Attila (39 page)

He set out from his quarters in the Hun capital, a vast, sprawling village of tents, with here and there a crudely built wooden mansion belonging to a noble. An astonishing sight – ridiculous, almost shocking in its incongruity – was a huge stone building in pure Graeco-Roman style, which towered above the flimsy roofs of felt or canvas like a war-galley among fishing-boats. This was the Baths of Onegesius, designed by a Greek architect enslaved during Attila's invasion of the Eastern Empire and now a freedman in the service of Onegesius, one of Attila's favourites. As he picked his way through the tangle of filthy lanes that passed for streets, Constantius became surrounded by a noisy crowd of children. During the three weeks that Attila had kept him waiting for an audience, he had become enormously popular among the youngsters, by his gift of mimicry and repertoire of
tricks. Today, he was a bear. He rushed among the little Huns, roaring and swinging his head from side to side, his hands crooked like claws, while the children shrieked delightedly and pretended to flee in terror.

Reaching the foot of the hill crowned by the wooden royal palace, he shooed away his young following and began to climb. At the top, he paused to regain his breath while taking in the view: an expanse of flat grassland rolling away to the blue Carpathus mountains on one hand, and the glittering loops of the Tisa on the other. Like drifting shadows, the nomads' herds moved slowly across the landscape. At the entrance gate of the palisade surrounding the palace complex, he stated his business to the guards, and was escorted past the houses of Attila's wives to the main building, an impressive edifice constructed of massive beams of smoothed timber, with a colonnade of curiously carved tree-trunks. He was shown into the audience chamber, to find himself alone in the presence of the King.

Clad in a skin robe, Attila was seated on a simple wooden throne. Looking at the still figure, deep-sunk eyes in the huge head glittering with intelligence, Constantius was put in mind of a great beast of prey, at rest but ready at any moment to unleash an attack of deadly, devastating power. He knew at once that it would be useless to pretend that the gifts in his satchel were of value. Burning with shame, he spread them on a table: a pewter chalice set with ‘gems' of coloured glass, a bronze enamelled brooch, a small silver paten, the glass drinking-horn.

Bowing low, Constantius announced, ‘My lord Aetius, Patrician and Master of Soldiers of Valentinian Augustus, Emperor of the West Romans, sends greetings to Attila, King of the Huns and ruler of all lands and peoples from the Oceanus Germanicus to the Caspium, and trusts he will accept these poor gifts as a token of his regard.' Licking his lips, he added, ‘I apologize, Your Majesty, for this tawdry remnant – all that was recovered when our baggage was swept away as we crossed the swollen Tisa.' The lie was the best he could come up with in the circumstances.

‘No matter,' observed Attila in a deep voice, adding wryly with a glance at the other's richly embroidered dalmatic, ‘I am glad to see your clothing did not suffer. Tell me, Roman, the reason why your master sent you here.'

‘Your Majesty, the Patrician has authorized me to say on his
behalf that he wishes – in all humility and sincerity – that the friendship which was once between you both, can be restored.'

‘By “friendship” he means soldiers,' rumbled Attila. ‘What can he offer in return? My informants tell me that the West's coffers are as empty as the skulls of the Romans that yet lie on the battlefield of the Chersonesus of Thracia.

‘He feels, my lord, that with your help he could restore the West – recover Africa and Britain, crush the Suebi in Hispania, compel the federates in Gaul to forswear the use of arms and settle down as tax-paying Romans, like ordinary citizens. Then, with peace and security established, and tribute flowing into the imperial treasury once more, the fiscal anaemia presently afflicting the West would be cured. He would be in a position to offer you, as well as the titles of joint Patrician and
Magister militum
, that of co-Emperor with Valentinian, also one half of the revenue from the West's taxes.' His confidence returning, Constantius proceeded, with his natural eloquence and enthusiasm, to paint a vivid and enticing picture of a vast Romano-Hunnish confederacy stretching from the Oceanus Atlanticus to the Imaus Mons,
¹
the greatest political unit the world had ever seen, encompassing in a single whole an empire greater than Alexander's. He was wildly exceeding his brief. Aetius had said nothing about co-Emperorship; Attila's share of the imperial revenues was to be a fifth not a half; the confederacy that had, in Constantius' grandiose description, included the Eastern Empire in its sweep, in fact referred to the West and Attila's dominions alone. But mundane details could always be amended and scaled down later; the essential thing at this moment was to capture Attila's interest.

