hinged pairs of waxed tablets, used by commanders in the field to transmit messages.
Aspar’s plan was bold, simple, and would probably succeed, Boniface acknowledged to himself. But the thought of detaching the cream of the infantry and leaving his centre exposed, if only temporarily, was worrying. He opened his mouth to summon gallopers who would convey the appropriate orders. But no sound came. Frozen by fear and irresolution, he hesitated while the precious moments bled away.
Mistaking the Count’s silence for contempt, Aspar exclaimed furiously, ‘I see. You think because I’m an Alan — to you a barbarian — my opinion can be overlooked!’ His fine-boned, delicate features, the result of the strong admixture of Persian blood possessed by members of his race, darkened with anger. ‘Then fight Gaiseric your own way, Roman. You deserve each other.’ Wheeling his horse, he cantered off to join the Eastern cavalry.
With numb horror, like that experienced in a nightmare when safety depends on speed but the limbs refuse to move, Boniface watched the Vandals descend the hill, and swarm across the intervening ground towards the Roman front. With a deafening clash, the two sides came together. The sheer ferocity of the German attack sent the Romans reeling, forcing them to give ground. Their line bent, but held, then slowly straightened again. Protected by armour, welded by discipline and training into an efficient fighting-machine, the Romans began to push the Vandals back. The Germans in the Roman ranks fought particularly well. Unlike the untrustworthy federates — whole tribes allowed to settle in the empire in return for a promise to fight for Rome under their own chiefs if called on — the Germans were individually recruited volunteers, and provided Rome with the best and bravest of her soldiers. Once sworn in, they always stayed loyal, even when required to fight against their fellow Germans.
Suddenly, just when it seemed that the tide was turning in its favour, the Roman line began to crumple from the right, as the Vandals in the wood launched their flank attack. The onslaught compressed the ranks on the Roman right, sending a destabilizing shock wave along the entire line. Cohesion crumbled and the Roman advance wavered to a halt, the men jammed together, unable to wield their weapons properly. With no orders issuing from their commander, demoralization then panic swept through the Roman army. Yelling in the sheer exultation of battle, which seemed to lend them near-superhuman strength, the Vandals inflicted terrible damage with their spears, which sometimes punched clean through scale armour or chain mail to deliver a mortal wound. Like a wax figure placed too near a fire, the Roman formations lost definition and began to dissolve. Then, with horrifying speed, the army disintegrated, transformed in a twinkling into a fleeing rabble inspired by a single thought: escape.
The cavalry fared best. A man on a horse is always intimidating to a man on foot; by sheer weight and speed, most troopers and their officers were able to cut their way through the disorderly press of Vandals. The footsoldiers were less fortunate. Vast numbers were killed or taken prisoner, and only a sorry remnant reached safety behind the walls of Hippo; so few, in fact, that it was decided to embark the civil population along with the surviving soldiers. A broken man, Boniface watched from the deck of his transport ship, as the African coast slowly vanished in the distance. In the space of a few months, he had lost two battles, the flower of Rome’s armies, and the richest part of the Western Empire.
1 The Straits of Gibraltar.
NINE
If God the Father and Son accept this holy plaint, my prayer may once again restore you to me
Villa Basiliana, Ravenna, Province of Flaminia and Picenum, Diocese of Italia [Titus wrote in the
The capital buzzes with rumours about Aetius, who is in Gaul, considering his next move as regards Placidia. The situation is this: Boniface has returned from Africa, not, as one might expect, in disgrace for bringing in the Vandals and losing the diocese, but in something like triumph: given a hero’s welcome by Placidia, raised to the rank of Patrician, made master-general of the Roman armies, and showered with medals! How can one believe it? Aetius, on the other hand, has been vilified at court — blamed for the African disaster, and now
Meanwhile, on Aetius’ orders I stay here at his headquarters near Ravenna, gathering what information I can about political developments. He wants a full report on his return from Gaul. It’s far from easy; as one can imagine, I’m not exactly in Placidia’s good graces since that wretched business with the chickens. With Aetius out of favour, the palace is barred to me, so I’m reduced to snooping around the markets and wine-shops for scraps of gossip, which I then have to sift and evaluate.
Now, on a personal matter, some good news. I am a father! Recently Clothilde gave birth to a boy. We’ve christened him Marcus; he’s a sturdy little chap with a fine pair of lungs. For the moment he and his mother are living with Clothilde’s people, the Burgundians, in that part of eastern Gaul ceded to them first by the usurper Ioannes, then confirmed by Honorius. So for the time being, until I can afford a little farm in Italy, he’s being brought up as a German. And I’m glad of that. He’ll grow up strong and hardy, and learn to value loyalty and courage — qualities in short supply among today’s Romans. Time enough for him to acquire some Roman polish later. I visit them from time to time when I get leave, which is fairly frequently — or rather was, prior to Aetius’ departure for Gaul. He may be a hard taskmaster, but stinginess isn’t one of his faults.
I worry about my father. The rift between us seems as wide as ever; he doesn’t answer my letters, but family friends keep me informed. Poor, stubborn old Gaius! It appears he’s much reduced in health and circumstances. It’s his own fault, of course. If he’d moderate his pagan stance a little, or just pay lip-service to Christian rites, the authorities would probably turn a blind eye. With him, though, where principles are concerned it’s a matter of honour not to give an inch. He’s been fined, stripped of his civil decurion status and of his army pension. He survives through the generosity of friends and the kindness of the
It was cool and dark inside Ravenna’s great cathedral, a suitable place for Titus to focus his thoughts. He stared at the great, recently finished mosaic of the Enthroned Christ separating the damned from the saved on the Day of Judgement. The Saviour seemed to gaze back at him, calm, strong, filled with loving compassion, but also with the stern authority of a terrible judge. Titus opened his heart in prayer, pouring out in silent words his dilemma concerning Aetius. But it didn’t help; he had no sense of a caring, listening Presence. Perhaps that image on the wall, formed of tiny cubes of coloured stone and glass, was all there was. Perhaps, after all, Christ was not Risen, was just a heap of mouldering bones in a forgotten sepulchre in Palestine. He continued to pray, increasingly unable to prevent the feeling that it was futile.
He failed to notice a cloaked and hooded figure, which had been watching him from behind a pillar, glide silently from the building.
Feeling empty and depressed, Titus left the cathedral. He was surprised to notice how much the shadows had lengthened; his attempts at prayer had taken longer than he’d realized. Better hurry before the city gates were closed; he’d left his horse at a livery stable outside the walls. As he was about to move off, he noticed a one-legged beggar sitting near the great double doors. Propped beside him was a crutch, and on the ground before him were a begging-bowl and a placard stating: ‘
Titus was always sympathetic to the plight of such ex-soldiers, whose pension instalments were often late,
