Attila

by Ross Laidlaw

  Boniface was right about the route being hard. It entailed a stiff climb of several miles and fifteen hundred feet, up hillsides clothed with trees and scrub, with cultivation giving place to pasture. At the ninth hour Titus reached Medesanum, a scatter of small stone houses grouped around a church and a taberna. During the ascent Titus had become aware of being followed, so, stopping at the inn just long enough to rest his horse and swallow some bean soup, he pushed on towards his next objective, the little town of Fornovium on the far side of the Tarus. He would be easier in his mind once the width of a river was between himself and his pursuers.

  Instead of a conventional river flowing between banks, Titus encountered a wide plain of dazzling rocks and sand, with beyond it the huddle of buildings that was Fornovium. Was this the Tarus? he wondered in amazement. There was no bridge, but the few narrow rivulets winding through the bed looked easily fordable. As he was about to urge his horse forward, he was stopped by a shout from a shepherd tending his flock nearby. The shepherd, a tall mountaineer with kindly eyes, explained that those innocuous-looking rami were treacherous: many people, unaware of the danger, had been drowned while attempting to cross. Titus gratefully accepted the man’s offer to show the way. Testing the ground with his crook before each step, the shepherd preceded Titus across the first stream, which rose neck-high in the deepest part. Leading his horse, Titus followed, and was surprised by the unexpected power of the icy current; he kept his footing with difficulty on the shifting boulders of the bed. The second stream proved impassable where first encountered – it was dangerously deep and fast-flowing – so Titus and his guide followed it upstream for nearly a mile to where an ‘island’ stood above the river-bed.

  Here, the shepherd located a ford by an ingenious trick which greatly impressed the young courier. Lobbing stones in succession into mid-stream, the shepherd noted the difference between splashes until he located shallow water. Where it was deep, the stone sank with a hollow ‘plump’, the displaced water rising in a vertical spout; where shallow, both sound and splash were more diffused. Thus, slowly and with circumspection, the remaining five channels were negotiated, and at last the two men stood dripping on the farthest bank.

  After thanking the shepherd, and rewarding him with a handful of nummi, Titus appealed to him not to show the way to a group of five riders, should he happen to encounter them. He, Titus, had dared to court the daughter of a rival family, he explained, for which temerity her relatives had vowed to pursue and kill him. The shepherd’s eyes sparkled with delight at being made privy to an affair of honour and the heart. ‘Ad Kalendas Graecas!4 Never!’ he exclaimed, dramatically placing a hand over his heart.

  After the shepherd had departed, Titus concealed himself and his mount in a copse, and watched the river, his clothes slowly drying in the warm evening sunshine. Presently, the mysterious quintet appeared on the far side. Dusk was not far off, and he doubted they would try to cross the Tarus before morning: this was confirmed when they began gathering driftwood for a camp fire. Reassured that he would not be followed until after dawn, Titus pushed on to Fornovium.

  After a night at an inn which was notable less for its hospitality than for its insect life, Titus was in the saddle before sun-up. Looking back as he left the town, he spotted on the far side of the Tarus eruptions of glowing dots where his pursuers were kicking out the embers of their fire. How would they fare crossing the river? Drown with any luck, he chuckled.

  He rode on, past noble stands of chestnuts, their leaves a glory of gold and russet, meeting no one except an occasional shepherd or group of carbonarii, charcoal-burners. The foothills were now behind him, and he was into the Apennini proper. All morning he made good progress, switchbacking up and down the ridges separating the three remaining rivers this side of the watershed, but overall climbing steadily. The second river, the Parma, he forded as he had the Tarus; the others he was able to cross by rickety wooden causeways. All the time he checked his route by sightings of a strange rock looming on the southern skyline, a vast square column thrusting up from a sloping base.5

  Early in the afternoon – about the eighth hour he reckoned – Titus came to the mouth of a deep and silent valley, hung with enormous woods and sloping upwards to where it was closed by a high grassy bank between two peaks. This bank, he felt, must be the central ridge of the Apennini, the watershed beyond which lay Etruria and journey’s end.

