prevail for ever. And may Genseric come to reign pre-eminent in the West, as his most loyal ally Attila shall reign in the East, in a conjoined harmony of Emperors and Brothers.’

‘Hm,’ said Orestes. ‘Just about.’

‘Until such time as we decide to eliminate you and take your empire for our own.’

The corners of Orestes’ mouth twitched. He laid his pen aside.

‘Oh,’ said Attila, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘I should have been a jester.’

2

POLITICS AND WITCHCRAFT

The moment Aetius stepped from the ship, the worst was confirmed.

‘Sir, the Huns have crossed the Danube. They have fallen on Margus Fair.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded and turned away.

All was ready. It was time to begin.

It was time for the end to begin.

He turned back, looked the man in the eye. ‘And Viminacium? Can that be true?’

‘As far as we can tell, yes, sir. Flattened.’

‘So they have siegecraft?’

‘They or their auxiliaries, yes, sir. They took down the walls of the fortress in a day and a night, if reports are correct.’

Christ. ‘And the VIIth Legion?’

The optio shrugged. ‘Gone.’

He winced. ‘That was a good legion.’ He straightened up. ‘To the palace.’

Emperor Valentinian received him coldly. ‘My good and faithful servant. How precipitate your return.’

‘Those were my orders, Majesty.’

‘There was no need.’ Valentinian took his time, cradling his hands in his lap, gazing fondly down at them, stroking an open palm. He hummed a little tune. Aetius waited patiently.

Eventually Valentinian said, ‘It is true about this Hun nuisance. But lines of communication have been re- established, by sea and river, with Ratiaria, and by land with the Eastern Field Army at Marcianopolis. They are marching out to engage the savages even as we speak. They may have destroyed them already.’

‘Under General Aspar?’

Valentinian’s eyes flared wide with anger.

‘Forgive my interruption, Majesty. But their commander-’

‘The Field Army, all five or six legions, will engage or has engaged these savages, this ridiculous, puffed-up little man Attila, somewhere on the River Utus. Yes, under Aspar. News is expected at any time. And so you see’ – he smiled – ‘there is really nothing useful for you to do here, Master-General. As ever. You may as well go back to Sicily and play with your boats.’

‘Your Majesty.’ He bowed. ‘If I may, I should like to wait and hear the happy news from the East along with you.’

Valentinian waved his hand. ‘As you please.’

Only a day later, the emperor was white with fury. ‘Our Brother in Constantinople accuses us of cowardice! Curses rain on him. Foulest curses!’

He mumbled of Lilith and Seth, ancient Hebrew demons.

Aetius tried to steady him.

He pulled away. ‘He says we refused him help. How dare he! If he had asked we might have gone to his aid. We are no cowards! Those horsemen do not frighten us!’ He seized a cushion and looked as if he were about to tear it apart in his thin white hands.

Aetius looked away. He could not bear to watch these puerile rages. But he knew who was at the root of this discord. Neither Theodosius nor Valentinian, being played like puppets against each other, but another ruler altogether. A ruler of a very different stamp.

Everything moved at a terrible pace in those days, in that summer. Each new piece of intelligence came like fama pinnata, winged rumour, but at the pace of catastrophe.

Another letter arrived in Constantinople from Aetius a few days later (I know because I, Priscus, took the letter and read it myself.) It contained a genuine offer of help from the Western Legions. They would not be starting on the Africa Campaign now. Six of the finest, twenty thousand men, both infantry and cavalry, could sail from Sicily direct for Constantinople. Seven days’ sailing at most. Or they could come ashore at Thessalonika, cut across the flat plains of Thrace and attack the Huns’ flank as they marched south. But my lord the emperor Theodosius would not even look at the letter. He ordered it to be burned, saying how he now knew who his true and loyal friends were.

There was a chamberlain in the employ of the Byzantine court in those days, a man called Pytheas. A man I had never felt at ease with. Theodosius admired and trusted him, but, alas, he was a poor judge of character, for all his lucubrations over the Characters of Theophrastus. Books, not life, had taught our emperor; and I am sorry to say, bibliophile and library dweller as I am myself, that thus far they had proved poor teachers. This Pytheas had grown very rich from corruption and manipulation of the funds of the Public Largesse. He held numerous offices, this state-salaried parasite: sinecures such as Overseer of Marble Procurement, Secretary of the Imperial Customs- Houses, Chief Clerk of the Records of Imperial Liberality, Accounts Archivist for the Province of Syria, Chancellor of the Domestic Wardrobe, and so forth. And in every department he was corrupt. But he had grown richest from another source altogether, from beyond the bounds of the empire, though none of us knew it then. He worked for Attila.

I remember a private audience he had with the emperor. I silently took notes, in my role as Chief Clerk-in- Consistory.

Pytheas hesitated and then said, ‘My Lord, it is my heavy duty to bring you further distressing, but surely untrue, reports from the Danube frontier.’

‘Go on,’ said the emperor, poring over a manuscript on his wooden lectern.

Pytheas sighed theatrically. ‘At Viminacium… My Lord, I fain would not believe it is true’

‘ Go on,’ said Theodosius.

Pytheas glanced aside at me but he did not register me.

‘At Viminacium,’ he said, speaking with exaggerated care, ‘it appears that alongside the Huns were fighting – were seen fighting – men with covered shields. But shields were evidently lost in the battle. And when the Hunnish hordes passed on southwards, some of our own men managed to retrieve them.’

I found this doubtful in the extreme. ‘There were none of our own men left alive,’ I objected.

Pytheas’ look could have turned a Gorgon to stone. ‘Remember you are but a scribe, Priscus of far-famed Panium,’ he said sarcastically, ‘however elevated a scribe. So scribble, and be silent.’

The emperor hardly registered this argument.

Pytheas continued, with a sigh and a leaden heart on his sleeve. ‘The recovered shields were painted red, with a gold rim, and a large black eagle in the centre.’

Now at last Theodosius raised his small, short-sighted eyes from his manuscript and looked around, puzzled.

Pytheas nodded. ‘Yes, my Lord. The insignia of the Legio Herculiani.’

The Herculian Legion. One of the very finest. A Western Legion, under the direct command of Master-General Aetius.

Theodosius still looked baffled. And then Pytheas, the consummate actor, produced his theatrical masterstroke. He called out, and a slave entered the room, walking backwards so that he might not gaze upon the countenance of the Divine Majesty. He laid two objects at the chamberlain’s feet, and then hurried away. Pytheas picked them up. One was a big round wooden shield with a bronze boss and gold-painted rim, decorated just as he had said with the black eagle insignia of the Herculians. The other was a long spear, with dyed feathers twined in

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