by Ross Laidlaw
‘Valentinian won’t like it, sir,’ observed Titus dubiously. ‘Aren’t the imperial palaces his personal property?’
Aetius shrugged. ‘He may not like it, but that’s immaterial. He knows he can’t refuse a request from the Master of Soldiers. Anyway, Prefect Boethius is a friend of mine. He’ll smooth things over if Valentinian proves difficult.’ He glanced at a water-clock on a stand. ‘Barely past the second hour.’ He grinned and clapped Titus on the shoulder. ‘With hard riding, you’ll be in Arelate by sunset.’
In a chamber in the central, private, block of the Domus Augustana, Domitian’s immense brick-faced concrete palace on Rome’s Palatine Hill, Valentinian was ensconced with his amicus principis, his favourite, the eunuch Heraclius.
‘Commandeering our Palace of Commodus,’ fumed the emperor. ‘The man’s presumption knows no bounds! And, to add insult to injury, he dispenses with a formal request but sends instead a lackey, this agent Titus, to inform us he intends to requisition our property. Perhaps he thinks himself above his sovereign?’
‘I would hesitate to say that he does not, Serenity,’ replied Heraclius. ‘I would advise you have a care for the safety of your person. Today the Palace of Commodus, tomorrow . . . the Palace of Domitian?’ Smiling and plump, he spread his hands. ‘Is Heraclius being too fanciful? I do not wish to cause Your Serenity undue alarm, but it would be wise, perhaps, not to dismiss such considerations lightly. Remember what happened to Gratian, and to the second emperor to bear your name – done away with by ambitious generals. It is no secret that Aetius intends to press the suit of his son Gaudentius for the hand of your daughter, the Princess Eudocia. One cannot but wonder: why is this of such importance to him? Should the union come to pass, and a male child be born . . .’ He left the sentence hanging in the air.
‘Don’t fence with me, Heraclius,’ snapped Valentinian. ‘What is it you’re suggesting?’
‘Why, nothing, Serenity,’ the eunuch replied smoothly. ‘Merely observing that, as such a child would be of royal blood, Aetius might be tempted.’
‘Tempted!’ exclaimed Valentinian, turning pale. ‘Tempted to usurp our throne in the name of his son or grandson? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying Your Serenity should be careful,’ said Heraclius in his soft, whispering voice. ‘Just in case. Aetius, as we know, is no respecter of persons. He destroyed Boniface, he humiliated your mother, he rides roughshod over your decrees. Who knows what such a man might venture, to advance himself? I advise you, when you meet him, not to be alone or unarmed.’
‘Thank you, Heraclius,’ said the emperor. ‘You are a loyal friend. If only all our ministers were as concerned for our welfare. You may leave us now. We shall ponder what you have said.’
The eunuch bowed and backed out of the chamber, a spiteful smile playing round his lips. Like his master, he had felt the lash of Aetius’ scorn in the past. Perhaps the score could now be evened.
Handing his sword-belt to the duty centenarius, Aetius dimissed his bodyguard, a company of tough young Germans, hand-picked for their fighting skills, and all of proven loyalty and courage. Unarmed and alone, he advanced towards the gates of Domitian’s Palace. As they swung open, he reflected that his agent Titus and others had cautioned him against seeing Valentinian without taking precautions for his own security. The Emperor was in an angry, suspicious, and unstable mood, they had said, and he had not concealed his resentment of the Patrician’s presence in Rome. But Aetius had brushed the warnings aside. What could Valentinian possibly do to harm him? Shout? Threaten? If the Emperor attempted to arrest him, his bodyguard, as soon as they got wind, would make short work of Valentinian’s – who were scorned as toy soldiers, for all their splendid uniforms.
Aetius strode to the entrance of the left-hand, official, block of the three that constituted the palace, whence he was conducted by a silentiary, one of the aristocrats who served as palace ushers, through the triclinium and peristyle into the audience chamber. This was a vast hall, ablaze with vari-coloured marble and lined with enormous statues. At the far end was Valentinian, enthroned. To Aetius’ surprise, he was flanked by numerous courtiers and eunuchs, among the latter, the well-fleshed form of Heraclius.
For a moment, Aetius felt a twinge of unease; he had expected to meet the Emperor alone. Then his concern changed to contempt. Clearly, Valentinian felt intimidated and, to give himself moral support, had felt the need to surround himself with lick-spittle lackeys guaranteed to reinforce his every statement. For the moment, however, Aetius told himself, he must mask his true feelings. In a matter as delicate and important as a royal marriage, diplomacy above all was called for. He advanced with measured steps towards the throne, then, halting three paces before it, bowed his head.
