Attila (56 page)

‘A miracle?' said Marcian, angrily pacing the atrium of the villa in ‘the Oak', Chalcedon's most exclusive suburb. He had been assigned the sumptuous residence during the sitting of the Council, for ease in monitoring its progress. ‘This is the last thing we need, Aspar. Now the findings of the Council are going to have all the credibility of a fairground trick. The credulous fools. A corpse's hand rising to clasp the
Tome
? I've never heard such nonsense in my life!'

‘I'm as puzzled as you are, sir,' responded the general. ‘But they all swear they saw it – those who weren't dozing at the back, that is. I don't think we can just dismiss it, sir. Both John of Antioch and our own Flavian have confirmed they saw it happen, and a more hard-headed pair of pragmatists would be difficult to find.'

‘Then it must be a trick,' fumed Marcian. ‘We've all heard of phials of saints' “blood” which liquefy on certain days, or statues of the Virgin which supposedly weep real tears on Good Friday. It's got to be something on those lines, or . . . Perhaps the warmer temperature in the nave, compared to that in the crypt whence the body was removed, made arm muscles contract. For God's sake Aspar, don't look at me like that – I know it sounds far-fetched. But a miracle? No, that I can't accept.'

‘Why don't we examine the lady for ourselves,' suggested the general soothingly.

‘Good idea. Lead the way.'

‘No signs of interference, sir,' pronounced Aspar, rising to his feet beside the coffin.

‘I have to agree,' said Marcian reluctantly, dusting down his knees. ‘This bending isn't good for my arthritis, you know,' he grumbled; then abruptly, pointing down at the coffin's head. ‘Hallo, what's this?'

‘Just a blob of candle-grease,' said Aspar, stooping to examine it.

Ignoring the stiffness in his knees, Marcian bent down to have a closer look. ‘There's a mark here,' he observed suspiciously. ‘Look,' and he indicated a faint groove on the surface of the wax. ‘Something funny here, Aspar.'

‘You know, sir,' said the general innocently, ‘I wonder if it might not be a mistake to be
too
thorough in attempting to disprove that a miracle occurred. After all, it's bound to be seen as a manifestation of divine approval for the Council's findings. Judiciously presented, the “miracle of Saint Euphemia” needn't do us any harm.' He paused, then added reflectively, ‘Any harm at all.'

‘Aspar, I can't believe I heard you say that,' said Marcian indignantly. ‘Not for a moment would I countenance such—' He stopped, shook his head, then burst out laughing. ‘Well, perhaps you're right. Sleeping dogs, eh? You old reprobate, there are times when I despair of you.'

 

¹
Re the retention of pliability in some mummies' limbs, see Notes p.439.

The sudden bursting of an artery flooded his lungs with a torrent of blood

Jordanes,
Gothic History
, 551

Fear gripped Attila as he awoke. He could not move. Every muscle was immobile, as though his whole body were clamped by bands of iron. He willed his flesh to respond; slowly, slowly, beginning with his hands and feet, the power of movement returned until he was able, painfully and stiffly, to rise from his couch. The condition, brought on by over-taxed muscles reacting after a long and punishing lifetime in the saddle, had begun some years ago and had gradually worsened, until now he dreaded retiring each night in case the morning found him alive but paralysed. He could imagine no greater horror. It would be like being buried alive. No, worse; because then the agony would swiftly pass, whereas this would be a living death.

Calling for his horse, he rode out from his palace far into the steppe, not drawing rein until he reached the foothills of the Carpathus, his refuge when he wished to be alone to commune with himself. In a mood of quiet desperation, he reviewed the happenings of recent months, and the likely shape of events to come. After the defeat by Aetius, he would have desired nothing better than to make peace with the Romans and spend the remainder of his days consolidating his great empire, and perhaps trying to salvage something of his abandoned plans for a Greater Scythia. But that path was closed to him for ever. Fate had decreed that, however much he might wish it otherwise, he must always lead his people in never-ending wars of conquest. So, tired and dispirited, he had last year invaded Italia. Aetius' federate allies refused to serve outwith Gaul; with a limited number of Roman troops he could only harass, not seriously impede, the Hunnish horde. Worldly arms proving ineffective, the Romans had resorted to spiritual weapons; the fierce old pope (aptly named Leo, Attila
thought), had met him at Lacus Benacus,
¹
urging him to withdraw forthwith, or risk incurring divine punishment. Rather than God's wrath, however, it was the destruction of Aquileia, the sacking of Mediolanum and Ticinum,
²
and the partial payment of Honoria's dowry, commuted to gold, that had encouraged Attila to return home, without loss of face. But that was not enough. Even now, the Council was pressing for a fresh assault on Italia, should the Senate not deliver up Honoria herself.

