its present monophysite stance.’ Aspar shrugged and spread his hands.
Julian stared at him in disbelief. ‘It’s absurd!’ he exclaimed, stifling a disgraceful urge to laugh.
‘Don’t be heard saying that,’ cautioned the general. ‘Your family’s pagan, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. We’re among the few who still adhere to the old Gods. Naturally, we try not to draw attention to the fact.’
‘Which means you can take an objective view,’ murmured Aspar reflectively. ‘As can I. Being an Arian, I’m able to view things from a perspective outwith the orthodox norm.’ He shook his head. ‘Things were so much less. . extreme, even in Valentinian I’s time. Whatever happened to good old Roman tolerance? But I digress. If a Romano-Armenian alliance is to be forged, it must happen before the conference takes place — for the reasons I’ve already stated. And that’s where you come in.’
