Ahead of them on both sides the rocky ground rose to jagged cliffs as the river narrowed into a gorge, the beginnings of many miles of virtually impenetrable upland terrain that divided the final Roman outposts from the steppe-lands beyond. The wind had picked up as the gorge constricted, and Macrobius brailed up the sail to half-size in order to slow them down and make it possible to navigate around any of the submerged rocks that the fishermen had warned them lay in the passage ahead. Arturus came up to the bows beside Flavius, his grey hood still over his head, and together the two men scanned the water for any signs of danger. It was opaque, but without the milky hue of glacial meltwater that Flavius had seen in the Alps; here, the waters were darker, a deep brown, a colour that Arturus said he had seen in the tributaries that fed the Danube from the peaty uplands of the North. It was a forbidding sight, and impossible to tell the depth of the water or whether there were any submerged rocks. As the wind began to funnel and echo from the cliff walls, Flavius had a sense of the foreboding that had led many before them to turn back at this point and let the current return them to safer lands in the South.
Macrobius gestured at the cliff face on the west shore, brailed up the sail completely and swung the tiller so that they came alongside, holding the boat off from the rock with a paddle. An eroded inscription came into view, set within a recessed plaque that had been carved into the living rock:
IMP.CAESAR.DIVI.NERVAE.F
NERVA.TRAIANVS.AVG.GERM
PONTIF.MAXIMUS.TRIB.POT.IIII
PATER.PATRIAE.COS.III
MONTIBVS.EXCISIS.ANCONIBVS
SVBLATIS.VIAM.FECIT
Flavius held up his hand and Macrobius steered closer so that the letters loomed above them. ‘It’s old, from the time of the Caesars,’ Flavius said. ‘When I was a boy in Rome my teacher Dionysius taught me how to read these inscriptions.’ He paused, scanning the lines, before translating it for the others. ‘Emperor Caesar, son of the divine Nerva, Nerva Trajan Augustus Germanicus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribune for the fourth time, Father of Rome, Consul for the third time, by excavating mountains and using wooden beams has made this road.’ He looked back at the ruined arches of the bridge still visible behind them. ‘That’s the work of the emperor Trajan, from almost four hundred and fifty years ago, during his campaign against the Dacians,’ he said. ‘This records the completion of the military road, and must mark the furthest point up the river reached by Roman forces, then or since.’
‘Take a look ahead,’ Macrobius said, pointing high above them.
Flavius followed his gaze, and gaped in astonishment. Where the gorge reached its narrowest point just beyond the inscription, the cliffs towered higher than before, constricting the passage until the river was no more than two hundred paces wide. But instead of the craggy cliff face they had seen before the rock had been carved into two enormous human figures, facing each other across the gorge with their heads almost out of sight high above. On one side the figure was Roman, wearing the breastplate of the legions and with the cropped hair of the Caesars, and on the other side a barbarian king, with long, flowing hair and a beard; both held swords point-down in front of them, the Roman a gladius like Flavius’ own, and the other a longer sword similar to those of the Goths and the Huns. It was as if the two figures had walked forward towards each other, a Roman emperor and a barbarian king, but had been turned to stone just before they had made contact, doomed to stand before each other for eternity like ancient giants frozen by the gods on the cusp of combat.
‘It’s Trajan and Decebalus, the Dacian king,’ Flavius said. ‘Roman and barbarian, neither victor nor vanquished.’
‘They call these the Iron Gates,’ Arturus said. ‘Here the rule of Rome ends and the lawless land before the empire of Attila begins.’
‘You have been here before, Arturus?’ Macrobius said, unbrailing the sail and steering the boat out again. ‘You seem to speak with first-hand knowledge.’
‘I only know about this place from intelligence reports,’ explained Arturus. ‘Before we left Ravenna I spoke to everyone I could who had been this way before. When I went to Attila’s court as a mercenary in Gaiseric’s bodyguard it was through the mountains of the North, east from the Alps and over the upper reaches of the Danube.’
‘What is our next stop?’ Macrobius asked.
