by Ross Laidlaw
Aetius shrugged, his expression bleak. ‘Put starkly, it’ll be the end of Western civilization. The Huns will destroy everything in their path, and massacre those they can’t sell as slaves. Then, when there is no more plunder to be had, they will withdraw, leaving total devastation in their wake. Attila himself may cherish higher goals, but even he can’t prevail against the will of his nation. I know these people, Titus. They can never adapt to civilization. They’ll loot what they can from it — gold and slaves — then destroy the rest.’
‘Won’t the East help us?’
‘Hardly. We failed them in their hour of need, remember? Attila would never have crossed the Rhenus if he’d felt there was any risk of the East attacking his rear.’ Aetius looked at his senior courier earnestly. ‘If you haven’t already done so, I’d advise you to prepare your will,’ he said gently, a hint of affectionate concern in his voice. ‘I had hoped that Attila would hold back from invading the West,’ he mused. ‘After all, you did say the signs were hopeful when you returned from seeing him. What made him change his mind, I wonder?’
‘Well, for all his power he’s hardly a free agent, sir,’ replied Titus thoughtfully. ‘I learnt quite a lot about the factors influencing his policy, during the visit. Especially from Maximin and Priscus, the ambassadors from the Eastern Empire, which had been at the receiving end of Hun aggression for eight years. I really think he wanted to accept your offer of what amounted to. . well, virtual partnership in running the Western Empire. He was certainly affected by your gift. Just for a moment he let his guard slip; I could tell he was moved, also how much your friendship had meant to him. But the pressures on him to invade the West were enormous. King Gaiseric, the Bagaudae of Aremorica, the anti-Merovech faction among the Franks — they were all pushing him in that direction. Add to that the new tough stance that the East, with its huge resources and now committed leadership, is taking against the Huns, who were badly mauled at the Battle of the Utus. And finally, the business of Honoria’s letter, which provided him with a perfect pretext. .’ Titus smiled ruefully, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t any option.’
‘Neatly put, Titus Valerius,’ conceded the general. ‘That probably sums up his position.’ He sighed in frustration. ‘If only Theoderic could have seen the bigger picture.’
‘He did once, didn’t he?’ recalled Titus. ‘You remember sir, after the shambles of Tolosa, when the Visigoths were thirsting to avenge themselves on us. Who was it persuaded them to make peace with you, rather than engage in a bloody battle in which both sides would have been the losers? It was Avitus, wasn’t it?’
‘You’re right, it was,’ said Aetius slowly, a thoughtful expression forming on his face. ‘That might be the answer. Well done, Titus — I should have thought of it myself. If anyone can talk Theoderic round, it has to be Avitus. Let’s see, he’s finished his term as Praetorian prefect of Gaul, so presumably he’s now back on his estate in Arvernum. How far’s that? A hundred miles? The great military road from Lugdunum to Divona5 virtually passes his villa. The imperial Post’s still functioning — just. With relays of fast horses you can be there tomorrow.’ He clapped his agent on the shoulder, and grinned. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. On your way, my friend.’
1 Tongres, Metz.
2 451.
3 The Neckar.
4 Orleans.
5 Cahors.
FORTY-SEVEN
Hail Avitus, saviour of the world
Sidonius Apollinaris, The Panegyric of Avitus, 458
Imposing in his senatorial toga — an archaic survival from the days of the Republic — Avitus faced the assembly of Visigoth chiefs ranked behind their aged king in the great basilica of Tolosa. They were clean-shaven, clad in dalmatics or Roman-style tunics — indistinguishable from Romans in fact, save by their tall stature and blond colouring. Theoderic alone, with his long moustaches, and white hair falling to his shoulders, retained the fashion of his ancestors.
