Aëtius observed the princes’ faces now shining, all youthful confidence and eagerness for battle, and reminded them that the Huns would have learned much in the siege and destruction of dozens of former cities. There was also disease. There were also food and water shortages, with the city’s swarming populace swelled further by refugees. They could expect no help, no relief forces, no lifting of the siege by outside agency. There would be no mercy shown if the city fell to Attila, only the same universal massacre that he had perpetrated before.
‘And we have no defensive forces to speak of,’ he added.
‘We have artillerymen, and the wolf-lords.’
‘Forty-four wolf-lords, yes. Two centuries of Imperial Guard, some auxiliaries. Attila’s army could be a hundred thousand men, and he has the whole of Thrace and Moesia behind him for looting and forage. We have failed to disrupt a single supply line. Neither his men nor his horses will go hungry, even as winter approaches. We have only what is already within the walls. And perhaps a few hours to prepare ourselves for the assault.’
The princes looked very different now, but Aëtius had no remorse. The truth must prevail.
As if to confirm his grave diagnosis, a centurion appeared before them and snapped to attention. It was Tatullus. Only the third centurion in the entire city, and already appointed Aëtius’ second-in-command.
‘Sir. Manpower report.’
‘Proceed.’
‘Sir. Two centuries of Palatine Guard stationed beside the palace, a hundred and sixty men, on orders to remain there. Four survivors from the VIIth Legion, including myself, sir. Two auxiliary alae of Isaurian mercenaries, loyalty uncertain, numbers severely reduced, survivors from Thessalonika and Trajanople. Total head-count, around eighty. Currently barracked off the Forum of Arcadius. Full complement of city watch, couple of hundred, untrained, armed with staves. Able enough to police a crowd but in battle couldn’t fight off my granny, sir. Artillery operators, unarmed and unarmoured, untrained in any hand-to-hand, but full complement. A machine on fifty-six of the ninety-six towers. No specialist archers, sir. No—’
‘No archers? In the entire city?’
Tatullus remained expressionless. ‘No, sir. None.’
Aëtius compressed his fists. ‘Very well. Continue.’
‘That’s the manpower report, sir. No cavalry. And that’s it. Apart from civilian population, around a million, plus further forty or fifty thousand refugees.’
‘And forty-four Gothic wolf-lords,’ said Theodoric. ‘Archers, spearmen, swordsmen.’
Aëtius brooded. Around three hundred fighting men in all. ‘Billet all refugees on existing households - none to be camped rough in the streets, do you hear? The city is to be kept scrupulously clean. No handouts from the state granaries until I give the order. Have the city watch oversee it. Order the auxiliaries to the walls. And your three men along with’ - he turned to Theodoric - ‘your wolf-lords.’
A hundred and thirty men, including eighty mountain mercenaries from the wilds of Cappadocia. Christ have mercy. The Palatine Guard must be released to fight on the walls. He sent an urgent message to the palace.
Almost immediately, there before him was another messenger, his face white and taut. One of the palace staff.
‘Have I the honour of addressing Master-General Aëtius?’
‘You have. Speak, man.’
‘Esteemed sir, ships have been seen passing eastwards through the Hellespont and coming this way. A small party crossing to Chalcedon saw their sails over the Propontis and courageously turned back to warn us.’
Aëtius’ blood ran cold. ‘Ships? How many?’
‘They said . . . they said, “a flotilla”, sir. A large number, not precisely counted.’
‘But, but,’ interrupted Theodoric, looking bewildered, ‘the Huns may have mastered siegecraft, but they have no naval forces. Impossible.’
Aëtius turned on him so fiercely that the prince almost quailed before him. ‘When is your sister - what’s her name?’
‘Amalasuntha.’
‘When is the poor maid to be married to the son of Genseric?’
‘I, I have no idea, sir. I . . . She is already betrothed to him . . .’
The poor girl. A child, a light-footed, laughing child when last he saw her in the Court of King Theodoric at Tolosa, throwing her slim arms round her father’s shaggy old head. Now a mere pawn in this catastrophic game of chess, which was becoming a war for the fate of the world.
‘Pray God she is not yet sent to Carthage.’
‘But . . . the Vandals are our allies. We have sworn ancient Teutonic oaths of blood loy—’
‘Too late, boy. Those are Vandal ships crossing the Propontis towards us. Those are Attila’s allies. We are now at war, we and Genseric, and your father will soon have to choose on which side he stands. We will get no supplies or reinforcements from the sea now.’ He turned to the messenger and rapped out the latest sketch of the situation for the emperor, unsparing in its direst details.
‘What of the Byzantine navy?’ asked Torismond.
‘No manpower. No marines. They died with the field army on the Utus. I’ve given orders for the ships to be scuttled to block the Golden Horn.’
Theodoric crossed himself. ‘If it is true that the Vandals have allied with the Huns . . .’
‘It’s true.’
‘Then my father will have blood for blood.’