‘You have come, I suppose, to press your son’s claim to our daughter’s hand,’ declared Valentinian in a loud voice, leaning forward in his throne.
‘Hardly a claim, Serenity,’ replied Aetius mildly; for once, in the knowledge that tact would help his cause, addressing the Emperor by his honorific title. ‘The Princess Eudocia herself, I understand, desires the marriage as much as does Gaudentius.’
‘Or as much as you do,’ accused Valentinian. ‘Are you sure the marriage reflects not more your own ambitions than our children’s happiness?’
‘What ambitions, Your Serenity?’ asked Aetius, puzzled. ‘Naturally, I would feel immensely proud if my family were to be joined with the illustrious House of Theodosius. But apart from the vicarious prestige I would gain thereby, I can see no advantage accruing to myself.’
‘You lie!’ shouted the Emperor. ‘For you, the marriage would be but a first step to seizing the purple – if not for yourself, for your son, or your grandson should there be one. You would use the name of Theodosius to cloak your usurpation with legitimacy.’
‘With respect, Serenity, that is nonsense,’ protested Aetius. ‘It is the empire, not myself, that would benefit from such a union. You yourself, to the sincere regret of all your subjects, have as yet no male heir. Should that, unfortunately, remain so, and should the union of my son with your daughter be blessed with male issue, the dynasty of Theodosius, which has lasted these seventy years, would be secure. That would mean stability, Serenity – a priceless boon. The soldiers welcome continuity because it guarantees security of pay and donatives. Thus the threat of usurpers plunging the empire into chaos – which has been the curse of Rome – must be very greatly lessened. Would I, who have dedicated my whole life to the preservation of the West, risk putting the state in jeopardy by making a bid for the throne?’
‘You would!’ shrieked Valentinian, spittle flying from his lips. ‘Traitor, your smooth words do not deceive me. All along, you have robbed my mother and myself of the power that was rightly ours. But the final accolade, the purple and the diadem – those you shall never have.’
Drawing a sword concealed beneath his robes, Valentinian rushed at Aetius and plunged the blade into his breast. Immediately the whole swarm of imperial attendants, drawing hidden weapons, followed suit, hacking and thrusting like men possessed, in their eagerness to emulate their master. Moments later, blood gushing from a hundred wounds, Aetius fell dead at Valentinian’s feet.
I have just heard the dreadful news that Aetius has been murdered [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum]. I feel the loss almost as keenly as I did those of Gaius and Clothilde. He represented all the best of Rome – courage, honour, perseverance; to serve him has been the greatest privilege I could have sought. As for the vicious coward who struck him down, I can find no words strong enough to express my loathing and contempt.
Reports are coming in of a bloodbath at the palace: Aetius’ friends summoned secretly then dispatched, Boethius the Praetorian prefect among them. Proclamations are being made throughout the city that Valentinian was provoked and killed Aetius in self-defence. No one believes them; Aetius’ bodyguard swear that he was unarmed when he entered the palace, and, in their present mood of grie
f and fury, will not hold back from saying so. Rome is in uproar, and it would not surprise me to hear that the mob had stormed the Domus Augustana.
The consequences of the murder for the West will probably be catastrophic. Is there anyone who can take Aetius’ place? The death-blow that Valentinian dealt him may prove to be the death-blow for the empire. I cannot write more at this time; my mind is too distracted by sorrow and confusion.
FIFTY-FOUR
His attendants also surrendered, considering it a disgrace to survive their King1 or not to die for him if the occasion required it
Ammianus Marcellinus, The Histories, c. 395
As Hercules slew the vile monster Cacus for his treachery [Titus wrote in his journal], so Vadomar has avenged the slaying of his master Aetius, by dispatching, in the thirty-first year of his reign and the thirty-seventh of his worthless life, Valentinian, the third of that name, Emperor of the Romans of the West. Some (though few, I think) will call it murder; to me, it is no more than just retribution for a heinous crime. Perhaps you’ve heard that the killing was carried out by two Huns who had served Aetius, Optila and Thraustila? Mere progaganda – a fabrication designed to shield the palace guards from blame. Judge for yourselves. I give you Vadomar’s own story, just as he gave it to me.