It was impossible to tell what effect, if any, his words were having. Attila listened impassively, motionless on his throne, his features without expression. ‘We will consider Aetius' words,' he pronounced, when Constantius had finished. ‘Meanwhile, it is our pleasure that you remain in our capital until further notice.'

Long after Constantius had gone, Attila sat pondering the implications of Aetius' message, his great mind – like some vast and intricate machine devised by Archimedes or Hero of Alexandria – appraising, comparing, evaluating . . . The young man sent by
Aetius was unscrupulous and self-centred – that much was obvious. His story about losing his baggage in the Tisa was a transparent lie; from the moment of his entering Hun territory, Constantius' every move was observed, and no such incident had been reported to Attila. But the offer he carried from Aetius, though clearly embellished, was worthy of serious deliberation. Perhaps, after all, Attila reflected, his dream of founding a Greater Scythia was capable of being resurrected. It was a tempting prospect; yet dreams were dangerous, for they could seduce and betray you – as he had found to his cost. But without dreams, what was a man? Nothing: a brute, a savage. He would ponder the matter long and hard, and then decide.

Meanwhile, he could make use of Constantius. The young Roman might be a self-serving opportunist, but he was also articulate, amiable, and sophisticated – potentially far more effective as an envoy than the arrogant and uncouth Huns he had been sending to Constantinople, following the Peace of Anatolius. That treaty had been thrashed out with the Eastern Empire the previous year. The terms had been punitive: Attila's tribute had been trebled to the gigantic yearly sum of two thousand one hundred pounds of gold, plus an immediate payment of six thousand pounds of gold; all escaped Roman prisoners to be returned, or ransomed for a heavy fee; and all fugitives to be handed over on pain of drastic retribution. The negotiations had been decided between Attila's representative, Scotta, and Anatolius, one of the East's top generals. Knowing what accomplished procrastinators the Romans were, Attila had sent a stream of envoys to Constantinople to maintain pressure on the East to fulfil its treaty obligations. Personable and persuasive, Constantius might be just the person to infiltrate the court and discover the East's intentions towards the Huns. Attila would dictate a letter to his secretary, Orestes, requesting a meeting between Constantius and Chrysaphius, the wily eunuch who, next to Pulcheria, pulled the strings that manipulated Theodosius.

When Bleda heard that Constantius not only was to be included in the next batch of ambassadors to travel to Constantinople, but was to be granted an exclusive interview with Chrysaphius, he immediately became excited. Leaving his domain north of the Pontus Euxinus, he hastened to his brother's capital on the pretext
of visiting one of his wives, who owned a nearby village. For Bleda had himself for some time been carrying on a correspondence with Chrysaphius concerning a plot of potential benefit to both: nothing less than the murder of Attila. For ten years Bleda had lived in his brother's shadow, scorned and ignored at every turn. For someone of his limited yet ambitious character, the rankling humiliation had grown more and more insupportable, until at last his cunning and devious mind had turned to schemes for getting rid of his hated sibling. As for Chrysaphius, being instrumental in bringing about the death of Attila would make him appear as the saviour of the East, and immensely increase his already huge influence and power.

The plot hinged on finding a third person, bold and venal enough to do the deed. For reasons of security, and safeguard against possible betrayal, that eliminated any of the Hun ambassadors. Now, it seemed, in the person of Constantius, the perfect solution might have presented itself. All that Bleda had heard concerning Attila's new envoy seemed to confirm this. Being a Roman, Constantius owed no loyalty of blood or nationality to the Hun monarch. If the rumours that he had misappropriated Aetius' gifts for Attila were true, there was every chance that he would be susceptible to a hefty bribe. And apparently he had performed creditably in a recent battle in which the West Romans had defeated the Franks, so could be expected to have sufficient nerve to carry out the murder. Chrysaphius was a better judge of character than himself, Bleda knew. Let him assess the young man and, if he thought him suitable, put the suggestion to him along with half the ‘fee', the balance to be paid on completion of the task. Bleda decided that he would send a letter by fast courier to Chrysaphius immediately. And he would make a point of getting to know Constantius, with a view to assessing the Roman's suitability for himself.

