Attila:The Scourge of God

TWELVE

Mansio Felix, nr. Arelate, Province of Viennensis, Diocese of the Seven Provinces. The year of the consuls Bassus and Antiochus, Nones III Oct.¹ [Titus paused to remove a hair, caught in the split of his reed pen’s nib, then continued.] By the light of a guttering oil-lamp, I’m updating the family archive in the euphemistically named ‘Happy Inn’ — an over-priced fleapit run by the private sector’s travel and transport network. This operates in parallel with the Imperial Post, an institution which still creaks along, despite the unsettled times.

Following our little ‘talk’, I was pretty sure that Bishop Pertinax wouldn’t be troubling my father in the immediate future. But I wasn’t taking any chances. More than anything, Gaius needed a long spell of rest and care; when I suggested that he might like to meet his grandson sooner rather than later, he readily concurred. Accordingly, I escorted him to the Burgundian village between Basilia and Argentorate Stratisburgum,² where Clothilde and Marcus live with her father’s family on their farm. Clothilde has become like a daughter to him, and he dotes on little Marcus; he’ll need watching, or he’ll spoil the boy! I left him arguing happily with father-in-law about the respective merits of Roman wine and German beer; I suspect he secretly rather likes the latter.

From the Burgundian Settlement in Upper Germany, I travelled to Arelate. Unlike the Rhenish provinces ceded to ‘barbarians’, Provence seems little changed by the invasions; villas — though now more resembling fortified villages than estates — still exist, the towns seem not un-prosperous, vineyards and olive groves are in good heart. Tomorrow I press on into Aquitania (assuming the Goths permit me), where I intend to seek out Aetius and formally request my discharge from his service. I owe him that at least — although it would be easier (and perhaps safer?) just to abandon my duties in Ravenna, and sneak off without a word.

Trying to master his apprehension, Titus waited outside the command tent at Aetius’ field headquarters near Tolosa in the Visigothic Settlement. According to the pair of Roman soldiers on sentry duty outside the tent, the general was in conclave with certain Visigothic chiefs, thrashing out peace terms following the tribe’s failed attempt to capture Arelate and expand their territory eastwards.

About two hours later, the nobles filed out, looking chastened and sullen. Titus was astonished at their appearance. Unlike the Burgundians, who clung to Teutonic fashions such as long hair and trousers, these men were totally Roman in their dress, with short hair, and shaved faces. Only their great stature and blond colouring betrayed the fact that they were Germans.

After being announced, Titus was told to enter the tent. This proved to be in two parts: a front area hung with maps — clearly a planning and briefing ‘room’ — and a curtained-off section at the rear.

‘Come,’ said a familiar voice from within. Titus pulled aside the curtain and entered what was clearly the general’s private office. Seated at a desk littered with scrolls and writing paraphernalia, Aetius looked, Titus thought, untypically drawn and strained.

‘Tiresome fellows at times, these Visigoths,’ Aetius observed. ‘They were given Aquitania — the best land in Gaul — for their own homeland by Constantius twenty-one years ago, so you’d think they’d be satisfied, wouldn’t you? But no, they get greedy from time to time, and have to be slapped down. Still, their King Theoderic and I get on well enough — or perhaps I should say we share a working misunderstanding; provided he knows I’m keeping an eye on him, he keeps them in line. Most of the time, that is. Well, Titus Valerius, what brings you here? A palace revolution in Ravenna? Valentinian wanting to cut loose from mother’s apron-strings? He must be, what, all of twelve by now?’

There was no point in beating about the bush. Swallowing nervously, Titus announced, ‘Sir, I wish to be discharged from your service.’

Aetius regarded him quizzically for a few seconds. ‘Oh you do, do you? And what’s brought this on, may I ask? Let me guess — something to do with rumours you’ve been hearing about myself and Boniface. Right?’

‘All you have to do is deny them, sir. Then I’d be more than happy to withdraw my request.’

‘How very generous. There’s just one little fact that appears to have escaped your notice, Rufinus. You were under orders to stay in Ravenna and prepare a report. I don’t recall releasing you from your duties. Technically, that makes you guilty of desertion — assuming there’s a status belli between myself and the imperial government. I can assure you Placidia thinks there is. I could have you arrested. To quote Marcus Aurelius, “It never pays to break faith.” He should have added, “with someone more powerful than yourself.”’

‘But given my suspicions, sir,’ Titus protested, ‘don’t you think I am justified-’

‘Oh, spare me the rest,’ Aetius snapped. ‘Honour. . betrayal. . the cause of Rome. . et cetera, et cetera. Brutus would have been proud of you.’

‘Such things are hardly unimportant, sir, Titus cried, nettled. ‘Look what you’ve achieved yourself in Gaul: containing the Franks in Lower Germany, and persuading them to become Rome’s loyal allies; forcing the Visigoths to keep within their bounds; cementing peace with the Burgundians. Why treat Boniface as an enemy, sir? Together, you could have made Rome strong again, like Claudius “Gothicus” and Aurelian, or Diocletian and Constantine.’

‘You’ve missed your vocation, Rufinus,’ said Aetius drily. ‘You should have been an orator. I’ll tell you what is important. Survival. You don’t honestly think that what I’m doing in Gaul is for the glory of Rome, do you? If so, you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined. It’s a dog-eat-dog world at the top, and only the strong last the pace. Like Julius Caesar before me, I’m building up a power-base in Gaul, as a safeguard against my political enemies — no need to spell out who they are.’ Aetius scribbled something on a scrap of parchment, and handed it to Titus. ‘Here’s your discharge. I haven’t forgotten that you saved my life once; I reckon this evens the score.’ He studied Titus appraisingly. ‘You should have stuck with me, you know. You’re still young — twenty-six, twenty-seven, is it? I could have made something of you, but on your own you’ll never amount to anything. I see you dying — for Rome, of course — in a squalid little skirmish against the barbarians, in some God-forgotten corner of the empire. Well, as you can see’ — he waved at the clutter on his desk, then bent over a document — ‘I’ve a peace to negotiate. Close the curtain on your way out.’

Seething with resentment at the manner of his dismissal, Titus yanked the curtain to, with a jerk that almost tore it from its rings. For just a moment, when Aetius had given him his diploma, Titus had thought he glimpsed a crack in the persona of weary cynicism, a shadow of regret behind the general’s eyes. Obviously, he had been wrong.

As he marched to the tent’s entrance-flap, his eye was caught by a codex lying amid a jumble of papyri on a table. It was beautiful, its visible cover, of ivory, exquisitely carved to represent a mythological scene. On a sudden impulse, Titus picked it up and opened it. The waxed boards were blank save for a brief and enigmatic inscription on the first. It read: ‘His Philippi — the fifth milestone from A.’

¹ 5 October 431.

² Basle and Strasbourg.