sockets, lent to the skull a horrible semblance of life.
‘I keep Constantius to serve as a warning to others who may be tempted to deceive me,’ said Attila in sombre tones. ‘How can I be sure, Roman, that you yourself do not harbour such intentions?’
Titus felt an icy knot of fear twist in his stomach. To end like that! He wetted lips which had suddenly gone dry. ‘Your Majesty, I fear Constantius deceived us all,’ he protested, keeping his voice steady with some difficulty. ‘My master sent him to you in good faith — as he sent myself. Aetius’ only fault lay with his judgement, not his heart. I myself distrusted Constantius, and tried to warn Aetius against him.’
‘I am minded to believe you,’ said Attila heavily, after a pause. ‘You are, perhaps, that rare thing: an honest Roman. Though I have little reason to trust any of your race. To answer the question you asked earlier, Constantius was bribed to kill me — by the Eastern Emperor’s chief minister, Chrysaphius.’
‘But. . you entertained Maximin, with kindness and generosity, Maximin, the emissary of that same Emperor!’ exclaimed Titus, astonished and impressed. Theodosius could hardly have been unaware of Chrysaphius’ plot, and so must have been involved, even if that meant merely looking the other way.
‘We Huns may be barbarians,’ remarked Attila dryly, ‘but we respect the laws of hospitality.’ He gave Titus a long and searching look. ‘Go now, friend,’ he said, in oddly gentle tones. ‘Tell Aetius I thank him for his gift, and will reflect upon his words.’
After the Romans had departed, Maximin and Priscus for the East, Titus and his party for the West, Attila rode out alone into the steppe, to decide what should be his policy towards both empires. His instincts told him that further campaigns against the East would be unproductive. The Battle of the Utus had convinced him that, despite their huge superiority in numbers, the Huns could not expect to keep on winning against properly led and equipped Roman armies. Best, then, to settle for what he could get, while still in an apparent position of strength. The timid Theodosius would always favour a policy of appeasement; so let the Huns continue to accept tribute (which the wealthy East could certainly afford), but, as the Roman envoys suggested, not call it that. A face-saving formula could be devised by which the Huns would become the paid protectors of the East’s frontiers. Actually, this would fit neatly with his present war against the Acatziri, a brave but primitive people to the east of his dominions. His campaigns there could be presented as a strategic move to guard the Eastern Empire’s rear.
As for the West: could he after all have misjudged Aetius, have allowed Constantius to poison his mind against his one-time friend and ally? The Patrician’s splendid present had moved him more than he had allowed Titus to see. Surely such a gift could come only from the heart? If Aetius was sincere about his proposal that they resume their alliance, should not Attila take up the offer? He was tempted, greatly tempted: wealth and titles, an honourable outlet for his warriors’ fighting instincts, a possible union between two great empires. Perhaps he could dare once more to hope that his dream of a Greater Scythia might one day be fulfilled. Nothing need be decided at this juncture. In the meantime, he would stay his hand against the West, despite the clamourings of so-called ‘friends’ that he attack.
He was under pressure from Gaiseric; from the anti-Merovech faction among the Franks; and from Eudoxius, a one-time physician, now leader of the newly resurgent Bagaudae, who had sought refuge at the court of Attila. All these were urging him to invade, citing the present weakness of the West as providing a golden opportunity. They were parasites, he thought with contempt, jackals who followed the lion, hoping to snatch the leavings from his kill. He would resist their blandishments — at least until he had made up his mind regarding what his policy should be towards Aetius.
At that moment, the king’s eye was caught by two birds, a plover, and a falcon in pursuit. The falcon soared above its quarry to prepare for its deadly stoop, but the plover had been at the game before and knew what to do. It dropped like a stone till only feet above the ground, then, keeping at that height, raced for the shelter of a distant copse. The falcon, easily pacing its prey, kept a parallel flight, yet dared not strike; it would have killed the plover, but the impetus of its stoop would have caused it to break its own neck. The two became specks in the distance; the lower speck reached the trees and disappeared, the upper soared above the tops and flew away, knowing it could do nothing against a bird in a wood. Attila laughed and turned his horse’s head for home. The little drama he had witnessed could, he thought, serve as an exemplar of his own position.
In the spring of the following year,3 — the consulships of Valentinian Augustus (his seventh) and of Avienus — Anatolius and Nomus crossed the Danubius to confer with Attila. The meeting was marked by a spirit of concord and goodwill on both sides, with Attila generously agreeing to abandon the strip of territory south of the Danubius, to drop demands for further return of fugitives and prisoners, and to draw a tactful veil over the plot to murder him. Tribute, rephrased as compensation for guarding the empire’s frontiers, would continue to be paid, but reduced from that imposed by the terms of the previous treaty. For the general and the Master of Offices, the Third Peace of Anatolius was a diplomatic triumph, their years of patient and persistent effort crowned at last with success. For Attila, it meant a welcome, and honourable, reprieve from the necessity of waging constant war. Against this background, a resumption of his alliance with Aetius seemed increasingly attractive. Sunlit uplands of the spirit seemed to be beckoning the tired old warrior.
But these bright hopes were about to be dashed: by something tiny and insignificant, round, and of a blood- red colour.
1 4 June 449.
2 Orestes, as already noted, became the father of the last Roman emperor of the West, Romulus Augustus. Edecon was to be the father of Odoacer, who deposed Romulus to become the first barbarian king of Italy. An eerie coincidence.
3 450.
FORTY-ONE
The Emperor Theodosius was thrown from his horse, injuring his spine
Perhaps in compensation for his ineffectiveness as a ruler, Theodosius liked to ride large and spirited horses. It was as if he felt a need to demonstrate that here was a field, one not without an element of danger, in which he could display mastery. On the twenty-sixth day of the month named for Julius Caesar, in the year that the Third Peace of Anatolius was made, the Emperor, accompanied by a groom, was riding by the banks of the River Lycus, near the capital. After a spirited canter, as was his wont he dismounted and gave the reins to the groom, with instructions to walk the big bay stallion for a space and then return. Leaving his master resting by the waterside, the groom complied, but before rejoining the Emperor he made a small adjustment to the stallion’s saddle.
On remounting, Theodosius found the horse suddenly uncontrollable. It began to buck and rear violently. His desperate efforts to calm it and retain his seat proved vain, and Theodosius was hurled from the saddle, to land with a crash on boulders by the river’s edge. He tried to rise but his legs failed to respond. ‘My back,’ he whispered to the groom, ‘I think it’s broken.’ Before going to summon help, the groom removed from beneath the stallion’s saddle a tiny seed-capsule, scarlet, prickly, the fruit of a lowly shrub called ‘burning bush’.
When he heard the news, Aspar at once sent word to Marcian, a senator and distinguished army veteran, then hastened to attend the bedside of the dying Emperor. Theodosius lingered for two days before expiring, unlamented, in the fiftieth year of his age and the forty-third of his reign. One month later, a retired officer, Marcian, a modest, upright man who had given Aspar nineteen years of loyal service, was invested with the imperial purple. Renouncing the feeble policy of his predecessor, the first act of the new Emperor was to send, via his ambassador Apollonius, a polite but unequivocal message to Attila: the East would pay no further tribute to the Huns.
