Athaulf himself was badly wounded in the assault [on Marseille, in 413], by the valorous Boniface
General Flavius Aetius, Master of the Horse in Gaul, second-in-command in Italy, and now (thanks to the hold his Huns had given him over Placidia) Count, was in a sanguine mood as he rode home from the imperial palace. His campaign against Boniface was going better than he’d dared to hope. So well in fact that, less than an hour ago, Placidia had promised him that the imperial summons recalling Boniface from Africa would be on its way by fast courier that very afternoon.
Boniface: virtual ruler of Africa, and commander of all its forces; terror of the barbarians; friend of the clergy, especially Augustine, the saintly Bishop of Hippo; loyal champion of Placidia, sticking by her during her exile in Constantinople and the usurper Ioannes episode. The Count of Africa was now the only obstacle between Aetius and supreme power in the West. It had ever been thus in the Roman world (or in either of the two Roman worlds that now existed), the general reflected. There had never been room for two rivals to co-exist: Scipio v. Cato, Octavian v. Marcus Antonius, Constantine v. Maxentius, Placidia and Valentinian v. Ioannes. And now Aetius v. Boniface. For the victor, either the purple or command of the army. For the loser, death. (A vanquished rival, always a potential focus for disaffection, was too dangerous to be permitted to live.)
Yet what was at stake was immeasurably more significant than a personal vendetta, Aetius thought, the pounding rhythm of his horse’s hoofbeats somehow conducive to the free flowing of ideas. It involved nothing less than the proper governance, and perhaps even the survival, of the Western Empire. For all his good points (and he had many, Aetius conceded, courage and magnanimity being the most outstanding), Boniface lacked the ruthless will and clarity of vision demanded of whoever ruled the West. His unshakeable loyalty to Placidia would ensure that, should he gain power at the expense of Aetius, he would share it with the Augusta, like some latter-day Mark Antony to Placidia’s Cleopatra. And that would be disastrous for Rome. Placidia’s priorities were narrowly dynastic, and her indulgent treatment of Valentinian, who already showed signs of a weak yet vicious nature, would mean power eventually transferring to an unstable degenerate.
‘When did it all go wrong for Rome, old friend?’ he murmured to Bucephalus, feeling the muscles bunch and flow beneath him as the great horse ate up the miles in an effortless canter. ‘You were not born when it started, and I was but a boy.’ His mind flashed back twenty years to that fatal crossing of the Rhenus1 by a Germanic confederation, which had brought about a fundamental change in Rome’s stance regarding the barbarians: accommodation rather than exclusion.
The consequences today of that mass invasion had been cataclysmic. With its field forces withdrawn to Gaul, Britain was under attack from Saxons, Picts, and Scots from Ireland; Hispania was overrun by Suevi and Vandals and, for the time being at least, virtually lost to the empire. But Africa and Italy were still secure, and so, if precariously, was most of Gaul. It was of vital importance that whoever ruled the West should shape his strategy according to the new realities. Constantius, Honorius’ co-emperor, had coped superbly, pacifying the powerful Visigoths by granting them, after their many years of wandering, a homeland in Aquitania,2 and halting the Burgundian encroachment into imperial territory, just west of the Rhenus. But Constantius was dead these six years, and Rome’s federate ‘guests’ grown restive once again. The former north-south axis of power, Mediolanum to Augusta Treverorum,3 had gone for good, thanks to the increase of Frankish raids into the Belgic provinces. The new axis was east-west, Ravenna to Arelate in Provincia,4 a situation which he, Aetius, was well placed to exploit re his ability to influence the government.
‘Who would you choose to rule the West, my beauty,’ he chuckled to Bucephalus, ‘myself or Boniface?’ The horse’s ears pricked up as if in empathy. ‘You might be wise to pick the Count of Africa. For if your master wins, one thing is sure — cavalry will be hard-used as never before.’
Boniface was the last person who should hold the reins of power. His approach to dealing with barbarians was head-on confrontation, an outdated strategy almost bound to fail. The tribes settled within the empire were too entrenched and numerous to be removed by force — unless the West received massive military backing from the East. Which wasn’t going to happen; those days had ended with the death of Theodosius. He, Aetius, on the other hand knew barbarians, having in his boyhood been a hostage first of Alaric, then of the Huns. He could sense when it was politic to make concessions to them and when to apply pressure, the right moment to be diplomatic, or to take an uncompromising stand. And he fully grasped one all-important fact: the power of barbarians could often be neutralized by pitting them against each other; Huns against Visigoths, Visigoths against Suevi, et cetera. This called for skill and cunning based on understanding of the barbarian mind — something he, Aetius, possessed in abundance, his rival not at all. Boniface was good at killing barbarians; of handling them, he knew little and cared less.
