by Ross Laidlaw
‘And Clothilde?’
‘I tried, of course, to shift the beam, but it was hopeless. It would have taken several strong men to move it, and there was no time to summon any of my soldiers – the roof was on the point of falling in. She implored me to kill her. Her lower body was crushed beyond any hope of her recovering – even had she been freed – and I could not let her perish in an inferno. So I . . . I did what was necessary. As you yourself would have done.’ Aetius paused, then, his expression bleak, said, ‘But I could not blame you if you were now to hate me.’
Titus brushed away tears, collected himself with an effort. ‘The opposite is true, sir. I hope I’m Roman enough to appreciate that what you did was an act of mercy, carried out because it was the right thing to do. For that I’ll always be grateful – as I’m grateful that you saved my life and my son’s.’
‘I made Marcus leave the hut before—’ Aetius broke off, then continued quickly, ‘Then I dragged you out. I was only just in time – the roof collapsed as we got clear. You took a nasty blow on the head and you’ve lost a lot of blood, but the doctors say that with rest you’ll make a full recovery.’ There was a short silence, then Aetius asked in friendly tones, ‘Well, Titus Valerius, what will you do now?’
‘Probably return to Italia with Marcus, sir, and manage the family estate.’
‘That, in my opinion, would be a waste of your talents. I have another suggestion.’
‘Sir?’
‘Come and work for me again. Rome needs loyal servants as never before. Especially if they happen to be the son of Gaius Valerius Rufinus, whose heroism may have saved Gaul. No need to decide anything now. I’ll come back for your answer in a day or two.’
Titus recalled his father’s final letter, in which he’d recommended just such a course as Aetius was suggesting. Also, Titus felt that in some subtle way Aetius had changed, and was perhaps no longer the ruthlessly ambitious soldier/politician he had once been. He made up his mind. ‘No need for that, sir,’ he said. ‘If you’re willing to have me back, I’ll be glad to serve you again.’
Aetius smiled and took his hand. ‘Then welcome back, Titus Valerius, “thou good and faithful servant”, as the Scriptures say.’
1 Narbonne.
2 From a distinguished Gallo-Roman family, Avitus rose to become Prefect of Gaul in 439, and briefly (455–6) Western Emperor.
3 25 May 435.
4 Medical orderly.
TWENTY-FIVE
A race of uncivilized allies [the Visigoths] bids fair to bring Roman power crashing to the ground
Sidonius Apollinaris, Letters, after 471
‘Congratulations, Count,’ his young second-in-command said to Litorius as, accompanied by the mixed force of Huns and Romans, they forded the Liger near Caesarodunum1 and headed south, out of Aremorica. ‘It’ll be a long time before those scoundrels raise their heads again.’
‘A bloody business, Quintus,’ sighed Litorius, shaking his head. ‘The Bagaudae had to be crushed, of course. But still . . .’
‘Don’t say you’re going soft, sir?’ jibed Quintus, with the affectionate familiarity born of months of shared campaigning. ‘They challenged Rome and got what they deserved. And so did those Burgundians. General Aetius was too easy on the Burgundians the first time; when they rebelled again, he really taught them a lesson. Killed – how many was it? Twenty thousand? – then marched off the survivors to captivity in Sapaudia.2 We should mete out the same treatment to the Visigoths.’
‘Everything’s in black and white to you young fire-eaters,’ laughed Litorius. ‘If only things were that straightforward. I met Tibatto, you know,’ he went on musingly, ‘after he was captured, and before we separated his head from his shoulders. Crucifixion, as for Spartacus, would have been more appropriate, I suppose; but of course that was abolished by Constantine a hundred years ago. By no means your ordinary rabble-rouser. Quite cultured, actually. Quoted Tacitus to me: “They create a desert and call it peace.”’
‘Who’s “they” sir?’ asked Quintus, mildly puzzled.
‘Don’t they teach the young the classics any more?’ exclaimed Litorius in mock outrage. ‘ “They” refers to the Romans, in a speech put into the mouth of Calgacus, leader of the Caledonians at the Battle of Mons Graupius, by Tacitus in his Histories.’
‘We beat them, didn’t we?’