Arturus pointed down the gorge. ‘The island of Adekaleh, perhaps a full day’s journey ahead if this wind keeps up, beyond a place where the river widens again. The island is a free port, an emporium where traders arrive from all over the known world, inhabited by a race of merchants who are said to have been there for hundreds of years. From Adekaleh the Huns get the silk from Thina which has become the fashion for their women, as well as green peridot from the Red Sea which they favour for their jewels. With the gold that has been pouring into Attila’s coffers from Theodosius in tribute, the Huns can get anything they choose. But it’s a place outside any jurisdiction, ruled only by the merchants themselves who employ mercenaries to police the rules of fair trade. Sometimes the mercenaries take over, and there have been decades, whole generations, when it has been the most dangerous place on earth, where enormous profits could be made but the life expectancy for anyone with gold in their pockets could be measured in days, if not hours. Traders arrived, did their business and got out as fast as possible.’
‘And us?’ Macrobius said, leaning on the tiller. ‘Why are we going to this hellhole?’
‘To do precisely that,’ Arturus replied. ‘To get there, to do our business and to get out. But our business is with one who has hidden himself away there, one who can tell us the best route to the Hun capital and give us the latest intelligence on Attila.’
‘Tell us about him,’ Flavius asked.
‘His name is Priscus of Panium. He’s from Constantinople, and he was an emissary to Attila.’
‘Not another eunuch, I hope,’ Macrobius grumbled.
Arturus shook his head. ‘Theodosius made that mistake before. He sent eunuchs, and never heard from them again. Both Theodosius and Valentinian are so out of touch that they don’t realize how it looks from outside. Eunuchs may be good at flattery and keeping ledger books, but they are not going to impress the world’s most powerful warlord. Soon after that experience, Attila decided to attack Constantinople.’
‘So this Priscus is some kind of diplomat?’ Macrobius said.
‘He was,’ Arturus said. ‘He’s in limbo now, hiding away in this place, apparently writing a history of the Huns.’
‘You seem to know a lot of people in limbo, Arturus,’ Macrobius said. ‘Pelagius hiding away in the catacombs of Rome, Priscus in this godforsaken place.’
‘When you’ve lived the life I have, a deserter from the Roman army in Gaul, a renegade mercenary with a price on my head from half the barbarian chieftains of the North, you learn about the hidden world that’s around us, the places where fugitives and outcasts can live unnoticed and unmolested.’
‘If you’ve got that price on your head, how does is make sense for you to be heading to the court of Attila?’
Arturus paused. ‘Because it’s one of those hidden places. If you’re a eunuch, forget it. But if you’re a scholar like Priscus with knowledge that interests Attila, or if you’re a soldier who can demonstrate his prowess in combat, then few questions are asked. Attila knows that nobody seeks his court who is not a risk-taker, that those who are not emissaries or traders are likely to be renegades and fugitives, escaping problems elsewhere rather than coming as spies or assassins. And it’s a seductive place, a hidden kingdom that seems outside the orbit of normal existence, dangerous but alluring. Go there and fall under the spell of Attila and his daughters, and you won’t want to leave.’
Macrobius stared at him. ‘And his daughters. What do you mean?’
‘Erecan and Eslas and Erdaca. Attila has sons, but it’s his daughters who have inherited the martial strength passed down from Attila’s father, Mundiuk. Eslas and Erdaca have been married off to Os
trogoth princes, but Erecan remains in the court. It was she who I fought in unarmed combat when I went to the court of Attila twelve years ago, when she was a teenager and I had arrived in the service of Gaiseric.’
Macrobius narrowed his eyes at Arturus. ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you really here to visit your old girlfriend? Is that what this is all about?’
