‘. . and in conclusion,’ said the convener, ‘having heard and carefully weighed the arguments put forward by the disputing parties, and taken into consideration the preponderating view, I shall announce the findings of the Commission, which are as follows.’ He glanced around the assembled delegates: those supporting Leo looked eager and excited, the ones favouring Dioscorus sullen and subdued.
‘That Christ is both human and divine as stated in the sacred Tome of Leo, being of the same nature with the Father according to His divinity, and of the same nature with us according to His humanity, a union of the two natures having taken place, wherefore we confess one Christ, one Son, one Lord.
‘Accordingly, the doctrine that Christ has one nature only, that of God, is hereby declared to be anathema, and we decree that anyone subscribing to this doctrine be deemed a heretic.
‘In consequence whereof, the verdict of the Council of Ephesus, vindicating the Monophysite teaching of Eutyches is hereby declared null and void.
‘And moreover we decree that Dioscorus and those bishops of Egypt who supported him at Ephesus be now condemned, but that the rest, by reason that we think them more led astray than that they consented with a ready mind, be pardoned, provided they submit.
‘And now, with gracious thanks to Their Serenities Marcian and Valentinian, joint Augusti of our One and Indivisible Empire, to Leo, Monarchical Bishop of Rome, and to Flavian, Patriarch of Constantinople, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I declare this Council closed.’
As the convener finished speaking, a susurration, like leaves in the wind, arose from the assembly, mingled with gasps and cries of astonishment. All over the church, delegates rose to their feet, pointing to the body of the saint in its coffin. Incredibly, but indisputably, a stick-like arm was rising in the air; it reached the vertical, then flopped on to the mummy’s chest, its talons clutching at The Tome of Leo. .
‘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.
FIFTY-ONE
The sudden bursting of an artery flooded his lungs with a torrent of blood
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.