The Sword of Attila

by David Gibbins

  Flavius thought of another ancient monument that had fascinated him as a boy – the arch of the emperor Titus on the south side of the forum. There, the sculpted reliefs showed scenes of triumph, of great treasures held aloft by Roman soldiers as they processed forward, armed and exuberant, the people of Rome crowding around and cheering them, the emperor standing tall and visible. If today’s procession of catamites and eunuchs was the modern equivalent of the triumphal processions of old, then Rome truly had gone to the dogs, and the time when the barbarians among the officer ranks rose up and swept away this grotesque spectacle could not come too soon.

  The trumpets blared again, and the Suebi guards began jostling the officers out of the hippodrome. The once-in-a-lifetime encounter with the emperor for whom they had fought and bled was over. Flavius walked a discreet distance behind Arturus, watching the other officers stream away outside the palace towards the barracks and the Field of Mars, and then he caught up with him on the stairs leading down to the old forum. Macrobius was waiting at the bottom, his cloak on and carrying two army-issue backpacks. As Flavius approached he handed him his belt and gladius. ‘I sharpened and oiled it myself,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t have had time.’

  Flavius buckled the belt on, staring at Macrobius. ‘I was expecting to see you at my quarters.’

  Macrobius took him aside, speaking quietly. ‘I asked Una to bring your gear to me on her way out of the city. It was fortunate, because when I went to your quarters they had been ransacked.’

  Flavias stared at him, aghast. ‘Ransacked. How?’

  Arturus swivelled around, checking for anyone following them, pulling up the hood of his cloak. ‘It was only a matter of time before Heraclius’ agents were on to us. We need to get to our rendezvous, fast.’

  ‘There’s worse news,’ Macrobius said. ‘Uago has disappeared. Four men were waiting outside the fabri headquarters this evening, and they pounced on him and took him away hooded and gagged. The captain of the guard at the headquarters is a friend of mine and saw everything, but was powerless to intervene. The men wore the purple capes of the emperor’s bodyguard.’

  ‘That means Heraclius,’ Arturus said. ‘And it means we won’t be seeing Uago again.’

  ‘But he knows nothing,’ Flavius said, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘He shouldn’t pay with his life for our visit to his map room.’

  ‘If he knows nothing, then he can tell nothing,’ Arturus said grimly. ‘Put him from your mind. The best thing we can do for him is to carry on with our mission.’

  ‘We need to know what that is.’

  ‘Follow me. It’s dark enough now that we won’t be conspicuous. It’s time we received our orders.’

  As they stole away into the night Flavius thought again about the procession he had just witnessed. He had been repelled by what he saw, and was sickened to have been standing so close to one who had probably just ordered the execution of his revered teacher and friend Uago. But above all it was the hollow image of the emperor that troubled him. At the time of the Caesars, despite all the corruption and the venality, the boorishness of Nero and the insanity of Caligula, there had always been men of the imperial purple ready to lead Rome to war, and warrior emperors such as Trajan whom any of the officers in that hall today would have yearned to follow into battle. But with Honorius and then Valentinian that seemed a thing of the past. Flavius now understood more than ever why Arturus and so many other officers held his uncle Aetius in such high regard, a man who seemed to stand, as Julius Caesar had, at the end of the Republic, both of them seeking to return Rome to the honour and virtue of the past. And just as it had been for Julius Caesar five hundred years ago, that return now could only be to a republic. The imperial experiment had seen its glory days, its moments of supreme triumph when the idea of an emperor seemed unassailable, but it had run its course and was now sinking bloated into a mire of its own creation. If Flavius were to return from this mission, and if Rome herself had not by then been conquered by a barbarian king, by Attila himself, he would no longer fight in the name of the emperor, but in the name of Rome as the founding fathers of the Republic saw it, a Rome where a man like Aetius would find his greatest fulfilment in serving the people and the state.

