Attila:The Scourge of God

FIFTY-FOUR

As Hercules slew the vile monster Cacus for his treachery [Titus wrote in his journal], so Vadomar has avenged the slaying of his master Aetius, by dispatching, in the thirty-first year of his reign and the thirty-seventh of his worthless life, Valentinian, the third of that name, Emperor of the Romans of the West. Some (though few, I think) will call it murder; to me, it is no more than just retribution for a heinous crime. Perhaps you’ve heard that the killing was carried out by two Huns who had served Aetius, Optila and Thraustila? Mere progaganda — a fabrication designed to shield the palace guards from blame. Judge for yourselves. I give you Vadomar’s own story, just as he gave it to me.

I was born, I think (we Germans not being so nice in such matters as you Romans), in the year when Gaiseric took the Vandals into Africa, which makes me, at this time of telling, twenty-five or twenty-six. My father was a farmer and when need arose a warrior, in the country of Gundomad, a lesser chief — or regulus, as you would say — of the Alamanni. Unlike the Burgundians or even the Saxons, the Alamanni, as the name tells you, are not one people but a loose gathering of Hermunduri, Suebes and others, settled in the old agri decumanes between the upper Rhenus and the Danubius. Gundomar, whose stronghold of the Runder Berg looks down upon the Nicer, is not a warlike lord, his housecarles mainly time-served veterans who once fought in the armies of Rome. To stay at home, then, held little hope of plunder or renown for bold young men. Being myself of a restless temper, and thinking a life of toil behind the plough little better than bondage, in my eighteenth year I joined the war-band of one Hermann, who led us across the Rhenus into the province of Maxima Sequanorum in eastern Gaul. This he was able to do unhindered. Half of Rome’s great armies had been killed in the wars against the Goths, the losses being made up by stripping the empire’s marches of their troops, leaving them unwarded.

Sadly, Hermann showed little of the cunning of his great namesake who, in the reign of your Emperor Augustus, destroyed Varus’ legions in the Teutoburgerwald. From our camp in an abandoned villa, we raided the neighbouring countryside. To little gain. The land was empty, the Romans long ago having left their farms and villas for the safety of the towns. Instead of searching for unwasted parts of the province, or pressing on into mid-Gaul, Hermann, lured by the thought of easy booty, chose to lay siege to Argentaria.² It was a witless thing to do; Germans, as everyone knows, lack the skill or patience to take a place guarded by walls. He seemed to think the townsfolk would either soon give in or pay us gold to leave them be. When, after three weeks, neither of these things had happened, our war-band started to break up. Sullen and hungry, many of Hermann’s followers drifted back across the Rhenus, he lacking the force to stop them. Unwilling to return home with nothing to show for ourselves, however, I and a boon comrade — a simple fellow, but loyal to a fault and who would gladly share his last crust with you — thought to seek our luck in the service of Rome. This has long been a worthy calling with our people. And so Vadomar and Gibvult began to seek out the whereabouts of the Army of Gaul. Which, after a weary trek across the Vosegus Gebirge then up the dales of the Mosella and Mosa, we found patrolling the marches of the Frankish Settlement in Second Belgica.

The Norns, who weave the web of men’s lives, must that day have looked on us with favour. We were being taken towards their camp by the sentries who spotted us when, as we entered a glade, there burst from the far side a huge boar, followed by a man on horseback with a levelled hunting-spear, a high Roman officer by his silvered armour. Seeing our party blocking his way, the boar turns at bay and charges his foe. Affrighted, the officer’s steed rears and throws his rider. But before the boar’s tushes can rend the helpless man, I hurl my spear — at handling which I am skilled through long usage. It strikes in the neck, making the brute stagger and fall. Before it can rise, Gibvult and I, racing to the spot, swiftly dispatch it.

The Roman officer, getting shakily to his feet, clasped our hands in turn. ‘A close call,’ he said with a wry grin. (Though he spoke in Latin, both Gibvult and myself had enough knowledge of that tongue from talking with the veterans at home, to understand him well enough.) ‘But for you two, I would now be dead or badly wounded. I’m sorely in your debt. If there’s any way within my power to repay that obligation. .?’ He smiled and spread his hands.

