The Judgement

5

Aetius’ legions marched the six hundred miles from Aquileia to Gallia Narbonensis in twenty-six days, each legionary carrying his full forty- or fifty-pound pack on his back. It rained much of the way, and snowed heavily at times. Reviewing their achievement, Aetius felt they had performed satisfactorily.

As they neared Tolosa, he ordered his men to stand down while he and his commanders rode on in alone. It would not do for a force of twenty-five thousand to appear suddenly below the walls of the city unannounced. The irascible King Theodoric might get the wrong idea.

It seemed only moments after they had announced themselves at the East Gate, that there came a frenetic clattering of horses’ hooves down the steep cobbled street within, and there were the princes Theodoric and Torismond on their white chargers, faces shining.

‘You have come to destroy Attila at last!’ they cried.

‘I must speak to your father first,’ said Aetius gravely.

Old Theodoric received him in a small chamber heated by a burning brazier, and wearing a great white fur cloak across his back. He grasped Aetius’ hand in his bearlike paw and squeezed it tight, smiling beneath his beard.

‘By God you gave my boys a good time of it, so you did, out there in the East. My eldest damn near lost his arm, and if he had I’d have come after yours! But he’s well now: young flesh and bone knit well. Sit. Drink. You, boy, bring us wine – well-cooked.’

Cooked wine? In the name of Light…

There was no time for small talk. ‘So,’ said the old King, ‘you will face Attila on Gaulish soil.’

‘It seems so.’

‘You know his numbers?’

‘A hundred thousand.’

Theodoric shook his great shaggy white head. ‘More. I think two hundred thousand. They are ill-provisioned, and far from home, living only on what they can loot. Can you calculate how much fodder two hundred thousand horses travelling in winter need?’

‘A lot – more than the Huns have prepared for. The country will be stripped bare.’

‘You could just leave them to starve. The asses. Your own lines of supply are well ordered, I presume?’

‘Of course. Are we not Romans?’

Theodoric guffawed. ‘So you are. Well-organised as always, I’ll stake my beard on it.’

‘And our numbers: twenty-five thousand. They are the finest: well trained, fighting-fit, and full of confidence. But they are only twenty-five thousand.’

Theodoric shook his head again, his eyes gleaming in the light of the brazier. ‘It is not enough.’

‘If the wolf-lords of the Visigothic nation rode with us-’

‘ No! ’ Theodoric roared. ‘Do not ask us. This is not our war. We are not Attila’s enemies. He comes for revenge against Rome.’

The cooked wine arrived. Aetius tasted it. It was heated, spiced, honeyed, and quite revolting. He drank it down manfully.

‘And after, when Rome is destroyed and Gaul laid waste?’ he resumed.

‘Then we will see. Maybe our own kingdom will… extend. But I will not sacrifice my beloved people for Rome.’

There was a long silence.

Then Aetius said, ‘Give me your hand.’

Theodoric frowned but held out his huge bear-paw of a right hand, a fat gold ring on every finger.

‘What danger is a wolf with only one jaw?’ murmured Aetius.

Now Theodoric listened. He liked riddles.

Aetius began to press his thumbtip into Theodoric’s palm. Theodoric stared down. What game was this?

‘Does this hurt?’

‘Of course not, you dolt,’ growled the King.

Keeping his thumbtip in Theodoric’s palm, Aetius circled his strong forefinger round the back of his hand. Finger and thumb came together in a cruel pincer movement, biting in deep between the narrow bones, setting the nerves tingling.

Theodoric snatched his hand away. ‘Son of a… Now, that hurt!’ He tucked it into his left armpit and glared at Aetius. ‘And this illustrates what, pray? Except that a wolf with one jaw is harmless, but one with two less so, which I knew already.’

Aetius waggled his thumb before Theodoric’s eyes. ‘Attila.’ And his forefinger. ‘Genseric.’

Theodoric shrugged. ‘It may be so. I still do not believe there is an alliance between the Vandals and the Huns against you, but it may be so.’

‘Not against us,’ said Aetius quietly. ‘Against you.’

Theodoric got to his feet and strode about the little chamber, the walls feeling as if they were about to burst asunder, too small to contain his huge presence. When he had calmed down a little, Aetius resumed.

‘Of course, Genseric is already at war with us, fighting with Attila. His ships were at Constantinople and got a nasty surprise.’

‘My boys told me. What was that flaming weapon exactly?’

‘Information reserved only for our allies.’

‘Damn your balls!’

Aetius smiled. Then he said, ‘Amalasuntha, your daughter.’

Theodoric’s expression softened instantly.

‘She is married now to Genseric’s son?’

‘That she is. And not a day goes by when I do not miss her sweet smile, her laughter like a running stream.’ He looked stern again. ‘You see, my old Roman friend, we are kin, the Goths and the Vandals. Our tongues are the same, our religion, our very names.’

‘Your religion? But Genseric fights with the heathen Huns. He is a creature of treachery.’

