‘No, sir.’
‘Well, then. His name is Attila, Great Tanjou, Khan of Khans. The Lord Attila.’
The boy regarded his general oddly.
‘Remember it. You will have cause to. We all will.’
Aetius looked out again over the thousand fluttering sails. They suddenly seemed to him the saddest sight he had ever seen. Where is Africa, which was for the whole world like a garden of delights? Now these ships would never sail for lost Africa. Attila knew this, too. His brief boyhood friend. He started to say something to the startled boy about it. How he and Attila had ridden together, hunted together, across the limitless Scythian grasslands… Never such freedom, never such innocence again… Until he realised he was blathering like an old man, the boy Rufus listening, bewildered. He halted, then waved him away. The boy trotted off along the dockside.
It was better his optio should not see or hear him now. He got to his feet, no longer feeling like a young legionary of twenty. So: it had come. The final hour. Just when Rome was about to recover her African strength, with one last, mighty gasp, Attila had chosen to attack. He knew. He knew. And once the attack had started, it would not stop.
Old Theodoric had warned him that the Huns and the Vandals would form an alliance. Aetius had thought it impossible. Attila and Genseric had hated each other since boyhood, as only two tyrants can. They had been hostages together in Rome. Genseric and his brother Beric, long since killed in a ‘hunting accident’, had been quickly seduced by Rome’s pleasures. The runaway Hun boy rather less seduced. Aetius knew it all. He had learned all he could of Attila. He knew him of old.
Feeling as if his dry old heart would crack, he sent out word for the fastest ship to be prepared to sail for Ravenna.
Attila summoned Orestes. ‘Take another letter: To our Beloved Ally, King Genseric, Lord of the Vandals, Conqueror of Africa, Suzerain of the Lands of the Setting Sun… Have I missed any?’
‘Commander of the Arian Faithful?’
Attila stroked his thin grey beard. ‘I like it. Put that in, too.’
He resumed. ‘How fondly I remember our happy boyhood together in Rome, my dearest friend. How we cared for each other in our youthful loneliness, in exile in those sullen courts of empire, so far from our respective homes. And how saddened I was to hear of the death of your noble-hearted brother Beric in that cruel hunting accident.’
Even Orestes’ eyes glittered with amusement at this. Attila had to wait a few seconds before he could speak again. ‘I should have been a court jester,’ he said.
‘But to happier matters. The invasion has started. The Hun army, your loyal allies in the north, have conquered half the way to Constantinople already. The vainglorious Roman legions fall before us like grass before the scythe. Their degenerate cities are but fuel for the fire. None stands in our way. And consequently, there will be no Roman attempt upon your own empire of Africa, that rich territory that is rightfully yours by the judgement of Almighty God. May your people bless the wisdom, justice and mercy of your rule. May the glorious dynasty of Genseric prosper. May the fine sense of your sons prevail.’
‘Too much,’ said Orestes. ‘His sons are renowned idiots. One resides in a dungeon in the palace, chained up and gibbering like an ape.’
‘Ah. Yes. Change the last two lines. May the martial valour and Christian righteousness of your dynasty prevail for ever. And may Genseric come to reign pre-eminent in the West, as his most loyal ally Attila shall reign in the East, in a conjoined harmony of Emperors and Brothers.’
‘Hm,’ said Orestes. ‘Just about.’
‘Until such time as we decide to eliminate you and take your empire for our own.’
The corners of Orestes’ mouth twitched. He laid his pen aside.
‘Oh,’ said Attila, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘I should have been a jester.’
2
The moment Aetius stepped from the ship, the worst was confirmed.
‘Sir, the Huns have crossed the Danube. They have fallen on Margus Fair.’
‘Very well.’ He nodded and turned away.
All was ready. It was time to begin.
It was time for the end to begin.
He turned back, looked the man in the eye. ‘And Viminacium? Can that be true?’
‘As far as we can tell, yes, sir. Flattened.’
‘So they have siegecraft?’
‘They or their auxiliaries, yes, sir. They took down the walls of the fortress in a day and a night, if reports are correct.’
Christ. ‘And the VIIth Legion?’
The optio shrugged. ‘Gone.’
He winced. ‘That was a good legion.’ He straightened up. ‘To the palace.’
Emperor Valentinian received him coldly. ‘My good and faithful servant. How precipitate your return.’
‘Those were my orders, Majesty.’
‘There was no need.’ Valentinian took his time, cradling his hands in his lap, gazing fondly down at them, stroking an open palm. He hummed a little tune. Aetius waited patiently.
Eventually Valentinian said, ‘It is true about this Hun nuisance. But lines of communication have been re-established, by sea and river, with Ratiaria, and by land with the Eastern Field Army at Marcianopolis. They are marching out to engage the savages even as we speak. They may have destroyed them already.’
‘Under General Aspar?’
Valentinian’s eyes flared wide with anger.
‘Forgive my interruption, Majesty. But their commander-’
‘The Field Army, all five or six legions, will engage or has engaged these savages, this ridiculous, puffed-up little man Attila, somewhere on the River Utus. Yes, under Aspar. News is expected at any time. And so you see’ – he smiled – ‘there is really nothing useful for you to do here, Master-General. As ever. You may as well go back to Sicily and play with your boats.’
‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed. ‘If I may, I should like to wait and hear the happy news from the East along with you.’
Valentinian waved his hand. ‘As you please.’
Only a day later, the emperor was white with fury. ‘Our Brother in Constantinople accuses us of cowardice! Curses rain on him. Foulest curses!’
He mumbled of Lilith and Seth, ancient Hebrew demons.
Aetius tried to steady him.
He pulled away. ‘He says we refused him help. How dare he! If he had asked we might have gone to his aid. We are no cowards! Those horsemen do not frighten us!’ He seized a cushion and looked as if he were about to tear it apart in his thin white hands.
Aetius looked away. He could not bear to watch these puerile rages. But he knew who was at the root of this discord. Neither Theodosius nor Valentinian, being played like puppets against each other, but another ruler altogether. A ruler of a very different stamp.
Everything moved at a terrible pace in those days, in that summer. Each new piece of intelligence came like fama pinnata, winged rumour, but at the pace of catastrophe.
Another letter arrived in Constantinople from Aetius a few days later (I know because I, Priscus, took the letter and read it myself.) It contained a genuine offer of help from the Western Legions. They would not be starting on the Africa Campaign now. Six of the finest, twenty thousand men, both infantry and cavalry, could sail from Sicily direct for Constantinople. Seven days’ sailing at most. Or they could come ashore at Thessalonika, cut across the flat plains of Thrace and attack the Huns’ flank as they marched south. But my lord the emperor Theodosius would not even look at the letter. He ordered it to be burned, saying how he now knew who his true and loyal friends were.
There was a chamberlain in the employ of the Byzantine court in those days, a man called Pytheas. A man I had never felt at ease with. Theodosius admired and trusted him, but, alas, he was a poor judge of character, for all his lucubrations over the Characters of Theophrastus. Books, not life, had taught our emperor; and I am sorry to say, bibliophile and library dweller as I am myself, that thus far they had proved poor teachers. This Pytheas had grown very rich from corruption and manipulation of the funds of the Public Largesse. He held numerous offices, this state-salaried parasite: sinecures such as Overseer of Marble Procurement, Secretary of the Imperial Customs-Houses, Chief Clerk of the Records of Imperial Liberality, Accounts Archivist for the Province of Syria, Chancellor of the Domestic Wardrobe, and so forth. And in every department he was corrupt. But he had grown richest from another source altogether, from beyond the bounds of the empire, though none of us knew it then. He worked for Attila.