  They had passed through the Aurelian Walls and now marched quickly along the worn stones of the Appian Way, the tombs of Rome’s greatest gens looming around them. Flavius recognized the entrance to the Tomb of the Scipios, a place he had visited in his youth to pay respects to another of his heroes, the conqueror of Carthage, Scipio Aemilianus Africanus. Arturus took them off the road to the left, hurrying past the perimeter of the Circus Maxentius and then through a complex of baths and around another corner, pausing to look back and see whether they were being followed. He pointed to a low entrance in a wall – an old sewer or an abandoned aqueduct channel – then ducked and led them down it, pausing about ten paces in and lighting a tallow candle with a flint and steel. ‘These are the catacombs of Zakarias,’ he said. ‘This is a secret entrance used at the time when Christians were being persecuted, but abandoned after the emperor Constantine’s conversion when the catacombs became public. The section beneath us has been unused for centuries, cut off from the rest, and is a meeting place for Aetius and his agents. There are about five miles of passages and tunnels, and thousands of bodies. Watch your heads, and follow me closely.’

  He sat on the edge of a hole in the wall and slid in, dropping softly to the floor below. Flavius followed, and then Macrobius, pulling their bags down with him. The passage ahead had been crudely cut out of the rock, providing just enough room for one person to get through bent almost double, and Flavius was grateful that Arturus’ candle only hinted at the claustrophobic dimensions of the place. He had been expecting the sickly sweet smell of decay, the odour he was used to from the drainage holes in stone sarcophagi, but here it was just musty and cloying, the last body having putrefied and decayed generations before. Almost immediately they began to pass niches and alcoves in the walls, some of them filled with shrouded human forms and others with stacks of bones where families had reused the same cubicula for centuries. They turned a corner and came across the first sign of early Christianity, a plastered-over alcove with the painted words PRISCILLA IN PACE and a Chi-Rho symbol, and then they entered a wider chamber with an altar and a crude wall-painting of Christ with thorns and the two thieves being crucified on the hill of Calvary. Flavius thought of those who had worshipped here, some perhaps apostles of Jesus himself, and then he thought of the dripping opulence of the bishop he had just seen in the palace, a world away from the simplicity and austerity of the early followers of Christ.

  They turned another corner, past a blackened shrivelled corpse whose arm had fallen out of its niche, and then carried on through a sinuous passage where another source of light was visible ahead. Arturus snuffed out his candle, and then they were there, standing in a widened chamber lit by oil lamps, in front of a man in a cassock sitting on a chair with a book. He had long hair and a beard like Arturus, but it was almost completely white, and as he looked up and smiled, Flavius saw that he too had the blue eyes and high cheekbones of the Britons. He stood awkwardly, his tall frame bent under the low ceiling, and clasped hands with Arturus, who turned to Flavius. ‘This is Pelagius, my superior in the intelligence service.’ He gestured into the shadows beside Pelagius, where another figure could be seen. ‘And this man you know.’

  The second man was wearing a hood, but on a military cape rather than a cassock, and as he stood out of the shadows and threw it back Flavius saw that it was his uncle, Flavius Aetius Gaudentius, magister militum of the western empire, the most powerful man in the known world other than Attila the Hun. He tried to stand to attention, saluting his uncle, and then turned back to Pelagius. ‘I didn’t know you worked for Aetius.’

  Pelagius sat down again and looked at him. ‘You will know me for my heretical writings against Augustine and the Church in Rome. Unlike Augustine, I believe
that we are able to make choices of our own free will, that battles, for example, are not preordained in some grand divine plan, but that their outcome depends on the free decision-making of individuals. Mine is not a bellicose Christianity, but it provides a better creed for the soldier than the Augustinian version, which makes the soldier out to be nothing more than an agent of a higher purpose.’

  ‘I have not seen your writings,’ Flavius said. ‘They are banned in Rome, by order of the Bishop. But I have heard much about you from Arturus.’

