‘Plot?’
But at a signal from his sister Pulcheria, Theodosius shook his head. ‘Never mind; all that is discovered and dispensed with. Nevertheless, as things stood, I was quite prepared to trust his word, and to meet his demands in full.’
Aetius stopped abruptly. Even while he and his men had been fighting to the death on the walls, the Imperial Court had been secretly negotiating with Attila himself. Was that possible? He felt sick to his stomach.
‘Demands? What demands? We’d beaten him – or stalled him, anyway. He knew he couldn’t take this city, these walls, without sustaining terrible losses, even undermanned as we were. Then disease broke out in his camp. He had to fall back, he had no choice.’ The general was glaring most rudely full in the emperor’s face. ‘ What demands?’
‘My lord,’ interrupted the chamberlain.
Theodosius raised a pacific hand, and replied to Aetius, ‘Demands in response to our demands, of course. We demanded that he retire from our territories and molest our people no more. In return for… recompense.’
Aetius’ grip on the treaty parchment tightened visibly. ‘You mean gold.’
‘I mean… recompense.’ Theodosius’ arm dropped away from Aetius’ shoulders. He was tiring of this. This coarse soldier should be grateful for his Earthly Lord having negotiated such a delicate treaty with the Huns, for having saved so many of his people’s lives, and secured a lasting peace. Instead, he was positively leaking resentment and bile. Jealousy, really, Theodosius presumed. His own diplomacy had stolen Aetius’ martial thunder.
‘You mean gold,’ repeated Aetius in his harsh and gravelly voice, like the voice of a waterless desert. ‘How much gold? What have you given him?’
The man’s eyes blazed. He was unstable, so moody. It was very displeasing. The chief chamberlain snapped back, ‘The finances of the Imperial Court are of no matter to a Western general.’
The general would not let go; he was like a mastiff locked on a hind. His gaze was still on the emperor. ‘You cannot buy off a man like Attila. Look how he has mocked you. The Scourge of God. Can you buy off the Scourge of God? Can you divert his barbaric Almighty God of War with mere gold?’
Now Theodosius was angry. ‘You talk gibberish, man. His god does not exist, or he is at most some outcast demon.’
‘He exists in Attila’s heart. That is a mighty engine.’
Theodosius replied crisply, ‘Soldiers should stick to soldiering, and leave theology to higher minds.’
‘How much? ’
It was outrageous that he should be addressed like this, but Theodosius would not have his judgement questioned. ‘Seven thousand pounds,’ he snapped, walking back to his throne.
Aetius’ ears rang. ‘ How much? ’
‘Attila received the treasure chests gracefully, my ambassadors report, the night before last. He even referred to them, with a pleasing laconic humour, as reimbursement for “the expenses of war”! A small price to pay for the happiness and well-being of my peace-loving people, Master-General, from the Holy City to the Danube border, from the Euxine to the-’
The vast audience chamber echoed to a furious roar: ‘ You fool! He has already slaughtered thousands of your innocent people, and now you think you can make peace with him? You have welcomed the enemy within your gates, and you have paid in advance the bill for your own destruction!’
A collective gasp went round. Bishop Epiphanius drew sharp breath, Themistius cried out ‘My lord!’ and the emperor paused on the steps up to the dais, his back still to Aetius. The empress gazed down on the enraged general, her hands twisting in her lap.
‘Have a care, Master-General,’ said the emperor quietly.
Aetius at that moment looked like a man with many cares. He did a swift mental calculation. Seven thousand pounds of Byzantine gold, much of it ingots stamped for purity by the Imperial Treasury. Enough to buy – his blood ran hot and cold – twenty thousand of the best mercenaries for a year or more. Maybe thirty thousand. Alan lancers, Gepids, Sueves, Teutonic axemen, Sarmatian cavalry, maybe even renegade Persians. Why had Constantinople not bought those mercenaries for its own protection? The reason was simple. The mercenaries would not have fought for Theodosius, nor for Rome. They would only take gold to fight for what they believed was a winning cause.
Attila’s finest and most loyal Hun warriors could have numbered no more than thirty thousand. The rest were Kutrigurs, Hephthalites, lesser tribal followers, nameless easterners who would soon melt away. But seven thousand pounds: Attila’s command of crack troops had just doubled. And the great sacrifice so many had made in the East – at Viminacium, Ratiaria, calamitously on the Utus, and here on the walls of the City – was wretchedly degraded. They had saved the Holy City, and the Asian provinces. But Rome now stood in a danger beyond all reckoning, and perhaps beyond all opposition.
He spoke dazedly. ‘Not even the treasuries of Byzantium can have held this much. How…?’
Theodosius seated himself again, seeing with relief that the general was growing calmer – though he hoped he would be sailing back west soon.
‘The city’s loyal senatorial classes responded with alacrity. Some even handed in their wives’ jewellery and most precious heirlooms. And we ourself have parted with many of our private possessions, for the sake of our people.’
The courtiers murmured sycophantic assent. Themistius added, ‘Although in consolation an ambassador from the court of an Indian king has recently sent His Majesty a tiger for his menagerie.’
There were gentle chuckles, and a smile from the emperor. He inclined his head gracefully.
The frightful general only glowered the more.
Theodosius added, ‘We have also ceded to our new ally Attila the territory of Pannonia Secunda, for his people to settle.’
Settle. A fine euphemism. But damn Pannonia Secunda – he’d have taken it soon enough anyway.
Aetius was striding about and muttering. The emperor looked pointedly at his Palatine Guards.
‘I had him,’ said the over-wrought and over-tired commander, his fist before his face, ‘in the palm of my hand. Sickness stalked his camp. He would not have fled before it. I knew there was something else. He was haughty, even as a boy. He never bowed the neck, neither to prince nor to pestilence. His own pride had him trapped there. “Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust, Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.” He would have been so cut, and his warriors laid out across the plain. Windrows of the dead, scythed down like a wheatfield after a hailstorm.’
He turned violently back towards the imperial throne. ‘And you have paid him off, enriched the gorgon’s purse! Oh, merciful heaven!’
Theodosius rose again and declared that the council was ended, adding acerbically, ‘This Attila, who makes you tremble with such unmanly cowardice, is a man of reason and candour. More so than you, I think, Master-General Aetius. And he has already moved away north.’
‘With his gold!’ cried Aetius. ‘Gone to buy more troops! How they will flock to his banner now, the wealthiest robber and ruler in all of Europe! How dazzled they will be by his gold – by your gold, our gold, the gold of your hard-pressed, hard-taxed people. Sweet Jesus, did they not deserve better than this? For their oppressor to be paid off, like a thug intimidating a market-stall? Now he will turn his vast army, twice, three times as strong, against the West. Is this your idea of Christian solidarity?’
Theodosius had had enough. ‘Get him out! Now! He offends my ears!’
But, to the horror of the assembled courtiers, Aetius began tearing the treaty parchment to shreds before their eyes. The man was mad. Two Palatine Guards moved nervously near him, but neither dared to lay a hand on him.
Theodosius meanwhile had fled through a side-door and was gone, though not without the general’s last words still offending his ears.