‘Well, we may have won that particular battle, but the Caledonians threw us out eventually – back in the reign of Septimius Severus, just over two centuries ago. The first time that had happened in the whole empire; perhaps it marked the turning of the tide for Rome.’
‘Look on the bright side, sir,’ said Quintus cheerfully. ‘The tide may now be turning the other way. Once we’ve dealt with the Visigoths, Gaul will be fully back under Roman control.’
‘You’re probably right,’ responded Litorius, brightening. ‘After all, we crushed the Bagaudae, didn’t we? Perhaps we can crush the Visigoths, too.’
‘No “perhaps” about it, sir,’ replied Quintus stoutly. ‘And it’ll be good to see the south again – feel the sun, breathe upland air, smell the shrubs and pines, see olive groves and vineyards once again, taste some decent wine instead of your piss-thin northern beer.’
They rode for some miles in silence, then Quintus suggested, ‘Like me to check on the column, sir?’
‘Yes, do that.’ Litorius sounded both relieved and grateful.
‘Column’ was a euphemism for the vast, amorphous horde of Huns that formed the bulk of the army, thought Quintus, as he walked his horse to the top of a hillock from which he could view the force. He was worried about his commander. Litorius was a decent man and, in normal circumstances, a good soldier, but suppressing the Bagaudian revolt seemed to have taken a heavy toll on him. Some of the things that had taken place had been pretty stomach-turning, Quintus admitted: that quarry near Lexovium3 where thousands of rebels and their children had been corralled, to become targets for Hun archery practice; the mass executions in the Sequana4, with prisoners roped together in groups and stones tied to their ankles . . . But that was war – horrible things happened, and you just had to grit your teeth and get on with it. Perhaps the count was suffering from fastidium, squeamishness, a condition brought on by exposure to prolonged bloodletting on campaign. If so, that might impair his judgement, potentially putting his own men at risk.
On several occasions, Litorius had tried to restrain the Huns – with embarrassing lack of success: they ignored him, responding only to their own commanders. Outside the walls of towns and the great estates, they had raided and slaughtered indiscriminately. That was one thing if you were putting down renegade peasantry, but if they continued in that vein once they had left Aremorica, there would be serious friction with the Roman authorities. The strain of heading a ‘dirty’ campaign, one in which his control had proved at best tenuous, had had a destabilizing effect on Litorius. At times he had seemed rashly over-confident, once, for example, leading a scouting-party into an ambush, from which it had extricated itself only with difficulty; at other times he had been cautious to the point of timidity, more than once allowing concentrations of Bagaudae to escape. Quintus hoped that, when faced with the formidable Visigoths, Litorius’ nerves and skill would not desert him.
The army pushed on, past the milestone marking the centre of Gaul and into the plateau of Arvernum:5 a strange region of lava deserts and extinct volcanoes shaped like cones or domes, the whole area seamed by valleys of contrasting greenness, which provided welcome fodder for the horses. Where the River Dor6 joined the Elaver7 the army picked up the Via Rigordana – once a Gallic trackway leading to high summer pastures, now the main Roman road to Nemausus through the Cebenna.8
Like a swarm of locusts the host rolled south, past Tigernum Castrum9 above a spectacular gorge, then climbed through successive zones of woodland: oaks and chestnuts, birch and beeches, finally a belt of pines debouching on to a series of undulating plateaux spotted with shallow reed-lined la
kes and bathed in a strange pearly light. The route then led through an unearthly landscape of volcanic peaks, fantastic humps and spires of black lava looming above wooded gorges and sculpted cliffs, some resembling titanic water-organ pipes. At Revessium10, where the Via Rigordana crossed the Via Bolena linking the Elaver and upper Liger, the army came in sight of the mighty outrider of the Cebenna. Round and bald, its approaches sprinkled with the rare white groundsel, the mountain’s summit marked the southern limit of Arvernum, and formed the watershed of the Oceanus Atlanticus and Mare Internum11.
The Huns, having had licence to pillage at will in Aremorica, became a serious nuisance in Arvernum. Complaints about their depredations were brought to Litorius almost daily by outraged landowners and magistrates. The local inhabitants – descendants of the fierce and volatile Arverni, whom Julius Caesar had quelled only with difficulty – were not the sort of people to suffer wanton spoliation meekly. Most plaintiffs the Roman commander managed to placate with apologies, promises of reparation, and on occasion compensation from his own purse. One incident however, was to have consequences both immediate and far-reaching.
