Attila

by Ross Laidlaw

  ‘“After our gallant army sacrificed itself at the Utus,”’ continued Titus, after briefly scanning the remainder of the missive, ‘“we looked to the West for help, but sadly it was not forthcoming. This despite the fact that our Invincible Augustus, the Most Sacred Theodosius, the Calligrapher, has in the past given aid most generously, and on more than one occasion, to his Royal Cousin, Valentinian, Augustus of the West. Our distinguished general, the Illustrious Anatolius, Count of the First Order, has had to make the best terms he can with Attila. These, however, are harsh indeed: the yearly tribute to be greatly increased, and a strip of territory south of the Danubius, from Singidunum to Novae,3 to be ceded to the Huns – three hundred miles in length, and in breadth as much as a fifteen days’ journey will encompass.

  ‘“In hopes of mitigating these heavy conditions, a special embassy is to travel from Constantinople to Attila, who has agreed to receive it. This mission will be headed by a respected courtier, the Most Perfect Maximin, accompanied by one Priscus,4 of Panium in Thracia, a scholar and historian of note. The observations of the latter, as to the mores of the Huns, may yield a useful insight as to how best to treat with these barbarians. It is greatly to be hoped that ambassadors from the West will join our embassy, as their presence could add weight to our pleas.

  ‘“Esteemed Patrician, it is no secret that you have, or have had, ties of friendship with our present oppressor, the monarch of the Huns. This consideration might help to sway him in our favour. The citizens of the Eastern part of our One and Indivisible Empire beseech the Patrician of the West, in the event he cannot come himself, at least to send persons of substance to speak on his behalf. Such men should be familiar with both courts and camps, be of noble lineage and of consular rank. The Emperor Himself prays you will accede to this request; you would then leave the East a grateful memory of the name of Aetius. Farewell. Signed by the hand of Nomus, Master of Offices, the Most Perfect . . .” et cetera, et cetera. Sounds as if they’re pretty desperate, sir.’

  ‘I should at least have tried to help them!’ cried Aetius, an expression of anguished guilt on his face. He looked appealingly at Titus. ‘But how, in all conscience, could I? My army would have mutinied if I’d ordered it to the East, as Julian’s legions did – and that was eighty years ago. Besides, Attila is, or was, my friend. It’s hard to fight a man you’ve broken bread with. Anyway, all that’s by the way. How could I have left Gaul, with the federates always ready to break out the moment my back’s turned?’

  ‘No one, if he’s fair, can blame you, sir,’ said Titus gently, thinking how tired and lined the general’s face had become, and how much his hair had greyed in recent months. ‘You’ve got your hands more than full holding things together in the West.’

  ‘I can’t disagree with that,’ concurred Aetius with gloomy emphasis. He began to pace the spacious chamber overlooking the confluence of the Rhodanus and the Arar,5 which, since it had become his office, had been reduced to the usual state of chaos. ‘With my field army shrinking steadily – like an icicle in the sun – these days I’m having to be more diplomat than soldier. Wielding the big stick’s no longer the option it once was; I must now placate, where once I could compel. Never did I need Attila’s Huns more. Keeping these touchy federates in line would try the patience of a saint. When King Chlodio died recently, the Franks couldn’t decide which of his sons should succeed. So whom did they ask to arbitrate? Me. I chose the younger, Merovech, a decent lad who’s showing promise as a ruler. But in spite of primogeniture not being a deciding factor with the Franks, the elder brother felt aggrieved and flounced off to Attila, whom he’s asked to help put him on the throne.’

  ‘And that could be serious?’

  ‘It might. They’ve become formal allies, it would seem. That could give Attila a pretext for invading the West, I suppose. I just hope, for old times’ sake, he’d never go that far. Half my time’s spent ingratiating myself with the Frankish nobles, so as to persuade them that Merovech is the right choice.’

  ‘And the other half?’ ventured Titus with a smile, hoping to lighten the general’s mood.

