Attila:The Scourge of God

landing in a pile of ordure. Grabbing the horses’ bridles, we pulled their heads down and calmed them. Then, laughing, we walked past the prostrate youth, who was dashing filth from his face and screaming threats. Little we cared; Rome’s vigiles, the urban cohorts, had been disbanded and replaced by vicomagistri, nightwatchmen. Anyway, who would dare arrest two bold young Germans in the service of the Master of Soldiers?

Came the day of Aetius’ meeting with the Emperor. We of his bodyguard escorted him to the Palace of Domitian, an awesome block of brick-faced concrete on the Palatine. Leaving us at the gates, Aetius removed the baldric holding his sword (no weapons being permitted in the presence of the Emperor) and gave it to our centenarius.

‘Stand easy, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at least two hours; so you can be free until the fifth. You two’ — he pretended to glare at Gibvult and myself, and shook his head in mock reproof — ‘try and stay out of trouble till then. Oh yes,’ he continued with a grin, ‘I heard about your little escapade in the Subura.’ Then, addressing the whole company, ‘Fifth hour, remember. Dismiss.’ And with a casual wave, he strode off through the palace gates, which the imperial guards, recognizing him, had already opened.

It was the last time I ever saw him.

As, about an hour later, Gibvult and I were wandering among the stalls of the Forum Boarium, I became aware of a distant murmur from the Palatine Hill above us. The murmur grew and spread, became a swelling roar: the sound of many voices raised in query and concern. Suddenly the crowds around us were caught up in the clamour; a chill struck my heart as I began to pick out phrases: ‘He’s dead. . Who’s dead?. . They say it’s the Patrician. . murdered by the Emperor himself. . I heard it was Boethius, the Prefect. . No, it was Aetius I tell you — slain by Valentinian’s own hand. .’

I stood in frozen disbelief while the rumours dinned in my ears and the world seemed to swim around me. Then Gibvult and I were running towards the source of the noise, barging through the shouting throng. We found an angry mob gathering outside Domitian’s Palace. Behind the locked gates a triple row of white-faced guards stood with levelled spears. A group of Aetius’ bodyguard were dragging a beam from a nearby building-site, clearly meaning to use it as a ram to force the gates.

‘Drop it!’ Crackling with authority, the voice of our centenarius cut through the uproar, and he positioned himself in front of the gates. ‘You want to break through these? You’ll have to start with me. In an hour I’ll be taking a roll-call back at our quarters. Anyone not on it — ’ his eyes, charged with flinty menace, surveyed the bodyguard — ‘will be on a charge. Spread the word. Get moving — now.’

No one missed the roll-call. Afterwards, the centenarius, struggling to master strong emotions, addressed us confidentially. ‘The rumours are true, lads: the Patrician’s dead. And yes, before you ask, it was indeed the Emperor who killed him. And no, there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it, because the Emperor’s above the law.’

Angry shouts broke out: ‘He shouldn’t get away with it. . Aetius was worth ten of him. . Bad emperors have been dealt with before — think of Attalus and Iohannes.’

The centenarius let the fury and resentment burn themselves out, then raised his hand for silence. ‘I feel the same about this as you do, lads,’ he said. ‘Removing the dog-tag on its thong from around his neck, he held it up. ‘You were all given one of these when you joined the army. And you also had to swear an oath, to be — well, come on; let’s hear it.’

‘Loyal to the Emperor,’ came the mumbled response.

‘Good. Remember it.’ After a pause, he went on musingly, ‘Of course, if anything — God forbid — were to happen to Valentinian, I suppose you’d just have to swear loyalty to whoever took the purple.’ He winked, then added, ‘You didn’t hear that last bit, by the way. Dismiss.’

During the weeks and months that followed, a tense calm seemed to grip the city. While continuing to occupy our quarters in Commodus’ Palace, we heard that, beside Aetius, Boethius, the Praetorian Prefect, had been murdered; also the Patrician’s closest friends and associates. Recalling the dark days of Sulla, proscription lists of ‘traitors’ were posted, and at the same time public announcements (which nobody believed) proclaimed the Emperor’s deliverance from a dastardly plot to overthrow him, and praised his courage in turning the tables on a would-be assassin. As to why the Emperor had really murdered the unarmed Patrician we could only guess, but jealousy and spite were thought to play a large part. As common soldiers, we of the bodyguard were safe enough, we thought — so long as we kept our heads down, as our centenarius never tired of reminding us.

With Placidia and now Aetius dead, who was running the empire? Now that Valentinian was spending more time in Rome than in Ravenna, would the whole machinery of government be transferred? Who would be the new Master of Soldiers? (Avitus was heavily tipped.) And, whoever it turned out to be, would he still require our services, or would he choose his own escort? No one seemed to know the answers to these questions. Yet the wheels of the administration kept turning — creakily, it must be said, but they turned. Our pay was often in arrears but we always got it eventually. I believe that this was due, in part at least, to the persistence of one of Aetius’ agentes in rebus, in reminding the paymaster of our existence. (Now who, Titus, could that agent have been, I wonder?)

Perhaps the strangest thing of all at this strange time was the regaining of some of its ancient power by the Senate. The Senate, that toothless tiger, whose only function these four hundred years had been to legitimize who came to power! But with Valentinian (now the most hated man in the empire) cowering in his palace, someone had to make decisions, and that someone could only be, collectively, the Senate. Chief spokesman of this august assembly was one Petronius Maximus, about whom, because he was about to play such a large part in my life, I shall now tell you something.

Petronius Maximus: wealthy senator, twice consul, thrice Praetorian prefect of Italy, member of the ancient and famous Anician family, cultured man of letters, liberal patron, generous host, popular with all — could this cornucopia of distinctions be held by just one man? The answer, if that man happened to be Petronius Maximus, was that it could.

My first meeting with him came about in this way. The bodyguard was having its midday prandium of bread and cold meat, when a biarchus appeared and summoned Gibvult and myself. We followed him out of the palace to where a Nubian slave was waiting. ‘You’re to go with this fellow,’ said the biarchus. ‘Seems some senator wants to see you; don’t ask me why.’

Mystified and not a little curious, we followed the slave through narrow streets, up the slopes of the Caelian, beneath the arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, and through the old Servian Wall into the Fifth District, one of the most salubrious in the City. Soon after, we entered a private square adorned with statues, which fronted an imposing mansion. We were led through a number of halls opening one into another, in the fifth of which, the tablinum, we halted. It was a spacious room, with pigeon-holes and open cupboards filled with scrolls and codices. Scant furniture, but what there was was beautifully crafted in metal or rare woods. Wall- niches held one or two fine bronzes.

In the midst of this austere elegance, a middle-aged man in a plain but expensive dalmatic was seated writing at a table. He waved us to a bench and kept on writing for a little longer, then, consulting a water-clock beside him, laid down his stylus and looked up. A strong Roman face beneath a full head of well-groomed silver hair. ‘Four hours for study, four for writing, four for friends and relaxation, four for business,’ he said with a smile. ‘These make up my day, aside from sleep. Each must get its due — no more, no less. I am Petronius Maximus. You’ve heard of me perchance?’

If anyone had not, he must be either deaf or witless. Everyone, even we uncouth Germans, knew of the great senator. ‘Who in Rome has not, Your Gloriousness?’ I replied, using the correct if absurd-sounding form of address.

‘Fronto, bring wine for our guests,’ he told the slave, then, turning to ourselves, ‘You must be wondering why I sent for you.’ He eyed us appraisingly. ‘I require a certain task to be carried out, for which I require two suitable