Attila:The Scourge of God

(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