Attila (35 page)

The first arrow transfixed his stomach, the second his throat, cutting off his screams of agony. Within seconds, he resembled an oversized pincushion which twitched briefly on the ground, then lay still. Picking up the key and the bag of
solidi
, one of the scouts galloped back to report to his captain while the others, laughing, resumed their circuit of the city.

Despite its massive fortifications, Sirmium held out against the Huns for an even shorter time than Singidunum. Within an hour of their first being sighted, the city, like a rock in an angry sea, was surrounded by a swirling horde of Huns. With a courage born of terror, the citizens, using improvised weapons – kitchen knives, gardening-tools, even prised-up cobblestones – strove to
stem the flood of Huns that threatened to engulf the ramparts, as ladders and grapnels thumped against the battlements, and siege-towers, constructed under the direction of captured Roman engineers, were wheeled against the walls. For a time, they succeeded in keeping the enemy at bay. Infected by a mood of febrile triumph, they redoubled their efforts, hurling ladder after ladder crashing to the ground, each scattering its load of Huns, or fighting with such desperate fury that even the ferocious savages who had gained a footing on the walkway were daunted.

But their optimism was premature. Suddenly, the defenders found themselves embattled on two fronts, as Huns who had infiltrated the city through the unlocked postern poured on to the ramparts from the staircases on the inside face of the walls. The Sirmians' new-found confidence evaporated as suddenly as it had arisen, and they began to throw down their weapons in droves; in a few minutes all had surrendered.

The inhabitants were assembled on a plain near the city and divided into three parts. The first class consisted of the garrison and men capable of bearing arms. They were massacred on the spot by Huns who, with bended bows, had formed a circle round them. The second class, consisting of the young and attractive women, and skilled tradesmen such as smiths and carpenters, were distributed in lots. The remainder, being neither useful nor a threat to the nomads, were turned loose – many to perish of starvation in the fire-scorched wasteland to which the Huns had reduced northern Illyria. Emptied, the city was looted of anything of value, then systematically demolished, with a thoroughness which almost justified a saying that was already gaining currency: ‘The grass never grows where the horse of Attila has trod.'

In furious impatience, Aspar, son of the great Ardaburius, veteran of the campaigns against Ioannes (successful) and Gaiseric (unsuccessful), and now commander of the joint East–West army assembled in Sicilia for the reconquest of Africa, paced the colonnade of his headquarters in the Neapolis district of Syracusa. For perhaps the tenth time that morning, he looked down at the Great Harbour, crammed with the expedition's warships, hoping to spot the arrival of a fast galley – one must surely soon bring word from Constantinople. News of Attila's onslaught on Illyria had arrived weeks before. The expedition had immediately been
suspended, but the expected imperial missive ordering it to return to the capital, to counter the Hun threat, had so far failed to arrive.

The Romans were letting Gaiseric run circles round them, Aspar thought, in frustration mingled with contempt. The combined naval and military armament of both empires had been ready to move against the Vandal tyrant. And Theoderic, King of the Visigoths, in a bizarre reversal of his recent anti-Roman operations, had been burning to lend his support to the expedition! (His daughter, married to Gaiseric's son, was suspected of involvement in a plot to poison the Vandal king, and had been sent back to her father by Gaiseric – minus her nose and ears.) But Gaiseric, as cunning as he was cruel, had stolen a march on the Romans and their new Goth friends by forming an alliance with Attila, who had promptly obliged by invading the Eastern Empire.

If only he could be given a free hand, Aspar fumed. There was that business over the usurper Iohannes sixteen years ago, for instance. He'd just about had Aetius stalemated, and could have gone on to beat him if he hadn't been summoned back to the East over a trifling border dispute with Persia. Then there was that chaotic shambles in Africa, when the Vandals had been allowed to destroy the joint forces of both empires, because the commander-in-chief, Boniface, had lost his nerve. Had the command been his, Aspar told himself, the result would have been very different. (Of course, the fact that he was an Arian had all along probably blocked any chance of his being appointed Master of Soldiers.) And now, when the safety of the Eastern Empire's northern dioceses depended on getting an army there as quickly as possible, here he was stuck in Sicilia, while Attila ravaged Illyria at will.

