Attila (41 page)

‘You mean it concealed a spy?' gasped Constantius.

‘Just so. He who would deceive Attila must serve a longer apprenticeship in treachery than yours, my friend. Have you anything to say which would persuade me that I should spare your life?'

‘I was only to be the instrument, Sire,' cried Constantius desperately. ‘I knew nothing about the plot before Chrysaphius spoke with me. It was his idea – his and your brother Bleda's.'

‘This I know already,' sighed Attila, in the tone of an indulgent landlord reproving a defaulting tenant. ‘Tell me something with which I am not familiar.'

‘Aetius, Sire, he also wished to have you killed,' gabbled Constantius, clutching at straws. ‘That is why he sent me to you.'

‘You lie, Roman. Aetius is the last person to want me dead. He needs my soldiers to suppress the federates. Try again.'

‘It's true, I swear!' exclaimed Constantius, trying frantically to think of something credible to reinforce his claim. ‘He is convinced that when you have finished ravaging the East you will turn against the West. He fears the federates less than he fears the Huns. He says that, while the federates may be unruly and treacherous, at least they do not massacre whole populations and reduce entire provinces to smoking deserts. “If Attila is not stopped, the cities of Italia and Gaul will share the fate of Sirmium and Singidunum” – his very words, Sire.'

It could be true, thought Attila, a terrible doubt entering his mind. How could Aetius know that circumstances had conspired to force Attila to make war on the Romans against his will, or
that for the sake of their old friendship he had chosen to invade the East rather than the West? Ignorant of Bleda's attempts to usurp his brother's authority, it was only natural that Aetius would view the invasion of the East as unprovoked aggression, and not what it really was: an act of political necessity, forced on Attila by the pressures of leadership. Any detached military observer must think that it was only a matter of time before the Huns turned their attention to the West.

‘I am minded to believe you, Roman,' said Attila heavily. ‘Not that anything you have told me will save you. It may, however, comfort you to know that I intend to grant you the same death as your Christ-god. As you hang upon the cross, reflect on these words, which I believe he uttered, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's”.' Turning to the guards, he commanded with weary sadness, ‘Crucify him.'

Alone in the audience chamber, a dreadful bleakness of the spirit descended on Attila. He could see it all clearly now. Coldly and with calculation, Aetius had exploited his knowledge of Attila's ambition to create a Greater Scythia. He had sent the persuasive, snake-tongued Constantius, to sell his erstwhile friend a shining dream, the greatest empire the world had ever seen. And Attila, ‘the Scourge of God', whose cunning was as legendary as his feats of conquest, had fallen for the ruse. Lulled into a false sense of security he would have dropped his guard, one day to fall victim to Constantius' dagger, had not the Roman's plans been overtaken by the clumsy plotting of Bleda and Chrysaphius.

Well, so much for dreams. He was done with such illusions, which served only to weaken and distract. Henceforth, he would deal only in the solid currency of war. Death and destruction, plunder and tribute – these would be his sole watchwords. The Romans would pay dearly for their perfidy. When the East had been made to render all its dues in full, then would come the turn of the West.

Constantius screamed as the nails were driven between the long bones of his forearms below the wrists, and through his feet. But when the cross stood upright in its socket, he could no longer scream. His body sagged, compressing his lungs so that he began to suffocate. Only by pushing himself upright against the block
his feet were nailed to, despite the agony this caused, could he relieve the pressure sufficiently to breathe. But all too soon his weight pulled him down, and the cycle recommenced. Crying weakly for his mother, Constantius began to die.

Attila murdered his brother Bleda and took over his kingdom

Count Marcellinus,
Chronicon
,
c
. 450

Following the return of the envoys from Constantinople, ensconced in his wife's village near the Hun capital Bleda daily awaited news that his brother had been slain; whereupon he would proclaim himself sole ruler of the Huns. He had received confirmation from Chrysaphius that Constantius was both suitable and willing to carry out the deed. So when he received a summons from Attila to attend him in the palace, he was filled at first with trepidation: the plot had been discovered or miscarried, and his part in it exposed. Then, on reflection, he told himself that such a reaction was premature, that in all probability Constantius was simply biding his time, not yet having found a suitable opportunity. If Attila really suspected his brother of being involved in a plot to kill him, instead of a courteous messenger he would surely have sent armed guards with instructions for Bleda's arrest. No, he was behaving as the guilty always tended to do: seeing in every trivial occurrence, proof that their crime had been discovered. In any event, he had no choice but to comply with his brother's request. To ignore it would only be to invite suspicion – most likely needless.