  An hour later, Titus dismounted on the crest. Looking back, he surveyed with a quickening of the pulses, all the Aemilian plain, the old province of Cisalpine Gaul, unrolling northwards from the mountains’ base, and on the far horizon a line of sharp white clouds. But they were motionless, and he soon realized they must in fact be the Alpes. Far below and miles away, five crawling dots told him the pursuit had not been abandoned. He was not worried; all being well, by dusk he’d be in Luca, his mission safely accomplished.

  Crossing the watershed marked by a line of cool forest, Titus heard on every side the noise of falling water, where the Sercium, springing from twenty sources on the southern slope, cascaded down between mosses and over slabs of smooth, dark rock. A glade opened, giving a view down the Garfagnana, whose western wall was a high jagged massif, with cliffs and ledges of a dazzling whiteness. Snow, thought Titus at first. But no: these must be the mountains of Carrara, quarried for their marble these five hundred years. He rode on, filled with pleasant thoughts of the bath, food, and rest that awaited him at Luca – no doubt to be followed in due course by congratulations from a grateful Boniface for a task well done.

  Titus had begun to relax when his horse suddenly checked and stumbled. Titus dismounted and examined its legs, but could find no damage. Then his eye caught the glint of metal a few paces behind; it was a solea ferrea, a broad iron cavalry horseshoe. He quickly checked his horse’s hoofs, and found that the off front shoe had been cast, while a rear shoe was so loose that it would likely have come off within another mile. Cursing the imperial farrier who had done such an evil job, Titus realized that the game might well be up. To ride on would be to lame his horse to no avail, for his pursuers must now inevitably overtake him. Nor could he expect to fare any better on foot; in this steep-sided valley, here clothed with grass instead of sheltering woods, he was as effectively trapped as a penned steer. Relieving his mount of its harness and saddle, which he concealed in bushes (a futile gesture, he admitted), he left it to graze and, for want of a better alternative, trudged on downhill, his saddlebag containing the precious missive slung over a shoulder.

  He had gone perhaps three miles when he came to a strange and solemn place, a veritable ‘town’ of cone-shaped tumuli. Etruscan tombs from a thousand years before? Feeling like a hunted animal run to earth, he entered a tunnel which opened out of one of the tombs. As a hiding-place it was hopeless. His pursuers had only to spot his horse to know that its rider could not be far away. Still, at least the narrow entrance meant they could not surround him but must come at him singly. At least he would go down fighting.

  So this was how his bright dreams were to end, Titus thought bitterly: in failure, and death at the hands of unknown killers. All he could do was ensure that Boniface’s message to the commandant at Luca remained secret. He removed the parchment scroll from his saddlebag and tore it into tiny pieces which he proceeded, with some difficulty, to swallow. Gulping down the last fragment, he looked out of the tunnel’s entrance and saw, with a sinking of the heart, five distant riders moving down the valley. When the distance had closed to a hundred paces, he could see them clearly at last: five soldiers, their leader a giant of a man.

  Five against one: despite his fighting skills, those odds were too great. But at least he could try to take one or two with him. Drawing his sword (as an agens in rebus, he had been issued with uniform and weapons), he backed a few feet into the tunnel. While he waited, inconsequent details of his surroundings registered in the dim light filtering from the entrance: strange wall-paintings showing dancing-girls, boar-hunts, wrestl
ers, musicians, dead souls led away by good or evil spirits.

  Footsteps sounded outside. A series of questions as to the purpose of his journey was fired at Titus by his unseen hunters. Ignoring the temptation to bargain for his life, Titus maintained a stubborn silence. If he had to die, he would die with honour.

  A pause, then laughter sounded outside the tomb: Titus determined grimly to inflict maximum damage before he went down. Then a familiar voice called out, ‘The game’s over, Titus. You can come out now.’

  His brain in a whirl, Titus emerged to find a smiling Boniface standing there. ‘Well done, Titus Valerius,’ said the Count. ‘You gave us a good run for our money. We can all go home now.’

  ‘But . . . my mission, sir? The messages?’

  ‘The first, to the commander at Placentia, was genuine. The second was a subterfuge.’

  ‘And the horseshoes were loosened, I suppose?’ Titus felt anger begin to stir inside him.