Arturus turned and gave Macrobius a steely look. ‘I volunteered for this trip partly because of Erecan, but not for the reason you might think. She’s proud of her Hun heritage, but there’s no love lost between her and Attila. Erecan’s mother was a Scythian slave girl, a servant of Attila’s main wife, but the baby was brought into the household and raised as a legitimate daughter of Attila and his queen. From an early age Erecan knew the truth, told to her in secret by her real mother and indisputable because they share the same eyes and face, and Erecan looks nothing like Attila’s Hun queen. When Erecan went to Attila afterwards and told him that she knew, he became enraged and had her mother executed. Erecan has hated Attila ever since, and has nursed a desire for vengeance – and among the Huns such desire is stronger than it is among any other barbarian race I have encountered. I told Aetius the story and he thought I might persuade her to help in our cause.’
Macrobius coughed. ‘Which might just see the two of you engaged in unarmed combat again?’
Arturus gave him a wan smile. ‘You have a soldier’s imagination, Macrobius. But there’s another personal reason for me. If Attila is left unchecked he will roll across the western empire and reach the northern coast of Gaul. He may not yet have the ability to cross the sea himself, but he will soon absorb by alliance and threat the Saxons and Angles and Jutes who have been raiding Britain, and use their seagoing craft and skills to bring his army to the shores of my country. To many in Rome and Ravenna my land means a place of cold and damp and homesickness, but all the Huns know of it is tin and copper and iron and gold, a place where their smiths could forge a thousand swords of Attila. By doing all that I can now to sabotage Attila’s power base, I am fighting for the future of my people.’
‘Tell us more about Priscus,’ Flavius said.
Arturus paused again. ‘Two years ago, after Theodosius sent the eunuchs to negotiate, and after they were murdered, Attila launched his attack on Constantinople, the attack that put the fear of God into Valentinian in Ravenna and made Aetius realize the threat that Attila also posed to the western empire. At the last minute Attila ordered his army to withdraw, after he was put off by the walls of Constantinople and the fact that his army had no capacity for siege warfare or long-term supply, and he returned to his lair in the steppes. But Theodosius in Constantinople was shaken by the speed and ferocity of the Huns’ assault, as they had swept away all of the Roman forces fielded against them, and he decided to send out renewed offers of negotiation and concession.’
‘You mean bribes of gold,’ Flavius said.
Arturus nodded. ‘The eastern emperors had gone down that slippery slope a long time before, even in the time of Mundiuk, and the Huns now expect payouts as a matter of course. The war with Attila is bleeding the coffers of Constantinople dry faster than her manpower is being depleted, and if Valentinian isn’t careful the same thing will happen in the West. It’s the main reason why Aetius wants us to undermine Attila’s power as soon as we can, before Valentinian decides to send wagonloads of gold from Ravenna.’
‘Aetius can predict the cost of appeasement too well,’ Flavius said. ‘We can give away land in Gaul and Spain as concessions to the Visigoths and Alans, and that’s worked in our favour by pacifying and civilizing them, making allies out of enemies, but giving away gold is another matter. Do so, and you have nothing left to pay the army with. The problem of backlogged army pay is bad enough as it is.’
‘What pay?’ Macrobius grumbled. ‘I haven’t seen a solidus of official army pay for more than ten years.’
Arturus gave him another steely look. ‘Well, if we get into Attila’s strongroom you’ll be able to feast your eyes on more gold than you’ve ever dreamed of before, all of it gold that should have been in the pay packets of your comrades in the eastern Roman army.’
‘Will you tell Priscus our purpose?’ Flavius said.
Arturus stared out over the river. ‘Theodosius entrusted the embassy to Maximinus, a cavalry tribune in the eastern comitatenses who I got to know after we captured him when I was in Gaiseric’s service and I secretly helped him to escape. Priscus was his childhood friend and he went with the embassy as an adviser and scholar, as someone like Maximinus whom Attila might respect. They were allowed into Attila’s court, but word reached Maximinus of subterfuge among the eunuchs in Constantinople, of a plan being hatched to paint their purpose as espionage rather than diplomacy, and he decided to cut short their mission before Attila got wind of the plot. Maximinus returned to Constantinople determined to root out and bring in front of Theodosius those responsible for working against him, but Priscus was fearful for his life and decided to stay on the island of Adekaleh until the conspirators were dealt with.’
‘Has Maximinus been successful?’ Flavius asked.