‘I pray it may be,’ said Aëtius. ‘I’ve said it before: your people may yet be Rome’s last hope.’
The messenger returned breathless from the Imperial Palace only a few minutes later. The Palatine Guard had been released for duty on the Walls, and the Divine Emperor Theodosius had retired into his private chapel to hear mass and to pray. He wished to receive no further communications from Master-General Aëtius until the victory was won. Until then they must trust to God and his Holy Mother.
Tatullus brought two men to him, very different in appearance. One was clearly the Captain of the Guard, doubtless the first-born of one of the noblest and most aristocratic families in Constantinople: a tall, handsome, slightly arrogant-looking fellow in his darkly shining black breastplate, his helmet with its dark crest cradled under his left arm. He saluted smartly. He’d be eager for battle and glory, this one, chafing at having to remain behind in the city barracks as the emperor’s personal bodyguard. Now was his chance.
‘Captain Andronicus, sir. First Commander of the Imperial Guard.’
‘Your men fit and ready?’
‘As ever, sir.’
‘They’d better be. How’s your arithmetic, man?’
‘Arithmetic, sir?’
‘You heard aright. The Theodosian Walls are around three miles in length, from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmara. You have a hundred and sixty of your own men, plus eighty auxiliaries.’
‘And a column of Gothic horsemen, I heard?’
‘They’re my close guard. It will be an easy calculation for you to space your men evenly along the Walls. Yes?’
Andronicus looked distant for a moment, and then grinned. ‘Three miles . . . some six thousand paces. Six thousand divided by two hundred and forty is . . . a man about every twenty-five paces.’
‘Quite so. Not a lot, is it, soldier?’
‘It’s not, sir.’
‘Your men are going to have a hot time of it.’
‘Never fear, sir. My men are as highly trained as any in the empire.’
Highly trained, yes, and an élite; but little used. Maybe that would be a good thing. They would be eager to test themselves.
‘You’ll have noticed, too, soldier, that there are three defensive walls west of this city. If we manned them all, what spacing?’
‘A man every seventy-five paces, sir. Too little.’
‘Quite so. Even manning two walls would be over-stretch. We can man only the inner wall. No chance of defence in depth this time. In other words, your men are going to have to hold their nerve like veterans, becaus
e in a few hours’ or a few days’ time, however long our enemy in his kindness and consideration allows us, a hundred thousand Huns are going to come across the moat and over the first wall, virtually unopposed but for what our artillery can do. Then they’re going to come over the second wall, still virtually unopposed. Only at the third and last wall will you have your chance to fight. A man every twenty-five yards. Does the immensity of our task impress itself upon you, Captain?’
The handsome miles gloriosus grinned again with satisfaction. ‘Can’t wait to get stuck in, sir.’
‘Your men aren’t professional archers, is that correct?’
‘They can handle a bow, sir.’
‘Very well. Now get ’em up there. I want the Guard stationed from the Marble Tower in the south, right up to St Romanus Gate. North around the Blachernae Palace down to the Charisius Gate, station your auxiliaries. The city watch will be in reserve at key points if things get desperate.’
Andronicus curled his finely chiselled lip disdainfully. Desperate indeed. The indignity of having to fight alongside those peasants, with their staves and billhooks!
‘And the Lycus Valley, and Military Gate V, sir?’
The weak point, the crunch point, where glory would be won or lost and the fate of the city decided. ‘My Gothic allies,’ said Aëtius. ‘But don’t worry, soldier. We’ll all end up fighting there sooner or later, I don’t doubt.’
He turned to the other man, a squat, burly figure with a bushy, unkempt, salt-and-pepper beard. ‘And you are?’
He did not salute. ‘Tarasicodissa Rousoumbladeotes.’
Aëtius grimaced. ‘Say that again and you’ll give me a headache.’
Andronicus grinned. The bearded chieftain did not.
‘And salute your commanding officer when he first addresses you,’ snapped Aëtius. ‘Tarasicodissa Rousoumbladeotes. ’
He spoke the name perfectly, after one hearing. Few men had ever achieved that. Tarasicodissa Rousoumbladeotes saluted.
Aëtius nodded. ‘Very well. From now on I’m calling you Zeno, so you’d better get used to it. You hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
‘You and your Isaurian tribesmen are far-famed for banditry, in your Cilician mountains.’ Zeno glowered. ‘But here you’ll have the chance to win a higher renown. Your eighty will hold the walls of the Blachernae Palace until the Huns are destroyed. Yes?’
The chieftain nodded.
‘Now move, both of you. There’s work to do.’
Despite the manning of the Walls - or perhaps because of it: the results were so visibly thin - the atmosphere in the city grew more hysterical by the hour, as the day slid into dusk. Twice a cry went up from a church or palace tower that a mighty host was approaching from the west, and twice it proved to be false. The second time, it turned out to be a great, dark cloud of rooks. Aëtius sent word that any more false alarms would result in flayed backs.
