by Ross Laidlaw
Calling for his horse, he rode out from his palace far into the steppe, not drawing rein until he reached the foothills of the Carpathus, his refuge when he wished to be alone to commune with himself. In a mood of quiet desperation, he reviewed the happenings of recent months, and the likely shape of events to come. After the defeat by Aetius, he would have desired nothing better than to make peace with the Romans and spend the remainder of his days consolidating his great empire, and perhaps trying to salvage something of his abandoned plans for a Greater Scythia. But that path was closed to him for ever. Fate had decreed that, however much he might wish it otherwise, he must always lead his people in never-ending wars of conquest. So, tired and dispirited, he had last year invaded Italia. Aetius’ federate allies refused to serve outwith Gaul; with a limited number of Roman troops he could only harass, not seriously impede, the Hunnish horde. Worldly arms proving ineffective, the Romans had resorted to spiritual weapons; the fierce old pope (aptly named Leo, Attila thought), had met him at Lacus Benacus,1 urging him to withdraw forthwith, or risk incurring divine punishment. Rather than God’s wrath, however, it was the destruction of Aquileia, the sacking of Mediolanum and Ticinum,2 and the partial payment of Honoria’s dowry, commuted to gold, that had encouraged Attila to return home, without loss of face. But that was not enough. Even now, the Council was pressing for a fresh assault on Italia, should the Senate not deliver up Honoria herself.
He was, he thought with weary resignation, like the sharks that swim in Ocean, the mighty sea encompassing the earth: doomed to keep moving or sink into the vast depths and die, crushed by the unimaginable weight of water above. What had it all been for? he wondered. He was the oldest man he knew, yet his long life had accomplished nothing of lasting value. He had fame; the name of Attila would echo down the ages. But it was a fame based on the butchering of tens of thousands, of countless cities razed and lands laid waste. Was that a fame worth striving for? His was a barren legacy. Those closest to him he had lost: his brother Bleda, whose life he had been forced to take; Aetius, his one true friend, now become his deadliest foe. The vast empire he had forged, by leadership and ruthless will alone — could that survive his death? Or would his sons quarrel over their inheritance and, weakened and divided, fail to stop the subject nations breaking free and tearing it apart? Ellac and Dengish, his ablest sons, were brave and resolute, but in truth probably lacked the force of character to unite their siblings and hold the huge fabric together.
Sadly, he turned his horse’s head for home. He had little inclination to return, but today was his wedding-feast, the bride, the latest of many, a young girl named Ildico. She had been chosen by the Council, Attila suspected, to prove to the Huns that their King, though old, was still virile and potent. He felt a flash of resentment that it had come to this: paraded like a stud bull at a market, to gratify the expectations of his subjects who, in their ignorance, needed the myth of an all-powerful monarch to sustain them. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he was coming to resemble King Log in the fable by that Greek slave.
Arriving back at his capital late in the afternoon, Attila was greeted by a great throng of women. Forming long files, and holding aloft white veils of thin linen so as to cover the spaces between the columns, they preceded Attila to his wooden palace, while choirs of young girls marching beneath the linen canopies chanted hymns and songs. Outside the principal gate, surrounded by attendants and with the wedding guests ranged behind, waited his new bride. A slave presented Attila with a goblet of wine, raised on a small silver table to a height convenient for the King as he sat his horse. Attila touched the goblet with his lips, bowed briefly to his wife-to-be, a frightened-looking youngster scarcely visible beneath layers of bridal finery, and dismounted.
A shaman performed a brief marriage ceremony, then the couple, followed by the bride’s retinue and the guests, proceeded through the gateway and into the great hall, bright with wall-hangings and Oriental carpets, and lined with tables for the wedding guests. As at the reception for the Roman envoys five years before, the royal table, raised on a dais above the level of the rest, was laid with wooden cups and platters, in contrast to the gold and silver vessels on the other tables.