Bleda's fears were further dissipated by his brother's cordial reception in his private chamber within the palace. Attila pressed him to partake of Roman wine and fine peaches from the orchards of Colchis
¹
, while soliciting his views on the deliberations of the Council, the pasturing of the royal flocks and herds, and the implementing of the Peace of Anatolius. At last, reassured that nothing of the plot had come to light, Bleda felt secure enough to risk a casual enquiry about Constantius. ‘Your young Roman
envoy; as I recall, Brother, you entertained great hopes regarding his negotiations with Chrysaphius?'

‘Constantius, you mean? Yes, he performed most ably. By the way,' Attila continued, as if recalling something that had slipped his mind, ‘I have arranged for you to meet him.'

Bleda was confused. All his assignations with the Roman had been, so far as he knew, outwith Attila's ken. Why should his brother now be setting up a formal concourse? ‘For what reason should I wish to see Constantius – or he me, for that matter?' he queried.

‘Why indeed?' replied Attila enigmatically, throwing open the shutters of a window. ‘Unfortunately, he cannot come to you, but from where I stand he will be able to hear any words you wish to address to him.'

Suddenly afraid, Bleda hastened to the window and looked out. Before him was a grassy enclosure normally used for exercising horses. In the middle of the space had been erected a tall cross, on which a figure writhed and moaned feebly – Constantius.

‘Why are you showing me this?' exclaimed Bleda in horror.

‘I think you know the answer, Brother. You didn't really expect that Constantius, when confronted with proof of his treachery, would not seek to implicate you?'

‘Implicate me in what, Brother?' blustered Bleda, trying to master the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I do not know what he has said about me. But whatever it is, he lies.'

‘Spare me your excuses,' said Attila wearily. ‘Your plotting with Chrysaphius is known. During the envoys' visit to the East, my spy overheard him discuss with Constantius a conspiracy to have me murdered. Your involvement in the plot was very clear. Also, a recent letter from the eunuch to yourself, establishing your guilt beyond doubt, was intercepted before you received it.' He took from a chest a flask and a strangely shaped vessel, a drinking-horn made of glass. He emptied the flask's contents into the horn, which he placed on a table. ‘I give you a choice, Brother. You can die with dignity, in the knowledge that your treachery will remain undisclosed. Or you can face a charge of treason and defend your actions before the Council. I need hardly point out that they will certainly find you guilty, or what the penalty will be.'

Bleda shuddered as the memory of a scene he had once
witnessed rose in his mind: a condemned felon running between two lines of warriors armed with clubs, and gradually being beaten to a shrieking pulp.

‘The choice is yours, Brother,' said Attila quietly, moving to the door.

‘What is it?' whispered Bleda, pointing to the horn, with its semi-translucent, almost milky contents.

‘Hemlock. Compared to crucifixion or the gauntlet, it brings a merciful and, save at the end, painless death. First, you will become weak, so that if you attempt to walk, you will stagger. Then your hands and feet will begin to feel numb, and paralysis spread up your limbs to your body. Finally, your lungs will cease to work and you will die in asphyxial convulsions. A Greek called Socrates was condemned to die by this method. His crime was corrupting youth. An appropriate death for you to share considering your subverting of Constantius. When I return tomorrow, it will be to find you dead or dying, or to have you brought before the Council. It would be pointless for you to try to escape; the room is closely watched. May your last night on earth bring peace, Brother.'

After Attila had gone, Bleda sat staring at the horn in horrified fascination. Several times in the hours that followed, while sunlight slowly bled from the chamber to be replaced by the faint illumination of the stars, and the moans of Constantius came thinly to his ears, he approached the thing with hand extended, only to shrink away in terror at the last moment. Eventually, exhausted by fear and tension, he fell into a fitful sleep, waking as the first grey light of dawn filtered through the windows. Constantius' cries had at last fallen silent. Presumably, he was dead and so at peace. Peace. Even if that was the blackness of eternal night, surely it must be preferable to prolonging his life for a few more wretched hours, which was all he could look forward to if he refused the hemlock. Before his resolution could falter, Bleda grasped the horn and drained it in a single draught. Soon, a not unpleasant tingling began in his toes and fingers, to be succeeded by a creeping numbness . . .

