Attila:The Scourge of God

FORTY

Attila’s palace, the Royal Village, Old Dacia (former Roman province) [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum], ‘in the consulships of Asturius and Protogenes, II Nones June.¹

Soon after crossing the Danubius at Aquincum, the West Roman embassy (myself; Romulus, a senator, an affable nonentity included solely for the prestige his rank would confer on the mission; a modest retinue) was met by Hun guides sent by Attila. They conducted us eastwards for a further two hundred miles to Attila’s camp, situated between the upper waters of the Tisa and the Carpathus Mountains. On the way, we stayed at Hun villages, where we were treated with impeccable politeness and hospitality, especially at one settlement owned by the widow of Bleda, Attila’s brother. We were entertained with great kindness by the lady herself.

The Hun ‘capital’, which I visited nine years ago on my first, ill-fated, mission to Attila, is in reality nothing more than a vast, sprawling village of tents, lacking a single stone building, with one exception — a perfect copy of a Roman bath-house! It was designed apparently by a Greek taken prisoner in war. Anything more ludicrously inappropriate would be hard to imagine — like seeing a pearl stud in a pig’s ear. The palace is on top of a hill within the village; it consists of a scatter of wooden buildings surrounded by a palisade. We were shown to our quarters, and invited to a banquet to be held that evening. To my surprise, the feast was arranged with considerable elegance: two lines of small tables, covered in linen, for the guests and their hosts down each side of a spacious hall, with the royal table, reserved for Attila and members of his family, on a raised platform in the middle. In contrast to the side-tables, which were spread with gold and silver platters and goblets (doubtless looted from the Eastern Empire in the recent campaigns), the royal board was furnished with wooden cups and dishes. In a calculated snub, we Romans were placed on the left-hand row, high-ranking Huns and subject German chiefs on the more honourable right. Unlike the non-Roman guests, who were tricked out in barbaric finery, Attila was clad in plain skin garments, lacking any ornament.

I found myself seated next to Priscus, the historian from the Eastern embassy, a garrulous, friendly little fellow who, when he thought no one was looking, would whip out his waxed tablets and stylus, and scratch down notes. He gave me a brief description of some of the characters facing us from the Huns’ side of the hall. ‘See those two opposite, the long-haired chap with the gold neck-torque, and the scholarly-looking type in the Roman dalmatic next to him? Edecon and Orestes,² the last two ambassadors Attila sent to Constantinople. They joined us on our journey from Constantinople. Edecon’s some sort of chief among his own people, a German tribe called the Sciri who are now Attila’s subjects and who provide his bodyguard. Orestes is Attila’s secretary. Why on earth a Roman should choose to bury himself in this backwater, among a lot of unwashed savages, is beyond me. Of course, being a Pannonian and a resident in that province when it was ceded to the Huns, he may not have had a choice. And that oafish-looking fellow in the blue tunic, that’s Bigilas, the interpreter. Watch what you say if you’re called on to give a toast. He’s a mischief-maker, who’s quite likely to twist your words if he doesn’t like your face.’

Contrary to my fears, the feast wasn’t at all bad, though rather heavily dependent on goat’s flesh and mutton. I was relieved that the drink provided was not the local kumiss, a nauseating beverage made from fermented mare’s milk, but Roman wine. This was undiluted, the Huns presumably being ignorant of the Roman practice of mixing water with the heavy imperial vintages. To my growing alarm and discomfort, with each course a cup-bearer presented a goblet of wine to Attila, who proceeded to toast the chief guests in turn. He barely touched the cup with his lips, but this privilege did not extend to those outwith the royal table; not to drain one’s cup with each toast — or appear to do so — would clearly have been construed an insult. Consequently, despite unobtrusively contriving to spill a considerable amount of wine on the floor, I began to feel quite sick. Fortunately, the toasts were discontinued after the last course had been served, when we were treated by two bards to a tedious recitation of verses celebrating Attila’s valour and victories.

This was followed by a grotesque performance by a pair of clowns, one Moorish, the other a Hun. Their buffoonish antics and ‘comic’ speeches in a garbled mixture of Latin, Goth, and Hunnish sent the opposite tables into paroxysms of laughter in which, for politeness’ sake, we Romans had to pretend to join. Throughout this farce, Attila alone sat unmoved and gravely silent; except on the entrance of his youngest son, Irnac, when I was astonished to discover that the Scourge of God has a softer side. He hugged the little boy with a tender smile, pinched him gently on the cheek, and proceeded to dandle him affectionately on his knee. Soon afterwards, the royal party left the hall. Thankfully, I could now retire, and departed along with the other Romans, in my case, and I suspect in theirs, to nurse a throbbing head.