‘Your Majesty, nobles of the mighty nation of the Visigoths,’ Avitus began, in a mild and friendly voice, ‘I thank you for your welcome, and applaud your courage in deciding to resist — alone — the Scourge of God. Indulge me, while I touch upon your past. These Huns Attila leads are the same cruel savages who drove your forebears from their homes, condemned your nation, like the Israelites, to wander forty years. But where the seed of Abraham had only the desert in which to pitch their tents, the fair expanse of the Roman Empire was the scene of your exile. I will readily admit that many times during your long sojourn your people have been wronged by Rome, as — let us be frank — Rome has been wronged by you. But there has been much of friendship also. It was the Romans gave you refuge from the Huns, and your warriors have filled our legions, proving among the staunchest of Rome’s defenders. Stilicho, Rome’s great commander, many times spared Alaric when he could have destroyed him. Athaulf, brother of that mighty leader the father of your present king, married Galla Placidia, mother of Rome’s present Emperor. And you were finally granted your homeland — Aquitania, the fairest of Gaul’s provinces — by the Emperor Constantius, Valentinian’s father, who married Placidia after Athaulf’s death. Many are the mutual ties that bind the Romans and the Visigoths. Search your hearts, and, if you are honest, which I know you are, you will acknowledge that what I say is but the truth.’
Avitus paused. There was a general murmur of agreement, and nodding of heads. So far, the senator thought, he had his audience’s sympathy. But that would change in an instant to hostility, if he misjudged things. He must proceed with circumspection.
‘Yet our two peoples, who should be friends, are enemies. That is indeed a pity, never more than now.’ He allowed his voice to rise. ‘You think you can prevail against the Huns, that because, eleven years ago outside this very city you slaughtered sixty thousand of them, you can again defeat them. I tell you, that is folly and delusion. Attila comes against you with ten times that number; do you really think you can prevail against such odds? You will, of course, fight valiantly — as you always do. But you will be destroyed. And it will have been a useless sacrifice. Your widows and orphaned children will be slaughtered or enslaved, your churches desecrated and your habitations razed. The Visigoth nation will vanish from the earth as if it had never been. Is this what you want to happen? For believe me it will happen, if you hold to your present course.’ He paused again, gauging the mood of his hearers. A tense silence gripped the assembly.
‘Let the Romans and the Visigoths put their differences behind them, and join together against our common enemy,’ he continued, once more lowering his voice. ‘Then, when the other federates — the Franks who are loyal to Merovech, the Alans and Burgundians — see the example we have set by our alliance, they will be encouraged to join us. Only if all Gaul combines to resist him can we defeat Attila.’ He raised his voice again, to finish almost on a shout. ‘Divided we can only fail; united we shall win. Visigoths, avenge your ancestors!’
The senator waited anxiously for his hearers’ reaction. For a few seconds, not a sound was heard throughout the great building. Then Theoderic turned towards his following. ‘Avitus speaks wisely,’ he declared. ‘Let us join the Romans.’ His words were greeted with shouts of assent, which gradually blended in a mighty crescendo of approval.
As he breathed a huge sigh of relief, Avitus realized that he was shaking and soaked with sweat.
FORTY-EIGHT
I myself shall throw the first javelin, and the wretch who fails to follow my example is condemned to die
Jordanes, Gothic History, 551
‘Nothing, my lord,’ the messenger told Anianus, Bishop of Aureliani, an ecclesiastic noted for his zealous piety. ‘Not a sign of any relieving force, I’m afraid.’
‘If they don’t come soon, it’ll be too late!’ cried the bishop, too distracted by worry to conceal the desperation in his voice. ‘Listen to that.’ In the distance, a regular thump-crash could be heard, as the Huns’ grea
t battering-rams, designed and built by captive Romans, thudded against the city walls, dislodging cascades of shattered masonry with every blow. ‘But we must have faith,’ he muttered, more to himself than to the other, ‘faith that the Holy Shepherd will not abandon His flock to the Scythian wolves. Return to the ramparts, friend, one last time, while I renew my supplications to our Father.’
With a feeling that it was a hopeless exercise, the messenger hurried from the forum, which was crowded with anxious citizens, back to his post on the battlements, and bent his gaze towards the south. As he expected (and feared), the horizon remained empty of anything that moved. No — wait. There was something, surely: at the very limit of his vision, a tiny pale spot which seemed to grow as he watched. A dust-cloud! Pulse racing, he pelted back to the forum, barged his way through the densely packed throng and gasped out his news to Anianus.