As in a game of ludus latrunculorum or ‘soldiers’, Aetius reviewed the relative strengths and weaknesses of himself and his rival as regards the coming struggle. On the surface, Boniface appeared to have one supreme advantage, the confidence of Placidia. But Boniface was in Africa, whereas Aetius was here in Ravenna, able to exert all his considerable charm and powers of persuasion to poison the Augusta’s mind against her favourite. By posing as her devoted friend and ally (even to the extent of being pleasant to the royal bratling), he had, over the past few weeks, gradually melted her hostility and won her trust. This had enabled him to undermine Boniface by means of hints and innuendo, reporting ‘rumours’ that he was secretly plotting against her and stirring up sedition among courtiers and army officers. And his efforts had now been crowned with success, it would seem.
Boniface was too honourable and trusting for his own good, Aetius thought with a twinge of conscience. Totally loyal and incorruptible himself, the Count of Africa was naive enough to ascribe those qualities to those in whom he put his trust. What he failed to understand — and herein lay his great weakness — was that most men (and women) were weak and could be manipulated, given enough pressure or inducement. Yes, politics was a dirty game; there were times when Aetius found it hard to avoid feeling self-disgust at his involvement in its machinations. But the end, so long as it merited achievement, could usually be made to justify the means, even when that involved deceit and betrayal. And, if he were honest, Aetius loved it all: the excitement of pitting his cunning and resources against a worthy adversary; the thrill of combat; the heady joy of victory.
Arriving at his villa, Aetius flung Bucephalus’ reins to a groom, and strode through the suite of halls to the tablinum — more office than library, in his case. As usual, the place was in chaos, with books, papers, and accoutrements, scattered everywhere in disorder. Not that he could blame the house-slaves; he had given strict orders that, basic cleaning apart, the room should remain undisturbed in order to preserve the integrity of his ‘system’. The books were mainly on military matters: Vegetius (an idiot who conflated tactics from the time of Trajan and Hadrian with those of the present); On Matters of Warfare, an interesting treatise by an anonymous author on army reform, advocating greater use of machines to save manpower; a precious copy (updated) of the Notitia dignitatum, a government list of all key offices of state for both empires, including military posts and the units under their command.
Now for the second part of his campaign against Boniface. Dropping his sword-belt over a bust of the Count (Aetius believed in the principle ‘Know your enemy’), he made to call for his secretary, then changed his mind. What he intended committing to papyrus was so perilous that it was best not seen by any eyes but his own and the recipient’s. Rummaging among the clutter, he finally located pen, ink, and scroll, then began to write.
The task completed, Aetius cast about in his mind for a suitable person to deliver the letter. Someone utterly reliable, discreet, and a good rider. It was essential, of course, that his message reach Boniface before Placidia’s. He had it: Titus, the perfect choice. The lad was an excellent horseman, of proven loyalty, and of an unquestioning nature. He dispatched a slave to summon the lad.
‘Ah, Titus Valerius, I’ve an important job for you. Ever been to Africa?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’ll like it. Nice people, good climate, no barbarians. You’ll deliver a letter to Boniface. In person — that’s absolutely vital. You should find him in Bulla Regia or Sufetula.’5
‘Boniface?’
‘The Count of Africa. One of the finest generals Rome’s ever produced — I say nothing of myself, of course. Working together, the two of us could revive Rome’s fortune’s in the West. Now, details. Here’s a travel warrant from the Master of Offices, valid for Africa as well as Italy. It’ll let you change saddle horses at the imperial post’s relay stations. Ariminum-Rome-Capua-Rhegium-Messana-Lilybaeum-Carthage, that’s your route. Take passage on the fastest vessels you can find for the crossings. Time is of the essence, you understand. Cash: this purse of solidi should more than cover your expenses. Any questions?’