He was, he thought with weary resignation, like the sharks that swim in Ocean, the mighty sea encompassing the earth: doomed to keep moving or sink into the vast depths and die, crushed by the unimaginable weight of water above. What had it all been for? he wondered. He was the oldest man he knew, yet his long life had accomplished nothing of lasting value. He had fame; the name of Attila would echo down the ages. But it was a fame based on the butchering of tens of thousands, of countless cities razed and lands laid waste. Was that a fame worth striving for? His was a barren legacy. Those closest to him he had lost: his brother Bleda, whose life he had been forced to take; Aetius, his one true friend, now become his deadliest foe. The vast empire he had forged, by leadership and ruthless will alone – could that survive his death? Or would his sons quarrel over their inheritance and, weakened and divided, fail to stop the subject nations breaking free and tearing it apart? Ellac and Dengish, his ablest sons, were brave and resolute, but in truth probably lacked the force of character to unite their siblings and hold the huge fabric together.

Sadly, he turned his horse's head for home. He had little inclination to return, but today was his wedding-feast, the bride, the latest of many, a young girl named Ildico. She had been chosen by the Council, Attila suspected, to prove to the Huns that their King, though old, was still virile and potent. He felt a flash of resentment that it had come to this: paraded like a stud bull at a market, to gratify the expectations of his subjects who, in their ignorance, needed the myth of an all-powerful monarch to sustain them. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he was coming to resemble King Log in the fable by that Greek slave.

Arriving back at his capital late in the afternoon, Attila was greeted by a great throng of women. Forming long files, and holding aloft white veils of thin linen so as to cover the spaces between the columns, they preceded Attila to his wooden palace, while choirs of young girls marching beneath the linen canopies chanted hymns and songs. Outside the principal gate, surrounded by attendants and with the wedding guests ranged behind, waited his new bride. A slave presented Attila with a goblet of wine, raised on a small silver table to a height convenient for the King as he sat his horse. Attila touched the goblet with his lips, bowed briefly to his wife-to-be, a frightened-looking youngster scarcely visible beneath layers of bridal finery, and dismounted.

A shaman performed a brief marriage ceremony, then the couple, followed by the bride's retinue and the guests, proceeded through the gateway and into the great hall, bright with wall-hangings and Oriental carpets, and lined with tables for the wedding guests. As at the reception for the Roman envoys five years before, the royal table, raised on a dais above the level of the rest, was laid with wooden cups and platters, in contrast to the gold and silver vessels on the other tables.

Punctuated by performances of minstrels, clowns, and jugglers, course followed course in monotonous plenty; each was a variation on mainly three ingredients, mutton, goat's flesh, and millet. Toasts, in fermented mare's milk, millet beer, and Roman wine – to Attila, to his bride, to each member of the bride's family, to the prominent nobles among the guests – were proposed and returned in an interminable succession. Although, as was his wont, he ate and drank sparingly, the sheer number of toasts and courses began to tell on even Attila's iron constitution. But, he being host and bridegroom, courtesy compelled him to sample every serving and each health drunk; nor could he decently retire before the conclusion of the feast. At last, as the first rays of dawn began to filter through the shutters of the hall, the final course was cleared away and, ill and exhausted, Attila was able to retire with his bride to the bedchamber.

With enormous thankfulness, the king lay down on the bed, indicating to Ildico that, instead of joining him, she should rest on a nearby couch. He felt a pang of compassion for the poor trembling child, waiting to be ravished by a man old enough to be her grandfather. She need have no fear. Let her choose some
handsome young page to be her bedmate, and, to keep the Council and the people happy, any offspring be passed off as Attila's. A smile played briefly round the grim old warrior's lips as sleep claimed him.

Attila awoke, conscious of a terrible lancing pain beneath his breastbone. He tried to call out, but only a feeble croak issued from his throat. When he tried to rise, his stiffened muscles refused to obey his will. The pain increased, becoming unendurable. Suddenly, something seemed to tear inside his chest and his gullet filled with warm liquid; he tried to breathe, found himself choking . . .