When we told him our wish was to join the legions, he declared, ‘Rome welcomes volunteers, especially brave young Germans. In these hard times few follow the Eagles from choice. But carrying a spear in the ranks? A poor reward for such a service as you’ve done today.’ Borrowing tablets from the biarchus in charge of the sentries, he scratched a message on the wax and returned them to the man, saying, ‘See that the general gets this.’ He turned to us. ‘A recommendation to the commander-in-chief that you be allowed to join his bodyguard.’ Remounting nimbly, he waved and cantered off.

The biarchus whistled and shook his head solemnly. ‘Well, you’re in luck all right,’ he said enviously. ‘Know who that was? Only Count Majorian, that’s who. Second-in-command to General Aetius, the man who runs the empire.’

And so we joined the Eagles. But before we could join Aetius’ bodyguard of bucellarii — mostly Franks and Alamanni drawn from the auxilia palatina and vexillationes palatinae, the best units in the army — we had to undergo a time of training.

Some Germans (but only those who have never fought the Romans) think that, because at present Rome seems weak, her soldiers must be cowardly or badly trained. Having served in Rome’s Army of Gaul, I can say with truth that this is not so. Along with other recruits, we were taught, both on foot and mounted, to use spear, sword, javelin, and lead-weighted darts, practising on wooden dummies, later against fellow soldiers using blunted weapons. We were drilled without pity till some recruits dropped on the parade-ground. That never happened to Gibvult or myself, thanks to our having practised hard with weapons from boyhood, like all Germans. Above all, we learnt discipline: to keep steady in formation, and to obey orders — that comes hard to Germans, which is why, in almost all our battles with the Romans, we have been the losers. You see, Titus Valerius, we Germans, unlike you Romans, have never trembled before a schoolmaster’s rod. That is, I think, the reason why we are bolder in battle than you, but why your discipline is better. Anyway, having passed our training tests — with eagles held high, as they say — Gibvult and I joined the general’s bodyguard. Splendid was the war-gear they gave us as full-fledged bucellarii: shirt of mail, helmet of the Greek or Attic type, which is stronger than the ridge-helmets worn by ordinary troops, spatha of fine Hispanic steel, tough oval shield made from layers of laminated wood, a lance, a spear.

As for Aetius, whom I accompanied on his last campaigns in Gaul and by whose side I fought on the Plains of Catalauni, this I can truly say: he was the best man I ever knew. Bold, frank, open-handed, never asking of another what he would not do himself, he was a leader such as Germans love to serve. Gladly would I have laid down my life for him when he met the Emperor in Rome. But that was not to be, for he entered the palace alone.

Truly is this Rome a mighty Stadt. Riding down the Flaminian Way, we (that is, Aetius with his bodyguard and a small train of officers and attendants) came to the city from the north, with the Tiber flowing to our right. Standing in the middle of a dreary plain, Rome is guarded by a high brick wall full twenty miles round,³ made by order of Emperor Aurelian against inroads by my own tribe, the Alamanni. Passing beneath the portcullis of the Flaminian Gate, a great arch through the battlemented curtain with strong towers clad in white marble on either side, we kept on down the same road (now a street) past the huge drum of Augustus’ tomb with two tall columns from Egypt standing before it, then through the Arch of Marcus Aurelius and under the mighty aqueduct called Aqua Virgo. (Understand, this being my first visit to the city, I did not then know the names of these buildings or anything about them, but found out later.)

And so, passing beneath the Mount of the Capitol crowned with stately buildings, we entered the famous Forum Romanum, surrounded by more temples, basilicas, and statues than I could number. Our path then led along the Sacred Way beneath the Palatine Hill, and through the Arch of Titus to the Colosseum, the biggest thing made by man that I have yet seen. How, I asked myself, to find words to tell of such a marvel? Then beside me, lost in wonder, Gibvult breathed, ‘It’s a cheese — a great cheese!’ I cuffed him playfully and made to mock him for an ignorant barbarian, when it struck me of a sudden he was right. A monstrous cheese is truly what the Colosseum looks like — well, from a distance, anyway. But such a cheese as might have graced the board of Odin.

