Chapter 31

 

Sicily, March 441

 

It took a year, but we made it!” Aspar inspected his camp with deep satisfaction. The tents stood in orderly rows, protected by a ditch and a wooden wall encircling the camp. He felt a slight ground tremor and looked warily north at the smoking mountain of Etna. Locals claimed these signs from the volcano did not indicate an immediate eruption. He hoped he could drive Gaiseric into the sea before he tested the Sicilians’ predictions. The Vandal general had invaded months ago, ravaged the western part of the island, and now camped in one of Placidia Augusta’s estates—a deliberate insult to that most noble lady that Aspar meant to avenge.

Theodosius sent ten thousand troops to stop the carnage. They had arrived safely in the ancient port of Syracuse on the southeastern tip of Sicily only days ago. At the thought of the sea voyage, Aspar crossed himself and thanked God. He had a dread of transporting armies by sea ever since his father’s disastrous invasion of Italy to support Placidia sixteen years ago. They had lost most of the land forces in terrible storms. Only the empress’s cunning had won the day in that campaign. The thought of the Western Augusta, traveling on horseback, eating with his cavalry, and commanding the bloodless coup in Ravenna brought warmth to his heart. The martial Placidia was a worthy leader and ruler! If not for his deep roots in Constantinople, he might have asked permission to leave his Eastern Augusti to serve in the West.

He shook his head. Theodosius and particularly Pulcheria had been generous to him and his family. He had wealth, fame, and influence with the imperial court. What more did he want?

“General!” Marcian, his father’s former tribune and now his own top staff officer, approached with an Arian priest in tow. Marcian was overdue a promotion to general. The man was approaching fifty and might have stayed behind in an administrative post but couldn’t pass up a field assignment. “Gaiseric sends an envoy.”

Aspar cursed under his breath. He came to finish the Vandals and wipe the stain of his previous defeat from his reputation, not talk.

“General Aspar?” The little priest bobbed a quick bow.

“Yes.”

“My name is Geilar. I come with a good faith offer from King Gaiseric. One that will save many lives, God willing.”

“In my tent.” Aspar motioned toward his command tent in the center of the camp. “Marcian, with me.”

“Yes, General.” Marcian followed them into the dim spartan interior, lit oil lamps. and took a seat to the side of the general’s worktable. He readied parchment, ink, and quill to memorialize the meeting.

Aspar seated the priest. “Wine, Father Geilar?” He indicated a rude clay pitcher and two dented metal cups.

“Thanks. I’ve traveled steadily for three days.” The priest shivered. “There is still snow in the mountain passes.”

Aspar and Marcian waited patiently while the little man emptied his cup in a few gulps. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the cup aside with a loud belch.

“Good wine. Local vintage?” Geilar asked.

“What does Gaiseric propose?” Aspar got right to the point.

Geilar frowned at the bluntness and glanced around the tent—perhaps looking for food to go with the drink? “King Gaiseric of the Vandals proposes both forces withdraw from Sicily and he will forego any further attacks on Rome—East or West—for some…uh…considerations.”

“You mean bribes?” Aspar leaned back and stared pointedly at the little priest. “I outnumber his forces five to one. Why should I not cross the mountains and smash his army?”

“King Gaiseric has only an expeditionary force on Sicily. He can board his ships and be on his way to Carthage well before you can flog your men through the frozen passes.”

“Then I’ll follow the coward back to Carthage!” Aspar pounded the table with his fist.

Unblinking, Geilar saluted Aspar with his empty tin cup. “Another draught, General?”

Marcian jumped up to refill the priest’s cup.

Geilar kept a neutral face while countering Aspar’s outburst. “We outnumber you on the water, General. Our fleet would send your army to the bottom of the sea before you got anywhere close to Carthage.”

God’s eyes blast the little man! He was right. Gaiseric could escape easily and continue raiding the coastal cities of the empire. If the coward refused to fight on land, there was no way Aspar could force him. He narrowed his eyes and asked the obvious question. “What guarantees do we have that Gaiseric will retreat to Carthage and stop his raiding?”

“The King has already sent envoys to negotiate with the Ravenna court. I imagine they will work out the terms of hostages, payments, and so forth.” The little priest waved a hand, as if making all those details disappear. “I am here to propose you return to your Eastern master while the weather holds. What message do you have for King Gaiseric?”

