Aetius struggled for a moment. But this wretched plot had shamed them all, and the two conspirators were lucky to have escaped with their lives. ‘You have,’ he said.
Attila nodded. What a gesture, what theatre! How magnificently scornful he had shown himself of the Byzantine plot. Never before had we faced an enemy like him.
There was one more gesture. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chrysaphius trying to pull himself to his feet against one of the tent-posts.
‘Ah, no,’ he said, his voice almost gentle, stepping over to him, his dagger still in his grasp. ‘For you, coward as well as deceiver, there will be no return to Constantinople.’ He took the ambassador by a hank of his hair and pulled his head back and sliced the blade across his throat. He wiped the blade clean of blood on the dead man’s fine court robes and stood again and smiled round at us broadly, his arms outstretched, his dagger still in his fist.
‘My dear friends, I think our meeting in peace and friendship is at an end, is it not?’
Behind him, Chrysaphius’ body was already being dragged from the tent, leaving behind it a shining trail of gore.
We returned to our tents without another word, our hearts full and dark.
Before we left at dawn, in the dull grey half-light, an extraordinary meeting occurred. Attila came to Aetius. I watched from the shadows.
They spoke to each other without formality, as if they were old friends. A naive observer might have thought Aetius indeed a traitor, newly allied to Attila, there seemed so little tension between them. Then the Hun grasped Aetius’ arm as if with a mix of urgency and brotherly affection, and I heard his harsh, passionate voice.
‘One of the reasons I exposed your treachery – the treachery of your master, the emperor in Constantinople last night – was to show you the rottenness of your world, your eunuch empire.’
Aetius said nothing, and did not try to pull free of Attila’s clasp. His expression was deeply troubled.
‘And your Valentinian, Emperor in the West, feeble-minded son of that bitch Galla Placidia, he is still worse. He sacrifices cockerels, he studies witchcraft.’
Aetius muttered, ‘You, too, have witches about you.’
‘I do not claim to be Christian. Aetius, your empire is tottering.’
Now Aetius resisted him. ‘The VIIth legion at Viminacium, they did not totter.’
‘They gave us a good fight.’
‘They gave you hell.’
Attila’s teeth showed in the gloom. ‘They fought like men. But for what? For a decrepit empire, a long lost cause? It is the time of new powers and other empires now. Rome’s all done.’ His grip on Aetius’ arm tightened, and I heard his astonishing words: ‘Join me.’
It was long before Aetius responded; too long. His eventual response was only to pull away, saying nothing.
‘You fool,’ said Attila. ‘You have already lost whatever it is you fight for.’ He remounted his horse. ‘Fly back to your city, fool. I am hot on your path.’
11
We rode away south that morning in anger and shame. Behind us staggered a small, broken figure, carrying his cruel sack of gold.
There was nobility in the soul of Attila, that I could see. Aetius saw it, too. But the darker traits of malice, tyranny and vengefulness were overshadowing it, and ultimately it would be extinguished. His ruthlessness and avarice would destroy him as a living human soul. It has happened many times in human history. Already his nobility and grandeur were fading before his hunger for world dominion, his furious desire to seize and master life itself – a hunger which had also driven, in different ways, Alexander the Great, and Phidias, and Euclid, and even Sophocles. But such men as Sophocles and Phidias grow wise before they grow old, and let go of their hunger, and instead of wanting to seize and master life, they fall down before it and kneel in silent wonder, understanding that they may never master or understand but only worship. Attila saw such humble wisdom only as inglorious defeat. He was ever one of the rebellious sons of God.
Attila’s hatred of Rome was like a fire, blazing up and destroying some great, majestic basilica. But when the flames have finally devoured and destroyed that basilica and laid it to ashes, the fire also dies: it has nothing left to feed on. So his hunger was devouring his own self from the inside, engendering only more and more appetite in place of his youthful pride and fire. And when there is only appetite, allied to the stubborn, implacable vindictiveness of old age, there is no telling what evils may ensue.
After only two days, Aetius halted the column towards evening and looked over his shoulder. Far behind us was the hunched, misshapen figure of Vigilas with his sack. He was no longer moving. Aetius galloped back, and I saw him lean from his horse, pull up the sack and rest it on his lap. Vigilas rolled onto his side in the road and was still. Aetius brooded a moment, then dropped the sack in the road and rode back to us. None of us uttered a word in protest. We knew it was like a gift of Agamemnon’s Greeks. Timeo Danaos… Let a peasant find it, an untold treasure, and bury it beneath an oak tree by moonlight for his old age.
Our journey back was long and wearisome, for we rode fast and relentlessly without Vigilas to slow us. We must take in the little town of Azimuntium on our way and find the empress, then retreat to safety behind the great Theodosian Walls of the capital. There at last, I observed, we would be safe.
‘Safe?’ said Aetius savagely. ‘As safe as a rabbit in his burrow, with a huge and ravening wolf just outside, his stinking breath in the very mouth of the burrow. How safe is that, do you think?’
I did not answer.
After crossing the plains at an exhausting canter, our horses flecked with white foam and drooling at the bit, we rode up into the cooler foothills of the Haemus Mountains and then higher, where there was still edelweiss growing among the rocks. We found water for our mounts, a runnel clear as crystal from a rock spring, and they whickered and drank deep and raised their heads again, refreshed. We had the finest white Cappadocian horses from the imperial stables – magnificent, though I say so myself – and the master-general and Theodoric and Torismond rode at our head. It was no great force to turn and face a numberless horde of the enemy on our heels, but we could at least move very fast.
Behind us were over a million of the devil’s own horsemen, so they said. Well, rumour always multiplies enemy numbers by ten. Aetius had estimated Attila’s fighting force to be a hundred thousand, which was still the greatest number that Rome had faced in seven centuries, since the days of Hannibal. And how had the strength of Rome herself fared in those seven centuries? Not well.
As for our chivalrous mission to rescue an empress, Aetius kept his head bowed and did not speak of it. She whom he had not seen for. .. fifteen years, was it? Many battles and campaigns ago. That was how he measured out his life, in battles, not years. Too many battles ago he had kissed her, on a balcony overlooking the Golden City of Jerusalem. But that was many battles ago, and in another world.
We rode into deep pinewoods and the light grew dim and green. The horses harrumphed nervously, their hooves crunching over dry needles. The men patted their necks for comfort, none too comfortable themselves. Both horses and riders were creatures of the open plains. Woods meant darkness, witchcraft and ambush.