‘They say the world is round, Balamir,' said Attila. He had rescued the young man from the Danubius, just before his accession, and ever since then Balamir had been the most loyal and devoted of all Attila's servants; now, ten years later, he was more a companion and confidant than a menial. The two men had reined in on a spur of the Carpathus to breathe their horses, and were contemplating the undulating grassland that rolled away like a sea to the
farthest horizon. Attila had chosen to confer with Balamir in this remote spot because there was no possibility of their conversation being overheard.

‘Sire, a clever Greek called Eratosthenes, assuming the earth to be a ball, was said to be able to measure its circumference.' From talks with the freedman of Onegesius and other East Roman prisoners of war, Balamir had picked up a considerable amount of knowledge pertaining to Graeco-Roman culture and ideas. (Having a quick ear for tongues, he had acquired a useful smattering of Greek, enough to follow the gist of most conversations.)

‘And what was this Greek's measurement?'

‘Eight thousand leagues, Sire, I think was what he reckoned. Of course, it may just all be theory. From up here, it certainly
looks
flat.'

‘So it does, yet I believe the Greek was right. Have you ever watched a ship come over the horizon? But I was forgetting – you've never seen the sea. Well, then, a wagon approaching over the steppes. First, the tent appears, then the body, last of all the wheels, which wouldn't happen unless it was moving up a curve.'

‘It might be curved, Sire, but still not be round. Like, say, an egg.'

‘But the earth's shadow on the moon is part of a perfect circle. You see, my friend, by simple observation anyone can know the earth is round. He does not need to be a philosopher or mathematician. What is the secret of my power, Balamir? I will tell you: it is observation. A successful hunter observes his quarry over many months. He learns when it is safe or dangerous to approach, when it is bold and careless as in the rut, when it is cautious and wary, and so forth. Likewise, by observing men I learn their strengths and weaknesses, and thus am able to exploit and control them. What proportion of your Greek's eight thousand leagues would my dominions represent, do you suppose?'

‘From Pannonia to the Imaus Mons, Sire, is – what? Perhaps a thousand leagues? An eighth of the earth's circumference – its widest measurement, remember.'

‘Now double it. Unless Constantius is lying, Aetius has offered to share with me the rule of the Western Empire. Think of it, Balamir, two thousand leagues. Assuming all is Ocean between China and the Pillars of Hercules, nearly half the known world would come under Attila's sway.'

‘A heady prospect, Sire. Even Alexander didn't achieve that.'

‘But can I trust Aetius? We were close once; you were there, remember, when we shot the rapids of the Iron Gate. No better friends than Attila and Aetius could anywhere be found. Although our friendship has since been broken, perhaps it is not past mending. I would like to believe him. Yet I do not fully trust his emissary, this Constantius. He and my brother Bleda have been seen much together of late. And where Bleda goes, trouble follows – as the lammergeier follows the flocks. I am going to ask you to undertake something for me. You are free to refuse, for if you accept, you may be putting your life in danger.'

‘Did I refuse you, Sire, when once you asked me to spy on Bleda?' responded Balamir hotly. ‘There was danger then, as I recall.'

‘That's my Balamir,' laughed Attila. ‘Forgive me – I should never have doubted that you would agree. Now, listen well; here is what I want you to do . . .'

 

¹
The Urals.

The Emperor has promised Constantius a rich wife; he must not be disappointed

Priscus of Panium [quoting Attila],
Byzantine History
, after 472

This was the life, thought Constantius as, with Attila's other envoys, he approached the capital of the Eastern Empire. His fortunes were riding high: special ambassador to the Court of Constantinople, his stipulated reward a rich and noble wife. He relished the thought of returning in a year or so, wealthy and distinguished, to the home he'd left as a disgraced and penniless adventurer.