Surveying the latest batch of recruits standing by their mounts for morning inspection, the senior ducenarius of Vexillatio ‘Equites Africani’ groaned to himself. A poor, scratch lot, thought Proximo, who had been a centurion of the old Twentieth when it was recalled from Britain for the defence of Italy. In Proximo’s view, these new units — vexillationes (cavalry) and auxilia (infantry) — couldn’t hold a candle to the old legions, half of whose men had been wiped out during the Gothic Wars and which were now in process of being phased out. His present unit had been raised from the notoriously inferior frontier troops, and upgraded to field status in the Army of Africa. At least the horses were good quality — better than the men — though of the chunky Parthian type the Roman stablemasters would insist on sending. More sensible to use the local African breeds, which were small and wiry, but better adapted to the heat. He sighed; some things the army never seemed to learn.
Rising above the east curtain-wall of Castellum Nigrum — one of the chain of forts established by Diocletian to check raiding Moors and Berbers — the sun flooded the parade-ground with harshly brilliant light, instantly raising sweat on men and mounts. The valves of the south gate creaked open to admit the day’s first supply-cart, disclosing a vista of irrigated vineyards and olive groves stretching away towards the distant snow-capped peak of Jurjura, thrusting above the blue rampart of the Lesser Atlas. An arresting, vivid scene, Proximo conceded, but not to be compared with the softer beauty of the British landscape. Oh, for just one glimpse of the silver Deva6 winding through green meadows, with the mist-veiled Cambrian hills lifting to the west!
Proximo walked slowly down the line of young men — many of them clearly nervous or unhappy — his practised eye looking for the slightest sign of sloppiness in the cleaning of tack or weapons.
‘Rust,’ he declared with grim satisfaction, pointing to a cluster of brownish speckles on the otherwise bright blade of one recruit’s spatha. He leant forward till his face was nearly touching the other’s. ‘There are three sins in the army, lad: asleep on sentry-go, drunk on duty, and a rusty spatha. And wipe those grins off your faces,’ he snapped at the youths on either side who, in their short stay at the fort, had already heard this litany several times. Proximo grabbed the lead identity-disc hung round the culprit’s neck. ‘I want that sword clean by Stables,’ he went on, tugging the disc sharply, while simultaneously giving a deliberate wink. ‘Understand?’
‘Y-yes, Ducenarius,’ stammered the other in mystified tones.
Inspection over, Proximo dismissed the recruits to the care of the campidoctores for a session of drill. He felt a stab of sympathy for the frightened boy he had reprimanded; with luck, the lad would pick up his veiled hint. (Lead rubbed over intractable rust-spots on steel, magically caused them to ‘disappear’.) The cash-strapped army was forced to keep on issuing ancient, worn-out gear, Proximo reflected sourly: That rust-pitted spatha could have seen service at the Milvian Bridge. Unlike his predecessor (nicknamed ‘Cedo Alteram’ — ‘Give me Another’ — from his habit of demanding a fresh vine-staff to replace the one broken over an offending soldier’s back), Proximo believed that you got more out of men (and horses) by treating them with patience tempered by firmness, than by using brutality.
‘Well done, lad,’ grinned Proximo at late parade, inspecting the sword-blade, now a uniform silvery-grey. ‘We’ll make a soldier of you yet.’
Later, on his rounds, he dropped into the new recruits’ barrackroom. An informal, off-duty chat with the men was time well spent. That way you got to know who were the weak and strong links in the chain, who the barrack-room know-alls, who the likely trouble-makers, or informers. Also, by listening to soldiers’ grievances (often incurred by something trivial, such as the reduction last week of the daily bread ration from three to two pounds, the loss being made up with biscuit), you could often take steps in time to defuse a potential crisis.
‘All right, lads?’ enquired Proximo, looking round the long room. Of the twenty recruits, most were seated on their bunks cleaning kit; the rest were crouched on the floor, engaged in a noisy game of duodecim scriptorum, a kind of backgammon.
‘Can’t complain,’ volunteered one, ‘now that we’re back on full bread rations — thanks to you Ducenarius.’
‘Good,’ said Proximo. ‘So, nothing bothering anyone?’
Collective head-shaking and muttered denials.
‘Liars,’ said Proximo cheerfully. ‘Touch your toes, soldier,’ he commanded the one who had spoken up. Looking puzzled, the man complied, whereupon Proximo delivered a smart tap on the buttocks with his vine-branch staff. The youth emitted a muffled yelp of pain.
‘Thought so: saddle sores,’ pronounced Proximo. Most recruits in the early stages of learning to ride acquired raw coin-shaped patches from chafing of the skin. He looked round the room. ‘Come on, admit it, you’ve all got ’em.’ No one disagreeing, he went on, ‘Axle-grease, that’s the thing. You’ll also need femenalia — drawers — to keep the stuff in place. Any of the Berber women who hang around the fort’ll run you up a pair. You won’t be needing them for long, just till your bums harden up.’