From the Amphitheatre of the Flavians it was but two hundred paces to where we were to stay, the Palace of Commodus, Aetius having sent ahead to make sure the place was ready against our arrival. (You, Titus, were the messenger on that occasion I believe.) What Valentinian thought of this ‘borrowing’ of imperial property (which was like to add to the tally of his grievances against the Patrician), I can only guess.

For Gibvult and myself, who thus far had known only the rough life of the backwoods village or the camp, it was strange indeed to eat in marble halls and sleep on beds of down. Aetius, who was a hard taskmaster when need arose, but an easy one when things were quiet, while making preparation for his meeting with the Emperor (of whose purpose we of course knew nothing) gave his bodyguard leave to see the sights of Rome, taking turns to do duty at the palace. I could fill a book (if I could write) telling of the wonders of the city. But that would weary you, Titus, my friend, so I shall speak only of those things that struck me most: the Colosseum (which I have already touched on); the Baths of Caracalla and of Diocletian, the size of towns in Gaul; the Circus Maximus near half a mile in length; the Forum of Trajan flanked by a wondrous mall with covered markets, shops, and galleries; the Pantheon’s stupendous dome; the Basilica of St Peter below Mount Vaticanus outside the Walls, the empire’s greatest church they say; the Insula of Felicula, a gigantic tower block out-topping Trajan’s column and accounted one of the wonders of the Roman world; above all, the mighty aqueducts snaking through the city like Orms⁴ above the rooftops.

Such works, it almost seemed to me, mere men could not have wrought, but only Gods or giants. They made me wonder: how was it that the people who had made such marvels could let their city, which even Hannibal had not dared assault, be taken by the Goths? (Though, saving a few great villas on the Caelian which — too badly damaged to be restored to their former state — have been patched up and made to serve as hospices, there’s little sign today of the Great Sack, which many Romans still recall.) The pagans say that Rome’s luck went out with the closing of the temples, which made the Gods withdraw their favour. However that may be, one thing is sure: the folk of Rome today show little of the hardy spirit of their forebears, who conquered Carthage, then the world.

Each day you can see crowds of poor (and shamefully the not so poor) gathering on steps throughout the city to await a dole of bread, pork (in season), and oil. This any free head of family can claim by showing a little slip called a tessera. Fed by the state, these pampered leeches show little wish to work, but spend their days in the baths (to which a trifling coin gains entry), where they mingle freely with the great and wealthy. Or, if Games are being held in the Circus or arena at the Emperor’s expense (or of the quaestors, praetors, senators, and consuls), they live for nothing but betting on the outcome. Huge sums are spent on these shows, one given by Petronius Maximus (about whom more hereafter) costing, I’ve been told, four thousand pounds of gold.

But do not the patricians set the plebs (for such in olden times were called the higher and lower ranks of citizen now termed honestiores and humiliores) a good example of behaviour? Rather, the opposite is true. The nobles think only of pleasure and display, flaunting their wealth in rich apparel and carriages of gold or silver, which they drive at furious speed around the city, careless of harming passers-by.

Touching on which, Gibvult and I caused pride to have a fall. We were strolling in one of the narrow streets of the district called Subura, when towards us, whirling along at breakneck speed came one of these equipages driven by a youth in billowing silken robes. Scattering before this would-be Diocles,⁵ folk leapt for safety into alley-mouths and doorways. A glance between my friend and me decided us to teach this arrogant puppy a lesson.

Scorning to jump aside, we stood our ground — though on my part, I confess, with a thumping heart. The horse, though a noble animal, is not (save for endurance) a brave one. Confronted, his nature is to flee, as Gibvult and I had learnt when practising cavalry tactics against ranked infantry. Sure enough, the matched pair drawing the conveyance reared up before us, pawing the air and pitching the driver from his seat; his fall was broken by his landing in a pile of ordure. Grabbing the horses’ bridles, we pulled their heads down and calmed them. Then, laughing, we walked past the prostrate youth, who was dashing filth from his face and screaming threats. Little we cared; Rome’s vigiles, the urban cohorts, had been disbanded and replaced by vicomagistri, nightwatchmen. Anyway, who would dare arrest two bold young Germans in the service of the Master of Soldiers?

Came the day of Aetius’ meeting with the Emperor. We of his bodyguard escorted him to the Palace of Domitian, an awesome block of brick-faced concrete on the Palatine. Leaving us at the gates, Aetius removed the baldric holding his sword (no weapons being permitted in the presence of the Emperor) and gave it to our centenarius.