Later that day, concerned about his master's non-appearance, Balamir, Attila's loyal and devoted groom, broke into the royal bedchamber and found the King dead, lying in a great pool of blood. Ildico was crouched beside him, her head hidden by a veil. It was clear that an artery had burst, drowning Attila in his own blood.

The funeral was of a scale to reflect the King's mighty exploits. His body was solemnly exposed beneath a silken canopy; the nomads shaved their hair and gashed their faces, while chosen squadrons wheeled round the corpse, chanting a funeral song. The corpse was enclosed within three coffins: of gold, of silver, and of iron, then placed within the dry bed of the River Tisa, which had been diverted from its course by captive Romans. The waters were then restored to their natural channel and the prisoners executed, that the spot should remain secret for ever.

As news of the King's death spread throughout the Roman world, it was everywhere greeted by a vast collective sigh of relief – nowhere more than in the East, on which Attila had vowed to wreak terrible revenge, for its defiance in withholding tribute.

 

¹
Lake Garda.

²
Pavia.

The ring came to rest on particular letters appropriate to the questions put

Ammianus Marcellinus,
The Histories
,
c.
395

Anonymous in
cuculli
or hooded cloaks, the two figures – one stocky and muscular, the other tall and athletic – plunged ever deeper by torchlight into the squalid warren that was Rome's Fourth District, the Subura. Walled in by towering
insulae
, tall, badly built blocks which were forever catching fire or falling down, the narrow streets were clogged with filth and rubbish, infrequently removed by gangs of private refuse-collectors. Gone were the old public services that until fairly recently had maintained high levels of security and hygiene throughout the city's fourteen districts. Law and order, fighting fires, cleansing, and public health – all were now contracted out by the City Prefect to private concerns for whom profit was the priority, with corner-cutting and shoddy standards ever more widespread.

His hugely developed shoulders and forearms deterrents to any would-be mugger, the first of the pair threaded the maze of alleys with a sureness born of long familiarity, halting at last at the base of a huge tower which dwarfed all the buildings around it. This was the famous Insula of Felicula, the tallest structure in Rome, and as much a visitor attraction for Rome as the Pyramids were for Egypt.

‘Legs and lungs in good shape, Serenity?' chuckled the man, his informal manner bordering on insolence. ‘You'll be sorry if they're not – we're in for a climb of sixteen storeys.'

‘You've been paid to do a job, Statarius, not talk,' snapped his companion, throwing back his hood to reveal the face of the Emperor. ‘Just lead the way.'

‘Whatever you say, Serenity,' responded the other, unabashed. ‘Just trying to be friendly.'

Damn the fellow's presumption, thought Valentinian as he
followed the man up the steep stairwell. These swollen-headed charioteers, the darlings of the mob, considered themselves as good as anyone, even their Emperor. Still, lack of respect was a small price to pay for the assignation he was about to keep. If you wanted a nefarious deal arranged, a charioteer was always your best choice. This one, Statarius, ‘Slowcoach' (the ironic nickname bestowed on account of his being the fastest driver in Rome), had been recommended for his network of shady contacts.

And nothing could be shadier than this present business. But Valentinian had been driven to it. All his life he had had to suffer the humiliation of being ruled by his mother and then Aetius. At least Placidia had always had his interests at heart, her prestige as the Augusta ensuring that he was accorded the deference his position as emperor demanded. But Placidia was dead, and the Patrician now treated him with open contempt, as though it were Aetius – a mere general – who ruled the West. Why, ambassadors and potentates addressed their missives directly to him, bypassing the court in Ravenna – as though the Emperor were a cipher who could be ignored, irrelevant to the conduct of affairs. It was insufferable. Worse, it surely meant that Valentinian stood in personal danger. With Placidia gone, what was there to prevent Aetius from taking that final step and seizing the purple for himself? If the empire's turbulent history proved anything, it was this: a dethroned emperor was never suffered to live. Hence this mission: to try to discover what fate the future held in store, for himself and for his Master of Soldiers. Maybe the Patrician's star was on the wane, the Emperor thought hopefully. Attila's death had removed the West's most pressing peril; and therefore perhaps the need for Aetius, as well.