It was all the fault of Arnegliscus, the new Eastern Master of Soldiers, thought Aspar bitterly. Ambitious, brutal, and slow-witted, Arnegliscus had murdered the previous
Magister militum
, a fellow German, and usurped his post. He'd have had no difficulty in persuading his imperial master, the weak and pliable Theodosius, that he'd done so to forestall a plot against the Emperor, say. And the fact that he was supported by the circus faction of the Greens (the people's party) would have put Theodosius under extra pressure to confirm him in the post or risk provoking a riot. By the
time that ponderous Teutonic mind had got round to deciding that something should be done about the Huns, Attila would probably be battering at the gates of Constantinople.

Being a fair-minded man, however, after a little reflection Aspar reluctantly admitted that he was being less than just to Arnegliscus. He was allowing frustration and impatience to colour his assessment of the man. Coarse-grained and limited the German might be, but the very fact that he had become Master of Soldiers showed that he at least possessed two sterling qualities, leadership and courage. Otherwise, the legions would never have accepted him. For the same reason, he could hardly be considered stupid: fools did not become top generals. Nor, as Aspar could testify from personal experience, did paragons of gentle forbearance. In the dog-eat-dog world of Roman power politics, Arnegliscus might have been compelled to eliminate his predecessor in order to forestall his own assassination by one who feared a rival. As for his embroidering the truth in order to influence Theodosius, well, hadn't every successful general and politician been compelled to play that game, from Pericles to Constantine and beyond?

Suddenly, Aspar's pulse began racing. Oars flashing in the sunlight, a fast galley shot from behind the islet of Ortygia and raced towards the entrance of the Great Harbour. Backing water with a stylish flourish as it neared the mole, it shipped oars and glided gently to its moorings. Surely this, at last, must be the ship bringing the orders for the expedition to return to the Golden Horn. The Alan general waited expectantly for a messenger to arrive, and, sure enough, a little later a
biarchus
was ushered into his presence. The man handed Aspar a sheaf of scrolls. The general scanned each briefly, with growing impatience and concern: fodder returns for the new cavalry barracks at Nicomedia; a complaint about the quality of a batch of javelin heads from the state arms factory at Ratiaria; a plea for a diploma of discharge on behalf of a standard-bearer claiming disablement . . .

‘You're quite sure there's nothing from the palace?' he asked.

The
biarchus
looked in his satchel and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. Wish I could say different. There's not a soldier in the empire but wishes you and the army were back home.' He added anxiously, ‘Er, best forget I said that, sir.'

‘Said what?' smiled Aspar. He suddenly came to a bold
decision; this farce had gone on long enough. ‘What's your ship's next destination?'

‘Cyrene, sir.'

‘No it isn't. Tell the captain I'm requisitioning his vessel to take me immediately to Constantinople.'

‘Yes,
sir
!' With a delighted grin, the man saluted and hurried off to deliver the general's command.

Theodosius, the second of that name, Emperor of the East Romans, the Calligrapher (of all his royal titles, the one of which he was most proud), laid down his pen from the task in which he was engaged: copying, in beautiful Rustic capitals, Jerome's
Third Attack on the Pelagian Heresy
. ‘Will it do, sister?' he enquired anxiously of the handsome but dowdily dressed woman in her early forties who had just entered the
scriptorium
.

‘I'm sure the monks of my new monastery will be impressed,' sighed Pulcheria wearily. She went on with a hint of impatience, ‘There are, however, also worldly matters which have a claim on your attention. I would remind you, brother, that the generals have been waiting more than an hour.'

‘Oh dear, as long as that?' murmured the Emperor contritely. ‘Well, we'd better see them, I suppose.' He rose from the writing-desk; two slaves dressed him in a purple robe and slippers, then placed the imperial diadem on his head. Meekly, he followed his sister, the Augusta, along a succession of corridors to the audience chamber. This was a grand colonnaded affair, overlooking the jumble of splendid but asymmetrical series of buildings, cascading downhill towards the Propontis,
³
that made up the rest of Constantinople's imperial palace.