‘Stand easy, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at least two hours; so you can be free until the fifth. You two’ — he pretended to glare at Gibvult and myself, and shook his head in mock reproof — ‘try and stay out of trouble till then. Oh yes,’ he continued with a grin, ‘I heard about your little escapade in the Subura.’ Then, addressing the whole company, ‘Fifth hour, remember. Dismiss.’ And with a casual wave, he strode off through the palace gates, which the imperial guards, recognizing him, had already opened.

It was the last time I ever saw him.

As, about an hour later, Gibvult and I were wandering among the stalls of the Forum Boarium, I became aware of a distant murmur from the Palatine Hill above us. The murmur grew and spread, became a swelling roar: the sound of many voices raised in query and concern. Suddenly the crowds around us were caught up in the clamour; a chill struck my heart as I began to pick out phrases: ‘He’s dead. . Who’s dead?. . They say it’s the Patrician. . murdered by the Emperor himself. . I heard it was Boethius, the Prefect. . No, it was Aetius I tell you — slain by Valentinian’s own hand. .’

I stood in frozen disbelief while the rumours dinned in my ears and the world seemed to swim around me. Then Gibvult and I were running towards the source of the noise, barging through the shouting throng. We found an angry mob gathering outside Domitian’s Palace. Behind the locked gates a triple row of white-faced guards stood with levelled spears. A group of Aetius’ bodyguard were dragging a beam from a nearby building-site, clearly meaning to use it as a ram to force the gates.

‘Drop it!’ Crackling with authority, the voice of our centenarius cut through the uproar, and he positioned himself in front of the gates. ‘You want to break through these? You’ll have to start with me. In an hour I’ll be taking a roll-call back at our quarters. Anyone not on it — ’ his eyes, charged with flinty menace, surveyed the bodyguard — ‘will be on a charge. Spread the word. Get moving — now.’

No one missed the roll-call. Afterwards, the centenarius, struggling to master strong emotions, addressed us confidentially. ‘The rumours are true, lads: the Patrician’s dead. And yes, before you ask, it was indeed the Emperor who killed him. And no, there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it, because the Emperor’s above the law.’

Angry shouts broke out: ‘He shouldn’t get away with it. . Aetius was worth ten of him. . Bad emperors have been dealt with before — think of Attalus and Iohannes.’

The centenarius let the fury and resentment burn themselves out, then raised his hand for silence. ‘I feel the same about this as you do, lads,’ he said. ‘Removing the dog-tag on its thong from around his neck, he held it up. ‘You were all given one of these when you joined the army. And you also had to swear an oath, to be — well, come on; let’s hear it.’

‘Loyal to the Emperor,’ came the mumbled response.

‘Good. Remember it.’ After a pause, he went on musingly, ‘Of course, if anything — God forbid — were to happen to Valentinian, I suppose you’d just have to swear loyalty to whoever took the purple.’ He winked, then added, ‘You didn’t hear that last bit, by the way. Dismiss.’

During the weeks and months that followed, a tense calm seemed to grip the city. While continuing to occupy our quarters in Commodus’ Palace, we heard that, beside Aetius, Boethius, the Praetorian Prefect, had been murdered; also the Patrician’s closest friends and associates. Recalling the dark days of Sulla, proscription lists of ‘traitors’ were posted, and at the same time public announcements (which nobody believed) proclaimed the Emperor’s deliverance from a dastardly plot to overthrow him, and praised his courage in turning the tables on a would-be assassin. As to why the Emperor had really murdered the unarmed Patrician we could only guess, but jealousy and spite were thought to play a large part. As common soldiers, we of the bodyguard were safe enough, we thought — so long as we kept our heads down, as our centenarius never tired of reminding us.

With Placidia and now Aetius dead, who was running the empire? Now that Valentinian was spending more time in Rome than in Ravenna, would the whole machinery of government be transferred? Who would be the new Master of Soldiers? (Avitus was heavily tipped.) And, whoever it turned out to be, would he still require our services, or would he choose his own escort? No one seemed to know the answers to these questions. Yet the wheels of the administration kept turning — creakily, it must be said, but they turned. Our pay was often in arrears but we always got it eventually. I believe that this was due, in part at least, to the persistence of one of Aetius’ agentes in rebus, in reminding the paymaster of our existence. (Now who, Titus, could that agent have been, I wonder?)