‘He is my kinsman now. Have a care, Roman.’

‘Forgive me. But I do not trust him.’

‘Well. Each man to his own. Let us eat.’

They dined in the great hall of the palace, and it was like a scene out of Homer, a barbaric magnificence, tempered by the Visigoths’ only recently acquired and civilising romanitas. A huge fire blazed in the centre of the hall, and they ate sitting upright at long wooden tables, while bards sang old lays of battles in near-legendary eastern forests and open plains, against long-forgotten enemies. There was no mention of ancient battles against the Hunnu.

Aetius tried to tell himself this was not time-wasting, and forced himself to eat well, avoiding staring into the great hearth-fire and thinking of all of northern Gaul ablaze. The Visigoths took it as a personal affront if their guests did not stuff their stomachs almost to vomiting. The princes sat nearby, grinning from ear to ear and devouring plateful after plateful of roasted venison and boar. On the adjacent table, those valiant wolf-lords Jormunreik and Valamir drank beer from huge auroch horns decorated with silver filigree, draught after draught until they both fell drunkenly asleep where they sat. Nobody took the slightest notice. Probably they would be up at dawn tomorrow and out hunting, with headaches that would have kept any lesser man groaning in a darkened room for a week.

These were the allies the Romans desperately needed…

Looking distinctly uncomfortable amid these scenes was a fresh-faced, rather purse-mouthed young deacon of the Church of Gaul.

Aetius made polite and tedious conversation with him awhile, and then asked, ‘And what of this Council of Chalcedon? While Attila and his hordes are on the brink of engulfing the entire civilised world in flames, what keeps Emperor Marcian and the pious Empress Pulcheria so busy, exactly? What are the Eastern bishops debating?’

His sarcasm was lost on the fellow, who loved nothing more than discussing theology, and explained with animation, ‘Well, firstly, the barbarous enormities of the Irish.’

‘The barbarous…?’

The deacon nodded vigorously. ‘Enormities. Of the Irish. And then, following the Second Council of Ephesus, and the considerable progress made there on the issue of homoousion and homoiousion, they will be discussing the heretical teachings of Nestorius – the Christotokos rather than the Theotokos, of course. Harsh was his own treatment of the Arians and the Novatianists, as you know, but against Nestorius himself, that great thinker Theophilus of Alexandria will be urging the strictest anathemas.’

‘Indeed.’ Aetius broke a bread roll. ‘Well, that’s good to know.’

‘But there will be other, more heterodox voices present,’ said the young churchman darkly, ‘including both Philoxenus of Maboug and Zenobius of Mopsuestia.’

‘And we do not approve of Zenobius of…?’

‘Zenobius of Mopsuestia!’ he cried, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth in his sudden fury. ‘That… that…’ But he could not find the appropriate words to describe Zenobius of Mopsuestia.

Truly, thought Aetius, there is no hatred like the hatred between fellow-believers. After Arius’ death, didn’t his great theological enemy Athanasius spread the news that he had died in a public lavatory?

The young deacon drank a little wine, then resumed more calmly, ‘It is to be hoped that the final Ekthesis of the Council will find that the difference of the Divine Natures is in no way altered by Union, but rather that the properties of each Nature are preserved in one single – one Prosopon and one Hypostasis – with various monoenergist and monothelite qualifications, naturally.’

‘Naturally.’ Aetius munched his roll. ‘And isn’t that precisely what Christ himself spent so much time teaching? Rather than preaching about the poor, and brotherly love and so forth?’

At last Aetius’ sarcasm dawned on the deacon and he glared at him. Aetius smiled politely, rising from the bench. ‘Excuse me. I must go and talk to someone more interesting.’

He went and squeezed in between the princes. ‘Truly,’ he murmured, ‘the Church must be under the protection of God. It would never have survived this long otherwise. ’

The next day, Aetius and his retinue saddled up and rode soberly out of the east gate back to their encampment. They would have to face the Huns alone, outnumbered by as much as ten to one. He reined in and looked at his twenty-five thousand men. ‘It is not enough,’ had said Theodoric himself.

‘Then why in hell’s name does he not join us?’ growled Aetius. He yanked his reins savagely and rode on down into the camp.

‘We ride out today?’ asked Germanus.

Aetius shook his head.

‘But why should we delay? All of northern Gaul is burning.’

Aetius said nothing for a long time. Then he gazed back towards Tolosa. ‘I cannot tell you why, but we must wait. Just one more day.’

The men grumbled and ate little that evening and slept badly. Waiting was the worst. Every campfire made them think of another burning building, another blazing town, and in the ruins of each blood-orange fire they saw shapes of the Devil’s horsemen, trailing catastrophe in their wake.

Aetius, too, had a feeling of impending horror, but he knew he must await it. Evasion was impossible. And as sure as the sun rising, the following morning brought horror, and the horror brought with it a sort of salvation. When he understood, he wished salvation had come otherwise.