‘But. . wearing drawers,’ one anxious recruit objected, ‘isn’t that against regulations?’
‘It is lad, it is,’ purred Proximo, adding with simulated fierceness, ‘And if I find any of you wearing them you’ll be on a charge so fast Mercury couldn’t catch you. But then,’ he continued in his normal voice, ‘unlike “Cedo Alteram”, whom you’ve no doubt heard of, I don’t carry a mirror on the end of a stick when I take parade, so I’m hardly going to know, am I?’
In the ambience of relaxed banter that followed, the ducenarius found himself fielding questions about conditions of service, donatives, the prospect of action, and their legendary supreme commander, the Count of Africa, famed as much for his strict impartial justice as for his feats of arms.
‘Is it true he killed Athaulf, Galla Placidia’s first husband?’
‘Half-killed, I’d say. He severely wounded Athaulf when the Goths attacked Massilia.7 But Athaulf recovered, much to Placidia’s relief — devoted to her man, was the Augusta.’
‘But he did kill a soldier accused of adultery with a civilian’s wife?’ pressed one trooper hopefully.’8
‘Now that one is true,’ Proximo confirmed. ‘But you don’t want to hear about it. Oh, you do, do you?’
It was noon before they sighted camp, a neat grid of the leather tents known as papiliones, ‘butterflies’, each holding eight soldiers. All around rolled a bleak landscape of undulating plains, sparsely clothed with esparto grass, thistles, and asphodel. To the north rose the wall of the bare, gullied Capsa Mountains. Southwards, shimmering mirages floated above the sparkling salt crust of the Shott el-Gharsa, one of the chain of salt lakes demarcating the limit of Roman rule. The lakes fringed the Great Sand Sea, which was traversed only by caravans bringing gold, slaves, and ivory across five hundred leagues of desert from the lands of the black men.
The camp was a temporary mobile settlement, erected at one of the stopping-points on Boniface’s annual tour of what had become almost a personal fiefdom, rather than the Roman provinces of Africa Proconsularis and Byzacena. He had come to the decision that these peregrinations were a useful reminder to the local populace that Rome still had a mailed fist and was prepared to use it to maintain order and justice — Roman justice, not the primitive ‘eye for an eye’ code that prevailed beyond the frontier. Though officially ‘Roman’ for the past two hundred years, the natives were still tribesmen at heart. They were apt to become slack and unruly unless kept in check, witness the present unrest caused by the Donatists, a militant anti-Catholic sect guilty of whipping up tribal sentiment among the peasants (many of whom had Punic blood) against their Roman masters.
Boniface thought longingly of the bath and clean clothes that awaited him, followed by a cooked meal washed down with Mornag, the excellent local red wine, in contrast to the hard biscuit, sour wine, and salt pork on which he and his men had fared these past three days. A Berber war-party had been raiding villages in the vicinity of Shott el-Jerid, a huge salt lake on the Roman frontier. A punitive expedition was entirely successful, the insurgents being chased back across the border with heavy losses. Nevertheless, the affair had proved a costly diversion for the Romans; while in pursuit, several troopers had inadvertently strayed from the safe path, plunged through the salt crust and been instantly engulfed.
Arriving at the camp, Boniface thanked the soldiers, detachments from the Vexillationes ‘Equites Mauri Alites’ and ‘Equites Feroces’, and dismissed them. Then, dismounting, he flung the reins to a groom and walked swiftly to the command tent, which was fronted with the unit’s standards. Crouching by the entrance flap was a young native in a worn jellabah. He rose as Boniface approached. He was a Blemmye, judging by his tribal markings, and looked vaguely familiar.
‘Lord Boniface,’ the man addressed the Count in tones of quiet desperation, ‘my petition — you remember?’
A tribune emerged from the tent carrying a goblet of wine, which he handed to the general. ‘Sir, I’m sorry about this,’ he said apologetically, indicating the native. ‘He insists that you promised to see him. I sent him packing, of course, but he kept coming back and repeating his story. He seems harmless enough, so eventually I let him wait here. But I’ll get rid of him if you like.’
‘No, let him stay,’ said Boniface, his memory suddenly clearing. He had been about to hear the man’s case at his customary morning tribunal when the news of the insurgency had arrived. He had immediately cancelled proceedings and prepared to depart for the south. That was three days ago; the poor fellow had been waiting for him all that time! His plea must be an urgent one indeed.