  ‘What’s this, a Socratic dialogue?’ replied the other, with a wry grin. ‘Don’t humour me, my friend. You know the answer very well yourself. Ever since Theoderic and Gaiseric fell out over the latter’s mutilation of the former’s daughter, I’ve been working hard to build up a friendly relationship with Theoderic. We hope to be able to mount a jount Romano-Visigothic invasion of Africa, to punish Gaiseric and, with luck, get rid of him – which won’t be easy, mind, as he’s now Attila’s ally. Still, he’s played into my hands by making an enemy of Theoderic, who otherwise might be getting ideas again about expanding his territory eastwards into Provincia.’ The general paused in his pacing to secure a banging shutter. He stood looking out of the window for a short while. ‘The times we live in, Titus,’ he mused. ‘From here I can see, between the houses and the city walls, great empty spaces and derelict buildings. This city, once among the greatest in the West, has shrunk to half its size. Insecurity, declining trade . . . The aqueducts have stopped working, always the first sign that things are breaking down. Lead thieves; they strip the lining from the water channels. The city council’s too strapped for cash to employ maintenance staff or an adequate force of vigiles.’

  ‘To change the subject, sir, what, if anything, do we do about this appeal from Constantinople?’

  ‘Not “we” my dear Titus: you. A trip to Eastern Europe as part of a diplomatic mission – it’ll be a pleasant change for you.’

  ‘Me!’ exclaimed Titus, perturbed. ‘Is that a good idea, sir? Remember what happened last time. And if Attila’s only prepared to meet people of consular rank, that rather puts me out of the race, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault that your mission to Attila failed. The timing was wrong, that’s all. Litorius’ blundering at Tolosa had just cost the lives of sixty thousand Huns, if you recall. As for your not having been a consul, well, while Caligula may have made his horse one, I can’t do the same for you, I’m afraid. Not that it matters. Attila’s stipulation isn’t to be taken too literally. I doubt this Priscus fellow boasts a title to his name. Still, you’d better have one of some sort, I suppose. Let’s see, top-ranking agentes in rebus became Most Distinguished under Gratian, but I’m pretty sure that went up to Notable early in the present reign. So, in order that you qualify, I now promote you to princeps, the highest rank in the courier service. Titus Valerius Rufinus, Vir Spectabilis: how does that sound?’

  ‘I can live with it,’ acknowledged Titus with a smile.

  ‘I should think so! The things I do for you. Your title will need to be confirmed by the Consistory, but I’ll make sure the application goes through marked “First Priority”. Now, while officially your function on this mission will be to give backing to the Eastern envoys, I want you to try and arrange a private audience with Attila. His anger has had time to cool since Tolosa. There’s just a chance that this time you may succeed in persuading him to become my ally again. I’ll brief you later about what to say. And while you’re there, try to find out what happened to Constantius. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘It’s my guess he absconded with the gifts he was meant to take to Attila. I know you liked him, sir, but I felt there was something untrustworthy about him.’

  ‘I suppose you may be right,’ sighed Aetius. ‘Pity. A talented young man, who could have gone far. Now, to decide who’s going with you . . .’

  1 Naissus (the present-day Ni), one of the cities destroyed by the Huns. Priscus passed it en route to visit Attila in 449.

  2 Lyons.

  3 From Belgrade to Sistova, Bulgaria.

  4 Author of the fragmentary Byzantine History, which contains a vivid and detailed first-hand account of the embassy’s visit to the court of Attila.

  5 The Rhône and the Saône.

  FORTY

  A luxurious meal served on silver plate had bee
n made ready for us, but Attila ate nothing but meat on a wooden trencher

  Priscus of Panium, Byzantine History, after 472

  Attila’s palace, the Royal Village, Old Dacia (former Roman province) [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum], ‘in the consulships of Asturius and Protogenes, II Nones June.1

  Soon after crossing the Danubius at Aquincum, the West Roman embassy (myself; Romulus, a senator, an affable nonentity included solely for the prestige his rank would confer on the mission; a modest retinue) was met by Hun guides sent by Attila. They conducted us eastwards for a further two hundred miles to Attila’s camp, situated between the upper waters of the Tisa and the Carpathus Mountains. On the way, we stayed at Hun villages, where we were treated with impeccable politeness and hospitality, especially at one settlement owned by the widow of Bleda, Attila’s brother. We were entertained with great kindness by the lady herself.

