Attila:The Scourge of God

NINE

Villa Basiliana, Ravenna, Province of Flaminia and Picenum, Diocese of Italia [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum]. The year of the consuls Bassus and Antiochus, pridie Kalendas Sept.¹

The capital buzzes with rumours about Aetius, who is in Gaul, considering his next move as regards Placidia. The situation is this: Boniface has returned from Africa, not, as one might expect, in disgrace for bringing in the Vandals and losing the diocese, but in something like triumph: given a hero’s welcome by Placidia, raised to the rank of Patrician, made master-general of the Roman armies, and showered with medals! How can one believe it? Aetius, on the other hand, has been vilified at court — blamed for the African disaster, and now persona non grata as far as the Empress is concerned. People are saying he drove Boniface into appealing to the Vandals for help, by misrepresenting him to Placidia. Which puts me in a quandary: I hate the idea of showing disloyalty to Aetius (who has always been good to me) by even listening to the rumours. On the other hand, it would be irresponsible to ignore them — at least until I’m satisfied that they’re unfounded. But if they should turn out to be true, what then? Could I, in conscience, go on serving a master whose scheming has so damaged Rome? Perhaps prayer to my new God will help me to see the way ahead clearly.

Meanwhile, on Aetius’ orders I stay here at his headquarters near Ravenna, gathering what information I can about political developments. He wants a full report on his return from Gaul. It’s far from easy; as one can imagine, I’m not exactly in Placidia’s good graces since that wretched business with the chickens. With Aetius out of favour, the palace is barred to me, so I’m reduced to snooping around the markets and wine-shops for scraps of gossip, which I then have to sift and evaluate.

Now, on a personal matter, some good news. I am a father! Recently Clothilde gave birth to a boy. We’ve christened him Marcus; he’s a sturdy little chap with a fine pair of lungs. For the moment he and his mother are living with Clothilde’s people, the Burgundians, in that part of eastern Gaul ceded to them first by the usurper Ioannes, then confirmed by Honorius. So for the time being, until I can afford a little farm in Italy, he’s being brought up as a German. And I’m glad of that. He’ll grow up strong and hardy, and learn to value loyalty and courage — qualities in short supply among today’s Romans. Time enough for him to acquire some Roman polish later. I visit them from time to time when I get leave, which is fairly frequently — or rather was, prior to Aetius’ departure for Gaul. He may be a hard taskmaster, but stinginess isn’t one of his faults.

I worry about my father. The rift between us seems as wide as ever; he doesn’t answer my letters, but family friends keep me informed. Poor, stubborn old Gaius! It appears he’s much reduced in health and circumstances. It’s his own fault, of course. If he’d moderate his pagan stance a little, or just pay lip-service to Christian rites, the authorities would probably turn a blind eye. With him, though, where principles are concerned it’s a matter of honour not to give an inch. He’s been fined, stripped of his civil decurion status and of his army pension. He survives through the generosity of friends and the kindness of the coloni on his estate. If only there were a way to resolve this senseless breach between us.

It was cool and dark inside Ravenna’s great cathedral, a suitable place for Titus to focus his thoughts. He stared at the great, recently finished mosaic of the Enthroned Christ separating the damned from the saved on the Day of Judgement. The Saviour seemed to gaze back at him, calm, strong, filled with loving compassion, but also with the stern authority of a terrible judge. Titus opened his heart in prayer, pouring out in silent words his dilemma concerning Aetius. But it didn’t help; he had no sense of a caring, listening Presence. Perhaps that image on the wall, formed of tiny cubes of coloured stone and glass, was all there was. Perhaps, after all, Christ was not Risen, was just a heap of mouldering bones in a forgotten sepulchre in Palestine. He continued to pray, increasingly unable to prevent the feeling that it was futile.

He failed to notice a cloaked and hooded figure, which had been watching him from behind a pillar, glide silently from the building.

Feeling empty and depressed, Titus left the cathedral. He was surprised to notice how much the shadows had lengthened; his attempts at prayer had taken longer than he’d realized. Better hurry before the city gates were closed; he’d left his horse at a livery stable outside the walls. As he was about to move off, he noticed a one-legged beggar sitting near the great double doors. Propped beside him was a crutch, and on the ground before him were a begging-bowl and a placard stating: ‘Proximo, disabled soldier, African campaign’.

Titus was always sympathetic to the plight of such ex-soldiers, whose pension instalments were often late, or subject to fleecing by corrupt officials. ‘Which unit?’ he asked.

‘African Horse,’ replied the other proudly, ‘and before that the Twentieth Legion — the old “Valeria Victrix”, stationed at Castra Deva² in Britain for nigh on four hundred years in all.’ He indicated his leg, which had been severed above the knee. ‘Doctors took it off after the recent battle with the Vandals. A right shambles that was, I can tell you.’