The following morning, Maximin was summoned for an interview with Attila. Titus’ turn came in the afternoon. He was received in the same audience chamber as nine years previously, with Attila sitting on the same simple wooden throne. Now that he could see him close up, Titus was shocked by the change in Attila. Gone was the impression of coiled energy that had so impressed him. He seemed instead to be looking at a sick old lion, a lion whose teeth and claws could still rend, but whose great strength was beginning to run down.

‘Well, Roman,’ said Attila in his deep voice, ‘I trust you bring me better news than last time, when you reported the loss of sixty thousand of my finest warriors. You may speak.’

‘Your Majesty,’ said Titus, bowing, ‘my master Aetius, Patrician of the West, sends greetings to the King of the Huns, and wishes him good health and prosperity. He suggests that the time has come to mend bridges with the Romans — to cease making war against the subjects of Theodosius, and to become once more the friend and ally of the Romans of the West.’

‘And why should the King of the Huns accede to either of these requests?’ asked Attila mildly.

‘From the East Romans, as I understand from Maximin, you already receive tribute, a shameful yoke for a proud Empire to submit to. But if these sums were to become fair recompense for protection for that empire from her enemies — the warlike Isaurians, the ambitious Persians, the savage Nubians — Scythia and East Rome could co-exist as friendly allies. The terror of Attila’s name would of itself be sufficient to deter those peoples from attacking the Eastern Empire.’

‘And the West?’

‘It is my master’s sincerest wish that the friendship that was once between you both might be resumed. For providing soldiers to watch the federates and ensure that they stay within the bounds of their assigned homelands, he is willing to grant you not only the titles of Patrician, and — together with himself — Master of Soldiers in all the Gauls, but also one-fifth of the revenues of the West. As peace and stability return, and taxes normalize, these revenues must increase. They would increase dramatically if you were to break off your alliance with Gaiseric, who is nothing better than a pirate, and if not assist, at least not hinder, the reconquest of Africa. He also sees a time when the empires of the Huns and the West Romans could become united — to the mutual benefit of both. And as a mark of his affection and respect, he sends this gift.’ Titus unwrapped the present he had brought with him, a magnificent silver dish two feet across, showing scenes and objects in relief, wrought with the most exquisite Roman craftsmanship.

For a few seconds Attila stared in silence at the dish, then, taking it from Titus, he exclaimed hoarsely, ‘See, here is the fight with the bear, at the moment when I pierced it with my lance. And here is Pegasus, the Arab steed I gifted to Carpilio, his son. The bison hunt. The Sacred Scimitar. Shooting the rapids of the Iron Gate. Truly, it is a noble gift,’ he murmured, a hint of emotion in his voice, a yearning in his eyes, akin to the look Titus had noted when he greeted his child. But only for a moment. In a flash, Attila’s features had composed themselves into their habitual expression of stern gravity.

‘Your words are fair, Roman,’ he declared judiciously, ‘but I would remind you that in the past, where the West is concerned, I have given much but received little. You offer the same terms as did your predecessor, Constantius — allowing for his exaggerations. I was tempted to believe him, until it transpired that what he had told me was but a ruse in order to deceive me. Why then, should I believe you?’

‘That I cannot say, Your Majesty,’ responded Titus, with a sinking feeling that things were slipping away from him. His fears about Constantius had proved justified. To himself, he cursed the smooth-talking young aristocrat, and Aetius for having allowed himself to be taken in. ‘Attila is famous as a judge of men,’ he pressed on. ‘I am happy that my honesty should stand upon his verdict. May I ask, Your Majesty, in what way Constantius played you false?’

‘He is here. You may see him if you wish.’

His mind in a whirl, Titus could only nod. What could Attila possibly mean? Had Constantius turned traitor, to spy for Attila against the West?’

The King flung open the shutters of a window and invited Titus to look out. The Roman did so — and gasped in horror. In the middle of a grassy space stood a tall cross, on which was suspended a hideous thing that had once been a man — a skeleton, to which still adhered tattered scraps of skin and flesh. Things crawling in the empty eye sockets, lent to the skull a horrible semblance of life.

‘I keep Constantius to serve as a warning to others who may be tempted to deceive me,’ said Attila in sombre tones. ‘How can I be sure, Roman, that you yourself do not harbour such intentions?’

Titus felt an icy knot of fear twist in his stomach. To end like that! He wetted lips which had suddenly gone dry. ‘Your Majesty, I fear Constantius deceived us all,’ he protested, keeping his voice steady with some difficulty. ‘My master sent him to you in good faith — as he sent myself. Aetius’ only fault lay with his judgement, not his heart. I myself distrusted Constantius, and tried to warn Aetius against him.’