‘Have you eaten while you’ve been here?’ he asked the Blemmye.
The man shook his head.
‘And you never thought to feed him?’ Boniface barked at the tribune.
The tribune paled before his commander’s anger. ‘He — he was given water, sir.’
‘How considerate,’ sneered Boniface. ‘Perhaps a spell of duty supervising the digging of new latrines will remind you of our common humanity. Bring this man some food at once.’
The Blemmye’s story, recounted while he devoured a bowl of couscous spiked with lamb, was a pathetic one. He was a date farmer near Thusuros,9 whose living had been destroyed when his palms, inherited from his father, had been submerged in the worst sandstorm in living memory. (Boniface could well believe it. Everyone knew the story of the legion caught in a sandstorm which had blown for four days. The men had kept alive by stamping up and down in the raging sand. When the wind stopped, they found themselves standing level with the crowns of palms a hundred feet high.) To pay for food for their baby, the farmer’s wife had consented to sleep with a soldier billeted on them. When he was posted to another base, she had accompanied him as his concubine, he having refused to pay the rent he owed unless she agreed.
‘She only did it for the baby,’ the young Blemmye pleaded, his face an anguished mask. ‘She is a good woman, but-’ He broke off, then continued in a trembling whisper, ‘She loves the child, my lord. We both do. I could not stop her.’
Boniface felt a surge of compassion for the young man. Unlocking a strong-box, he withdrew a bag of coin and handed it to the other. ‘This will help you restart your business, and feed your family meanwhile. If what you say is true, my friend, you have been gravely wronged. But I’ll see that you have justice, never fear. Be here at my tribunal in the morning.’ Dismissing the Blemmye’s stammered thanks, Boniface sent for the primicerius to make enquiries about the offending soldier’s posting.
So much for rash promises, thought Boniface wryly, as he rode north towards the Capsa Mountains. Having told the Blemmye to attend tomorrow’s tribunal, it was imperative that, he Boniface complete his mission before then, both to keep his word to the plaintiff, and to maintain his reputation as a larger-than-life heroic figure, guaranteed to mete out swift and terrible justice. Boniface chuckled to himself; living up to this carefully nurtured reputation was hard work. It was, however, important that he do so, not from vanity, but because it promoted high morale and loyalty among his troops.
He had learnt that the soldier was now billeted in a village just to the north of the Capsas. It was a mere ten miles away as the falcon flew, but several times that distance by the standard route, which detoured round the western end of the mountain chain — a choice barred to Boniface. The Seldja Gorge, he had learnt, did lead directly through the mountains, though it was used only by the foolhardy or the desperate. To have any hope of keeping his promise, that was the route he must take.
Obeying instructions given to him at camp by a Berber scout, Boniface skirted the foot of the range till he encountered the Seldja river. He followed it as it suddenly angled into the mountainside, and found himself entering a rocky portal hitherto invisible. This natural gateway debouched into a wilderness of shattered rock, choked with debris from the heights above, and impossible to traverse save by keeping to the river-bed itself, which was fringed by spiky reeds and tamarisk. His mount, slipping and starting over the chaos of boulders, disturbed sandpipers and wagtails that skimmed the surface of the brook. Boniface emerged eventually into a fantastic canyon whose winding vertical walls maintained a distance apart of some thirty yards. High above, cliff-swallows and rock-doves swooped and fluttered.
Here, the track left the stream and ascended the gorge’s right-hand side. Never before had Boniface’s nerve and control of his horse been so severely tested, as he pressed on and up along a track barely eighteen inches wide, with a sheer precipice to his left. The danger was compounded by the presence of snakes. Several times, the general heard an angry hiss issuing from the rocks that strewed the path, and once a cobra rose up before him on its massive coils. Retreat being impossible, Boniface halted his trembling mount and tried to calm it, while the huge snake’s hissing rose to a furious crescendo and its throat swelled ominously. But after a few nerve-shredding seconds it glided off, apparently deciding that the creatures confronting it posed no threat.
After a few miles, to Boniface’s immense relief the canyon opened out, its sheer walls giving place to easy slopes up to a plateau. Soon, Boniface was descending the north flank of the range, and by early evening had come in sight of the village — a scatter of one-storeyed mud-brick buildings, with here and there the black goat-skin tent of a nomad family. Militarily, the place was an outpost of Thelepte, a largish town some distance to the north, where two numeri, or infantry units, the Fortenses and the Cimbriani, were temporarily billeted.