As the army passed Avitacum, the estate of Senator Avitus – who was fresh from helping Aetius in the Burgundian campaigns – a servant remonstrated with some Huns who were carelessly trampling terraces of vines. Typically, they ignored the man, but when, with misguided courage, he persisted, one of the Huns, displaying an almost casual contempt, drew his sword and killed him. Quintus reported the matter to Litorius who shrugged wearily, remarking, ‘These things happen, Quintus. I can’t be everywhere.’ He sent an aide to fetch a purse of gold and told the man, ‘Take this to the servant’s family with my regrets.’
But the matter did not end there. An hour later, Avitus himself came spurring up and drew rein right in front of Litorius, forcing him to halt. ‘Keep your money, Count,’ he snapped, throwing the purse on the ground. ‘It’s tainted. I’ll provide for my man’s family myself.’ He went with cold anger, ‘Is this how you keep discipline among your troops? If so, small wonder the barbarians despise us.’
‘The Huns are not the easiest of people to control, Senator,’ replied Litorius, flushing.
‘Aetius can manage them. If you cannot, perhaps another should be commanding here. I demand that you point out the guilty man.’
Litorius could hardly refuse. Accordingly, the army was halted and, there being no shortage of witnesses – Romans as well as Huns – the murderer was soon identified. Avitus rode up to him and addressed him briefly in Hunnish, presumably asking if he had killed the servant. The Hun, astride his horse, made no response except to smile insolently.
Suddenly drawing his spatha, Avitus cut at the man, who barely managed to swerve aside, his complacent smirk changing to an astonished scowl. Quickly unsheathing his own sword, he parried a second blow. Wheeling round each other in a display of masterly horsemanship, the two antagonists cut, thrust and parried, their blades ringing and sparking, while the nearest troops watched in delighted fascination. It was soon evident that Avitus was the more skilful swordsman; the fight had lasted only a few minutes when, with an expertly timed feint, he caused the other to open up his guard. In a flash the spatha plunged between the Hun’s ribs. As he slid dying from the saddle, Avitus wheeled his mount without a word, and galloped back the way he had come.
The incident galvanized Litorius. His mood-swings and passivity were replaced by an alert yet calm decisiveness. Suddenly, he seemed to be everywhere at once, inspecting, admonishing, encouraging. Among the Roman troops, discipline and morale which had taken a knock in Aremorica, began to recover; the Huns, clearly impressed by Avitus’ demonstration of Roman authority, caused no further trouble.
After crossing the Cebenna, the army descended upon Provincia: fertile, urbanized, thoroughly Roman. At Nemausus, it swung south-west following the great military road leading to Narbo Martius. Twenty miles from that city, as the army pitched camp for the night on the north bank of the River Rauraris,12 Litorius sent for his second-in-command. ‘Tomorrow, Quintus, the army rests,’ he said, adding water to wine in a silver mixing-bowl. ‘Not because they need to, but to await the arrival of supply wagons.’
‘Supply wagons?’ repeated Quintus, who had long ago learnt that deferential curiosity could be an aid to advancement.
‘Loaded with flour. The campaign’s Praetorian prefect of supplies has assured me the wagons are scheduled to arrive any day, from state storehouses in the provinces of Viennensis and the First Narbonensis.’
He handed Quintus a brimming goblet. ‘Only Massilian, I’m afraid – best I could get. The plan is this. Those poor devils in Narbo Martius are starving; no food’s got in for months. According to a scout who managed to get through the Gothic lines the other day, they’re on the point of surrendering. If we can get the flour in, that won’t happen and Narbo will be saved. Aetius is on his way from Burgundy; our joint forces will far outnumber the Goths, and they’ll have to raise the siege. However, we can’t afford to wait for Aetius. We must deliver the flour now.’
‘Just one point, sir,’ Quintus said delicately.
Litorius raised his eyebrows.
‘How do we get the flour through the Goths’ entrenchments? With an army the size of ours, they’re bound to get word of our coming and prepare to resist. Also, wagons are slow, cumbrous things, not easy to defend.’