‘It is the aid of God!’ exclaimed the bishop. Immediately his cry was taken up by the townsfolk, who, headed by their spiritual leader, poured on to the walkways behind the walls’ crenellations. The dust-cloud, now clearly visible, was suddenly blown aside by a gust of wind, revealing serried ranks of armoured Romans marching beneath their standards, together with a multitude of fair-haired giants armed with spears and shields.
‘Aetius and Theoderic,’ declared Anianus, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘Fall on your knees, good people,’ and give thanks to God for our deliverance. Let this fourteenth day of June be ever noted in the calendar, in commemoration of His favour extended to our city of Aureliani.’
‘Look, they’re going!’ shouted a soldier, pointing to the scattered suburbs beyond the walls. Like a fast-ebbing tide, the Huns were pulling out, leaving their siege-engines behind. Before the van of the relieving force had reached the city gates, the Huns were no more than a dust-cloud in their turn, rolling swiftly east towards the Sequana.
‘They’ve crossed the Sequana, sir,’ announced the scout, pulling up his lathered mount before Aetius.
‘And?’
‘They’re pressing on to the north-east, sir — even faster than before, I’d say.’
Dismissing the man, Aetius allowed himself to hope. Attila had seen the huge size of the force marching against him at Aureliani, not only Romans and Visigoths, but also Franks, Burgundians, Alans, and Aremoricans. Being always as prudent as he was bold, the Hun king had decided to withdraw. Could it be that Attila, daunted by the sheer scale of the alliance his invasion had provoked, had decided to return home?
‘What do you think, Titus?’ he asked his aide, tried and tested in the course of many campaigns. ‘Will he push on to the Rhenus?’
Looking at his commander’s haggard face, etched with lines of strain from holding the Western Empire together, while wearing himself out winning over the federates in Gaul while also countering the hostile machinations of Valentinian, Titus felt a stab of pity. In the same position, Titus would doubtless find himself clutching at any straw. But for Aetius that would be a dangerous luxury. The general was exhausted, utterly drained by coping with demands which would have broken lesser men. Small wonder, then, if he had allowed his judgement to be clouded by a temporary weakness. Suddenly, Titus knew where his duty lay. He must ensure that his master’s mind remained clear and objective, even if it meant destroying any false hopes he might long to cling to.
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ replied Titus gently. ‘That would be unlike Attila. Invading the West is the biggest commitment he’s ever made. He can’t afford to back down; to do so would be to shatter his prestige and thus forfeit his grip on his empire.’
‘But you saw what happened at Aureliani,’ objected Aetius, in a tone bordering on querulous. ‘That was two days ago, and he’s still retreating.’
‘It is not a retreat but a tactical withdrawal, sir. If he’d stayed, he would have been squeezed between our forces and the walls of a hostile city — a worse position would be hard to imagine. If he’d offered battle then, he would have risked defeat in the very heart of Gaul, with no avenue of retreat. Believe me, sir, he’ll stop and face us as soon as he finds ground favourable to himself.’
Aetius shook his head and passed a hand over his face. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he acknowledged with a weary smile. ‘What have I been thinking of?’ He clapped the other on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Titus Valerius — a true Victor to my Julian.1 “Ground favourable to himself” — that means an extensive, level area, where he can deploy his horse-archers to the best advantage.’ The general’s brow furrowed in thought for a few moments. ‘There’s only one place in this region that fits that description: the Locus Mauriacus — or the Catalaunian Plains, as it’s usually called — huge plains to the south of Durocatalaunum2 — that’s a small town about fifty miles north-east of here.’
And so it proved. On the night of 19 June, Attila’s headlong retreat slowed; his rearguard was overtaken by the allies’ van, which led to a bloody clash between the Franks and Gepids. While the confused skirmishing was raging in the moonlight, Aetius, leaving his generals Aegidius and Majorian3 to contain the situation, rode off to reconnoitre the terrain. A risk, but one he felt he had to take. Although he intended making a wide flanking detour to avoid the Hun positions, the chance of encountering outlying hostile pickets couldn’t be discounted.
