Attila:The Scourge of God

FIFTEEN

‘Placentia, that’s the rendezvous.’ Aetius rapped the tip of his staff against the map, on the red circle at the northern end of the Aemilian Way. ‘I, with the Visigoths and Roman contingents shall take the Julian Augustan Way along the coast to Nicea, then north-east to Placentia. Litorius, you’ll head north from Arelate, up the Rhodanus valley to Lugdunum,² and await the Frankish and Burgundian federates. As soon as they arrive, press on eastwards to the rendezvous via the Mons Matronae Pass³ and Augusta Taurinorum.⁴ There’s a good secondary road and a station refuge, Druantium, at the summit of the Cottian Alpes. Our forces will meet at Placentia not later than the Ides of June. Further briefing when we get there. Right, gentlemen, I think that’s all. Any questions?’

The officers — Romans with a sprinkling of Germans — were silent for a minute. Then a lone voice called out, ‘Sir, is the wine in Italy any better than the vinegar we get in Gaul?’

‘Much better,’ Aetius assured him amid the general laughter. ‘If that’s all, to your posts. We march in an hour.’

The officers filed out. Aetius sank gratefully on to a folding stool. God, he felt tired. Dealing with barbarians was enough to wear out an Alexander or a Caesar. It wasn’t that they were difficult to beat; apart from Hermann’s destruction of Varus’ legions back in the reign of Augustus, the only pitched battle they’d ever won against Rome was Hadrianopolis, fifty-four years ago. And that only happened because the Eastern Emperor hadn’t waited for Gratian’s Western army to join up with him. Then he remembered the recent African disaster. Well, that was entirely due to Boniface panicking; inviting in the Vandals, and then losing his nerve. If he’d really wanted to serve Rome, he should have done the decent thing and fallen on his sword, the moment he received the summons recalling him to Italy. Ferociously brave the Germans undoubtedly were, but they lacked patience and discipline. Properly led and supplied, Roman troops could thrash them every time. It was the Germans’ raw energy, resilience, and sheer persistent aggressiveness that eventually began to grind you down. Like this recent trouble with the Visigoths. They wanted to be part of Rome but, like unruly children, kicked over the traces when conditions were imposed. Still, under Roman officers they made effective soldiers. Which was why, this time, he would at last be able to finish Boniface.

‘You look tired, sir,’ said a voice behind Aetius, echoing his reflections. ‘You should get some rest.’

‘Litorius, you still here? Didn’t see you.’ Aetius accepted the proferred cup of wine. ‘Thanks. Was there something you wanted?’

‘May I speak frankly, sir?’

‘When people say that, it’s usually to tell me something I don’t want to hear,’ sighed Aetius. ‘Oh, very well, then, if you must.’

Count Litorius, Aetius’ second-in-command, pulled up a camp stool beside the general. ‘I’m concerned about you, sir,’ he said solicitously. ‘You can’t continue like this — you’re wearing yourself out. You’ve more than enough to cope with, keeping the barbarians in check in Gaul, without embarking on a civil war in Italy.’

‘I’m touched,’ sneered Aetius. ‘You’ll have me crying next. What do you suggest I do? Extend the hand of brotherly love to Boniface?’

‘Something like that, sir,’ said Litorius earnestly. ‘Why not? Together, the two of you could cure some of Rome’s most pressing ills.’

‘You’re beginning to sound like Titus, my former aide,’ observed Aetius in wry tones. ‘It’s too late to make things up with Boniface. Once, perhaps, we could have worked together, but since Africa-’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘He blames me for what went wrong, and is never going to trust me again. He and Placidia won’t rest until they’ve seen me crushed. Which isn’t going to happen, by the way.’

‘I should think not, sir!’ declared Litorius. ‘Your plan will see to that. But once you’ve dealt with Boniface, I beg you to set yourself an easier pace. Rome needs you.’

‘I doubt Placidia would agree,’ said Aetius drily. Draining his cup, he rose and clapped Litorius on the shoulder. ‘You’re getting to be like an old mother hen, Count. I appreciate your concern, but after Boniface there’s still Gaul to keep an eye on, Spain to be cleared of Suebi, Africa to re-conquer, perhaps one day even Britain. However, if the federates in Gaul start causing trouble, I can always call in my friends the Huns to whip them into line.’

‘The Huns. . mightn’t they in turn become a threat to Rome?’ said Litorius doubtfully.

‘Hardly. A mob of primitive shepherds. Against disciplined Roman troops backed by Roman-led federates, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Right, my friend, time to inspect the troops.’

Marching six abreast, freshly scoured helmets and corselets glittering in the June sunlight, square and dragon standards fluttering and flapping bravely, Aetius’ Roman bodyguard swung down the Via Aemilia. Behind, without regard to formation, tramped the Visigoth levies, flaxen-haired giants without armour, carrying spears and round shields. In the van, headed by Aetius and his staff, rode the cavalry, keeping to the grassy belts verging the paved road-surface. The force crossed a stone bridge over the little Rubicon, and halted after a further mile or so, in sight of a squat stone column beside the Uso brook — the fifth milestone from Ariminum. On the far side of the Uso, Boniface’s troops were drawn up: the imperial army, consisting of the Western survivors of the African expedition, supplemented by household troops. On either side of the Way, stretched dreary marshland: reedbeds to the north, swampy levels to the south.