A few questions to a couple of villagers elicited the information required. Boniface knocked on the door — painted the ubiquitous blue — of one of the larger buildings, and was directed by the landlord to an annexe at the rear. He ripped aside the goatskin curtain that screened the entrance and stepped inside. Dim light from a small unglazed window revealed, besides domestic clutter, and soldier’s kit hanging from pegs, a cot with a sleeping infant, and a bed containing two figures, one a native woman, the other a huge, fair-haired man. Both sat up and blinked at the intruder.
Boniface rapped, ‘Soldier, she came with you under duress did she not?’ The man shrugged but made no attempt to deny it. To the woman, the general said gently, ‘Tomorrow, you will return with your child to your village, and rejoin your husband. I will arrange an escort.’ To the soldier he said, ‘Get dressed and say farewell. I’ll wait for you outside.’
In silence, Boniface and the soldier marched to a cypress grove a little way beyond the village. Admiring the man’s stoic courage in the calm acceptance of his fate, Boniface drew his sword. .
Attempting to return through the Seldja Gorge in darkness would have been tantamount to suicide, so Boniface took the safe but much longer route round the mountains. Dawn was breaking as he approached camp, and a ghostly radiance shimmered over the pale expanse of the Shott. As the sun’s disc lifted above the horizon, he gazed in wonder as an extraordinary phenomenon developed: an apparent second sun beginning to detach itself from the other. The two orbs separated; the upper rose aloft, the lower wobbled, sank, and deliquesced into the Shott.
An hour later, bathed and shaved, imposing in his parade armour (a splendid though antique suit dating from the time of Alexander Severus, and handed down from father to son through seven generations), Boniface was seated in his command tent, ready to hold tribunal.
First in line was the cuckolded Blemmye.
‘Today, your wife and child return to you,’ the general informed the peasant.
‘And. . the other, lord?’
‘Fear not, my friend, he’ll trouble you no more.’ And with a grim smile, Boniface emptied at the man’s feet the contents of a sack — a severed human head.
Titus’ ship docked in Carthage’s commercial harbour (warships had their own), overlooked by the capitol on Byrsa Hill. Regretting that time did not permit him to explore the great city, Titus showed his travel warrant at the central post station, and pressed on at a gallop straightway for Bulla Regia as instructed. His route took him south-west along the beautiful valley of the Majerda river wide and flat with extensive vineyards for the first twenty-five miles, after which the terrain became gradually more hilly, terraced vines giving way to olive groves, with broom and terebinth covering slopes too steep for cultivation.
Titus had been born and raised near the border with Gaul, in what had once been the non-Roman territory of Cisalpine Gaul, where his family had been settled for over four hundred years. To Titus Italia proper had always seemed in some ways like a foreign country. Apart from changing horses at a post-station outside the city on his journey to Africa, he had never even been to Rome!
After the flat, misty reclaimed land and small provincial towns of the Po basin, Africa came as a revelation. The brilliant light in which even distant objects stood out sharp and clear; the teeming, cosmopolitan city of Carthage, full of impressive monuments and huge public buildings which seemed almost to be the work of superhuman beings; the staggering fertility — the wheatfields, vineyards and olive groves: all this made a great and lasting impression on the young man. Such evidence (much of it admittedly at least two centuries old) of Rome’s power and far-flung influence almost convinced Titus that the Western Empire was not in serious jeopardy. The barbarians could surely never overthrow a race capable of producing such mighty works. Could they?
After an overnight stop at Tichilla,10 a small town with a postal mansio catering for travellers, Titus pushed on at first light, pleased at having covered eighty miles the previous day — almost half the distance to Bulla Regia. Woods of cork oak, red kites flashing in the air above their glades, stippled the valley’s sides; they were joined by stands of holm oak, pine, and laurel as he neared his destination. The cursus velox, the express post, enabled him to change horses every ten miles, and he made excellent progress, reaching Bulla Regia in the afternoon.
