The Judgement

24

That night Aetius and his men slept. At dawn he was summoned to the palace.

Before he went, Captain Andronicus sent word that he should step up onto the platform of the tower. He did so, and looked out.

There was nothing but a low haze of dust. The Huns had vanished, like a people who had never been.

There in council were the emperor and the empress, and inevitably the emperor’s sour-faced sister, misnamed Pulcheria; and Themistius, an aged scholar and orator, and also the chief chamberlain, and the bishop of the city, Epiphanius. When Aetius entered, to his embarrassment several present bowed down to him and touched their foreheads to the ground. The emperor hastily ordered them to their feet again.

‘General Aetius,’ he said, ‘we have done well. You have seen the results? The enemy is’ – he spread his hands wide and smiled – ‘gone!’

Aetius nodded. ‘But not forgotten.’

‘Against the stone of sickness they stumbled,’ intoned Bishop Epiphanius, ‘the steeds and their riders both. The sinners drew the bow and put their arrows to the string, and then sickness blew through them and hurled the host back into the wilderness. Glory to God in the Highest.’

There were murmured affirmations and many crossings of chests.

A little poetic, thought Aetius, biting his tongue. The horses didn’t actually suffer from camp fever. But the people were dying like flies. He thought his men deserved a little praise as well, but that was probably too much to hope for.

‘Peace has been made,’ said the emperor. ‘See, we have the paper.’

Old Themistius passed it to the general. Attila himself had signed it. Attila, Tashur-Astur. Flagellum Dei, the Scourge of God.

‘His royal sign,’ added Theodosius eagerly.

Aetius shook his head. ‘It is not his royal sign. It is Hunnish.’

Theodosius sat back. ‘And you speak that rough tongue, of course.’

Aetius did not answer.

‘Well,’ said Theodosius impatiently, ‘what is it that makes you look so solemn, man? This is the paper of peace! This is the signal for the end of bloodshed, and surely a cause for celebration! Or do you want still more war?’

‘Not I,’ murmured Aetius.

Themistius glanced at him, but the jubilant emperor had not heard.

‘Once more,’ he said, rising to his feet and stepping down from his throne, ‘as of old in the days of King Uldin, the great Hun nation, those fierce, barbarian yet, I think, noble-hearted steppe warriors, are our allies!’

‘Allies!’ cried Aetius. ‘But he has signed himself Attila, Scourge of God.’

Theodosius laughed an uncertain little laugh. ‘The name given to him by a Gaulish chronicler, apparently, which he has adopted with alacrity. And with good humour! A Royal moniker. They have fierce names, those Germanic tribesmen, you know. Godric the Wolf-Slayer, Erik Blood-Axe and so forth. Like our own emperors. Why,’ he asked jovially, ‘do they not call me Theodosius the Calligrapher?’

Aetius could have wept with frustration. ‘Majesty, this is not so innocent a name. He believes he is our punishment, sent by the Eternal Blue Sky – by his heavenly father – to be our destruction, and to announce the end of our world to us. He will never be our ally, nor at peace with us. He was mocking you even as he signed this paper. He will always be our enemy.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense.’ Theodosius came forward and actually put his sovereign arm around the broad shoulders of his grim and difficult general. He walked him round the vast audience chamber. ‘Indeed, far from being our enemy, it seems that Attila might even have become one of the imperial family, if a certain plot of the Princess Honoria’s had not been uncovered.’

‘Plot?’

But at a signal from his sister Pulcheria, Theodosius shook his head. ‘Never mind; all that is discovered and dispensed with. Nevertheless, as things stood, I was quite prepared to trust his word, and to meet his demands in full.’

Aetius stopped abruptly. Even while he and his men had been fighting to the death on the walls, the Imperial Court had been secretly negotiating with Attila himself. Was that possible? He felt sick to his stomach.

‘Demands? What demands? We’d beaten him – or stalled him, anyway. He knew he couldn’t take this city, these walls, without sustaining terrible losses, even undermanned as we were. Then disease broke out in his camp. He had to fall back, he had no choice.’ The general was glaring most rudely full in the emperor’s face. ‘ What demands?’

‘My lord,’ interrupted the chamberlain.

Theodosius raised a pacific hand, and replied to Aetius, ‘Demands in response to our demands, of course. We demanded that he retire from our territories and molest our people no more. In return for… recompense.’

Aetius’ grip on the treaty parchment tightened visibly. ‘You mean gold.’