The two men who bowed low, ‘adoring the Sacred Purple', at the entry of the royal pair were very different in appearance. Aspar, the Alan general, was slight, with delicate aquiline features and olive colouring. The other was tall, of massive build, with shoulder-length yellow hair and fair skin, a magnificent specimen of manhood. This was Arnegliscus, the Master of Soldiers. Their dress pointed up the contrast between the pair. Aspar's simple military tunic and leggings still bore the marks of travel, for he had come straight from the docks on the Golden Horn. The German
was got up in the full regalia of a Roman general, complete with silvered cuirass and bronze-studded
pteruges
, leather strips protecting the shoulders, and the lower body from waist to knee.

Theodosius and Pulcheria seated themselves on thrones. ‘Aspar,' declared the Emperor, ‘we are displeased that you have taken it upon yourself not only to return to Constantinople without our permission, but to commandeer a naval vessel, thus preventing it from transacting important business in Cyrene.' Striving for stern censoriousness, Theodosius succeeded in sounding merely peevish. He turned to Pulcheria. ‘His presumption is inexcusable, do you not agree?'

‘Let us hear what he has to say, before we judge him,' replied the Augusta. ‘You may speak, Aspar.'

‘Your Serenities must excuse me if I speak in plain terms,' began the Alan. ‘The situation as I see it is approaching crisis. Our army is absent and divided – half on the Persian frontier, the rest in Sicily. Meanwhile Attila is rampaging freely throughout Illyria, destroying cities, massacring or enslaving the people. It makes no sense that our troops are not here. As a matter of the most urgent priority, I say we must recall both forces without further delay.' All at once, Aspar realized that any appeal to reasoned compromise would probably fail. To make sure it was his view that prevailed, he was first going to have to daemonize the big German. Reluctantly switching to attack mode, he went on, ‘Frankly, I am at a loss to understand why the Master of Soldiers has not done this already.' Despite having an Asiatic contempt for petticoat politics, Aspar was thankful for the presence of Pulcheria. Strange, he thought, that each half of the empire was run by a strong-willed woman controlling a weak Emperor. But where Pulcheria was sensible and decisive, Placidia was inept and devious; where Theodosius was merely ineffective, Valentinian was vicious and a liability.

‘Arnegliscus?' invited Pulcheria.

The commander shrugged. ‘Come the autumn,' he said slowly, ‘Attila must return to his meadows beyond the Danubius. Already his horses grow thin; he has all but exhausted the pastures of Illyria.'

‘And next year?' sneered Aspar. ‘Having discovered that the empire provided such easy pickings, do you really suppose that Attila will fail to return? Or that he won't keep coming back year
after year – until the empire takes a stand? Or is it perhaps that Arnegliscus is afraid to match himself against the Hun?' In fact, as Aspar well knew, Arnegliscus was no coward; few Germans were. But if it took a confrontation to unblock the log-jam of inactivity, so be it.

The German rose to the bait. ‘Anyone who says Arnegliscus is afraid, lies,' he growled.

‘Fine words!' retorted Aspar. ‘But words are cheap. Let us see if you dare match them with fine actions.'

An angry flush suffused the German's cheeks. ‘Perhaps now is not the time for action,' he countered, his tone defensive and his blue eyes flashing with resentment. ‘To confront Attila at this moment is to risk the destruction of our armies. I say let the Huns ravage Thracia, Dacia and Macedonia.
⁴
Poor, thinly populated, in the last resort they are expendable. It is the wealthy east and south – Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Libya – that we must safeguard above all. To attack them, Attila must first take Constantinople. And that he cannot do.'

Privately, Aspar was forced to concede that what Arnegliscus said had much to recommend it. The mighty walls of Constantinople could withstand the worst assault that Attila could hurl against them, and, with the capital inviolate, the security of the Eastern Empire's heart was guaranteed. But abandon Illyris Graeca
⁵
to the fury of the Huns? Unthinkable. Wasn't it? For the first time, Aspar was assailed by a creeping doubt regarding the wisdom of taking the field against the Huns – at least until the armies of the East had developed effective tactics against the terrible archery of the nomad hordes. But it was too late to row back now.

‘So you would have the army sit safe behind the ramparts of Constantinople,' he sneered, ‘without lifting a finger to help, while Attila's savages wreak havoc and destruction throughout Illyria, Thrace, and Macedonia? To settle for a shameful policy of appeasement – that is the coward's way.'