‘You said one point, Quintus,’ Litorius chided gently, recharging their goblets. ‘I make that two.’ Eyes shining with enthusiasm, he began to pace the tent. To answer both: one, the Goths won’t get word of our coming because we’ll approach silently, by night; two, using cavalry we’ll dispense with the wagons to get the flour through – each horseman will carry behind him two sacks of flour. The scout has prepared a sketch-map showing where the enemy lines are weakest; that’s where we’ll strike. Marcus’ men have been primed to guide us in. Well, what do you think?’
‘It’s a brilliant plan sir,’ conceded Quintus, before continuing more dubiously, ‘but risky, if you ask me. Night operations are tricky things – so much can go wrong. Given perfect planning, preparation, and discipline, it could work, I suppose.’
‘It will work,’ affirmed Litorius, adding with a smile, ‘thanks to you.’ He placed a hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘My dear Quintus, I have complete faith in your ability to ensure that those details you’ve just mentioned function smoothly. ‘So you’d best get started. But finish your wine first.’
Wakened by a distant sound, the Goth sentry blearily opened his eyes. Guiltily, he stared about him in the grey half-light at the familiar scene: the tracery of scaffolding surrounding Bishop Rusticus’ half-rebuilt cathedral showing above the great North Gate in Narbo’s walls; the arches of the aqueducts striding above the clumsy earthworks thrown up around the city; the pole of a battering-ram, abandoned after its protective shed had been shattered by rocks dropped from the walls by the defenders; a rickety siege-tower, stuck in the space between the walls and the trenches, its wheels sunk to the axles in the soft ground. The man listened; he could hear it clearly now: a low rumbling like distant thunder, growing steadily louder. Then it dawned on his sleep-fogged brain what it was he was hearing – cavalry! Grabbing the horn suspended by a baldric from his shoulder, he blew a warning blast.
Too late. As the nearest Goths stumbled from their tents and shelters, a tide of mailed Roman horsemen swept up and over the entrenchments, and fell on the besiegers in their path. The fight was short and bloody. Taken by surprise while the bulk of their army still slumbered, the Goths in the path of the Romans fell swiftly to the chopping spathae that rose bright silver in the morning rays, swept down, then rose again; but this time red. Their preliminary task done, the cavalry formed two outward-facing lines in front of the North Gate, creating a clear passage for the Huns who followed, each galloping warrior with two sacks of flour tied behind his saddle.
To the cheers of the besiged, the North Gate swung open to admit the Huns. For
two hours, the Roman cavalry, reinforced by Marcus’ troops, threw back wave after wave of Goths, while the Huns poured into the city like a river in spate. When the last Huns were inside, the cavalry followed, fighting every foot of the way as they backed through the entrance. Then the valves of the gate were slowly pushed shut against a howling press of Goths, and the great securing bars dropped into their holding-braces. A few Goths who had pursued the cavalry too closely found themselves trapped inside and were cut down without quarter.
‘Congratulations, Count – a brilliant operation,’ Aetius told Litorius. They were in Aetius’ tent outside Narbo, ten days after the relief of the city, and the day after he had arrived at the head of his Huns and smashed the Gothic host. (The survivors had retreated to their assigned homeland, leaving eight thousand corpses behind them.) ‘Your relief of Narbo is an object lesson in the two key principles of war, innovation, and what I call “operational command”. The successful general is one who is not afraid to apply original ideas and who, while overseeing general strategy, trusts his subordinates to use their own initiative and implement details on the ground. You have truly shone regarding both these points.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ acknowledged Litorius, flushing with pleasure. ‘But, as I’ve said, much of the credit must go to Quintus here, my second-in-command. The overall plan to get flour to the besieged may have been mine, but the execution was largely his doing.’
‘An excellent example of operational command in action,’ said Aetius with a smile. ‘Well done, Quintus. Promotion’s in order, I think. “Duke Quintus Arrius” – it has a certain ring, you’ll agree. Don’t worry,’ he laughed, turning to Litorius. ‘He won’t be usurping your position. I’m putting you in sole command here while I make a trip to Italia. A little bone to pick with our beloved Empress. You’ll be acting Master of Soldiers pending my return.’