Eutropius!’
The chamberlain came bustling in from the neighbouring antechamber, from whence no doubt he had heard every word. He spread his golden dalmatic wide and knelt at the emperor’s feet and kissed the hem of his robe – the hem, he noted, was splashed with blood, and a little matted clot, like a clot of human hair, was stuck to it.
‘Send a message to the Fourteenth at Viminacium. Or is it the Seventh? Did you say the Seventh?’
I nodded.
‘Well. Send a message out to the Seventh at Viminacium. They are to despatch an armed body of men, a cohort or something, however many they can spare, and make a punitive expedition, that is the thing.’
‘Against whom, my lord?’
‘Against the Huns, you fool!’ Valentinian’s fists were taut and white at his sides. ‘Capture some of them, that’s it! Put them in chains, old men, women, little children! Tie them all up tight like fowl on a market-stall. Tightly tightly!’ Now he was dribbling. ‘We must show the people we are not afraid! We will have a proper games in the arena, and the Hun captives will be savagely and mercilessly punished!’
‘My lord,’ said a voice behind him.
He turned, eyeing Galla dangerously. ‘I trust you agree with our plan, mother?’
Galla’s thin breast heaved. ‘My lord, I beg you to reconsider…’ Valentinian raised his hand to slap her, and held it there, inches from her cheek, as he yelled into her face, ‘You are growing tiresome, mother! We are the emperor, not you!’
Galla did not flinch and she said nothing.
Valentinian turned and bellowed at the chamberlain, ‘Well, get on with it! A punitive expedition. Those beastly barbarians in the arena in chains! Tightly tightly! See how they like that!’
He looked over the empress and myself one last time, puffed up his cheeks and made an odd, explosive noise. Then he picked up his skirts and hurried off into the antechamber.
I carefully rolled up the great map.
When I turned round, the empress was still standing there, her head bowed, her eyes closed, her small white fists clenched by her sides, not moving.
There was a circle of black tents beside the lower reaches of the Tisza, not far from where it flowed into the Danube, one of many such circles which spread over the plain amid a haze of campfire smoke. Women were stirring pots, or bringing water from the river in leather pails. Round-headed, red-cheeked children were playing chase and tag. It was a cold day in late spring, but very beautiful, the sky pale blue, the sunlight sharp, the green earth slowly softening after the night’s hard frost.
A double ala of Roman cavalry, which is to say a hundred and sixty men, appeared in the west. They had ridden from the legionary fortress at Viminacium at dawn. They saw the camp from some way off and drew their curved cavalry swords.
The grass was lush and bright with spring flowers.
One of the children saw the men on their horses coming. She stopped and stared and put her thumb in her mouth. Then she raised her other hand and waved uncertainly.
The horsemen did not wave back.
There came the sound of two cheerful tuckets on brass bugles, and then the line of horses began to gallop.
The smoke was seen rising from the circle of tents from far off, and one of the Kutrigur chieftains rode out with his men to see. When they got to where the cluster of tents had stood, there was nothing to see but ashes, heads on stakes, and severed limbs.
The news was brought to Attila in his palace. He sat very still and looked into the fire, saying nothing.
Late in the evening, when most had fallen into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of revenge, Little Bird came unannounced into the presence of the brooding king and sat cross-legged in front of him, his face streaked with tears. And he half said, half sang: ‘The Song of Little Bird, Truth-Teller:
‘News travels like a plains fire
And is as blood-red as a plains fire at dawn.
Over the river they rode, their swords bright silver,
Into the village, among the black tents they rode;
Ten in red cloaks, bearded, oh, noble white men!
Then over the river they rode, their swords bright red.’
When he fell silent Attila looked up and their eyes met.
‘Vengeance travels like a plains fire,’ said Attila, ‘and is as blood-red as a plains fire at dawn.’
4
Far to the west, in a small arched courtyard partly shaded by the pale green leaves of young vines, two men were playing at the fine old Roman board-game of latrunculi, or chess. In the Visigothic court of Tolosa, in sun- warmed southern Gaul.
How elegant was the court of the Visigoths under great old Theodoric! What paeans of praise were written of it! It seemed to unite all the old Roman virtues, and none of the new Roman vices. Many looked towards the new kingdom with something like longing, or even expectation, as if they saw in Theodoric’s kingdom, and in his six proud sons – ‘the Sons of Thunder’, they jokingly called them – the future of Europe: a future at once Gallic and barbaric, Christian and Roman. Theodoric and his sons were valiant in battle, they knew their Roman history and jurisprudence, and they spoke Latin and even a little Greek as well as Gothic. They knew their Virgil well enough to quote appropriately when occasion demanded, and their accent was such as would make only the most scrupulous Latinist wince.
Here at this court of supposed barbarians, wrote one admirer, the elegant-minded Sidonius Apollinaris, Bishop of Clermont, there was no heavy, discoloured old silver, but rather weight and value in conversation. Viands attractively cooked, not costly, and without ostentation. Goblets so replenished by silent slaves that both intoxication and thirst were unknown. There was Greek elegance, Gallic plenty, Italian vivacity. The dignity of state, the affection of home, the ordered discipline of royalty.
And there was great, grizzled, grey-bearded old Theodoric himself, King of the Western Goths, the son of Alaric, the conqueror of Rome, glowering over the chessboard. It was said that when Sidonius played him at chess, the bishop always made sure he lost to the hot-tempered king. But Theodoric’s adversary today was of a different stamp. He was a lean, grey-eyed man of some fifty years of age, a Roman of noble birth and ancient lineage, currently a guest at the Visigothic court on account of certain tensions arising between himself and the imperial family, certain jealousies and insecurities, the details of which amused old King Theodoric rather more than they amused the Roman.
The grizzled old Gothic king would slap his grey-eyed guest heartily on the back and tell him that he was welcome at Tolosa any time, any season. In fact, why not permanently? Quit the sinking ship of Rome for good. Get out while you can.
But that was not the Roman’s way. His name was Gaius Flavius Aetius. And he was determined to win not only his game of chess.
Not that he wasn’t deeply fond of the gruff old king. Often grumpy and grouchy to a comical extent, Theodoric in fact meted out justice among his people with a scrupulously fair hand, and was revered by them in turn. Despite being powerfully built and as strong as an ox, he complained bitterly and daily about the evils of encroaching age and his failing strength. Such complaints earned him only wry looks and raised eyebrows from his family, especially his wife, Amalfrida, who knew him well enough after forty years of marriage. As he sat at dinner, loudly holding forth, before sinking his teeth into his third roast fowl of the evening, and draining his twelfth goblet of Provencal wine without the least sign of intoxication, it was hard to take his laments about waning powers too seriously. At one point during last night’s dinner, Theodoric had leaned over to Aetius, nodding down the table towards two particularly comely young Gothic maidens who had recently arrived at the court as ladies-in-waiting, and muttered,
