Attila:The Scourge of God

FIFTY-TWO

Anonymous in cuculli or hooded cloaks, the two figures — one stocky and muscular, the other tall and athletic — plunged ever deeper by torchlight into the squalid warren that was Rome’s Fourth District, the Subura. Walled in by towering insulae, tall, badly built blocks which were forever catching fire or falling down, the narrow streets were clogged with filth and rubbish, infrequently removed by gangs of private refuse-collectors. Gone were the old public services that until fairly recently had maintained high levels of security and hygiene throughout the city’s fourteen districts. Law and order, fighting fires, cleansing, and public health — all were now contracted out by the City Prefect to private concerns for whom profit was the priority, with corner-cutting and shoddy standards ever more widespread.

His hugely developed shoulders and forearms deterrents to any would-be mugger, the first of the pair threaded the maze of alleys with a sureness born of long familiarity, halting at last at the base of a huge tower which dwarfed all the buildings around it. This was the famous Insula of Felicula, the tallest structure in Rome, and as much a visitor attraction for Rome as the Pyramids were for Egypt.

‘Legs and lungs in good shape, Serenity?’ chuckled the man, his informal manner bordering on insolence. ‘You’ll be sorry if they’re not — we’re in for a climb of sixteen storeys.’

‘You’ve been paid to do a job, Statarius, not talk,’ snapped his companion, throwing back his hood to reveal the face of the Emperor. ‘Just lead the way.’

‘Whatever you say, Serenity,’ responded the other, unabashed. ‘Just trying to be friendly.’

Damn the fellow’s presumption, thought Valentinian as he followed the man up the steep stairwell. These swollen-headed charioteers, the darlings of the mob, considered themselves as good as anyone, even their Emperor. Still, lack of respect was a small price to pay for the assignation he was about to keep. If you wanted a nefarious deal arranged, a charioteer was always your best choice. This one, Statarius, ‘Slowcoach’ (the ironic nickname bestowed on account of his being the fastest driver in Rome), had been recommended for his network of shady contacts.

And nothing could be shadier than this present business. But Valentinian had been driven to it. All his life he had had to suffer the humiliation of being ruled by his mother and then Aetius. At least Placidia had always had his interests at heart, her prestige as the Augusta ensuring that he was accorded the deference his position as emperor demanded. But Placidia was dead, and the Patrician now treated him with open contempt, as though it were Aetius — a mere general — who ruled the West. Why, ambassadors and potentates addressed their missives directly to him, bypassing the court in Ravenna — as though the Emperor were a cipher who could be ignored, irrelevant to the conduct of affairs. It was insufferable. Worse, it surely meant that Valentinian stood in personal danger. With Placidia gone, what was there to prevent Aetius from taking that final step and seizing the purple for himself? If the empire’s turbulent history proved anything, it was this: a dethroned emperor was never suffered to live. Hence this mission: to try to discover what fate the future held in store, for himself and for his Master of Soldiers. Maybe the Patrician’s star was on the wane, the Emperor thought hopefully. Attila’s death had removed the West’s most pressing peril; and therefore perhaps the need for Aetius, as well.

Up, up, up, till at last they reached the sixteenth floor. Valentinian was pleased to note that his breathing was less laboured than his guide’s. He was proud of his body, and careful to maintain it in peak condition by regular sessions in gymnasia. Statarius knocked at one of the doors on the landing. It was opened by a white-haired man, stooped and ancient but redeemed from any hint of decrepitude by a pair of glittering black eyes, which seemed to Valentinian to strip away his outward show of haughty indifference and lay bare the secrets of his soul.

‘Niall MacCoull, Serenity,’ announced Statarius, ‘a Scot from Ireland. For some of these Celts, the veil separating this world from the next is very thin, enabling them to make contact with the world beyond the Styx — or should that be the Jordan?’

Telling Statarius to wait outside, Valentinian followed the old man into a dusty chamber, empty save for some flickering oil lamps, a truckle bed, a chest, and a curious apparatus standing in the middle of the floor.

‘Right, let us begin,’ declared the Emperor. He intended to appear masterful, but confronted by those penetrating eyes he felt unsure, inadequate, his words sounding in his ears like the shrill demand of a petulant schoolboy.

‘In a little, sir,’ replied the seer, politely but without subservience. ‘First, I must attune myself with the Beyond, in the hope that some spirit may answer whatever questions you wish to put.’ Closing his eyes, he commenced to mutter, in an unfamiliar tongue, a prayer or incantation.

Feeling uncharacteristically subdued and, now that the moment of truth had arrived, distinctly apprehensive, Valentinian moved to the room’s one window, unshuttered this warm July night, and looked out over Rome. From a height of two hundred feet, illumined by the moon, a great western section of the sleeping city lay spread beneath him: the fora of four emperors, a forest of silvered pillars; the looming bulk of the Capitol; and beyond, bounded by a great loop of the Tiber, the shining levels of the Field of Mars studded with theatres, circuses, and baths, all transmuted by the moonlight into strange abstract shapes like demonstration models from a mathematician’s study.

‘It is time,’ said the seer, opening his eyes. ‘Come.’