  ‘I take my beliefs from what you see around you here, from the reality of early Christianity, from what attracted my people to the teaching of Jesus when Christianity first reached the shores of Britain more than four hundred years ago. I am a Christian monk, but I come from a long line of druids, the spiritual leaders of the Britons, and I have another, older name that I will revert to when Arturus and I leave the service of Rome to lead our people against the Saxons.’ He smiled at Arturus, reaching out and holding his arm, and then looked deadly serious. ‘Meanwhile, there are more pressing matters to hand. I have also worked for Aetius for more than fifteen years now; it was I who first brought Arturus to his attention. Aetius first came to me in secret because he shared my beliefs, and after that I agreed to use my network of contacts among my followers in the monks and monasteries of Gaul to provide him with intelligence. I believed in his cause then, and I still do now, more strongly than ever.’

  Flavius stared in astonishment at his uncle. ‘You are a follower of Pelagius? That carries an immediate death sentence.’

  ‘You will have seen the Bishop of Rome today,’ Aetius said, his voice measured and precise. ‘Could you follow such a man?’

  Pelagius leaned forward. ‘When the emperor falls, the new Rome will have no bishops, no priests. The people will be encouraged to reach out to God without mediation, without fear.’

  ‘When the emperor falls,’ Flavius repeated, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Is that what this is all about? Are you planning a coup?’

  Aetius gave him a grim look. ‘Nothing can happen until Attila is destroyed. For now, all of our attention is focused on that goal. That is why you and Macrobius are here. Less than an hour from now you will have embarked on a mission that could change the course of history.’

  Flavius squatted down. ‘Tell us what we have to do.’

  Arturus pulled out from his tunic the map that he had taken from Uago and handed it to Aetius, who knelt down and unrolled it on the floor. ‘Has Uago told you anything?’ Aetius asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Flavius said.

  ‘He’s one of our circle. For years he has been my eyes and ears in the city of Rome, the main reason he stayed teaching in the schola for so long. I’ve kept his role secret even from Arturus, for Uago’s own protection.’

  Flavius glanced at Arturus. ‘Then we have some bad news. He was taken by four imperial guards this afternoon.’

  Aetius stared at the ground, and Flavius saw his lips flicker almost imperceptibly. ‘Then you must move quickly. The purpose of your journey is only known to those of us in this room, but Uago knew your destination. He will attempt suicide if he thinks there’s a risk of him being forced to talk, but Heraclius’ torturers are brutal and ingenious, and they have a eunuch’s fascination with male anatomy to guide them. We cannot risk Heraclius’ agents already being on the route, ready to waylay you.’ He pursed his lips and then pointed at the map. ‘You will go disguised as monks. Pelagius has cassocks for you here. You will travel up the river Danube, and from there make your way to the Hun capital, using Arturus’ insider knowledge and contacts to get what we want. Once you have it, you will return to Rome and leave it at this spot, where it will be taken and concealed by Pelagius until it is needed, until the long-awaited battle is nigh.’

  Flavius leaned forward. ‘What is it?’

  Aetius paused, staring at him intently. ‘We’ve tried to build up our strength against Attila. I’ve worked on the comitatenses, improving recruitment and training, bringing in the best officers and centurions such as you and Macrobius to train a new generation of tribunes, keeping you in Rome when I know you must have been itching for active service. And we have tried to forge alliances. Pelagius has worked among the monks of Gaul to influence the Visigoths in our favour. Arturus has just returned from an arduous undercover trip to the Sassanid court. But neither has yet given us the results we want, and we need more, some other way of combating Attila’s power.’

  He nodded at Pelagius, who leaned forward. ‘Every time a new Hun prince is born, a great sword is revealed as if by magic and used to slash the marks of a warrior on his face, to see if he can bear the pain. Those who pass the test become the next king, and the sword becomes their most powerful symbol of status, a rallying point in battle. Without it, the power of the king would be weakened, and battle might be swayed in favour of the enemy.’

  Flavis stared in astonishment at his uncle. ‘You want us to steal the sword of Attila.’

  Arturus looked at him. ‘It can be done.’

  Macrobius, who had been standing behind listening, heaved his two bags back up on his shoulder. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘You leave now,’ Aetius said. ‘Arturus has gold for the journey, and knows the route.’

  Flavius stood before his uncle. ‘I will not fail you.’

  Aetius took his hand. ‘Salve atque vale, Flavius Aetius Gaudentius.’