Interest displacing his concern for the lateness of the hour, Titus pressed the man for details. Perhaps he might learn something.

‘We were doing well against the Vandals, until they launched a surprise attack on our flank. Then our commander, Count Boniface, seemed to freeze up. With no orders telling anyone what to do, there was chaos. In the end we broke, and what began as a rout became a massacre. Myself, I wasn’t that surprised. Boniface, poor devil, lost his grip the moment the Vandals invaded — blamed himself for asking them to come over from Spain to help him. Ah, but you should have seen him in the old days, sir. What a soldier! Suevi, Goths, Moors — take your pick; he’d thrash the living daylights out of any of them.’

‘You say he asked for Vandal help. Against whom?’

The veteran shook his head in disbelief. ‘What empire have you been living in, sir? Against the imperial Roman army, of course — thought everyone knew that. But it wasn’t Boniface’s fault, not really. It was that General Aetius who turned the Empress against him. Sent a summons, she did, recalling him from Africa, but he wouldn’t go. Can’t say I blame him, either.’

Titus’ head whirled. Court gossip he had largely learnt to discount; usually about nine-tenths of it was mischievous froth. But among soldiers it was different. Perhaps because it bore on basic realities like pay, provisions, hardship, and death, it usually contained a nub of truth. Proximo’s account, crude and simplistic as it was, he was inclined to believe.

Titus felt in his purse for a donation. He still had a third of the funds Aetius had given him to cover expenses for his African mission. When he had tried to return the surplus, Aetius had responded, with careless generosity, ‘For God’s sake keep it. You’re too honest, Titus. Know the first rule of being in the army or the civil service: “Always double your claims, and never give back anything you’re not entitled to.”’ But Titus, uneasy about spending money he hadn’t earned, had kept by the remainder unused. Now he felt justified in giving a little of it away.

‘God bless you sir. A few nummi would have done,’ said an astonished Proximo, when Titus handed him a solidus — two months’ income for a small artisan.

‘You’re welcome, Proximo,’ replied Titus. ‘You’ve helped me more than you know.’ He bade him farewell, and plunged into a narrow alley, a shortcut to the Aurean Gate.

Passing a doorway, he suddenly felt something whip round his neck from behind, jerking him back into the darkness. The ligature tightened, choking off his breath; a roaring filled his head and his vision darkened. He struggled helplessly, hands clawing at the cord throttling him, all his skill in self-defence of no avail. ‘I’m a dead man,’ he thought, in panic and despair, ‘a dead man walking.’

All at once, he became aware of a swirl of violent movement beside him, then the pressure on his throat relaxed. Drawing in great whooping gasps of air, Titus looked around, saw Proximo leaning on the wall beside him, and between them on the ground a crumpled figure in a dark cloak. A thread of blood trickled from a crater in the man’s temple.

‘Dead, sir.’ Proximo waved his crutch, which he held by its base. ‘Swung properly, it’s like a sledgehammer. Lucky I watched you come down here. When you vanished suddenly, I got suspicious and decided to check.’

‘Thank God you did,’ said Titus shakily, massaging his throat. He’d live.

‘Sneak-thief after your purse, probably. Can’t be too careful these days.’

But Titus knew it was no thief. Placidia, burning to avenge her son’s humiliation, had set one of her creatures on his trail, with orders to dispatch him. Without Aetius to protect him, vigilance would have to be his watchword.

They weighted the corpse with prised-up cobblestones, then, making sure they were unobserved, slipped it into one of Ravenna’s many canals. Titus solved the problem of what to do with the balance of his African funds by giving it to his rescuer. The old soldier need beg no more; there was enough for him to set himself up in a small business. ‘A small enough return for saving my life,’ he said, cutting short Proximo’s stammered thanks.

He reached the gate just before it shut. As he cantered back towards Aetius’ villa, two things struck him with the force of revelation. Was it chance or destiny that had brought about his meeting with Proximo, a meeting which had confirmed his suspicions regarding Aetius, and resulted in his deliverance from assassination? And the man’s old legion was ‘Valeria Victrix’. Valeria — Valerius: the name of his father’s gens.³ Could it be that he was meant to seek his father’s advice as to what he should now do? The weight of centuries of his family’s pagan tradition — in reality a polite scepticism underpinned by Stoic principles — seemed to press down on him, urging rejection of such irrational thoughts. But part of him, the new Christian part, insisted that his meeting with Proximo might have been more than blind chance.

Perhaps, after all, his prayers in the cathedral had not gone unanswered, and he had been vouchsafed a sign?

¹ 31 August 431.

² Chester.

³ Clan.