Valentinian approached the apparatus in the centre of the chamber. It consisted of a circular metal plate engraved round the rim with the letters of the alphabet, and surmounted by a tripod from whose apex a ring was suspended by a thread. Setting the ring swinging in a circular motion, the diviner said, ‘The auspices are favourable. Ask what you will.’

Valentinian licked lips which were suddenly dry; sweat sprang out on his palms. He opened his mouth to ask the question he had prepared but no sound issued from his throat. At the third attempt, the words came tumbling out in a rush: ‘Who will die first, Aetius or myself?’

Disbelievingly, he watched as the ring interrupted its oscillation to make a tiny but palpable jerk as it came opposite the letter ‘F’, before continuing its circuit: ‘L’, ‘A’, and ‘V’; the name could only be ‘Flavius’, thought Valentinian in horror, the first of his own names! Then he recalled that Aetius’ praenomen was also Flavius. He would have to wait for the next name to become manifest, before-‘Enough!’ he cried hoarsely, overcome with sudden nameless fears. With a sweep of his arm he hurled the tripod to the floor, then he rushed in terror from the room.

Statarius would have to go, thought Valentinian, following the charioteer along the way back to the palace. Divination, sorcery, call it what you will — any attempt to foretell the future, or to influence the outcome of events by contacting the spirit world, was a capital offence. In the case of an emperor being involved, that could hardly apply; but, despite being in a sense above the law, emperors were still expected not to break it. As Ambrose had put it, ‘The Emperor enacts laws which he is the first to keep.’ Valentinian knew that emperors who continued to act unacceptably or tyrannically, or who openly flouted the will of the Senate, never died in their beds: Nero, Caligula, Commodus, Heliogabalus, Gallienus. . The list was lengthy; and sobering. If news got out that Valentinian had been dabbling in the Black Arts, the loss of imperial prestige would be enormous. It might well lead to his being overtaken by the very fate he feared, but had just shrunk from discovering.

Could Statarius be trusted to remain silent? Probably not. Charioteers were notoriously boastful and arrogant. To rely on the discretion of a man from that class would be to make himself a hostage to fortune — a risk he could not afford. An ‘accident’ would have to be arranged. Nothing obvious; Statarius was extremely popular, and suspicion of foul play would rouse the dangerous fury of the mob, the pampered underclass who, thanks to the state-funded dole, saw no necessity to work and lived only for the Circus and the Games. Valentinian recalled that in his grandfather Theodosius’ time the imprisoning of a popular charioteer had had consequences that rocked the throne. Care and discretion must be his watchwords.

The stall gates of Rome’s Circus Maximus flew open, and the four chariots representing the rival factions of the Blues, Greens, Whites, and Reds burst forth. Each driver strove to reach the inside track round the spina, the long barricade running down the centre of the Circus, which the chariots must circle seven times. The roar issuing from three hundred thousand throats was deafening, the loudest shouts coming from supporters of the Blues, the colour of Statarius. The vehicles thundered along the right-hand lane, swept round the spina’s far end, and hurtled down the opposing track. As they completed the second turn, erectores removed a dolphin and an egg from their respective crossbars at either end of the spina, signifying that the first lap had been run.

As the race continued, Statarius employed his favourite tactic of hanging back until an opportunity should present itself to cut in from behind, cross the path of the other chariots, and reach the inside track — an extremely dangerous manoeuvre, calling for the utmost skill and coolness. In the emperor’s box, Valentinian began to gnaw his lip with worry. Four dolphins down and Statarius was still in the race. That fool of a sparsor in charge of cleaning the Blues’ chariot, who had been bribed to saw partly through the shaft, must have botched the job.

The Emperor’s anxious thoughts were distracted by a collective gasp from the crowd. Taking advantage of a momentary gap between the two chariots in front of him, Statarius urged his four horses to top speed, shot between the vehicles, and drew level with the leader. Then he laid his whip on the shoulder of his rear left-hand, horse. The best of the team, this was a centenarius, a horse which had won a hundred races. Swift and sure-footed, the centenarius, not yoked to the shaft but held only in traces, responded to the touch of the whip by surging forward, and swung in front of the other chariot. The two yoked centre horses, selected for their pulling power, maintained the momentum while the offside animal, running in traces like the centenarius, jerked the equipage round, co-ordinating the manoeuvre.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack as the shaft, subjected to tremendous stress, snapped where it had been weakened. Horses, driver, and chariot went down in a tangle of flailing limbs and splintering wood, which somersaulted twice before slamming against the spina. While attendants rushed out to clear up the naufragium, the ‘shipwreck’, Valentinian sent the editor of the Races, who was beside him in the imperial box, to find out how Statarius had fared. ‘Dead, Serenity,’ announced the man on his return. ‘Killed outright — a broken neck.’

‘Thank God,’ breathed Valentinian, feeling himself go limp with relief.

‘Serenity?’ said the other in shocked amazement.

‘I’m glad he did not suffer.’

The man’s face cleared. ‘I see, Serenity. Rome is indeed fortunate to have an Emperor who cares for the least of his subjects — even a mere slave and charioteer.’