Punctuated by performances of minstrels, clowns, and jugglers, course followed course in monotonous plenty; each was a variation on mainly three ingredients, mutton, goat’s flesh, and millet. Toasts, in fermented mare’s milk, millet beer, and Roman wine — to Attila, to his bride, to each member of the bride’s family, to the prominent nobles among the guests — were proposed and returned in an interminable succession. Although, as was his wont, he ate and drank sparingly, the sheer number of toasts and courses began to tell on even Attila’s iron constitution. But, he being host and bridegroom, courtesy compelled him to sample every serving and each health drunk; nor could he decently retire before the conclusion of the feast. At last, as the first rays of dawn began to filter through the shutters of the hall, the final course was cleared away and, ill and exhausted, Attila was able to retire with his bride to the bedchamber.
With enormous thankfulness, the king lay down on the bed, indicating to Ildico that, instead of joining him, she should rest on a nearby couch. He felt a pang of compassion for the poor trembling child, waiting to be ravished by a man old enough to be her grandfather. She need have no fear. Let her choose some handsome young page to be her bedmate, and, to keep the Council and the people happy, any offspring be passed off as Attila’s. A smile played briefly round the grim old warrior’s lips as sleep claimed him.
Attila awoke, conscious of a terrible lancing pain beneath his breastbone. He tried to call out, but only a feeble croak issued from his throat. When he tried to rise, his stiffened muscles refused to obey his will. The pain increased, becoming unendurable. Suddenly, something seemed to tear inside his chest and his gullet filled with warm liquid; he tried to breathe, found himself choking. .
Later that day, concerned about his master’s non-appearance, Balamir, Attila’s loyal and devoted groom, broke into the royal bedchamber and found the King dead, lying in a great pool of blood. Ildico was crouched beside him, her head hidden by a veil. It was clear that an artery had burst, drowning Attila in his own blood.
The funeral was of a scale to reflect the King’s mighty exploits. His body was solemnly exposed beneath a silken canopy; the nomads shaved their hair and gashed their faces, while chosen squadrons wheeled round the corpse, chanting a funeral song. The corpse was enclosed within three coffins: of gold, of silver, and of iron, then placed within the dry bed of the River Tisa, which had been diverted from its course by captive Romans. The waters were then restored to their natural channel and the prisoners executed, that the spot should remain secret for ever.
As news of the King’s death spread throughout the Roman world, it was everywhere greeted by a vast collective sigh of relief — nowhere more than in the East, on which Attila had vowed to wreak terrible revenge, for its defiance in withholding tribute.
1 Lake Garda.
2 Pavia.
FIFTY-TWO
The ring came to rest on particular letters appropriate to the questions put
Ammianus Marcellinus, The Histories, c. 395
Anonymous in cuculli or hooded cloaks, the two figures — one stocky and muscular, the other tall and athletic — plunged ever deeper by torchlight into the squalid warren that was Rome’s Fourth District, the Subura. Walled in by towering insulae, tall, badly built blocks which were forever catching fire or falling down, the narrow streets were clogged with filth and rubbish, infrequently removed by gangs of private refuse-collectors. Gone were the old public services that until fairly recently had maintained high levels of security and hygiene throughout the city’s fourteen districts. Law and order, fighting fires, cleansing, and public health — all were now contracted out by the City Prefect to private concerns for whom profit was the priority, with corner-cutting and shoddy standards ever more widespread.
His hugely developed shoulders and
forearms deterrents to any would-be mugger, the first of the pair threaded the maze of alleys with a sureness born of long familiarity, halting at last at the base of a huge tower which dwarfed all the buildings around it. This was the famous Insula of Felicula, the tallest structure in Rome, and as much a visitor attraction for Rome as the Pyramids were for Egypt.
‘Legs and lungs in good shape, Serenity?’ chuckled the man, his informal manner bordering on insolence. ‘You’ll be sorry if they’re not — we’re in for a climb of sixteen storeys.’
‘You’ve been paid to do a job, Statarius, not talk,’ snapped his companion, throwing back his hood to reveal the face of the Emperor. ‘Just lead the way.’