There also came news that a boy had seen a vision of the Virgin on the walls, bearing a flaming sword, ready to fight alongside her beloved and faithful people for the Holy City of Byzantium.
‘Probably just bad wine,’ said Tatullus, unmoved, gazing steadfastly out into the twilight.
‘On the contrary,’ said Aëtius. ‘A miracle.’ He told the messenger to spread the word.
‘Sir?’
‘Spread the word, damn you! The Virgin has been seen on the walls. Take the fellow round, give him wine to loosen his tongue, encourage the visionary in him. Find others who can corroborate his story. Move.’
Tatullus grinned into the darkness. The master-general turned everything into a weapon against the enemy, even pious delusions. Then he frowned. The rooks were coming back out of the twilight, circling again, as if unable to settle in their treetop colony.
Aëtius joined him. ‘They are infected with the general panic of the city,’ said the general.
‘In the street below,’ murmured a nearby voice - it was Arapovian, characteristically not requesting permission to speak before commanding officers - ‘I saw a cat curl up and try to sleep, then leap up again with its tail straight out. And . . .’ He hesitated, hardly daring to impart more bad news. He had seen one city fall to the Huns, and had stood in despair amid its ruins. He did not want to see another. Not this city, too.
‘Go on, man.’
‘This afternoon I saw my cup of water shake when I stood it on the wall. I saw its surface ripple.’
Tatullus stiffened. The rooks circled and cawed. Aëtius whispered, ‘Oh, no. Please God, no.’
‘I know the signs: they are common in my country. The cat, the ripples, those rooks . . .’
‘No.’ Aëtius laid his hands flat on the top of the battlements. Suddenly these mighty walls seemed things of gossamer.
Arapovian nodded grimly. ‘There is an earthquake coming.’
17
THE WALLS
In the night it began to rain. They could not sleep, sheltering in the lee of the walls. If Arapovian was right, they should be sheltering in the open forum. Or, irony of ironies, out beyond the city walls, on the open plain. There they would be safe from the earthquake, only to be devoured by the Huns. Damn it all, damn the rooks, and damn that sodding cat.
Aëtius slept briefly, breathing rapidly through a nightmare in which he was walking alone on a desert shore, with a monstrous shark cruising through the waves on his left, and on his right a ravening lion coming through the dunes towards him, eyes glinting and yellow. If he kept wading through the waves at about waist height, neither lion nor shark could quite reach him. But they followed him along on either side, deathly companions, knowing he would tire long before they did . . . He awoke with a start, needing no seer to interpret the dream for him.
A one-eyed storyteller loomed out of the night, bare-headed, hair plastered down, bloodshot eye red-rimmed and shining.
‘Oh, no more madmen and their tales, please,’ said Malchus.
But the storyteller wanted them to know that the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus had awoken. The end was indeed coming near.
Wearily, they asked him to explain. Squatting down before them in the pelting rain, he said that generations ago, when the Emperor Decius was persecuting the Christians, seven noble youths of Ephesus concealed themselves in a cave in the nearby mountains. Decius ordered the cave to be sealed and left them to their grim fate. There they had slept unharmed and protected by God for one hundred and eighty-seven years. Then lately, the slaves of one Adolius, who owned the cave, came to take away the stones for building. The sun flooded into the cave, and the Seven Sleepers awoke, thinking only a single night had passed.
They sent one of their number, Iamblichus, into Ephesus to buy bread for their breakfast. He came down into the city, amazed by the sight of a huge cross over the main gate. He offered the baker a coin of Decius, speaking in an antique fashion and peculiarly dressed. On suspicion of possessing secret treasure, Iamblichus was dragged before a magistrate in the basilica. Enquiry established the astonishing facts. All went to see the cave - the magistrate, the captain of the guard, the city prefect, - and all was as Iamblichus had told them. With that, the sleepers blessed their visitors, departed back into the cave, rejoicing that they had lived to see the Triumph of the Cross, and peacefully lay down and died.
There was silence but for the pelting rain. A stray dog pattered through the downpour. It was an eerie story. At last Malchus offered the man a coin, but he said there was no need. The end was upon them now. He fixed them with his single bloodshot eye. ‘The Lord care for all souls,’ he said softly. ‘“This ae night, this ae night, Every night and all, Through fire and sleet and candle heat, Then Christ receive your soul.”’
A night bird called in the darkness above the walls. And then the earth began to tremble.
As they ran, they heard a great howl from out of the darkness, all the more terrible for being the howl of a man of steel. It was the general, at last giving way to despair.
The earthquake laste
d perhaps a minute at most. A deep rumbling in the earth, the ground shifting beneath people’s feet, animal cries of pure terror. Within the houses of the rich, mosaic floors creased and crumpled, candelabra trembled and were still and then flung down. Precious stained glass in the churches cracked and then exploded. Walls shuddered and shed their plaster amid clouds of dust. Stones fell and bodies were brutally laid out below.
Attila: The Judgement Page 32