Perhaps the strangest thing of all at this strange time was the regaining of some of its ancient power by the Senate. The Senate, that toothless tiger, whose only function these four hundred years had been to legitimize who came to power! But with Valentinian (now the most hated man in the empire) cowering in his palace, someone had to make decisions, and that someone could only be, collectively, the Senate. Chief spokesman of this august assembly was one Petronius Maximus, about whom, because he was about to play such a large part in my life, I shall now tell you something.

Petronius Maximus: wealthy senator, twice consul, thrice Praetorian prefect of Italy, member of the ancient and famous Anician family, cultured man of letters, liberal patron, generous host, popular with all — could this cornucopia of distinctions be held by just one man? The answer, if that man happened to be Petronius Maximus, was that it could.

My first meeting with him came about in this way. The bodyguard was having its midday prandium of bread and cold meat, when a biarchus appeared and summoned Gibvult and myself. We followed him out of the palace to where a Nubian slave was waiting. ‘You’re to go with this fellow,’ said the biarchus. ‘Seems some senator wants to see you; don’t ask me why.’

Mystified and not a little curious, we followed the slave through narrow streets, up the slopes of the Caelian, beneath the arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, and through the old Servian Wall into the Fifth District, one of the most salubrious in the City. Soon after, we entered a private square adorned with statues, which fronted an imposing mansion. We were led through a number of halls opening one into another, in the fifth of which, the tablinum, we halted. It was a spacious room, with pigeon-holes and open cupboards filled with scrolls and codices. Scant furniture, but what there was was beautifully crafted in metal or rare woods. Wall-niches held one or two fine bronzes.

In the midst of this austere elegance, a middle-aged man in a plain but expensive dalmatic was seated writing at a table. He waved us to a bench and kept on writing for a little longer, then, consulting a water-clock beside him, laid down his stylus and looked up. A strong Roman face beneath a full head of well-groomed silver hair. ‘Four hours for study, four for writing, four for friends and relaxation, four for business,’ he said with a smile. ‘These make up my day, aside from sleep. Each must get its due — no more, no less. I am Petronius Maximus. You’ve heard of me perchance?’

If anyone had not, he must be either deaf or witless. Everyone, even we uncouth Germans, knew of the great senator. ‘Who in Rome has not, Your Gloriousness?’ I replied, using the correct if absurd-sounding form of address.

‘Fronto, bring wine for our guests,’ he told the slave, then, turning to ourselves, ‘You must be wondering why I sent for you.’ He eyed us appraisingly. ‘I require a certain task to be carried out, for which I require two suitable young men. They must be brave, know how to handle themselves, and above all be trustworthy. I made enquiries of your centenarius; he recommended you two above all others in your unit. Also, it came to my ears that you clipped the wings of a certain young blood — my nephew, actually — driving at reckless speed through the Subura. I applaud; the young puppy needed taking down a peg. More importantly, it tells me you’re the sort of men I’m looking for. It takes courage to halt a galloping pair. Forgive me if I ask a personal question: what is your present rate of pay?’

‘Thirty solidi per annum,’ I replied, intrigued. ‘Plus rations, uniform, and fodder for our mounts.’

‘Would you be interested in trebling that?’

Gibvult and I exchanged the briefest of glances. ‘We’d be interested,’ we said in chorus. ‘Provisionally,’ I added. Where was the catch? I wondered. For that sort of money, there had to be one.

At that moment, Fronto returned bearing a tray on which were a silver flagon and two glass drinking-vessels decorated with hunting scenes in relief. Placing the tray on a table, Fronto filled the glasses, handed one to me, and was in the act of passing the other to Gibvult, when it slipped from his hand to smash on the mosaic floor. He began to tremble, and his skin turned from black to dusky grey.

‘Oh, Fronto,’ murmured Maximus, shaking his head, the angry glitter in his eyes belying the mildness of his tone. ‘My Rhenish beakers — irreplaceable.’

