Attila:The Scourge of God

SIX

To the growing file labelled ‘Boniface’, Aetius added the latest report from Africa, just brought in by one of his agentes in rebus, couriers-cum-spies who kept him apprised of the rapidly developing political situation in that diocese. In his private journal, the general wrote: ‘The net begins to close round Boniface. By acting on the advice contained in my letter, he was guilty only of disobeying an imperial summons — a serious enough offence, but not, in his case, a capital one. Though I have caused him to believe otherwise, Placidia would never have had her erstwhile hero put to death for that alone. Now, however, by repelling with arms the force sent to arrest him, he has crossed the Rubicon and declared himself an enemy of the state.’

A pity that a fine man must be destroyed to serve the greater good, Aetius thought with genuine regret, as he retied the thongs securing the codex, a set of thin waxed boards between exquisitely carved ivory covers: a gift from Placidia ‘to a faithful friend’. His choice of medium for recording these private thoughts was deliberate. ‘Always write on wax’ had been the advice of his father — like himself a Master of Horse, and an adroit political survivor; ‘ink is the executioner’s ally.’ Aetius had been assiduous in following that advice. True, there were his contradictory letters to Boniface and Placidia, but they fell almost into the category of state secrets, and as such were virtually proof against investigation. His file on Boniface consisted of dry and factual reports, hardly evidence of malicious intent. As for anything recorded on those waxed tablets, it could instantly be erased by the blunt end of the stylus. As long as he continued to be careful, his hands would remain clean — at least in the eyes of the world. And that was all that mattered; wasn’t it? After all, had not Augustine himself adopted a teleological position regarding the morality of how one acted? ‘Acts are judged by their ends,’ the bishop had reassured his friend Consentius, when the latter confessed to lying in order to save an otherwise blameless official guilty of a single act of peculation.

His plans were maturing well, rather like Falernian wine laid down for a year in a cool cellar, Aetius reflected wryly, thanks largely to the fact that Boniface, being a good and uncomplicated man, had put his trust in Aetius, thereby becoming the agent of his own destruction. By his most recent action, Boniface had made himself guilty of treason. As any forces he could muster were quite inadequate to repel a full-scale imperial invasion, it was only a matter of time before he was brought back to Ravenna in chains. There would follow a brief trial, then the Count of Africa would be marched outside the city walls, to bend his neck to the executioner’s sword. Time now to clinch matters by sending another message to the beleaguered general, applauding his defiance and urging him to stand firm. Even as he felt exhilaration at the thought of his rival rising to the bait, Aetius experienced a prick of shame at engineering his downfall.

In a state of mind approaching desperation, Boniface paced the garden of his headquarters back in Carthage. It had increasingly become a refuge, a sanctuary where he could marshal his distracted thoughts and try to form a plan to cope with the burgeoning crisis that threatened to overwhelm him.

A gerbil scampered from its burrow and, darting in front of the general, sat up expectantly. Smiling, Boniface tossed the creature its usual dole, a handful of wheat grains. ‘You at least, my little friend, are on my side,’ he murmured.

He was grateful to Aetius for the approval and moral support shown in his last letter. But Aetius was a thousand miles away, and unable to offer material help. The grim truth was, that, unless Boniface could secure the backing of a powerful ally, he was doomed. But there were no potential allies.

Or were there? The Count stopped pacing as, unbidden, a siren thought slid into his mind. Immediately, all his instincts and training rose up against the idea, urging him to reject it. It was crazy; it was disloyal. . It was his only hope. In a mood of sombre fatalism, he returned to his tent and called for his secretary.