Arturus pursed his lips. ‘He has learned, as Aetius has, about the hold that the eunuchs have over the emperors. The plot had been a result of power play between two of the eunuchs who were jostling for position as controller of the imperial household, with one of them concocting the story of espionage and blaming it on the other in order to turn Theodosius against him. The plot worked and Theodosius had the innocent eunuch executed, but when Maximinus tried to expose the true perpetrator to the emperor he was stonewalled, earning him the enmity of the emperor in the process. Maximinus has only made his position and that of Priscus even more precarious; he himself has now survived numerous assassination attempts and Priscus has been left helpless against anyone sent by the eunuch who might discover his hideaway on the island. The machinations of the eunuchs in Constantinople make Heraclius seem like an amateur, though he and his cronies in Ravenna are doubtless watching and learning.’
‘And you somehow know the location of Priscus.’
‘When Aetius told me of his plan for us to go to the court of Attila I sent word to Maximinus, who sent word back telling me where to find Priscus and also forewarning him of our arrival. I have never met Priscus before. We will need to play it by ear. But their mission to the Hun court was only a few months ago, and he knows Attila’s state of mind. Priscus may be the best source of intelligence we have.’
Flavius looked behind them. The sail had filled again and was driving the boat into the current, the wake giving the illusion of speed. As they edged forward he felt more than ever that their quest was a battle against the odds, an enticing adventure that had become a daunting challenge in a world far removed from his own experience, a world where law and morality, even the rule of God, were nothing but concepts to be discarded at a whim. He could still see the Iron Gates, the two colossal statues confronting each other across the narrow void. There was a time when all encounters between Roman and barbarian seemed fated to end that way, in a permanent stand-off, when Rome had pushed her frontiers to their maximum extent and Trajan and Hadrian had begun to build them in stone. But that was a time long past, and the frontiers were fluid again, the barbarians no longer a threat to be excluded but part of Rome herself, a symbiosis that Flavius knew was at the heart of his own being. And yet for each tribe that was absorbed, each chiefdom that was mollified and settled, there seemed to be a further threat that loomed behind, and it was one that now gathered strength somewhere ahead of them in the land of the Huns.
He narrowed his eyes at the statues, their forms now nearly lost in the haze. Maybe the Caesars had been right, and the only viable strategy was to drive forward and create a permanent frontier. But perhaps the best of them, emperors such as Trajan, also knew that the strategy had an inherent weakness, that it would provide no defence against
a force that might one day coalesce with greater power than Rome could counter and come hurtling towards the frontiers, smashing its way through as if the walls and forts were made of matchwood. Flavius watched the Iron Gates recede and disappear, and then turned back to the bows. There was no changing the past, or turning back on this river. He needed to focus now on the challenges ahead. The evening and night on the river were still in front of them, hours when they were going to confront the dangers that the old fisherman had told them about, the whirlpools and cataracts and gorges, before they came to the lake and the island of Adekaleh. He nodded back at Macrobius on the tiller, picked up a paddle from the scuppers and shifted to one side of the central thwart, Arturus doing the same on the other side, and without a word they both began to paddle hard.
12
Soon after dawn the following morning they slid out between the last of the rocks at the end of the gorge, using a backwater eddy along the cliff face to avoid the current in the centre of the channel that had made their progress so difficult during the night. They had snatched a few hours’ sleep in the early hours, having pulled up in a bay and tied up to a rock, but otherwise the going had been relentless, with each of them taking a turn at the tiller while the other two battled against the current, always looking out for the treacherous submerged rocks that showed up stark white in the moonlight. The wind had steadily died down during the night, adding to their travails, and for the last hour before dawn it was the paddles alone that had propelled them forward, inch by agonizing inch, until they were at last out of the narrows and in a wider channel where the current was less powerful. By skirting the shore of the great lake that now lay ahead they had been able to avoid the current completely, and with the sun up and the first brush of breeze in the air the sail had begun to flap and fill again, allowing them to lie back and rest for the first time in hours.
The Sword of Attila Page 13