The mess was quickly cleared up and Gibvult supplied with a fresh tumblerful, but the trivial incident had taught me several things about our host. I realized as I sipped my wine — vinegary stuff from the Vatican vineries — that he thought Gibvult and myself unsophisticated barbarians who would neither notice that they were being fobbed off with an inferior vintage, nor expect it to be diluted with water in the Roman fashion. The reactions of Maximus and his slave to the breaking of the beaker showed that Fronto could expect to be severely punished. Maximus clearly had an arrogant, mean, and cruel streak, which gave the lie to his reputation for benevolent urbanity.

‘What would this task involve, Your Gloriousness?’ I enquired.

‘For a start, a transfer from your present unit to the scholae, the imperial bodyguard. An enviable advancement, most would think.’

‘What, serve Valentinian?’ I exclaimed in outrage. I stood up, as did Gibvult, his face suddenly gone red. ‘I’m afraid, Senator, you’ve chosen the wrong men.’

To my amazement, Maximus beamed delightedly. ‘Splendid,’ he declared. ‘Just the reaction I hoped for; you’ve proved beyond doubt your loyalty to your murdered master, Aetius. Please hear me out. I will explain.’

Whatever strings Maximus pulled to secure entry for Gibvult and myself to the scholae (mainly sprigs of noble families), we were not to know; for a man of his influence it would not be difficult, I think. Suffice to say that a week from our meeting with the great man, we were reporting for duty with the scholae at Domitian’s Palace. We were issued with splendid parade armour: muscled cuirass and crested helmet, fashioned by the barbaricarii, smiths who normally made armour only for officers. Our duties were light: mainly standing outside the main entrance to the palace looking impressive, or escorting the emperor on the rare occasions when he left it. At first, some of our new comrades tried to make mock of us, resenting us as low-born upstarts, I suppose. However, in a fight arranged on waste ground in the Fourteenth District, Transtiberina, Gibvult and I demolished their two champions. After that, we were accepted.

As for the task for which we had been chosen, our only instructions at this time were that we note the Emperor’s behaviour towards his wife, the Augusta Eudoxia, a kind and gentle lady, daughter of Theodosius, the late Eastern Emperor. Maximus had assured us that the purpose of our posting to the scholae was not to serve the Emperor but to help see justice done for the memory of Aetius; details would be disclosed to us later. On no account were we to communicate with the senator; he would make contact and give further instructions in due course. Although Maximus, accompanied by his beautiful wife, was a frequent guest at the palace, neither by word nor look did he ever acknowledge our presence.

Then, early in the year following that of Aetius’ murder, the summons came. Gibvult and I were off duty in our barracks when a slave arrived from Maximus, requesting that we accompany him to his master’s villa.

‘Your duties at the palace are congenial, I trust?’ asked the senator, when we were ensconced once more in his tablinum.

‘I’ve no complaints, Your Gloriousness,’ I said. ‘They’re hardly taxing, after all.’

‘Ja, sehr gut,’ confirmed Gibvult, whose command of Latin was rather less than mine, causing him to lapse at times into German.

‘And the Empress?’

‘He neglects her, although clearly she loves him; why, I can’t imagine. I’ve hardly once heard him address a civil word to her.’

‘He treat her shameful — worse than a Hund,’ declared Gibvult hotly. ‘In Germany, such a man would be Ausgestossene, outcast. And she such a kind lady, always with smile or Trinkgeld for us Soldaten.’

‘I see,’ mused Maximus. ‘Your opinion, then, would be that the marriage is a sham — at least on the Emperor’s side; that Valentinian no longer has any interest in his wife?’

‘That is correct,’ I said. I sensed that, bizarrely, the senator was pleased by this intelligence.

‘So presumably he looks elsewhere to gratify his desires?’

‘I’ve no means of knowing,’ I said. Where was all this leading? ‘The scholae are never with the Emperor on any occasion that could be termed intimate. You’d have to ask the palace eunuchs — especially Heraclius, who has the emperor’s ear. But I’d be surprised if you weren’t right, Your Gloriousness. After all, Valentinian’s fit, healthy, and still young.’

Maximus rose and began to pace the room, then halted and stood with furrowed brow, lost in thought. Eventually, ‘You have proved yourselves both discreet and reliable,’ he said in a low voice, almost as if he were speaking to himself. He turned to face us. ‘The time has come to take you into my confidence. I’m sure you need no reminding that anything I say must go no further than these walls.’