  ‘You suppose correctly; the deed was done when you stopped at Placentia.’ Boniface shrugged, and smiled apologetically. ‘The second message was intended to be confidential. So naturally you didn’t read it. Ah, did you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Well, if you had, you’d have found it was a poem by Catullus. What did you do with it, by the way?’

  ‘I ate it, sir.’

  Boniface stared for a moment, then gave a shout of laughter, in which he was joined by his four men. The fury and resentment that had begun to build up in Titus abruptly dissolved, and he found himself joining in. It was less amusing when he and his saddlebag were searched, but he knew it was necessary.

  In a gesture oddly reminiscent of Aetius’ after Titus had saved him from the catafractarius, Boniface grasped Titus by the arm. ‘Don’t be angry, my young friend,’ he said. ‘In my position, I have to be sure that those who serve me can be trusted. I’m glad to say you passed my little test like a true agens.

  1 Piacenza and Lucca.

  2 The Taro, Parma, Enza, and Secchia.

  3 Tuscany.

  4 ‘To the Greek Kalends’, a Roman proverb, roughly equivalent to our colloquialism ‘When Hell freezes over’ (see Notes p.430).

  5 Known today as Castelnuovo, from the nearby town of that name.

  FIFTEEN

  Before the battle, Aetius provided himself with a longer spear

  Count Marcellinus,1 Chronicle, fifth century

  ‘Placentia, that’s the rendezvous.’ Aetius rapped the tip of his staff against the map, on the red circle at the northern end of the Aemilian Way. ‘I, with the Visigoths and Roman contingents shall take the Julian Augustan Way along the coast to Nicea, then north-east to Placentia. Litorius, you’ll head north from Arelate, up the Rhodanus valley to Lugdunum,2 and await the Frankish and Burgundian federates. As soon as they arrive, press on eastwards to the rendezvous via the Mons Matronae Pass3 and Augusta Taurinorum.4 There’s a good secondary road and a station refuge, Druantium, at the summit of the Cottian Alpes. Our forces will meet at Placentia not later than the Ides of June. Further briefing when we get there. Right, gentlemen, I think that’s all. Any questions?’

  The officers – Romans with a sprinkling of Germans – were silent for a minute. Then a lone voice called out, ‘Sir, is the wine in Italy any better than the vinegar we get in Gaul?’

  ‘Much better,’ Aetius assured him amid the general laughter. ‘If that’s all, to your posts. We march in an hour.’

  The officers filed out. Aetius sank gratefully on to a folding stool. God, he felt tired. Dealing with barbarians was enough to wear out an Alexander or a Caesar. It wasn’t that they were difficult to beat; apart from Hermann’s destruction of Varus’ legions back in the reign of Augustus, the only pitched battle they’d ever won against Rome was Hadrianopolis, fifty-four years ago. And that only happened because the Eastern Emperor hadn’t waited for Gratian’s Western army to join up with him. Then he remembered the recent African disaster. Well, that was entirely due to Boniface panicking; inviting in the Vandals, and then losing his nerve. If he’d really wanted to serve Rome, he should have done the decent thing and fallen on his sword, the moment he received the summons recalling him to Italy. Ferociously brave the Germans undoubtedly were, but they lacked patience and discipline. Properly led and supplied, Roman troops could thrash them every time. It was the Germans’ raw energy, resilience, and sheer persistent aggressiveness that eventually began to grind you down. Like this recent trouble with the Visigoths. They wanted to be part of Rome but, like unruly children, kicked over the traces when conditions were imposed. Still, under Roman officers they made effective soldiers. Which was why, this time, he would at last be able to finish Boniface.

  ‘You look tired, sir,’ said a voice behind Aetius, echoing his reflections. ‘You should get some rest.’

  ‘Litorius, you still here? Didn’t see you.’ Aetius accepted the proferred cup of wine. ‘Thanks. Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘May I speak frankly, sir?’

  ‘When people say that, it’s usually to tell me something I don’t want to hear,’ sighed Aetius. ‘Oh, very well, then, if you must.’