‘I mean… recompense.’ Theodosius’ arm dropped away from Aetius’ shoulders. He was tiring of this. This coarse soldier should be grateful for his Earthly Lord having negotiated such a delicate treaty with the Huns, for having saved so many of his people’s lives, and secured a lasting peace. Instead, he was positively leaking resentment and bile. Jealousy, really, Theodosius presumed. His own diplomacy had stolen Aetius’ martial thunder.

‘You mean gold,’ repeated Aetius in his harsh and gravelly voice, like the voice of a waterless desert. ‘How much gold? What have you given him?’

The man’s eyes blazed. He was unstable, so moody. It was very displeasing. The chief chamberlain snapped back, ‘The finances of the Imperial Court are of no matter to a Western general.’

The general would not let go; he was like a mastiff locked on a hind. His gaze was still on the emperor. ‘You cannot buy off a man like Attila. Look how he has mocked you. The Scourge of God. Can you buy off the Scourge of God? Can you divert his barbaric Almighty God of War with mere gold?’

Now Theodosius was angry. ‘You talk gibberish, man. His god does not exist, or he is at most some outcast demon.’

‘He exists in Attila’s heart. That is a mighty engine.’

Theodosius replied crisply, ‘Soldiers should stick to soldiering, and leave theology to higher minds.’

‘How much? ’

It was outrageous that he should be addressed like this, but Theodosius would not have his judgement questioned. ‘Seven thousand pounds,’ he snapped, walking back to his throne.

Aetius’ ears rang. ‘ How much? ’

‘Attila received the treasure chests gracefully, my ambassadors report, the night before last. He even referred to them, with a pleasing laconic humour, as reimbursement for “the expenses of war”! A small price to pay for the happiness and well-being of my peace-loving people, Master-General, from the Holy City to the Danube border, from the Euxine to the-’

The vast audience chamber echoed to a furious roar: ‘ You fool! He has already slaughtered thousands of your innocent people, and now you think you can make peace with him? You have welcomed the enemy within your gates, and you have paid in advance the bill for your own destruction!’

A collective gasp went round. Bishop Epiphanius drew sharp breath, Themistius cried out ‘My lord!’ and the emperor paused on the steps up to the dais, his back still to Aetius. The empress gazed down on the enraged general, her hands twisting in her lap.

‘Have a care, Master-General,’ said the emperor quietly.

Aetius at that moment looked like a man with many cares. He did a swift mental calculation. Seven thousand pounds of Byzantine gold, much of it ingots stamped for purity by the Imperial Treasury. Enough to buy – his blood ran hot and cold – twenty thousand of the best mercenaries for a year or more. Maybe thirty thousand. Alan lancers, Gepids, Sueves, Teutonic axemen, Sarmatian cavalry, maybe even renegade Persians. Why had Constantinople not bought those mercenaries for its own protection? The reason was simple. The mercenaries would not have fought for Theodosius, nor for Rome. They would only take gold to fight for what they believed was a winning cause.

Attila’s finest and most loyal Hun warriors could have numbered no more than thirty thousand. The rest were Kutrigurs, Hephthalites, lesser tribal followers, nameless easterners who would soon melt away. But seven thousand pounds: Attila’s command of crack troops had just doubled. And the great sacrifice so many had made in the East – at Viminacium, Ratiaria, calamitously on the Utus, and here on the walls of the City – was wretchedly degraded. They had saved the Holy City, and the Asian provinces. But Rome now stood in a danger beyond all reckoning, and perhaps beyond all opposition.

He spoke dazedly. ‘Not even the treasuries of Byzantium can have held this much. How…?’

Theodosius seated himself again, seeing with relief that the general was growing calmer – though he hoped he would be sailing back west soon.

‘The city’s loyal senatorial classes responded with alacrity. Some even handed in their wives’ jewellery and most precious heirlooms. And we ourself have parted with many of our private possessions, for the sake of our people.’

The courtiers murmured sycophantic assent. Themistius added, ‘Although in consolation an ambassador from the court of an Indian king has recently sent His Majesty a tiger for his menagerie.’

There were gentle chuckles, and a smile from the emperor. He inclined his head gracefully.

The frightful general only glowered the more.

Theodosius added, ‘We have also ceded to our new ally Attila the territory of Pannonia Secunda, for his people to settle.’

Settle. A fine euphemism. But damn Pannonia Secunda – he’d have taken it soon enough anyway.

Aetius was striding about and muttering. The emperor looked pointedly at his Palatine Guards.

‘I had him,’ said the over-wrought and over-tired commander, his fist before his face, ‘in the palm of my hand. Sickness stalked his camp. He would not have fled before it. I knew there was something else. He was haughty, even as a boy. He never bowed the neck, neither to prince nor to pestilence. His own pride had him trapped there. “Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust, Like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.” He would have been so cut, and his warriors laid out across the plain. Windrows of the dead, scythed down like a wheatfield after a hailstorm.’

