Attila:The Scourge of God

take up position in the cuniculi. Knowing this, we fired the reeds, which were tinder-dry after weeks of scorching weather. Father, it was dreadful: within moments the reedbeds had become a roaring inferno, incinerating the poor wretches hiding there. I shall carry their screams in my head until my dying day. A few charred horrors struggled to the causeway, and were cut down; surely a merciful release from a lingering death in agony. A terrible, perhaps indefensible, way to make war, you may think. Yet what choice had we? It was Aetius, by his treachery, who forced our hand.

With half of Aetius’ force destroyed, the outcome of the battle was never in doubt. But our victory was robbed of any triumph by our leader’s death. Rumours are flying thicker than snow in January, that Aetius cut his way through our van and killed Boniface in a hand-to-hand fight. I cannot confirm or deny the truth of this, for I was too busy relaying messages during the fray to witness what happened. But I find the story scarcely credible: two modern Roman generals engaged in single combat — like Homeric heroes in the Trojan War! Yet I suppose it may be true. Aetius is a driven man. Fury and despair at the ruin of his plan may have pushed him to the verge of madness, prompting him to desperate action. And Boniface, ever careless of personal safety, was never averse to adopting a heroic role. Also, many swear to have seen the incident. But you, Father, more than most, know how it is with soldiers. When Constantine declared he’d seen a vision of Christ’s cross in the sky, within an hour half the army swore they’d seen it too!

This was indeed a black day for Rome. Despite his blunders in Africa, I believe that Boniface alone had the stature and the vision to heal the Western Empire’s wounds, and make it strong again. Who is left to steer the ship of state? Placidia? Valentinian? Then is the vessel dismasted and heading for the reefs! What now? Aetius’ star has surely fallen. Should he escape, he will be outlawed, his life and property forfeit. His only course then will be to seek refuge with his friends the Huns. As for myself, I will make for Upper Germany with all speed, calling at the Villa Fortunata on my way, to check that all is well. My love to Clothilde and little Marcus. God willing, Father, I shall see you soon. Farewell.

¹ Not to be confused with Ammianus Marcellinus, the fourth-century soldier and historian.

² Rhone valley; Lyon.

³ Genevre Pass

⁴ Turin.

⁵ 6 July 432.

SIXTEEN

He possessed the genuine courage that can despise not only dangers but injuries

Renatus Profuturus Frigeridus, Eulogy of Aetius, fifth century

Head held high, the lead bull stared at Aetius with coldly hostile little eyes. The huge creature presented a formidable sight. Powerfully muscled, its head and fore-parts covered in a dense, shaggy mat of brown hair, it towered a full seven feet at the crest of the massive hump that rose behind its neck. This was the wild ox known to the Romans as bonasus, and to the barbarians variously as Wisent, Bisund, or bison — the largest and most powerful animal in Europe. Behind the leader walked the herd, shrouded in the dust-cloud stirred up by twelve thousand hooves.

Aetius had known real fear only a few times in his life; now was another of those moments. Licking his lips, he looked to Attila, next to him in the line of dismounted Huns, willing his friend to give the signal that would, he hoped, halt the herd’s advance. But Attila was much enjoying seeing him sweat, Aetius thought furiously, as the other grinned at him. (The stop-line’s mounts which, even when ridden by such master horsemen as the Huns, would panic and bolt in face of a bison herd, had been tethered some distance away.)

At last, to Aetius’ enormous relief, when the leader was barely ten paces away, Attila raised his long whip and cracked it with a deafening report. All down the line, whip-cracks and shouting broke out. The herd-bull halted, snorting and pawing the ground; behind him the herd milled uncertainly, filling the air with sharp grunts. Attila raised a hand, then, followed by the others, took a step forward. Slowly, step by step, to the accompaniment of shouts and snapping whips, the line began to advance. Suddenly, the bull turned and, lowering his great head, lumbered away on a course parallel to the line of Huns. Gradually, the whole herd wheeled round and took off after its leader. The earth began to tremble as the great beasts broke into a gallop, their hoofs lifting to head-level, reminding Aetius of the high-stepping gait of the imperial white horses used on state occasions or the now-banned pagan processions. Swiftly retrieving their mounts, the Huns galloped in pursuit, overtaking the herd and riding along its flank, to ensure that it maintained its direction.

As, beneath him, Bucephalus settled into a mile-eating stride, the events of the past few weeks unrolled themselves in Aetius’ mind.

Defeat by Boniface, followed by disgrace, outlawry, and flight from Italia — all that should, by any calculation, have resulted in overwhelming rage and shame. Instead, once into Pannonia and across the River Sava, Aetius found to his surprise that his chief feeling was one of liberation, of an oppressive burden having been lifted from him. For a time, at least, he was freed from the strain of alternately placating and cajoling the German federates in Gaul, of plotting to stay one jump ahead of Placidia in Ravenna, of campaigning against a powerful rival. Pannonia was safe territory, which he’d forced a reluctant Placidia to cede to his friends the Huns, as a consequence of his coup following Iohannes’ abortive usurpation.

He’d followed Tiberius’ road from Istria, north-east through a deserted landscape studded with ruined villas and abandoned forts, past the long, long Balaton lake and the wooded slopes of the Bakeny Wald, to Aquincum on the Danubius — the old imperial frontier. On the way, the only signs of life had been occasional sightings of the nomads’ flocks and herds. At Aquincum, now virtually abandoned to squatters, he’d hired a boat to take himself and his tiny entourage across the river to where began the vast prairieland of the western steppes, part of the Huns’ domain, which now extended from the Sava to the Mare Caspium.

Meeting a party of Huns, who seemed in some strange way to be apprised of his presence, he and his followers were conducted eastwards to the Hun ‘capital’ near the foothills of the Transylvanian Alpes, in what had once been the Roman province of Dacia — abandoned these hundred and fifty years. This settlement was in fact a mobile camp, its centre a prefabricated wooden palace, which could be dismantled and re-assembled as the nomads switched pasture. Aetius noted considerable changes since he had last solicited the Huns’ help seven years previously. Clans had coalesced into tribes, tribes into confederacies. These, three in number, had recently become a single confederacy under the rule of Rua, the uncle of Attila, Aetius’ old friend from his youth as a hostage with the Huns. Hierarchical trends were emerging in what had been a society of equals: chiefs styling themselves ‘nobles’, and their families becoming a quasi-aristocracy; a hereditary dynasty in process of forming; a permanent Council of influential leaders beginning to displace the assembly of all adult males.

Attila’s father, Mundiuch, the brother of Rua, had led one of the three former confederacies, which made Attila a strong candidate to succeed Rua. Should he become ruler, Attila might prove a barbarian version of Plato’s philosopher king, reflected Aetius with some amusement, for he had always displayed an unfortunate trend towards kindness and consideration. These qualities might be liabilities in a ruler — especially if that ruler’s subjects were savage barbarians like the Huns, who above all respected strength and a leader’s power to enforce his will. Attila had confided to Aetius his intention, should he become king, to end the practices of stoning to death a warrior suspected of even the slightest degree of cowardice, and of killing off the aged. Aetius had argued that, brutal though they might seem, such traditions helped to keep a nation successful and vigorous — like animal packs or herds, where only the strong survived, or the ancient Spartans who exposed new-born infants if sickly or deformed. Attila, though he paid courteous attention to this reasoning, had seemed unconvinced.

To Aetius’ appeal for help to reinstate him, Rua — recalling that previous assistance was rewarded with gold and Pannonia — had been sympathetic. A decision would be taken in Council, which consisted (though now only in theory) of all adult males, assembled on horseback.