‘Whatever you say, Serenity,’ responded the other, unabashed. ‘Just trying to be friendly.’
Damn the fellow’s presumption, thought Valentinian as he followed the man up the steep stairwell. These swollen-headed charioteers, the darlings of the mob, considered themselves as good as anyone, even their Emperor. Still, lack of respect was a small price to pay for the assignation he was about to keep. If you wanted a nefarious deal arranged, a charioteer was always your best choice. This one, Statarius, ‘Slowcoach’ (the ironic nickname bestowed on account of his being the fastest driver in Rome), had been recommended for his network of shady contacts.
And nothing could be shadier than this present business. But Valentinian had been driven to it. All his life he had had to suffer the humiliation of being ruled by his mother and then Aetius. At least Placidia had always had his interests at heart, her prestige as the Augusta ensuring that he was accorded the deference his position as emperor demanded. But Placidia was dead, and the Patrician now treated him with open contempt, as though it were Aetius — a mere general — who ruled the West. Why, ambassadors and potentates addressed their missives directly to him, bypassing the court in Ravenna — as though the Emperor were a cipher who could be ignored, irrelevant to the conduct of affairs. It was insufferable. Worse, it surely meant that Valentinian stood in personal danger. With Placidia gone, what was there to prevent Aetius from taking that final step and seizing the purple for himself? If the empire’s turbulent history proved anything, it was this: a dethroned emperor was never suffered to live. Hence this mission: to try to discover what fate the future held in store, for himself and for his Master of Soldiers. Maybe the Patrician’s star was on the wane, the Emperor thought hopefully. Attila’s death had removed the West’s most pressing peril; and therefore perhaps the need for Aetius, as well.
Up, up, up, till at last they reached the sixteenth floor. Valentinian was pleased to note that his breathing was less laboured than his guide’s. He was proud of his body, and careful to maintain it in peak condition by regular sessions in gymnasia. Statarius knocked at one of the doors on the landing. It was opened by a white-haired man, stooped and ancient but redeemed from any hint of decrepitude by a pair of glittering black eyes, which seemed to Valentinian to strip away his outward show of haughty indifference and lay bare the secrets of his soul.
‘Niall MacCoull, Serenity,’ announced Statarius, ‘a Scot from Ireland. For some of these Celts, the veil separating this world from the next is very thin, enabling them to make contact with the world beyond the Styx — or should that be the Jordan?’
Telling Statarius to wait outside, Valentinian followed the old man into a dusty chamber, empty save for some flickering oil lamps, a truckle bed, a chest, and a curious apparatus standing in the middle of the floor.
‘Right, let us begin,’ declared the Emperor. He intended to appear masterful, but confronted by those penetrating eyes he felt unsure, inadequate, his words sounding in his ears like the shrill demand of a petulant schoolboy.
‘In a little, sir,’ replied the seer, politely but without subservience. ‘First, I must attune myself with the Beyond, in the hope that some spirit may answer whatever questions you wish to put.’ Closing his eyes, he commenced to mutter, in an unfamiliar tongue, a prayer or incantation.
Feeling uncharacteristically subdued and, now that the moment of truth had arrived, distinctly apprehensive, Valentinian moved to the room’s one window, unshuttered this warm July night, and looked out over Rome. From a height of two hundred feet, illumined by the moon, a great western section of the sleeping city lay spread beneath him: the fora of four emperors, a forest of silvered pillars; the looming bulk of the Capitol; and beyond, bounded by a great loop of the Tiber, the shining levels of the Field of Mars studded with theatres, circuses, and baths, all transmuted by the moonlight into strange abstract shapes like demonstration models from a mathematician’s study.
‘It is time,’ said the seer, opening his eyes. ‘Come.’
Valentinian approached the apparatus in the centre of the chamber. It consisted of a circular metal plate engraved round the rim with the letters of the alphabet, and surmounted by a tripod from whose apex a ring was suspended by a thread. Setting the ring swinging in a circular motion, the diviner said, ‘The auspices are favourable. Ask what you will.’