When he entered the city, Titus passed a theatre (clearly of recent construction) on his left, then turned right into the main cardo. Leaving his mount at the post station, he proceeded on foot past a busy market to the forum, which was flanked on opposing sides by an ancient temple (boarded up) and a huge basilica. He enquired in the latter where he would find the president of the decemprimi, the inner committee of the city council, and was directed to a villa at the north end of the town. His route took him past a disused temple fronted by statues of city fathers, and a monumental fountain enclosing the Springs of Bulla around which the city was founded. Titus was enchanted by the beauty of the place — the gleaming marble of its splendid public buildings made a striking contrast with the dark foliage of pines and cypress, which everywhere gave grateful shade. Could this really be the place that Augustine, the Church’s moral mouthpiece, when haranguing the citizens in the very theatre Titus had just passed, had denounced as a sink of sin and a den of iniquity?
At the villa, Titus was conducted by a slave through a peristyle, then, to his astonishment, down a flight of steps to a vaulted hallway. This led to a large triclinium, or dining-room, flanked by pillars and with a splendid floor mosaic depicting Venus riding a seahorse; several corridors led off the room. The soft glow of oil lamps made a welcome change from the glaring sunlight. In all respects the house resembled a well-appointed Roman villa, except that it was all built underground.
‘Cool, even on the hottest days,’ said a languid voice. ‘African summers can be so trying.’ The speaker, an elderly man in a loose white robe which Titus guessed owed more than a little to native dress, rose from a couch. ‘Our subterranean dwellings are quite a feature of Bulla, you know. Romans of Rome affect to despise us, calling us cave-dwellers. Little we care; at noon they sweat while we stay comfortable. Well, young man, now that you’ve disturbed my midday sleep, you’d better tell me what it is you want.’
Titus obeyed.
‘Count Boniface is away on his annual inspection of the central provinces,’ said the president, ‘which suits us decurions — means we can relax a bit and work six instead of twelve hours a day.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Don’t misunderstand me; we all love the Count. It’s just that trying to keep pace with him can be exhausting, to put it mildly. No one takes any liberties when Boniface is around, I assure you. Why, on tour last year, he tracked down one of his own soldiers who’d seduced a native’s wife, and cut the fellow’s head off. What a man!
‘Where is he now? Let me see. He’s due back in Carthage soon, so he’ll probably have finished his sweep of the desert frontier and be heading north. My best advice would be to take the main road south to Sufetula. That way you’ll probably meet him.’
The president’s offer of a bath and a meal was gratefully accepted, and Titus was on his way later that afternoon. He crossed a vast plain where a large river joined the Majerda, after which the terrain rose steadily. By sundown, when he stopped for the night at a lonely mansio, he had reached the foothills of the Dorsale Mountains whose crest delineated the boundary between the provinces of Africa and Byzacena. The following day he pushed on into the mountains (the road looping in most un-Roman fashion to accommodate the gradients), past dense stands of holm oak and Aleppo pines. Crossing the summit ridge in the late afternoon, he found himself in a changed world. Southwards, in the rain-shadow of the mountains, an endless expanse of dusty grassland, sere and yellow as a withered leaf, rolled away to the horizon. A gust of wind like the breath from an oven, fanned his cheek. This, Titus felt, was where the real Africa (the continent as opposed to the province) began. The swift tropical darkness was spreading when he reached his stopover for the night, the little town of Sufes,11 a rustic backwater whose only claim to distinction lay in being another place to have incurred the censure of Augustine. Here, for the first time, he gleaned news of Boniface; the Count was reported to be three days’ march away, at Thelepte, and heading north.
Much encouraged, Titus set off next day at dawn, and after an easy journey of some twenty miles, reached Sufetula, a han some town, completely Roman despite its Punic name. Built on a grid pattern in a striking ochre-coloured stone, it boasted a theatre and amphitheatre, aqueduct, public baths, a cathedral, and no fewer than three triumphal arches. Boniface’s advance guard was already in the streets, requisitioning billets and ordering grass to be cut for fodder. Titus could travel much faster than cavalry on the march, so he pressed on, hoping to catch up with Boniface’s advancing force at the fortress settlement of Cillium, some thirty-five miles further on. He arrived there to find the general’s troops pitching camp outside the place, which was not large enough to provide adequate billeting. A tribune conducted Titus to where the Count was pacing up and down in a grove of figs.
‘A courier from Ravenna with a message for you, sir,’ announced the officer. ‘Says it’s urgent.’
‘Ah, they all say that,’ murmured Boniface, breaking off his perambulations to face them. ‘A message that was not urgent — now that would be breaking the mould. Well, we’d better have a look at it.’ And he held out his hand to Titus.