He turned violently back towards the imperial throne. ‘And you have paid him off, enriched the gorgon’s purse! Oh, merciful heaven!’

Theodosius rose again and declared that the council was ended, adding acerbically, ‘This Attila, who makes you tremble with such unmanly cowardice, is a man of reason and candour. More so than you, I think, Master-General Aetius. And he has already moved away north.’

‘With his gold!’ cried Aetius. ‘Gone to buy more troops! How they will flock to his banner now, the wealthiest robber and ruler in all of Europe! How dazzled they will be by his gold – by your gold, our gold, the gold of your hard-pressed, hard-taxed people. Sweet Jesus, did they not deserve better than this? For their oppressor to be paid off, like a thug intimidating a market-stall? Now he will turn his vast army, twice, three times as strong, against the West. Is this your idea of Christian solidarity?’

Theodosius had had enough. ‘Get him out! Now! He offends my ears!’

But, to the horror of the assembled courtiers, Aetius began tearing the treaty parchment to shreds before their eyes. The man was mad. Two Palatine Guards moved nervously near him, but neither dared to lay a hand on him.

Theodosius meanwhile had fled through a side-door and was gone, though not without the general’s last words still offending his ears.

‘You pigeon-livered, dung-brained, degenerate excuse for a Roman emperor!’ He freed himself roughly from the guards’ hesitant grasp. ‘Unhand me, you dolts. I’m going. I’ve got work to do.’

He glanced back only once, and it was towards the empress. She still sat upon her throne, and she had not spoken nor stirred, but her luminous eyes were upon him, and he saw in those eyes something like pride at his rage.

Then he was gone.

Aetius returned hurriedly to the east of the city and summoned all the men who had fought on the walls, all the women who had hauled heavy supplies, ammunition, food and water up to the battlements, even the children who had helped. He had them all assemble outside the Church of St George, and he climbed atop the Charisius Gate.

‘People of Constantinople,’ he declared, ‘Isaurians, Imperial Guard, Gothic wolf-lords, you have won a great victory. I, Aetius, master-general of the West, regard each and every one of you as a hero, and were such things possible I would have you all in my army!’

There were great cheers.

‘Your spirit has been indomitable, your faith unwavering, your victory richly deserved. The pagans are gone, their hearts heavy with defeat, and I do not think that they will return. They know under whose Protection this Holy City stands. Now go, with my heartfelt blessings, and live in peace.’

There were more cheers, and weeping among the cheers.

He descended the steps, mounted his horse, and looked over them all one last time. ‘ Weep not, weep not. It is we in the West who must weep. Your city will stand for many centuries yet.’

Then he spurred his horse, and made for the Harbour of Eleutherius.

The wolf-lords rode with him. They would take ship back to Massilia, since Valentinian still would not permit Visigoths on Italian soil. At the docks he clasped the princes in farewell – Theodoric carefully, since his arm was still splinted and bandaged, though his healing had been remarkable.

‘We will see you again,’ said Torismond.

‘You will.’

Theodoric said, ‘Our father has a deep love for you.’

Aetius coughed, somewhat embarrassed.

They led their horses on up the gangway.

‘No vomiting over the side, you landlubbers!’

They grinned. Yes, he would see them again. He knew it with foreboding.

There was Gamaliel, looking old and stooped and tired.

‘Old man,’ Aetius said. ‘You know your stuff.’

‘I know other stuff, too,’ said Gamaliel. ‘We also shall meet again. One last time, I think. But it will be enough.’ With those riddling words he was gone into the crowd.

There was Captain Andronicus, fantastically colourful with cuts and wounds. He grinned.

‘The city’s in your hands now, Captain. But you will be at peace.’

‘I know it,’ said Andronicus. ‘Damn it.’

And Zeno.

‘We owe your people all thanks. Back to Cilicia?’

The chieftain’s eyes glimmered. ‘Back to banditry.’

Aetius grunted. ‘Mind you don’t get caught.’

There were also the four: last remnant of the VIIth legion. He eyed them.

‘You put us in your close guard,’ said Knuckles, reading his thoughts. ‘Besides, I’m no Easterner, anyhow. Dodgy, slitty-eyed lot, they are, sell their own grannies for a bunch of grapes.’

Arapovian snorted.

Aetius regarded the other two, Tatullus and Malchus. They looked resolute.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘jump aboard. But don’t expect any peace and quiet back West.’