  Pelagius put his hand on the book in front of him. ‘Godspeed to you all.’

  PART THREE

  THE RIVER DANUBE

  AD 449

  11

  Ten days later Flavius sat with Arturus and Macrobius in a boat on the middle reaches of the river Danube, the sail billowing and the paddles they had used to strike out from shore now stowed away. It had been an arduous if uneventful journey from Ravenna, first across the plain of the river Po to the lagoon port of Veneto, then by ship down the Adriatic to the site of the palace of the emperor Diocletian at Spalatum, from there by stages east across the rugged foothills and mountains of Illyricum, and finally on horseback and then on foot as they traversed the high passes and carried on towards the course of the great river, reaching its western bank and the furthest extent of Roman territory the evening before. As they were monks travelling towards barbarian lands no questions had been asked about the purpose of their journey, and the weapons concealed beneath their cassocks had gone unnoticed by fellow travellers and the owners of the inns where they had stayed on the way. Others had come this way in a trickle from the western empire, some lured by the riches to be had in the Danube river trade, others seeking escape and anonymity in the borderlands of the empire, others genuine monks looking to convert the pagans beyond the frontiers, but only they were intent on the perilous journey up the river and across the steppes to the court of Attila the Hun.

  Macrobius was at the tiller in the stern, his hair tonsured like a monk and his face uncharacteristically clean-shaven, a crude wooden cross hanging from his neck over the front of his cassock. He had grown up along the Illyrian shore and had taken charge of navigating the boat, having first inspected it with the hoary old fisherman who had sold it to them. The man had wagged his finger when they had told him they were intending to go upstream, shaking his head and listing the dangers, but no questions were asked after Flavius had produced a generous handful of gold solidi. The boat reeked of fish and its scuppers were plastered with the distinctive palm-sized scales of the sturgeon that was the main catch on the river, but it was a flat-bottomed type familiar to Macrobius, with a shallow keel and ample room for the three men and their shoulder bags. Crucially, it had a retractable mast and a square sail, large enough for them to make headway against the current using the south-easterly wind that had begun to blow that morning.

  Flavius stared back at the river bank. They had just passed between the crumbling concrete piers of a great bridge built by the Caesars to cross the Danube, the wooden roadway that had once been held
up by the arches long gone and the piers themselves buffeted and damaged by the floodwaters of the river. On either side was a castrum, the one on the far side abandoned long ago, but the nearer one garrisoned within living memory, its walls built in sections of brick alternating with courses of flat tile that Arturus said he had seen in the Roman ruins of Britain. Before taking to the boat, they had spent the night in the fort – an eerie experience among the detritus of men who could have been from their own unit, limitanei who had been ordered to abandon the fort early in Valentinian’s reign and who had been absorbed into the mobile comitatenses army.

  This had once been a frontier of the Roman Empire, but the concept of frontier had changed radically since the time when emperors such as Trajan had pushed forward against barbarian resistance and established a border that needed to be manned and defended, in this case along the natural boundary of a great river. Now, the barbarian threat was greater, but it was concentrated far away in the forests and steppe-lands to the north; there, great armies could be marshalled to strike deep into the Roman Empire, to east or to west. Even the most strongly defended frontier would stand no chance against such a force, and it made more sense to withdraw the remaining frontier troops and absorb them into the comitatenses, armies that could meet the barbarians head to head on battlegrounds that might be deep within the boundaries of the empire, places to which the barbarians could be drawn to increase their exhaustion and make foraging more difficult, among a hostile population. The decisive battle would no longer be spread out along the frontiers, but instead would take place hundreds of miles within the empire, in Gaul and in Italy itself. Flavius remembered the policy being drummed into the tribune candidates at the schola militarum, and yet seeing these ruins today had made him wonder. Despite the strategic sense of withdrawal, the abandoned forts were a sorry sight and represented the one inevitable drawback of the policy: it removed the visible display of Roman troops and Roman might from barbarian eyes, meaning that for many soldiers of both sides, their first view of the enemy, their first chance to size him up, came in the few seconds of headlong charge as the opposing armies joined in battle.