Attila by Ross Laidlaw Page B

Boniface groaned to himself; by one stupendous act of folly, he had lost the West its richest diocese and the source of half its grain.
    It would have been a blessed relief to end his life. In similar circumstances, the ancestor who had first put on the armour he now wore would undoubtedly have fallen on his sword – the same sword that now hung at Boniface’s side. But that once honourable option was no longer open. For Christians, suicide was a mortal sin, as Augustine, perhaps fearing his friend’s intention, had gently reminded him: his life was not his to take, but was God’s.
    It was cold comfort to reflect that his clash with the imperial government was now resolved. Partly through the good offices of Augustine, an influential court official named Darius had been persuaded to mount a full enquiry into the reasons behind Placidia’s recall of Boniface, and his refusal to obey. With Aetius temporarily absent in Gaul, the investigating commission was able to insist that Placidia surrender Aetius’ letters to her, maligning Boniface, which were compared with his letters to the Count, advising resistance. Aetius’ perfidy was exposed, and Placidia and Boniface were fully reconciled.
    Boniface was hurt and baffled by Aetius’ betrayal. He had come to trust the general as a friend, and cherished a vision of their working together to rebuild Rome’s power in the West. Operating out of strong bases in Italy and Africa, between them they could surely have tamed or crushed the barbarians in Gaul and Hispania, then gone on to restore the Rhenus and Danubius frontiers. It had been done before: a hundred and fifty years earlier, Aurelian had achieved no less in circumstances just as desperate. He sighed. That bright vision lay in ruins, and Rome’s future looked dark and uncertain indeed.
    A call from the sick-bed jerked Boniface from his gloomy reverie. ‘The light fades – it’s gone darker, much darker. I can hardly see you.’
    Hurrying to the bedside, Boniface knelt and grasped Augustine’s hand.
    â€˜No need to shield me from the truth, old friend,’ the bishop murmured. ‘It’s the end, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Not the end Aurelius,’ replied Boniface, mastering a sob, ‘but a glorious beginning. Soon you will be with Christ and His company of angels.’
    So they stayed, hand in hand, the tough soldier and the saintly scholar, until, a little later, the bishop gently breathed his last.
    A pity his friend could not have lived a little longer, thought the Count, brushing away tears. The siege, now in its third month, would soon be raised; reinforcements were coming from Italy, to be joined by Aspar and an Eastern army – the same Aspar who had foiled Aetius’ attempted coup to install Ioannes as Western emperor. Gaiseric and his savages would be wiped out, or at the least defeated and driven from the soil of Africa. Perhaps, after all, the West’s future was not so dark.
    The Roman army was drawn up on rising ground to the east of Hippo. Composed of powerful contingents from both empires, and supplemented by the remnants of Boniface’s Army of Africa, it made a brave showing. In the centre was the infantry: a few of the old legions still proudly displaying their eagles and standards, their ranks swelled by German mercenaries; the bulk of the force was formed of the new, smaller units,
auxilia
and
cunei
, the latter being attack columns intended to pierce the enemy’s front. To right and left (that is, to north and south) of the centre was the cavalry: Aspar with his seasoned Eastern troopers to the right, Italian horse to the left. (Conspicuous by their absence were the units of Aetius’ Gallic Horse.)
    Opposite the Roman positions and about two miles distant, the Vandal forces were assembling on a hill to the south of the city. The churning mob of trousered warriors were armed mostly with spears and javelins, their