Titus found himself staring at an extraordinary figure who might almost have stepped down from the Arch of Constantine. It was not so much that the man was huge (he must have stood at least six and a half feet), as that his appearance commanded attention. He was wearing parade armour which looked as though it dated from the time of Gallienus or Aurelian: a muscle cuirass complete with Gorgon’s-head pectoral, and an old-style Attic helmet which had gone out in the West with Diocletian. And — a real period piece — instead of the modern spatha, a short gladius sword depended from the general’s baldric. Even the cut of his hair — a brutal stubble extending to both face and scalp — seemed to echo the fashion of that distant era. But there was nothing brutal about Boniface’s manner.
‘You like my uniform?’ the general enquired affably, as he took Aetius’ letter from Titus. ‘Yes, it is indeed a bit outdated, but as it’s been handed down in my family for seven generations I feel a certain obligation to wear it. However, you must be tired after your journey. The tribune here will see that you can bathe and change and have a meal. Later, we shall share a flask of wine and you will give me all the news from Ravenna.’
When Titus had departed with the officer, the Count unrolled the letter and began to read.
Written at Ravenna, Province of Flaminia and Picenum, Diocese of Italy, in the consulships of Hierus and Ardaburius, VII Kalends Jul.12 Flav. Aetius, Master of the Horse of All the Gauls, Count; to my lord Boniface, Count of Africa and commander of all forces there, greetings.
Most noble and excellent Count, I write this in haste and secrecy as a true friend, out of concern for your welfare and for that of Rome. I have it from the most impeccable of sources that you will shortly receive, in the name of the Emperor, a formal summons from the Empress Mother Aelia Galla Placidia, ordering you to return forthwith from Africa to Ravenna. What has transpired to make her take this step I cannot say, but the palace is a hotbed of intrigue, swarming with scheming eunuchs and courtiers whose only concern is to advance their own careers. I know only that there exists a faction, jealous of your success and power, which drips poison into the Augusta’s ear, turning her against you. You, who of all her subjects have served her the most loyally. Such injustice! My friend, I urge you in the strongest terms I know: do not obey the summons when it comes. For if you do these creatures will encompass your destruction. Remember Stilicho, who, after his fall from favour presented himself at Ravenna without armed supporters and was summarily executed. Rome can ill afford the loss of the foremost of her servants. Meanwhile, I shall plead your cause with the Augusta; be sure these lies will be exposed in time. Farewell.
Sent by the hand of my trusted agent T. Valerius Rufinus.
Boniface reread the letter in growing incredulity. How could the Empress believe such perfidy? Placidia of all people, whom he had stood up for through thick and thin. Well, at least he was forewarned, thanks to Aetius. There were still, it would seem, some honest Romans left. What to do? If he returned to Ravenna, assuming the summons came, that would be equivalent to signing his own death-warrant, as Aetius’ warning had made clear. But if he refused, that would be construed as revolt, in which case an armed force would almost certainly be sent to arrest him.
However, if his enemies imagined he would give in meekly, they were in for a surprise. He would put his troops in a state of readiness, and prepare to resist. Of their loyalty he had no doubt, but of their ability to repel an expedition in force he was less certain. His Roman troops supplemented by Berber auxiliaries were adequate for occasional campaigns against insurgents. But faced with the might of an Imperial army. .? Well, the Gods (sorry, God, he amended to himself with a touch of gallows humour) would decide.
As soon as he spotted the distant but rapidly approaching dust-cloud, Boniface sensed that it spelled trouble. The cluster of dots at the cloud’s centre swiftly resolved itself into a knot of hard-riding soldiers. They pulled up at the camp’s perimeter; two decurions in full armour dismounted and marched purposefully towards him.
They saluted, then one handed Boniface a scroll. He did not need to unroll it to know what it contained: a summons, written in purple ink, to return to Ravenna.
‘You are to come with us, sir,’ said the officer respectfully but firmly.
For a moment Boniface hesitated, weighing up the enormous repercussions of ignoring an imperial summons.
‘That won’t be possible,’ he said, gravely courteous. ‘I regret, gentlemen, that your journey has been wasted.’
1 The Rhine.
2 Aquitaine.
3 Trier.
4 Arles, Provence.
5 Sbeitla, in central Tunisia.
6 River Dee.
7 Marseille.
8 The incident is recounted in Chapter 33 of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
9 Present-day Tozeur in Tunisia; then a Roman outpost marking the south-west extremity of the empire.
10 Present-day Testour.
11 Now Sbiba.
12 25 June 427.