‘Look, Litorius, there’s Boniface in that ridiculous antique armour of his,’ Aetius chuckled. ‘That lanky beanpole beside him is his son-in-law Sebastian. And there, by all the saints, is young Titus Rufinus, the ungrateful renegade. I should have hauled him before a military tribunal while I had the chance.’

‘You can see why they call Boniface “the fighting general”,’ observed Litorius. ‘He seems ready for action — personally.’ He smiled. ‘Best not get too close, sir. That long spear of his looks pretty businesslike.’

With a trumpet flourish, a herald cantered out from Boniface’s lines and drew rein before Aetius’ command group. Unfurling a scroll, he declaimed: ‘Boniface, Count of Africa, Patrician, Master of Soldiers, both Horse and Foot — in the name of the Augustus Valentinian the Third, Most Noble One, twice Consul; and of the Most Holy Empress Mother in Perpetuity, the Augusta Galla Placidia; to Aetius, Count, Master of the Horse in all the Gauls; gives greetings, and requires to know, under this solemn parley, what are his wishes concerning. .’

‘Ever the stickler for correct procedure,’ Aetius, shaking his head, chuckled to Litorius. ‘Well, now he’s in for a little surprise.’ And with a wink to his second-in-command, he signalled his trumpeter. But before the man could raise the instrument to his lips, flames suddenly appeared at various points in the reeds; during the herald’s harangue, some of Boniface’s men had moved on to the verge, and were now proceeding to toss blazing torches into the head-high vegetation.

Written at Ariminum, in the consulships of Aetius and Valerius, II Nones Jul.⁵ Titus Valerius to Gaius Valerius Rufinus, greetings.

Honoured Father, I write in haste and sorrow, sending this by the hand of one who leaves for Gaul tonight. By the time you read this, I should myself be on my way to join you, for it is no longer safe for me to remain in Italia, within range of the Augusta’s malice. Boniface is dead, slain (some say by the hand of Aetius himself) in a battle fought near here yesterday. Under cover of a prearranged meeting between them, Aetius planned to ambush Boniface; however, we had discovered his intentions, and were able to turn this knowledge to our advantage. (As you know from previous letters of mine, I took your advice and left the service of Aetius for that of Boniface.)

At the point where the meeting was to take place (near that fateful stream the Rubicon), a great expanse of reeds adjoined the road. These beds were criss-crossed by a network of cuniculi drainage channels — potential cover for an army (which in fact is exactly what they became), the tall reeds providing perfect concealment. It transpired that the night before the meeting, Aetius had dispatched a federate advance force to take up position in the cuniculi. Knowing this, we fired the reeds, which were tinder-dry after weeks of scorching weather. Father, it was dreadful: within moments the reedbeds had become a roaring inferno, incinerating the poor wretches hiding there. I shall carry their screams in my head until my dying day. A few charred horrors struggled to the causeway, and were cut down; surely a merciful release from a lingering death in agony. A terrible, perhaps indefensible, way to make war, you may think. Yet what choice had we? It was Aetius, by his treachery, who forced our hand.

With half of Aetius’ force destroyed, the outcome of the battle was never in doubt. But our victory was robbed of any triumph by our leader’s death. Rumours are flying thicker than snow in January, that Aetius cut his way through our van and killed Boniface in a hand-to-hand fight. I cannot confirm or deny the truth of this, for I was too busy relaying messages during the fray to witness what happened. But I find the story scarcely credible: two modern Roman generals engaged in single combat — like Homeric heroes in the Trojan War! Yet I suppose it may be true. Aetius is a driven man. Fury and despair at the ruin of his plan may have pushed him to the verge of madness, prompting him to desperate action. And Boniface, ever careless of personal safety, was never averse to adopting a heroic role. Also, many swear to have seen the incident. But you, Father, more than most, know how it is with soldiers. When Constantine declared he’d seen a vision of Christ’s cross in the sky, within an hour half the army swore they’d seen it too!

This was indeed a black day for Rome. Despite his blunders in Africa, I believe that Boniface alone had the stature and the vision to heal the Western Empire’s wounds, and make it strong again. Who is left to steer the ship of state? Placidia? Valentinian? Then is the vessel dismasted and heading for the reefs! What now? Aetius’ star has surely fallen. Should he escape, he will be outlawed, his life and property forfeit. His only course then will be to seek refuge with his friends the Huns. As for myself, I will make for Upper Germany with all speed, calling at the Villa Fortunata on my way, to check that all is well. My love to Clothilde and little Marcus. God willing, Father, I shall see you soon. Farewell.

¹ Not to be confused with Ammianus Marcellinus, the fourth-century soldier and historian.

² Rhone valley; Lyon.

³ Genevre Pass

⁴ Turin.

⁵ 6 July 432.