For a moment, Aetius felt a twinge of unease; he had expected to meet the Emperor alone. Then his concern changed to contempt. Clearly, Valentinian felt intimidated and, to give himself moral support, had felt the need to surround himself with lick-spittle lackeys guaranteed to reinforce his every statement. For the moment, however, Aetius told himself, he must mask his true feelings. In a matter as delicate and important as a royal marriage, diplomacy above all was called for. He advanced with measured steps towards the throne, then, halting three paces before it, bowed his head.
‘You have come, I suppose, to press your son’s claim to our daughter’s hand,’ declared Valentinian in a loud voice, leaning forward in his throne.
‘Hardly a claim, Serenity,’ replied Aetius mildly; for once, in the knowledge that tact would help his cause, addressing the Emperor by his honorific title. ‘The Princess Eudocia herself, I understand, desires the marriage as much as does Gaudentius.’
‘Or as much as you do,’ accused Valentinian. ‘Are you sure the marriage reflects not more your own ambitions than our children’s happiness?’
‘What ambitions, Your Serenity?’ asked Aetius, puzzled. ‘Naturally, I would feel immensely proud if my family were to be joined with the illustrious House of Theodosius. But apart from the vicarious prestige I would gain thereby, I can see no advantage accruing to myself.’
‘You lie!’ shouted the Emperor. ‘For you, the marriage would be but a first step to seizing the purple — if not for yourself, for your son, or your grandson should there be one. You would use the name of Theodosius to cloak your usurpation with legitimacy.’
‘With respect, Serenity, that is nonsense,’ protested Aetius. ‘It is the empire, not myself, that would benefit from such a union. You yourself, to the sincere regret of all your subjects, have as yet no male heir. Should that, unfortunately, remain so, and should the union of my son with your daughter be blessed with male issue, the dynasty of Theodosius, which has lasted these seventy years, would be secure. That would mean stability, Serenity — a priceless boon. The soldiers welcome continuity because it guarantees security of pay and donatives. Thus the threat of usurpers plunging the empire into chaos — which has been the curse of Rome — must be very greatly lessened. Would I, who have dedicated my whole life to the preservation of the West, risk putting the state in jeopardy by making a bid for the throne?’
‘You would!’ shrieked Valentinian, spittle flying from his lips. ‘Traitor, your smooth words do not deceive me. All along, you have robbed my mother and myself of the power that was rightly ours. But the final accolade, the purple and the diadem — those you shall never have.’
Drawing a sword concealed beneath his robes, Valentinian rushed at Aetius and plunged the blade into his breast. Immediately the whole swarm of imperial attendants, drawing hidden weapons, followed suit, hacking and thrusting like men possessed, in their eagerness to emulate their master. Moments later, blood gushing from a hundred wounds, Aetius fell dead at Valentinian’s feet.
I have just heard the dreadful news that Aetius has been murdered [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum]. I feel the loss almost as keenly as I did those of Gaius and Clothilde. He represented all the best of Rome — courage, honour, perseverance; to serve him has been the greatest privilege I could have sought. As for the vicious coward who struck him down, I can find no words strong enough to express my loathing and contempt.
Reports are coming in of a bloodbath at the palace: Aetius’ friends summoned secretly then dispatched, Boethius the Praetorian prefect among them. Proclamations are being made throughout the city that Valentinian was provoked and killed Aetius in self-defence. No one believes them; Aetius’ bodyguard swear that he was unarmed when he entered the palace, and, in their present mood of grief and fury, will not hold back from saying so. Rome is in uproar, and it would not surprise me to hear that the mob had stormed the Domus Augustana.
The consequences of the murder for the West will probably be catastrophic. Is there anyone who can take Aetius’ place? The death-blow that Valentinian dealt him may prove to be the death-blow for the empire. I cannot write more at this time; my mind is too distracted by sorrow and confusion.
FIFTY-FOUR
His attendants also surrendered, considering it a disgrace to survive their King 1 or not to die for him if the occasion required it
As Hercules slew the vile monster Cacus for his treachery [Titus wrote in his journal], so Vadomar has avenged the slaying of his master Aetius, by dispatching, in the thirty-first year of his reign and the thirty-seventh of his worthless life, Valentinian, the third of that name, Emperor of the Romans of the West. Some (though few, I think) will call it murder; to me, it is no more than just retribution for a heinous crime. Perhaps you’ve heard that the killing was carried out by two Huns who had served Aetius, Optila and Thraustila? Mere progaganda — a fabrication designed to shield the palace guards from blame. Judge for yourselves. I give you Vadomar’s own story, just as he gave it to me.
I was born, I think (we Germans not being so nice in such matters as you Romans), in the year when Gaiseric took the Vandals into Africa, which makes me, at this time of telling, twenty-five or twenty-six. My father was a farmer and when need arose a warrior, in the country of Gundomad, a lesser chief — or regulus, as you would say — of the Alamanni. Unlike the Burgundians or even the Saxons, the Alamanni, as the name tells you, are not one people but a loose gathering of Hermunduri, Suebes and others, settled in the old agri decumanes between the upper Rhenus and the Danubius. Gundomar, whose stronghold of the Runder Berg looks down upon the Nicer, is not a warlike lord, his housecarles mainly time-served veterans who once fought in the armies of Rome. To stay at home, then, held little hope of plunder or renown for bold young men. Being myself of a restless temper, and thinking a life of toil behind the plough little better than bondage, in my eighteenth year I joined the war-band of one Hermann, who led us across the Rhenus into the province of Maxima Sequanorum in eastern Gaul. This he was able to do unhindered. Half of Rome’s great armies had been killed in the wars against the Goths, the losses being made up by stripping the empire’s marches of their troops, leaving them unwarded.
Sadly, Hermann showed little of the cunning of his great namesake who, in the reign of your Emperor Augustus, destroyed Varus’ legions in the Teutoburgerwald. From our camp in an abandoned villa, we raided the neighbouring countryside. To little gain. The land was empty, the Romans long ago having left their farms and villas for the safety of the towns. Instead of searching for unwasted parts of the province, or pressing on into mid-Gaul, Hermann, lured by the thought of easy booty, chose to lay siege to Argentaria.2 It was a witless thing to do; Germans, as everyone knows, lack the skill or patience to take a place guarded by walls. He seemed to think the townsfolk would either soon give in or pay us gold to leave them be. When, after three weeks, neither of these things had happened, our war-band started to break up. Sullen and hungry, many of Hermann’s followers drifted back across the Rhenus, he lacking the force to stop them. Unwilling to return home with nothing to show for ourselves, however, I and a boon comrade — a simple fellow, but loyal to a fault and who would gladly share his last crust with you — thought to seek our luck in the service of Rome. This has long been a worthy calling with our people. And so Vadomar and Gibvult began to seek out the whereabouts of the Army of Gaul. Which, after a weary trek across the Vosegus Gebirge then up the dales of the Mosella and Mosa, we found patrolling the marches of the Frankish Settlement in Second Belgica.