  Count Litorius, Aetius’ second-in-command, pulled up a camp stool beside the general. ‘I’m concerned about you, sir,’ he said solicitously. ‘You can’t continue like this – you’re wearing yourself out. You’ve more than enough to cope with, keeping the barbarians in check in Gaul, without embarking on a civil war in Italy.’

  ‘I’m touched,’ sneered Aetius. ‘You’ll have me crying next. What do you suggest I do? Extend the hand of brotherly love to Boniface?’

  ‘Something like that, sir,’ said Litorius earnestly. ‘Why not? Together, the two of you could cure some of Rome’s most pressing ills.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like Titus, my former aide,’ observed Aetius in wry tones. ‘It’s too late to make things up with Boniface. Once, perhaps, we could have worked together, but since Africa—’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘He blames me for what went wrong, and is never going to trust me again. He and Placidia won’t rest until they’ve seen me crushed. Which isn’t going to happen, by the way.’

  ‘I should think not, sir!’ declared Litorius. ‘Your plan will see to that. But once you’ve dealt with Boniface, I beg you to set yourself an easier pace. Rome needs you.’

  ‘I doubt Placidia would agree,’ said Aetius drily. Draining his cup, he rose and clapped Litorius on the shoulder. ‘You’re getting to be like an old mother hen, Count. I appreciate your concern, but after Boniface there’s still Gaul to keep an eye on, Spain to be cleared of Suebi, Africa to re-conquer, perhaps one day even Britain. However, if the federates in Gaul start causing trouble, I can always call in my friends the Huns to whip them into line.’

  ‘The Huns . . . mightn’t they in turn become a threat to Rome?’ said Litorius doubtfully.

  ‘Hardly. A mob of primitive shepherds. Against disciplined Roman troops backed by Roman-led federates, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Right, my friend, time to inspect the troops.’

  Marching six abreast, freshly scoured helmets and corselets glittering in the June sunlight, square and dragon standards fluttering and flapping bravely, Aetius’ Roman bodyguard swung down the Via Aemilia. Behind, without regard to formation, tramped the Visigoth levies, flaxen-haired giants without armour, carrying spears and round shields. In the van, headed by Aetius and his staff, rode the cavalry, keeping to the grassy belts verging the paved road-surface. The force crossed a stone bridge over the little Rubicon, and halted after a further mile or so, in sight of a squat stone column beside the Uso brook – the fifth milestone from Ariminum. On the far side of the Uso, Boniface’s troops were drawn up: the imperial army, consisting of the Western survivors of the African expedition, supplemented by household troops. On either side of the Way, stretched dreary marshland: reedbeds to the north, swampy levels to the south.

  ‘Look, Litorius, there’s Boniface in that ridiculous antique armour of h
is,’ Aetius chuckled. ‘That lanky beanpole beside him is his son-in-law Sebastian. And there, by all the saints, is young Titus Rufinus, the ungrateful renegade. I should have hauled him before a military tribunal while I had the chance.’

  ‘You can see why they call Boniface “the fighting general”,’ observed Litorius. ‘He seems ready for action – personally.’ He smiled. ‘Best not get too close, sir. That long spear of his looks pretty businesslike.’

  With a trumpet flourish, a herald cantered out from Boniface’s lines and drew rein before Aetius’ command group. Unfurling a scroll, he declaimed: ‘Boniface, Count of Africa, Patrician, Master of Soldiers, both Horse and Foot – in the name of the Augustus Valentinian the Third, Most Noble One, twice Consul; and of the Most Holy Empress Mother in Perpetuity, the Augusta Galla Placidia; to Aetius, Count, Master of the Horse in all the Gauls; gives greetings, and requires to know, under this solemn parley, what are his wishes concerning . . .’

  ‘Ever the stickler for correct procedure,’ Aetius, shaking his head, chuckled to Litorius. ‘Well, now he’s in for a little surprise.’ And with a wink to his second-in-command, he signalled his trumpeter. But before the man could raise the instrument to his lips, flames suddenly appeared at various points in the reeds; during the herald’s harangue, some of Boniface’s men had moved on to the verge, and were now proceeding to toss blazing torches into the head-high vegetation.