Gibvult and I assured him that our lips were sealed.

‘Then I must tell you this: the Emperor has begun to cast lustful eyes on my wife. She is the soul of honour and fidelity, and would never willingly betray the marriage bed. But that would not deter Valentinian, for whom to desire something is but the prelude to possessing it. He has no honour and would not scruple to force himself upon my wife, if he could find the opportunity. Despite my high position, how could I prevent him? After all, he is the Emperor.’

Gibvult and I exchanged concerned glances. To be party to this knowledge was horribly dangerous.

Maximus must have noticed, for he continued, ‘Why am I telling you all this? I will keep nothing from you. Should Valentinian succeed in ravishing my wife, I would be compelled to uphold the honour of my gens, the Anicii.’

‘By disposing of the Emperor?’ I suggested bluntly.

Maximus gave a wry half-smile, then shrugged. ‘As a Roman, and Anician to boot, I would have no choice.’

‘And we would do the “disposing”,’ I observed sourly, as realization dawned. Maximus was planning nothing less then seizing the purple for himself — a move which might well succeed, given Valentinian’s huge unpopularity. Avenging his wife’s honour would give Maximus a convincing motive for killing Valentinian, as well as being guaranteed to enlist public sympathy. I could see it all clearly. The information we had given the senator, slight though it was, had convinced him that the time was ripe to use his wife as bait for Valentinian’s lust. Gibvult and myself, chosen because of our proven loyalty to Aetius and, I suppose, our boldness, were simply to be convenient tools to implement the deed. Well, no matter. If falling in with the senator’s plans, however base, would enable us to avenge our beloved leader, we could ask for no greater privilege. I looked at Gibvult, and we both nodded.

I turned to Maximus. ‘Whenever you are ready,’ I declared heavily.

‘Excellent; we understand each other, then,’ he returned briskly. ‘Instructions will be given you in due course. Meanwhile, you will carry on as normal with your duties at the palace.’ He shot us a calculating glance. ‘Never fear — you’ll both be well rewarded.’

Something snapped inside me. ‘You Romans think that everything must have its price!’ I heard myself shout. ‘Can’t you realize that some things are done for honour’s sake alone? Come, Gibvult.’ And turning on our heels we marched from the tablinum.

Soon after that second meeting with Maximus, Rome was rocked by a scandal, the details of which the senator did nothing to conceal; in fact, short of putting up posters, he did everything he could to publicize them. What happened was this. In a gaming session with the Emperor, Maximus lost heavily — more than he could afford to settle on the spot. Valentinian insisted that the senator surrender his signet ring as a pledge that he would repay the debt. Following the incident, Valentinian had a message sent to Maximus’ wife purporting to come from her husband (together with the ring as proof of identity). She should come at once to the palace to attend the Empress Eudoxia on some urgent business. Unsuspecting, Maximus’ wife complied. On arrival at the palace, she was taken to a remote bedchamber where she was raped by Valentinian. Predictably, when word got out (as Maximus made sure it would), the Emperor’s stock plumbed even lower depths.

Despite the scandal, in a gesture of defiance in the face of public opinion, the Emperor announced that he intended shortly to open, in person, a display of military Games to be held in the Campus Martius — a great plain in the west of Rome, between the Tiber and the city’s hills. The day before the event, I was approached by one of Maximus’ slaves, who handed me a note. It contained five words: ‘When he drops the mappa.’

My pulses quickening, I sought out Gibvult. ‘Tomorrow the Emperor will start the Games by dropping a white cloth,’ I told him. ‘That’s when we strike.’

He took the news calmly. ‘Better make sure we’re picked for duty, then,’ he grunted, without looking up from the task he was engaged in — buffing up his cuirass with a paste of fine sand and vinegar. ‘And check our swords are keen.’

Because of the extra spit-and-polish involved, attendance at ceremonial occasions was not exactly welcomed by members of the scholae; so it was easy enough to ensure our names were on the duty roster.

