Attila:The Scourge of God

THIRTY-FOUR

‘Well done, my special ambassador,’ said Attila warmly, when Constantius had related his spying activities in the Eastern capital. ‘You have achieved more in these few weeks than all my envoys put together since the peace was ratified. As a token of my esteem, receive this jewel from my hands.’ He held out a necklace of massive gold links from which was suspended an enormous ruby, glowing redly as if from an internal fire.

Attila was providing him with the perfect opportunity, Constantius realized. With both hands immobilized by the golden chain, he would be unable to ward off a sudden blow. But, now that the moment had come, Constantius felt his courage and determination start to drain away. At Vicus Helena, when his blood was up in the heat and fury of battle, killing had been easy. But to stab a man in cold blood, and he someone who liked and trusted you, was a very different matter. An additional complication, one which had not previously occurred to him, was that the deed must be done face to face; a monarch’s back was never turned to you.

‘You seem agitated, my young friend,’ observed Attila kindly. ‘Is anything amiss?’

‘No, Sire,’ declared Constantius hoarsely, his throat suddenly constricted. ‘I–I was overwhelmed by your generosity.’ It was now or never. Palms sweating, heart thumping, he walked down the audience chamber towards the King. Bowing his head as if to await the placing of the chain around his neck, he whipped a dagger from beneath his dalmatic, and drove it against Attila’s chest. To his horrified amazement, a numbing jolt shot through his fingers and the dagger rebounded. Attila released the chain, caught his wrist with a grip of iron, and twisted it. As the dagger clattered on the floor, the King shouted, ‘Guards!’ Armed warriors burst in, and within seconds Constantius was lying prostrate before Attila, hands bound behind his back.

‘The mail shirts produced in Ratiaria’s arms workshops — which I now own — are of the finest quality. I gave you a chance, Roman,’ Attila rumbled, shaking his great head regretfully. ‘Had you but kept faith with me and stayed your hand, you could have kept Chrysaphius’ gold with my blessing, and returned with your bride to the West, a wealthy man. I know what transpired at your interview with Chrysaphius, you see. Two thousand pounds of gold: did you rate my life so cheaply, Constantius? You could have bargained for five times that price — and received it without question.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘You shouldn’t have stopped the eunuch looking in his bookcase.’

‘You mean it concealed a spy?’ gasped Constantius.

‘Just so. He who would deceive Attila must serve a longer apprenticeship in treachery than yours, my friend. Have you anything to say which would persuade me that I should spare your life?’

‘I was only to be the instrument, Sire,’ cried Constantius desperately. ‘I knew nothing about the plot before Chrysaphius spoke with me. It was his idea — his and your brother Bleda’s.’

‘This I know already,’ sighed Attila, in the tone of an indulgent landlord reproving a defaulting tenant. ‘Tell me something with which I am not familiar.’

‘Aetius, Sire, he also wished to have you killed,’ gabbled Constantius, clutching at straws. ‘That is why he sent me to you.’

‘You lie, Roman. Aetius is the last person to want me dead. He needs my soldiers to suppress the federates. Try again.’

‘It’s true, I swear!’ exclaimed Constantius, trying frantically to think of something credible to reinforce his claim. ‘He is convinced that when you have finished ravaging the East you will turn against the West. He fears the federates less than he fears the Huns. He says that, while the federates may be unruly and treacherous, at least they do not massacre whole populations and reduce entire provinces to smoking deserts. “If Attila is not stopped, the cities of Italia and Gaul will share the fate of Sirmium and Singidunum” — his very words, Sire.’

It could be true, thought Attila, a terrible doubt entering his mind. How could Aetius know that circumstances had conspired to force Attila to make war on the Romans against his will, or that for the sake of their old friendship he had chosen to invade the East rather than the West? Ignorant of Bleda’s attempts to usurp his brother’s authority, it was only natural that Aetius would view the invasion of the East as unprovoked aggression, and not what it really was: an act of political necessity, forced on Attila by the pressures of leadership. Any detached military observer must think that it was only a matter of time before the Huns turned their attention to the West.

‘I am minded to believe you, Roman,’ said Attila heavily. ‘Not that anything you have told me will save you. It may, however, comfort you to know that I intend to grant you the same death as your Christ-god. As you hang upon the cross, reflect on these words, which I believe he uttered, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s”.’ Turning to the guards, he commanded with weary sadness, ‘Crucify him.’

Alone in the audience chamber, a dreadful bleakness of the spirit descended on Attila. He could see it all clearly now. Coldly and with calculation, Aetius had exploited his knowledge of Attila’s ambition to create a Greater Scythia. He had sent the persuasive, snake-tongued Constantius, to sell his erstwhile friend a shining dream, the greatest empire the world had ever seen. And Attila, ‘the Scourge of God’, whose cunning was as legendary as his feats of conquest, had fallen for the ruse. Lulled into a false sense of security he would have dropped his guard, one day to fall victim to Constantius’ dagger, had not the Roman’s plans been overtaken by the clumsy plotting of Bleda and Chrysaphius.

Well, so much for dreams. He was done with such illusions, which served only to weaken and distract. Henceforth, he would deal only in the solid currency of war. Death and destruction, plunder and tribute — these would be his sole watchwords. The Romans would pay dearly for their perfidy. When the East had been made to render all its dues in full, then would come the turn of the West.

Constantius screamed as the nails were driven between the long bones of his forearms below the wrists, and through his feet. But when the cross stood upright in its socket, he could no longer scream. His body sagged, compressing his lungs so that he began to suffocate. Only by pushing himself upright against the block his feet were nailed to, despite the agony this caused, could he relieve the pressure sufficiently to breathe. But all too soon his weight pulled him down, and the cycle recommenced. Crying weakly for his mother, Constantius began to die.