Ross Laidlaw - Attila:The Scourge of God

‘Sir, may I ask you a question?’

‘You may, young Titus, you may.’

‘There’s something that’s been bothering me for some time, sir.’ Titus paused uncomfortably, then pressed on. ‘Why is it, sir, that you’re so against Placidia taking power in the name of her son? After all, Valentinian is the legitimate heir. To some, your stance might seem like treason.’

‘Careful, Titus,’ rapped Aetius. ‘“Treason” is a dangerous word to use around generals. I’ll let it pass, as you obviously speak from ignorance. The position is this. Placidia in full control would be a disaster for the West. She’s achieved a status vastly exceeding her actual ability, through a series of colourful adventures: prisoner of the Goths after the sack of Rome; married to Athaulf, Alaric’s brother-in-law; dragged in chains by Athaulf’s assassin; sold back to the Romans; married General Constantius, who went on to become co-emperor. . She’s vain, stubborn, stupid, and ambitious. Unfortunately, she’s also beautiful and alluring, which enables her to attract and use powerful men. As for her ensuring that Valentinian gets the proper training to fit him for the purple-’ Breaking off, Aetius smiled wryly and shook his head. ‘She’s hopelessly indulgent, gives in to his every whim and tantrum. Result: a spoilt brat eventually ruling the West. We might end up with another Nero or Commodus. That’s why, for the sake of Rome, their power must be curbed. Satisfied?’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Titus contritely. ‘I should have realized. .’

‘Yes, you should, shouldn’t you?’ replied Aetius tartly. ‘Anything else troubling you?’

‘Naturally, sir, I’m honoured you’ve asked me to approach the Empress on your behalf. But why send me? Surely a visit from yourself in person would carry much more weight.’

‘You should study the politics of animals, Titus. Ever watched how street cats behave? The lower-ranking ones approach the head tom, never the other way round. By sending you, I’m not conceding dominant status to Placidia.’ Aetius shrugged, then his face broke into a disarming grin. ‘I know — it all sounds utterly childish. Small boys scoring points. Important, though.’

They rehearsed the items Titus was to present to Placidia, then the general waved in dismissal. ‘Right, off you go. I’ll want a full report when you get back.’

Wearing the better of his two uniforms (red long-sleeved tunic, short cloak, broad military belt, and pilleus pannonicus , the round undress pillbox cap worn by soldiers of all ranks and by clerks attached to the army), Titus approached the imperial palace. The huge rectangular building with its guard-turrets and massive outer walls, each pierced by an arched gateway, was more like a fortress than a royal residence. At the west gate, he was challenged by two guards of the household troops. With their long spears, enormous round shields, and ridge helmets whose central crests had been extended into huge, flaring cockscombs, they seemed like throwbacks to the time of Horatius Cocles and his defence of the Tiber Bridge. Titus produced a scroll made out by Aetius’ secretary in the general’s name, requesting that the bearer be granted audience with the Empress.

‘You’ll need to see the Master of Petitions,’ said one of the soldiers, after scrutinizing the document. ‘Straight through the gardens, then you’ll come to a passage between the four main blocks. You want the second block on your left. Ask at the chamberlain’s office. Can’t miss it.’

But miss it Titus did. Seduced by the beauty of the gardens, with their fountains, pergolas, flower-beds, and statuary, he decided to treat himself to a brief tour of exploration before attending to his mission. Some time later, after several futile casts to find his bearings amidst a mane of hedge-lined walkways, he was about to seek out a gardener to ask directions, when there was an outburst of squawking nearby. Curious, he turned a corner — and witnessed a bizarrely repulsive sight.

In a low-walled enclosure caged off at one end, a boy of about six was engaged in plucking the feathers from a struggling chicken. Cackling in distress, terrified birds, some of them naked of plumage, rushed distractedly about the feather-strewn yard, or flapped against the walls in a vain attempt to scale them. Such was the child’s concentration that he failed to notice the stranger vaulting into the enclosure.

‘You vicious little brute!’ shouted Titus. In two long strides he reached the boy. Tearing the tortured fowl from his grip, Titus upended the infant and delivered a ringing slap to his bottom.

The boy wriggled free and whirled to face his chastiser. His face, white with astonished fury, worked silently for a few seconds. Then he screamed in outrage, ‘How-dare-you-how-dare-youhow- dare -you!’ He gulped for breath then added, ‘You’ll be sorry you did that.’ This last was uttered with such venom that, although coming from a child, it was disturbingly chilling. Then, in a swift movement, the boy reached for a whistle hung round his neck and blew a shrill blast.

After that, things happened very quickly.

Like actors responding to cues in a Terence farce, palace guards appeared from behind hedges and pavilions, and raced towards the chicken-yard.

‘Kill him! Kill him!’ shrieked the child as two of the guards leapt into the enclosure. ‘He attacked me.’

A spear whirred past Titus’ head and clanged against the cage. The near miss had a steadying effect on the young man; his mind clicked into focus and began to function fast and clearly. Unlike the frontier units or the mobile field armies, palace guards were recruited more for their fanatical loyalty than for their fighting abilities. Titus was sure that, man for man, he was more than a match for any of them.

After Titus’ riding accident, his father had purchased an exgladiator to instruct the lad in self-defence. (The closing of the gladiatorial schools a few years previously had flooded the market with slave fighters, so Gaius was able to pick from the best.) Titus proved an apt pupil; hours of daily practice with a wooden sword against a post, or fighting with staves, or using only hands and feet as weapons, had honed his skills to a level which more than compensated for his disability. ‘You’re a dead man walking,’ his instructor used to intone during these sessions, repeating a catch-phrase of his own lanista . On the day when Titus was able to catch a fly in flight, the old gladiator stopped saying it.

As the guard drew his sword and rushed forward, Titus grabbed the fallen spear with his right hand and feinted. The guard parried; flicking the spear to his left hand, Titus swept it in a scything blow across the other’s shins. The man collapsed, his shield and helmet flying. Titus reversed the spear and whacked the butt against his opponent’s skull, stunning him. Then, whirling the weapon round his head, he charged two guards closing on him and drove them back against the enclosure wall. A savage kick between the legs sent one man rolling on the ground in agony; a split second later the spear-shaft slammed into the other’s sword-arm, snapping it with a brittle crack. With a howl of pain, the guard clutched the injured limb, his weapon thudding to the ground.

Three down. Titus looked around — and knew despair. From every direction guards were racing towards him. He was indeed a dead man walking. Retrieving his first opponent’s shield, Titus backed against the cage, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.

‘Stop!’

The command came from a tall and beautiful woman in her early thirties. Everyone froze, except for the child, who with a yell of ‘Mother!’ rushed through a gate in the wall to be scooped up by her.