It was a cool, bright, mid-March morning when the procession set out from the Palatine, the Imperial couple accompanied by the guard and followed by a train of courtiers and attendants. Along the Sacred Way we passed through the Forum Romanum, where we were joined by the Senate (headed by Maximus), resplendent in their archaic togas, then below the Capitol, and on up the Flaminian Way. Turning left off the great street at the Arch of Diocletian, we headed into the Campus Martius past the Pantheon and the Stadium of Domitian, to a roped-off open area where the contestants were assembled. The first event was to be a display of mounted archery by units of the vexillationes palatinae, the cream of the cavalry. The participants began lining up a hundred paces from a row of targets, which they would gallop towards, then shoot at as they passed.

Accompanied by Heraclius, and flanked by select members of the scholae (which I had made sure included Gibvult and myself), Valentinian mounted the steps of the podium. He took the white cloth that Heraclius handed him, and raised it aloft. I have to admit that, vile degenerate though he may have been, he was certainly imposing. With the purple robe and glittering diadem setting off his tall, athletic figure, he looked every inch a Roman emperor.

‘Let’s take Heraclius as well,’ Gibvult whispered. I nodded, my heart beginning to thump violently. Everyone knew that Heraclius had poisoned Valentinian’s mind against the Patrician. But for the eunuch, Aetius would still be living.

The mappa dropped.

Time seemed to freeze as we drew our swords and closed on Valentinian. He turned towards us, hand still uplifted, eyes widening in shock as the glittering blades moved towards his breast. I was vaguely aware of the riders surging forward from the starting-line, the crowd rising, mouths opening to shout encouragement. The illusion of time slowing lasted a mere heartbeat; I felt my sword jar briefly against bone, then it slid deep into Valentinian’s chest. I wrenched it free, blood spurting from the wound, saw Gibvult withdraw his own reddened blade. With a choking, gurgling cry, Valentinian staggered and collapsed. Stepping over the dying Emperor, we cut down Heraclius before he had grasped what was happening. At our feet, the two figures twitched briefly, then were still.

Slowly, the hubbub of the crowd died away as news of the killing spread. Then the vast silence was broken by a stentorian voice, that of Maximus: ‘People of Rome, you are free. The tyrant Valentinian is dead.’⁶

A mighty shout (clearly pre-arranged) issued from the assembled ranks of senators: ‘Romans, behold your new Augustus, Petronius Maximus.’

A brief pause, then from the packed multitude arose a swelling roar, ‘Maximus Augustus! Maximus Augustus! Maximus Augustus!’

With the permission of the new Emperor (whose purpose anyway we had served), we left the scholae and, having had our fill of Rome and Romans, prepared to return to our homes in Germania. But before departing, we received a message that one Titus Valerius Rufinus, who had been an officer on Aetius’ staff, desired to see us. It could do no harm, we thought. We decided I should speak for both of us, and the meeting was arranged.

The rest you know, Titus Valerius, my friend.

My tale is done [wrote Titus in the Liber Rufinorum], as will soon be Rome’s, if Romulus’ vision should prove true. The twelve vultures he saw represented, according to the augur Vettius, the twelve centuries assigned to the lifetime of his city. Fable that may be, yet I cannot think the Empire of the West will long outlive the man whose genius alone for so long nourished hope for its survival. Maximus is no Aurelian to subdue the barbarians and restore the state. Already, in Gaul the Franks and Visigoths begin to push beyond their boundaries, and our army there is starved of men and resources to contain them. Hispania is ravaged by Bagaudae and the Sueves, Africa in Vandal hands, Britain lost beyond recovery. Only Italia, Provincia, and central Gaul remain inviolate. But for how long? Our armies dwindle by the day; the Treasury is empty; we look to the East for aid — which does not come.

Let my son Marcus, if that should be his wish, take up this history where I leave off. But it is to Constantinople, not Ravenna, that he must turn his eyes. West Rome may fall, but East Rome will live on. Vale.

¹ Chnodomar, King of the Alamanni, defeated by the Romans at the Battle of Strasbourg in 357.

² Horburg in Alsace.

³ In large measure impressively intact today.

⁴ In Teutonic mythology, Orms or Worms were giant serpents.

⁵ A famous charioteer, the first to win a thousand races.

⁶ On 16 March 455, by an eerie coincidence almost exactly five centuries to the year and the day from the murder of Julius Caesar, on the Ides (15th) of March 44 BC.