  The Hun ‘capital’, which I visited nine years ago on my first, ill-fated, mission to Attila, is in reality nothing more than a vast, sprawling village of tents, lacking a single stone building, with one exception – a perfect copy of a Roman bath-house! It was designed apparently by a Greek taken prisoner in war. Anything more ludicrously inappropriate would be hard to imagine – like seeing a pearl stud in a pig’s ear. The palace is on top of a hill within the village; it consists of a scatter of wooden buildings surrounded by a palisade. We were shown to our quarters, and invited to a banquet to be held that evening. To my surprise, the feast was arranged with considerable elegance: two lines of small tables, covered in linen, for the guests and their hosts down each side of a spacious hall, with the royal table, reserved for Attila and members of his family, on a raised platform in the middle. In contrast to the side-tables, which were spread with gold and silver platters and goblets (doubtless looted from the Eastern Empire in the recent campaigns), the royal board was furnished with wooden cups and dishes. In a calculated snub, we Romans were placed on the left-hand row, high-ranking Huns and subject German chiefs on the more honourable right. Unlike the non-Roman guests, who were tricked out in barbaric finery, Attila was clad in plain skin garments, lacking any ornament.

  I found myself seated next to Priscus, the historian from the Eastern embassy, a garrulous, friendly little fellow who, when he thought no one was looking, would whip out his waxed tablets and stylus, and scratch down notes. He gave me a brief description of some of the characters facing us from the Huns’ side of the hall. ‘See those two opposite, the long-haired chap with the gold neck-torque, and the scholarly-looking type in the Roman dalmatic next to him? Edecon and Orestes,2 the last two ambassadors Attila sent to Constantinople. They joined us on our journey from Constantinople. Edecon’s some sort of chief among his own people, a German tribe called the Sciri who are now Attila’s subjects and who provide his bodyguard. Orestes is Attila’s secretary. Why on earth a Roman should choose to bury himself in this backwater, among a lot of unwashed savages, is beyond me. Of course, being a Pannonian and a resident in that province when it was ceded to the Huns, he may not have had a choice. And that oafish-looking fellow in the blue tunic, that’s Bigilas, the interpreter. Watch what you say if you’re called on to give a toast. He’s a mischief-maker, who’s quite likely to twist your words if he doesn’t like your face.’

  Contrary to my fears, the feast wasn’t at all bad, though rather heavily dependent on goat’s flesh and mutton. I was relieved that the drink provided was not the local kumiss, a nauseating beverage made from fermented mare’s milk, but Roman wine. This was undiluted, the Huns presumably being ignorant of the Roman practice of mixing water with the heavy imperial vintages. To my growing alarm and discomfort, with each course a cup-bearer presented a goblet of wine to Attila, who proceeded to toast the chief guests in turn. He barely touched the cup with his lips, but this privilege did not extend to those outwith the royal table; not to drain one’s cup with each toast – or appear to do so – would clearly have been construed an insult. Consequently, despite unobtrusively contriving to spill a considerable amount of wine on the floor, I began to feel quite sick. Fortunately, the toasts were discontinued after the last course had been served, when we were treated by two bards to a tedious recitation of verses celebrating Attila’s valour and victories.

  This was followed by a grotesque performance by a pair of clowns, one Moorish, the other a Hun. Their buffoonish antics and ‘comic’ speeches in a garbled mixture of Latin, Goth, and Hunnish sent the opposite tables into paroxysms of laughter in which, for politeness’ sake, we Romans had to pretend to join. Throughout this farce, Attila alone sat unmoved and gravely silent; except on the entrance of his youngest son, Irnac, when I was astonished to discover that the Scourge of God has a softer side. He hugged the little boy with a tender smile, pinched him gently on the cheek, and proceeded to dandle him affectionately on his knee. Soon afterwards, the royal party left the hall. Thankfully, I could now retire, and departed along with the other Romans, in my case, and I suspect in theirs, to nurse a throbbing head.