‘I am minded to believe you,’ said Attila heavily, after a pause. ‘You are, perhaps, that rare thing: an honest Roman. Though I have little reason to trust any of your race. To answer the question you asked earlier, Constantius was bribed to kill me — by the Eastern Emperor’s chief minister, Chrysaphius.’

‘But. . you entertained Maximin, with kindness and generosity, Maximin, the emissary of that same Emperor!’ exclaimed Titus, astonished and impressed. Theodosius could hardly have been unaware of Chrysaphius’ plot, and so must have been involved, even if that meant merely looking the other way.

‘We Huns may be barbarians,’ remarked Attila dryly, ‘but we respect the laws of hospitality.’ He gave Titus a long and searching look. ‘Go now, friend,’ he said, in oddly gentle tones. ‘Tell Aetius I thank him for his gift, and will reflect upon his words.’

After the Romans had departed, Maximin and Priscus for the East, Titus and his party for the West, Attila rode out alone into the steppe, to decide what should be his policy towards both empires. His instincts told him that further campaigns against the East would be unproductive. The Battle of the Utus had convinced him that, despite their huge superiority in numbers, the Huns could not expect to keep on winning against properly led and equipped Roman armies. Best, then, to settle for what he could get, while still in an apparent position of strength. The timid Theodosius would always favour a policy of appeasement; so let the Huns continue to accept tribute (which the wealthy East could certainly afford), but, as the Roman envoys suggested, not call it that. A face-saving formula could be devised by which the Huns would become the paid protectors of the East’s frontiers. Actually, this would fit neatly with his present war against the Acatziri, a brave but primitive people to the east of his dominions. His campaigns there could be presented as a strategic move to guard the Eastern Empire’s rear.

As for the West: could he after all have misjudged Aetius, have allowed Constantius to poison his mind against his one-time friend and ally? The Patrician’s splendid present had moved him more than he had allowed Titus to see. Surely such a gift could come only from the heart? If Aetius was sincere about his proposal that they resume their alliance, should not Attila take up the offer? He was tempted, greatly tempted: wealth and titles, an honourable outlet for his warriors’ fighting instincts, a possible union between two great empires. Perhaps he could dare once more to hope that his dream of a Greater Scythia might one day be fulfilled. Nothing need be decided at this juncture. In the meantime, he would stay his hand against the West, despite the clamourings of so-called ‘friends’ that he attack.

He was under pressure from Gaiseric; from the anti-Merovech faction among the Franks; and from Eudoxius, a one-time physician, now leader of the newly resurgent Bagaudae, who had sought refuge at the court of Attila. All these were urging him to invade, citing the present weakness of the West as providing a golden opportunity. They were parasites, he thought with contempt, jackals who followed the lion, hoping to snatch the leavings from his kill. He would resist their blandishments — at least until he had made up his mind regarding what his policy should be towards Aetius.

At that moment, the king’s eye was caught by two birds, a plover, and a falcon in pursuit. The falcon soared above its quarry to prepare for its deadly stoop, but the plover had been at the game before and knew what to do. It dropped like a stone till only feet above the ground, then, keeping at that height, raced for the shelter of a distant copse. The falcon, easily pacing its prey, kept a parallel flight, yet dared not strike; it would have killed the plover, but the impetus of its stoop would have caused it to break its own neck. The two became specks in the distance; the lower speck reached the trees and disappeared, the upper soared above the tops and flew away, knowing it could do nothing against a bird in a wood. Attila laughed and turned his horse’s head for home. The little drama he had witnessed could, he thought, serve as an exemplar of his own position.

In the spring of the following year,³ — the consulships of Valentinian Augustus (his seventh) and of Avienus — Anatolius and Nomus crossed the Danubius to confer with Attila. The meeting was marked by a spirit of concord and goodwill on both sides, with Attila generously agreeing to abandon the strip of territory south of the Danubius, to drop demands for further return of fugitives and prisoners, and to draw a tactful veil over the plot to murder him. Tribute, rephrased as compensation for guarding the empire’s frontiers, would continue to be paid, but reduced from that imposed by the terms of the previous treaty. For the general and the Master of Offices, the Third Peace of Anatolius was a diplomatic triumph, their years of patient and persistent effort crowned at last with success. For Attila, it meant a welcome, and honourable, reprieve from the necessity of waging constant war. Against this background, a resumption of his alliance with Aetius seemed increasingly attractive. Sunlit uplands of the spirit seemed to be beckoning the tired old warrior.

But these bright hopes were about to be dashed: by something tiny and insignificant, round, and of a blood-red colour.

¹ 4 June 449.

² Orestes, as already noted, became the father of the last Roman emperor of the West, Romulus Augustus. Edecon was to be the father of Odoacer, who deposed Romulus to become the first barbarian king of Italy. An eerie coincidence.

³ 450.