I was born, I think (we Germans not being so nice in such matters as you Romans), in the year when Gaiseric took the Vandals into Africa, which makes me, at this time of telling, twenty-five or twenty-six. My father was a farmer and when need arose a warrior, in the country of Gundomad, a lesser chief – or regulus, as you would say – of the Alamanni. Unlike the Burgundians or even the Saxons, the Alamanni, as the name tells you, are not one people but a loose gathering of Hermunduri, Suebes and others, settled in the old agri decumanes between the upper Rhenus and the Danubius. Gundomar, whose stronghold of the Runder Berg looks down upon the Nicer, is not a warlike lord, his housecarles mainly time-served veterans who once fought in the armies of Rome. To stay at home, then, held little hope of plunder or renown for bold young men. Being myself of a restless temper, and thinking a life of toil behind the plough little better than bondage, in my eighteenth year I joined the war-band of one Hermann, who led us across the Rhenus into the province of Maxima Sequanorum in eastern Gaul. This he was able to do unhindered. Half of Rome’s great armies had been killed in the wars against the Goths, the losses being made up by stripping the empire’s marches of their troops, leaving them unwarded.
Sadly, Hermann showed little of the cunning of his great namesake who, in the reign of your Emperor Augustus, destroyed Varus’ legions in the Teutoburgerwald. From our camp in an abandoned villa, we raided the neighbouring countryside. To little gain. The land was empty, the Romans long ago having left their farms and villas for the safety of the towns. Instead of searching for unwasted parts of the province, or pressing on into mid-Gaul, Hermann, lured by the thought of easy booty, chose to lay siege to Argentaria.2 It was a witless thing to do; Germans, as everyone knows, lack the skill or patience to take a place guarded by walls. He seemed to think the townsfolk would either soon give in or pay us gold to leave them be. When, after three weeks, neither of these things had happened, our war-band started to break up. Sullen and hungry, many of Hermann’s followers drifted back across the Rhenus, he lacking the force to stop them. Unwilling to return home with nothing to show for ourselves, however, I and a boon comrade – a simple fellow, but loyal to a fault and who would gladly share his last crust with you – thought to seek our luck in the service of Rome. This has long been a worthy calling with our people. And so Vadomar and Gibvult began to seek out the whereabouts of the Army of Gaul. Which, after a weary trek across the Vosegus Gebirge then up the dales of the Mosella and Mosa, we found patrolling the marches of the Frankish Settlement in Second Belgica.
The Norns, who weave the web of men’s lives, must that day have looked on us with favour. We were being taken towards their camp by the sentries who spotted us when, as we entered a glade, there burst from the far side a huge boar, followed by a man on horseback with a levelled hunting-spear, a high Roman officer by his silvered armour. Seeing our party blocking his way, the boar turns at bay and charges his foe. Affrighted, the officer’s steed rears and throws his rider. But before the boar’s tushes can rend the helpless man, I hurl my spear – at handling which I am skilled through long usage. It strikes in the neck, making the brute stagger and fall. Before it can rise, Gibvult and I, racing to the spot, swiftly dispatch it.
The Roman officer, getting shakily to his feet, clasped our hands in turn. ‘A close call,’ he said with a wry grin. (Though he spoke in Latin, both Gibvult and myself had enough knowledge of that tongue from talking with the veterans at home, to understand him well enough.) ‘But for you two, I would now be dead or badly wounded. I’m sorely in your debt. If there’s any way within my power to repay that obligation . . . ?’ He smiled and spread his hands.
When we told him our wish was to join the legions, he declared, ‘Rome welcomes volunteers, especially brave young Germans. In these hard times few follow the Eagles from choice. But carrying a spear in the ranks? A poor reward for such a service as you’ve done today.’ Borrowing tablets from the biarchus in charge of the sentries, he scratched a message on the wax and returned them to the man, saying, ‘See that the general gets this.’ He turned to us. ‘A recommendation to the commander-in-chief that you be allowed to join his bodyguard.’ Remounting nimbly, he waved and cantered off.
The biarchus whistled and shook his head solemnly. ‘Well, you’re in luck all right,’ he said enviously. ‘Know who that was? Only Count Majorian, that’s who. Second-in-command to General Aetius, the man who runs the empire.’
And so we joined the Eagles. But before we could join Aetius’ bodyguard of bucellarii – mostly Franks and Alamanni drawn from the auxilia palatina and vexillationes palatinae, the best units in the army – we had to undergo a time of training.
