horse, face down. Let him sleep now, face turned away from the sun. For did not his warrior soul already soar with his heavenly father, a great eagle, into the eternal blue sky? High over the measureless green grasslands of his beloved homeland where the flowers would bloom again yellow next spring, soaring for ever and ever over the white and gleaming mountains of the Holy Altai? For the earth itself was heaven.
The old warrior took the reins of the riderless horse and turned round and headed back towards the moat with his son across his lap and the riderless horse walking close behind. At the last moment he turned again and gazed up at the walls. His old eyes were very bright, even as he stood there darkly silhouetted against the sinking sun, the sky a blaze of colour behind him.
For a moment the old warrior and the defenders on the walls gazed at each other, and Chanat tried to identify the commander who had understood so well and given the order. His eyes were tired, and a little blurred, and he could not see so far. Yet it seemed to him that some of those on the walls raised their hands to him, without weapons. So he raised his hand likewise, then pulled his horse round again, with the second horse following, and walked them back over the broken pontoon bridge and away over the darkening plain.
24
That night Aetius and his men slept. At dawn he was summoned to the palace.
Before he went, Captain Andronicus sent word that he should step up onto the platform of the tower. He did so, and looked out.
There was nothing but a low haze of dust. The Huns had vanished, like a people who had never been.
There in council were the emperor and the empress, and inevitably the emperor’s sour-faced sister, misnamed Pulcheria; and Themistius, an aged scholar and orator, and also the chief chamberlain, and the bishop of the city, Epiphanius. When Aetius entered, to his embarrassment several present bowed down to him and touched their foreheads to the ground. The emperor hastily ordered them to their feet again.
‘General Aetius,’ he said, ‘we have done well. You have seen the results? The enemy is’ – he spread his hands wide and smiled – ‘gone!’
Aetius nodded. ‘But not forgotten.’
‘Against the stone of sickness they stumbled,’ intoned Bishop Epiphanius, ‘the steeds and their riders both. The sinners drew the bow and put their arrows to the string, and then sickness blew through them and hurled the host back into the wilderness. Glory to God in the Highest.’
There were murmured affirmations and many crossings of chests.
A little poetic, thought Aetius, biting his tongue. The horses didn’t actually suffer from camp fever. But the people were dying like flies. He thought his men deserved a little praise as well, but that was probably too much to hope for.
‘Peace has been made,’ said the emperor. ‘See, we have the paper.’
Old Themistius passed it to the general. Attila himself had signed it. Attila, Tashur-Astur. Flagellum Dei, the Scourge of God.
‘His royal sign,’ added Theodosius eagerly.
Aetius shook his head. ‘It is not his royal sign. It is Hunnish.’
Theodosius sat back. ‘And you speak that rough tongue, of course.’
Aetius did not answer.
‘Well,’ said Theodosius impatiently, ‘what is it that makes you look so solemn, man? This is the paper of peace! This is the signal for the end of bloodshed, and surely a cause for celebration! Or do you want still more war?’
‘Not I,’ murmured Aetius.
Themistius glanced at him, but the jubilant emperor had not heard.
‘Once more,’ he said, rising to his feet and stepping down from his throne, ‘as of old in the days of King Uldin, the great Hun nation, those fierce, barbarian yet, I think, noble-hearted steppe warriors, are our allies!’
‘Allies!’ cried Aetius. ‘But he has signed himself Attila, Scourge of God.’
Theodosius laughed an uncertain little laugh. ‘The name given to him by a Gaulish chronicler, apparently, which he has adopted with alacrity. And with good humour! A Royal moniker. They have fierce names, those Germanic tribesmen, you know. Godric the Wolf-Slayer, Erik Blood-Axe and so forth. Like our own emperors. Why,’ he asked jovially, ‘do they not call me Theodosius the Calligrapher?’
Aetius could have wept with frustration. ‘Majesty, this is not so innocent a name. He believes he is our punishment, sent by the Eternal Blue Sky – by his heavenly father – to be our destruction, and to announce the end of our world to us. He will never be our ally, nor at peace with us. He was mocking you even as he signed this paper. He will always be our enemy.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense.’ Theodosius came forward and actually put his sovereign arm around the broad shoulders of his grim and difficult general. He walked him round the vast audience chamber. ‘Indeed, far from being our enemy, it seems that Attila might even have become one of the imperial family, if a certain plot of the Princess Honoria’s had not been uncovered.’
‘Plot?’
But at a signal from his sister Pulcheria, Theodosius shook his head. ‘Never mind; all that is discovered and dispensed with. Nevertheless, as things stood, I was quite prepared to trust his word, and to meet his demands in full.’
Aetius stopped abruptly. Even while he and his men had been fighting to the death on the walls, the Imperial Court had been secretly negotiating with Attila himself. Was that possible? He felt sick to his stomach.
‘Demands? What demands? We’d beaten him – or stalled him, anyway. He knew he couldn’t take this city, these walls, without sustaining terrible losses, even undermanned as we were. Then disease broke out in his camp. He had to fall back, he had no choice.’ The general was glaring most rudely full in the emperor’s face. ‘ What demands?’
‘My lord,’ interrupted the chamberlain.
Theodosius raised a pacific hand, and replied to Aetius, ‘Demands in response to our demands, of course. We demanded that he retire from our territories and molest our people no more. In return for… recompense.’
Aetius’ grip on the treaty parchment tightened visibly. ‘You mean gold.’
‘I mean… recompense.’ Theodosius’ arm dropped away from Aetius’ shoulders. He was tiring of this. This coarse soldier should be grateful for his Earthly Lord having negotiated such a delicate treaty with the Huns, for having saved so many of his people’s lives, and secured a lasting peace. Instead, he was positively leaking resentment and bile. Jealousy, really, Theodosius presumed. His own diplomacy had stolen Aetius’ martial thunder.
‘You mean gold,’ repeated Aetius in his harsh and gravelly voice, like the voice of a waterless desert. ‘How much gold? What have you given him?’
The man’s eyes blazed. He was unstable, so moody. It was very displeasing. The chief chamberlain snapped back, ‘The finances of the Imperial Court are of no matter to a Western general.’
The general would not let go; he was like a mastiff locked on a hind. His gaze was still on the emperor. ‘You cannot buy off a man like Attila. Look how he has mocked you. The Scourge of God. Can you buy off the Scourge of God? Can you divert his barbaric Almighty God of War with mere gold?’
Now Theodosius was angry. ‘You talk gibberish, man. His god does not exist, or he is at most some outcast demon.’
‘He exists in Attila’s heart. That is a mighty engine.’
Theodosius replied crisply, ‘Soldiers should stick to soldiering, and leave theology to higher minds.’
‘How much? ’
It was outrageous that he should be addressed like this, but Theodosius would not have his judgement questioned. ‘Seven thousand pounds,’ he snapped, walking back to his throne.
Aetius’ ears rang. ‘ How much? ’