Bleda's death went unlamented. His contribution to the achievements of the dual monarchy had been negligible, eclipsed by the mighty exploits of his brother. Nevertheless, whatever his
deficiencies as a ruler might have been in life, in death he was accorded a funeral befitting a King of the Huns. If anyone suspected that Attila had played a part in his brother's death, they remained silent – less, perhaps, from any fear of retribution, than from indifference. Bleda had been neither loved nor respected, and, besides, possession of the Sacred Scimitar conferred on Attila an authority believed to be divine.

Attila was now sole monarch of the Huns, the undisputed ruler of a realm stretching from the Visurgis
²
in the west to the Oxus in the east; between Scandia in the north and Persia in the south. It should have been a moment to savour. But the knowledge brought him no satisfaction, was as gall and wormwood on the tongue. For his dream of greatness for his people lay in ruins, past any hope of restoration.

 

¹
Trans-Caucasia. Colchis, the legendary location of the Golden Fleece, was famous for its fruit.

²
The Weser.

To Aegidius,
¹
consul for the third time, the groans of the Britons.

Gildas,
The Destruction of Britain
, late fifth or early sixth century

The tempest that had raged over Britain for many days and blown the two sea eagles from their hunting range above the Cambrian cliffs almost to the shores of Gaul, was at last abating. The two great birds swooped and soared among the lessening gusts. Then, finding a field of stable air some thousands of feet above the Fretum Gallicum, the narrow strait between the coasts of Gaul and Britain, they turned north-west and headed for their eyrie, with slow, majestic flaps of their huge wings.

From such a height, the whole of Britain's Saxon Shore, with its chain of forts extending from the Metaris Aestuarium to the Isle of Vectis,
²
was encompassed by their indifferent gaze: Branodunum, Garannonum, Regulbium, Rutupiae, Portus Dubris, Anderida and mighty Portus Adurni.
³
For more than a hundred and fifty years, these massive structures had kept at bay the blue-eyed heathen pirates from across the German Ocean. Now, but thinly manned by unpaid
limitanei
, they were failing to hold the line. These second-rate frontier troops were all that remained of the Army of Britain after the usurper Constantine (self-styled the Third) had, more than a generation before, led away the legions into Gaul, never to return.

No longer under the unified command of a Count of the Saxon Shore appointed from Ravenna, the forts had become mere isolated strong-points, between which the Saxon raiders could row their craft unchecked up creeks and estuaries, to ravage far inland. With no Duke of Britain to organize resistance, the hinterland behind the forts was reverting to heath and scrubland, as people fled the land to migrate west or seek shelter behind the
strong walls of the cities. Grass now grew on the splendid roads that had once echoed to the tramp of Roman cohorts; the fox and badger made their lair in abandoned farmsteads, and the mosaic floors of crumbling villas became the hearths of passing war-bands.

On the wrinkled sea beneath the eagles' flight, three dots crept towards the British coast.

‘To Flavius Aetius, Patrician, Master of Soldiers in all the Gauls, in his third consulship, greetings. I, Ambrosius Aurelianus, your friend and fellow Roman, humbly ask that you will heed my plea on behalf of the miserable inhabitants of this island: defenceless sheep harried by the Saxon wolves, whose plight—'

Ambrosius threw down his stylus in disgust. Had he really written that? With the blunt end of the instrument he erased what he had written on the waxed tablet. Seeking inspiration, he began to pace the room, an upper chamber of an inn in Noviomagus
⁴
which, as
consularis
of the province of Maxima Caesariensis, he had taken over as his headquarters. Ambrosius chuckled to himself.
Consularis
of Maxima Caesariensis! A meaningless euphemism plucked from the imperial past and bestowed on him by Noviomagus' remaining decurions, and implying governorship of an area covering the whole of south-east Britain. In fact, of course, he was nothing more than a successful warlord, whose fief precariously extended from the Fretum Gallicum northward to the Tamesa, and east to west from Cantium
⁵
as far as near Sorbiodunum the ancient Hanging Stones.
⁶
He supposed he owed his position to a record of proven ability as councillor, then mayor, and latterly resistance leader; also perhaps to the mystique conferred by his senatorial rank, and the fact that he was a Roman from a distinguished consular family – a real Roman, not a Celtic chief with a veneer of
Romanitas
.