  The following morning, Maximin was summoned for an interview with Attila. Titus’ turn came in the afternoon. He was received in the same audience chamber as nine years previously, with Attila sitting on the same simple wooden throne. Now that he could see him close up, Titus was shocked by the change in Attila. Gone was the impression of coiled energy that had so impressed him. He seemed instead to be looking at a sick old lion, a lion whose teeth and claws could still rend, but whose great strength was beginning to run down.

  ‘Well, Roman,’ said Attila in his deep voice, ‘I trust you bring me better news than last time, when you reported the loss of sixty thousand of my finest warriors. You may speak.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Titus, bowing, ‘my master Aetius, Patrician of the West, sends greetings to the King of the Huns, and wishes him good health and prosperity. He suggests that the time has come to mend bridges with the Romans – to cease making war against the subjects of Theodosius, and to become once more the friend and ally of the Romans of the West.’

  ‘And why should the King of the Huns accede to either of these requests?’ asked Attila mildly.

  ‘From the East Romans, as I understand from Maximin, you already receive tribute, a shameful yoke for a proud Empire to submit to. But if these sums were to become fair recompense for protection for that empire from her enemies – the warlike Isaurians, the ambitious Persians, the savage Nubians – Scythia and East Rome could co-exist as friendly allies. The terror of Attila’s name would of itself be sufficient to deter those peoples from attacking the Eastern Empire.’

  ‘And the West?’

  ‘It is my master’s sincerest wish that the friendship that was once between you both might be resumed. For providing soldiers to watch the federates and ensure that they stay within the bounds of their assigned homelands, he is willing to grant you not only the titles of Patrician, and – together with himself – Master of Soldiers in all the Gauls, but also one-fifth of the revenues of the West. As peace and stability return, and taxes normalize, these revenues must increase. They would increase dramatically if you were to break off your alliance with Gaiseric, who is nothing better than a pirate, and if not assist, at least not hinder, the reconquest of Africa. He also sees a time when the empires of the Huns and the West Romans could become united – to the mutual benefit of both. And as a mark of his affection and respect, he sends this gift.’ Titus unwrapped the present he had brought with him, a magnificent silver dish two feet across, showing scenes and objects in relief, wrought with the most exquisite Roman craftsmanship.

  For a few seconds Attila stared in silence at the dish, then, taking it from Titus, he exclaimed hoarsely, ‘See, here is the fight with the bear, at the moment when I pierced it with my lance. And here is Pegasus, the Arab steed I gifted to Carpilio, his son. The bison hunt. The Sacred Scimitar. Shooting the rapids of the Iron Gate. Truly, it is a noble gift,’ he murmured, a hint of emotion in his voice, a yearning in his eyes, akin to the
look Titus had noted when he greeted his child. But only for a moment. In a flash, Attila’s features had composed themselves into their habitual expression of stern gravity.

  ‘Your words are fair, Roman,’ he declared judiciously, ‘but I would remind you that in the past, where the West is concerned, I have given much but received little. You offer the same terms as did your predecessor, Constantius – allowing for his exaggerations. I was tempted to believe him, until it transpired that what he had told me was but a ruse in order to deceive me. Why then, should I believe you?’

  ‘That I cannot say, Your Majesty,’ responded Titus, with a sinking feeling that things were slipping away from him. His fears about Constantius had proved justified. To himself, he cursed the smooth-talking young aristocrat, and Aetius for having allowed himself to be taken in. ‘Attila is famous as a judge of men,’ he pressed on. ‘I am happy that my honesty should stand upon his verdict. May I ask, Your Majesty, in what way Constantius played you false?’

  ‘He is here. You may see him if you wish.’

  His mind in a whirl, Titus could only nod. What could Attila possibly mean? Had Constantius turned traitor, to spy for Attila against the West?’

  The King flung open the shutters of a window and invited Titus to look out. The Roman did so – and gasped in horror. In the middle of a grassy space stood a tall cross, on which was suspended a hideous thing that had once been a man – a skeleton, to which still adhered tattered scraps of skin and flesh. Things crawling in the empty eye 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.’