Some Germans (but only those who have never fought the Romans) think that, because at present Rome seems weak, her soldiers must be cowardly or badly trained. Having served in Rome’s Army of Gaul, I can say with truth that this is not so. Along with other recruits, we were taught, both on foot and mounted, to use spear, sword, javelin, and lead-weighted darts, practising on wooden dummies, later against fellow soldiers using blunted weapons. We were drilled without pity till some recruits dropped on the parade-ground. That never happened to Gibvult or myself, thanks to our having practised hard with weapons from boyhood, like all Germans. Above all, we learnt discipline: to keep steady in formation, and to obey orders – that comes hard to Germans, which is why, in almost all our battles with the Romans, we have been the losers. You see, Titus Valerius, we Germans, unlike you Romans, have never trembled before a schoolmaster’s rod. That is, I think, the reason why we are bolder in battle than you, but why your discipline is better. Anyway, having passed our training tests – with eagles held high, as they say – Gibvult and I joined the general’s bodyguard. Splendid was the war-gear they gave us as full-fledged bucellarii: shirt of mail, helmet of the Greek or Attic type, which is stronger than the ridge-helmets worn by ordinary troops, spatha of fine Hispanic steel, tough oval shield made from layers of laminated wood, a lance, a spear.
As for Aetius, whom I accompanied on his last campaigns in Gaul and by whose side I fought on the Plains of Catalauni, this I can truly say: he was the best man I ever knew. Bold, frank, open-handed, never asking of another what he would not do himself, he was a leader such as Germans love to serve. Gladly would I have laid down my life for him when he met the Emperor in Rome. But that was not to be, for he entered the palace alone.
Truly is this Rome a mighty Stadt. Riding down the Flaminian Way, we (that is, Aetius with his bodyguard and a small train of officers and attendants) came to the city from the north, with the Tiber flowing to our right. Standing in the middle of a dreary plain, Rome is guarded by a high brick wall full twenty miles round,3 made by order of Emperor Aure
lian against inroads by my own tribe, the Alamanni. Passing beneath the portcullis of the Flaminian Gate, a great arch through the battlemented curtain with strong towers clad in white marble on either side, we kept on down the same road (now a street) past the huge drum of Augustus’ tomb with two tall columns from Egypt standing before it, then through the Arch of Marcus Aurelius and under the mighty aqueduct called Aqua Virgo. (Understand, this being my first visit to the city, I did not then know the names of these buildings or anything about them, but found out later.)
And so, passing beneath the Mount of the Capitol crowned with stately buildings, we entered the famous Forum Romanum, surrounded by more temples, basilicas, and statues than I could number. Our path then led along the Sacred Way beneath the Palatine Hill, and through the Arch of Titus to the Colosseum, the biggest thing made by man that I have yet seen. How, I asked myself, to find words to tell of such a marvel? Then beside me, lost in wonder, Gibvult breathed, ‘It’s a cheese – a great cheese!’ I cuffed him playfully and made to mock him for an ignorant barbarian, when it struck me of a sudden he was right. A monstrous cheese is truly what the Colosseum looks like – well, from a distance, anyway. But such a cheese as might have graced the board of Odin.
From the Amphitheatre of the Flavians it was but two hundred paces to where we were to stay, the Palace of Commodus, Aetius having sent ahead to make sure the place was ready against our arrival. (You, Titus, were the messenger on that occasion I believe.) What Valentinian thought of this ‘borrowing’ of imperial property (which was like to add to the tally of his grievances against the Patrician), I can only guess.
For Gibvult and myself, who thus far had known only the rough life of the backwoods village or the camp, it was strange indeed to eat in marble halls and sleep on beds of down. Aetius, who was a hard taskmaster when need arose, but an easy one when things were quiet, while making preparation for his meeting with the Emperor (of whose purpose we of course knew nothing) gave his bodyguard leave to see the sights of Rome, taking turns to do duty at the palace. I could fill a book (if I could write) telling of the wonders of the city. But that would weary you, Titus, my friend, so I shall speak only of those things that struck me most: the Colosseum (which I have already touched on); the Baths of Caracalla and of Diocletian, the size of towns in Gaul; the Circus Maximus near half a mile in length; the Forum of Trajan flanked by a wondrous mall with covered markets, shops, and galleries; the Pantheon’s stupendous dome; the Basilica of St Peter below Mount Vaticanus outside the Walls, the empire’s greatest church they say; the Insula of Felicula, a gigantic tower block out-topping Trajan’s column and accounted one of the wonders of the Roman world; above all, the mighty aqueducts snaking through the city like Orms4 above the rooftops.