Valentinian licked lips which were suddenly dry; sweat sprang out on his palms. He opened his mouth to ask the question he had prepared but no sound issued from his throat. At the third attempt, the words came tumbling out in a rush: ‘Who will die first, Aetius or myself?’
Disbelievingly, he watched as the ring interrupted its oscillation to make a tiny but palpable jerk as it came opposite the letter ‘F’, before continuing its circuit: ‘L’, ‘A’, and ‘V’; the name could only be ‘Flavius’, thought Valentinian in horror, the first of his own names! Then he recalled that Aetius’ praenomen was also Flavius. He would have to wait for the next name to become manifest, before-‘Enough!’ he cried hoarsely, overcome with sudden nameless fears. With a sweep of his arm he hurled the tripod to the floor, then he rushed in terror from the room.
Statarius would have to go, thought Valentinian, following the charioteer along the way back to the palace. Divination, sorcery, call it what you will — any attempt to foretell the future, or to influence the outcome of events by contacting the spirit world, was a capital offence. In the case of an emperor being involved, that could hardly apply; but, despite being in a sense above the law, emperors were still expected not to break it. As Ambrose had put it, ‘The Emperor enacts laws which he is the first to keep.’ Valentinian knew that emperors who continued to act unacceptably or tyrannically, or who openly flouted the will of the Senate, never died in their beds: Nero, Caligula, Commodus, Heliogabalus, Gallienus. . The list was lengthy; and sobering. If news got out that Valentinian had been dabbling in the Black Arts, the loss of imperial prestige would be enormous. It might well lead to his being overtaken by the very fate he feared, but had just shrunk from discovering.
Could Statarius be trusted to remain silent? Probably not. Charioteers were notoriously boastful and arrogant. To rely on the discretion of a man from that class would be to make himself a hostage to fortune — a risk he could not afford. An ‘accident’ would have to be arranged. Nothing obvious; Statarius was extremely popular, and suspicion of foul play would rouse the dangerous fury of the mob, the pampered underclass who, thanks to the state-funded dole, saw no necessity to work and lived only for the Circus and the Games. Valentinian recalled that in his grandfather Theodosius’ time the imprisoning of a popular charioteer had had consequences that rocked the throne. Care and discretion must be his watchwords.
The stall gates of Rome’s Circus Maximus flew open, and the four chariots representing the rival factions of the Blues, Greens, Whites, and Reds burst forth. Each driver strove to reach the inside track round the spina, the long barricade running down the centre of the Circus, which the chariots must circle seven times. The roar issuing from three hundred thousand throats was deafening, the loudest shouts coming from supporters of the Blues, the colour of Statarius. The vehicles thundered along the right-hand lane, swept round the spina’s far end, and hurtled down the opposing track. As they completed the second turn, erectores removed a dolp
hin and an egg from their respective crossbars at either end of the spina, signifying that the first lap had been run.
As the race continued, Statarius employed his favourite tactic of hanging back until an opportunity should present itself to cut in from behind, cross the path of the other chariots, and reach the inside track — an extremely dangerous manoeuvre, calling for the utmost skill and coolness. In the emperor’s box, Valentinian began to gnaw his lip with worry. Four dolphins down and Statarius was still in the race. That fool of a sparsor in charge of cleaning the Blues’ chariot, who had been bribed to saw partly through the shaft, must have botched the job.
The Emperor’s anxious thoughts were distracted by a collective gasp from the crowd. Taking advantage of a momentary gap between the two chariots in front of him, Statarius urged his four horses to top speed, shot between the vehicles, and drew level with the leader. Then he laid his whip on the shoulder of his rear left-hand, horse. The best of the team, this was a centenarius, a horse which had won a hundred races. Swift and sure-footed, the centenarius, not yoked to the shaft but held only in traces, responded to the touch of the whip by surging forward, and swung in front of the other chariot. The two yoked centre horses, selected for their pulling power, maintained the momentum while the offside animal, running in traces like the centenarius, jerked the equipage round, co-ordinating the manoeuvre.