Dawn disclosed a vast and, at first glance, absolutely level plain stretching away on every side to the limit of his vision. Underfoot, the ground was firm and dry, a circumstance causing the Huns to betray their presence by a great pall of dust rising several miles to the south. Aetius’ heart sank. The Locus Mauriacus was perfect for the manoeuvring of Attila’s cavalry, which would give him a clear advantage over the Roman-led coalition with its comparatively weak horse. Reports put Attila’s force at half a million — surely an over-estimate. But even allowing for exaggeration they could scarcely number less than a hundred thousand. Against which Aetius could field twenty thousand Romans, twenty thousand Visigoths, and perhaps a similar number for all the other allies put together. A maximum of sixty thousand, at best a little more than half the numbers Attila had at his command.
With a sick feeling of despair, Aetius acknowledged a grim fact: unless he could devise a way to neutralize the odds against him, he faced certain defeat. Then, at that stark moment, he noticed something which lifted his spirits from despondency and sent them soaring. His observing of it Bishop Anianus would undoubtedly have ascribed to Divine Providence, Aetius thought irreverently. With a wry chuckle, he wheeled his horse and spurred for the Roman lines.
In a private chamber in the imperial palace of Ravenna, Valentinian, white-faced and shaking, scanned the latest dispatches from Gaul. ‘He gave us his word, Heraclius,’ he cried in a trembling voice to the plump eunuch standing nearby. ‘In his letter to us, Attila swore that his only quarrel was with Rome’s enemy, the Visigoths. But now we learn that all the federates in Gaul, the Ripuarian Franks excepted, have combined against him. What can this mean?’
‘It means, Serenity,’ said Heraclius, the emperor’s favourite, and chief adviser, ‘that Attila has played you false. Deceit is his stock-in-trade, and playing one enemy off against another. I fear his plans of conquest are not limited to Aquitania, but extend no doubt to all of Gaul, perhaps also Italia, and even Hispania.’
‘Why were we not warned?’ wailed Valentinian. ‘We are surrounded by fools and cowards — Aetius especially. He should have foreseen Attila’s intentions and taken steps to counter them. Can he still stop the Huns, do you suppose?’
‘We cannot count on it, Serenity,’ replied the eunuch imperturbably. ‘In that respect, the record of Rome’s Eastern armies is hardly an auspicious precedent.’
‘Then we must prepare to leave!’ exclaimed the emperor. ‘Go at once to Classis, Heraclius. Charter a galley, the fastest you can find, to transport immediately to Constantinople ourself, the Augusta and her daughters, I suppose, and key members of the Council, and as many court servants and imperial guardsmen as can b
e accommodated.’
‘And also one whose chief concern is Your Serenity’s abiding welfare?’ Heraclius suggested smoothly.
‘Yourself, you mean? Yes, yes, but hurry. Others may well have read the auguries.’
‘It shall be done, Serenity. The vessel will be ready within the hour. But before I go, perhaps I may caution against immediate embarkation.’
‘Why, pray?’ snapped Valentinian
‘Just that supposing Aetius were to prevail against Attila, Serenity, then return to Italy to find the throne vacated. .’ Heraclius shrugged, and spread his hands suggestively.
‘We take your point,’ said Valentinian worriedly, after a pause. ‘Aetius has long striven to undermine us and usurp our power. You think he might be tempted in our absence to usurp the throne itself?’
‘The history of Rome, Serenity, is sadly strewn with examples of ambitious generals seizing the purple — the usurper Iohannes in your infancy, to name but one.’
‘Very well,’ conceded the Emperor reluctantly. ‘Charter the ship, but we shall not sail immediately. If Attila wins, I daresay we’ll get advance warning before he has time to cross the Alpes.’
‘A wise decision, Your Serenity.’
The allied camp near Durocatalaunum [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum], Province of Lugdunensis Senonia, Diocese of the Gauls. The year of the consuls Marcian Augustus and Adelphius, XII Kalends Jul.4 First light.
We reached Aureliani just in time. The Huns were already in the suburbs when the Romans and their allies arrived on the scene. Rather than let his army be trapped around the walls of the city, Attila, ever the cautious tactician, abandoned the siege and pulled back across the Sequana. This was a major gain for Aetius, and a setback for Attila: the capture of Aureliani would have given the Huns a strong base from which to launch an offensive against the Visigoths’ homeland, Aquitania.