“I’ll take counsel and tell you in the morning.” Aspar turned to Marcian. “Have one of the guards find a tent for our guest and see to his needs. He is confined to his tent except for latrine trips and will be accompanied at all times.”

“General, I protest! You treat me like a prisoner.”

“More like a spy, Father Geilar. You have my word you will be released tomorrow.”

“Your word is good with me.” The Arian priest bowed stiffly. “If you have additional questions…you’ll know where to find me.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

When Marcian returned, Aspar asked him to sit, serving both cups of wine. “Thoughts?”

Marcian shook his head. “I believe we are put in a corner, General. The priest is right on all counts. We might try to divide our forces: send half by sea to cut Gaiseric off while attacking over the mountains with the rest, but we have no intelligence on his sea forces. He is likely capable of blockading the eastern ports and keeping us bottled up until he can escape.”

“You spent some time with him as a hostage, after that fiasco with Boniface. Can we trust the Vandal dog to keep his promises not to raid?” Aspar watched Marcian for any sign of resentment. He had personally ransomed him from the Vandal king twelve years ago. He saw no sign in the last years that Marcian held him responsible for the circumstances of his capture.

“Gaiseric is a shrewd man and cunning general. I believe we can trust him in the short run. That will allow us to regroup and prepare for any future attacks. In the long run…?” Marcian shrugged his shoulders. “Gaiseric competes with the Goths. He hates them with a passion because they fought the Vandals in Hispania at the behest of Rome and reduced the tribe to a ragtag army. The Goths took Rome—and an imperial princess—thirty years ago. Gaiseric’s pride will not be content until he brings that city to heel and—possibly—scores an imperial marriage as well.”

Aspar stared into his wine cup. He truly wanted to smash that upstart barbarian king…but with the imperial armies fractured and fighting on so many fronts? He wasn’t sure he could marshal the might of Rome on land, much less at sea.

Marcian chuckled softly, interrupting his reverie.

“What’s so funny?” Aspar huffed.

“Nothing!” Marcian laughed again. “I was just thinking about the first time I met Gaiseric. He paraded down our line of hostages covered in so much gold he could barely walk. He recognized different insignia, stopped to ask officers their names. He mocked us for being captured. His entourage laughed and humiliated us. When he came to me, Gaiseric didn’t laugh or joke. He stood briefly trembling, then passed a hand over his eyes. When I told him my name and rank, he asked me to repeat it. ‘You will be an emperor and I want to remember your name,’ he said. Strange!” Marcian shook his head. “Me! An aging soldier from Thrace, emperor? I do believe Gaiseric had a fit!”

“Let’s hope he has another and it kills him…soon!” Aspar saluted Marcian with his cup.

“I can drink to that!” Marcian drained his cup and rose, reaching for his writing materials. “I’ll write up that report for you, General.”

“Tomorrow will be early enough. We’ll send Geilar on his way, and dispatches to Constantinople and Ravenna. Sleep well.” Aspar rose and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sorry we’ll see no action, after all this preparation.”

“Preparation never goes to waste. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re sent to the Danube next. The Huns are getting restless again.” Marcian frowned. “If I were emperor, I wouldn’t be paying off those bloody savages. It makes us look weak and drains the treasury until we are weak.”

“I agree! I’ll argue that point with the Augustus next time we meet.” And little good it will do me.

Imperial Palace, June 442

“HOW COULD VAL DO SUCH A THING!” ATHENAIS WAILED.

Theo patted her back as she sobbed. “He had little choice, once we withdrew our troops to fight the Huns.”

“Our baby granddaughter betrothed to that…that…bloody barbarian!”

“Huneric is the Vandal king’s son and was a hostage at the Ravenna court for years. He is quite civilized.”

“You heard what his father did to that poor Goth girl, Huneric’s previous wife.” Athenais pushed her husband away. “He cut off her nose and ears! What’s to stop him from doing something similar to our granddaughter?”

“Gaiseric claims the woman tried to poison him.”

She dashed the tears from her eyes and glared.

He had the decency to blush. “As to what will stop him? We will. That girl was the daughter of another barbarian king. He would not dare touch a princess of the Theodosian House.”

“Why should he respect us? We honor him by promising one of our own.” Her hands curled into fists. “He beat us! The greatest empire the world has ever known couldn’t muster the army to defeat a single barbarian tribe.” Her face crumpled and she started sobbing again.

He folded her into his arms, stroking her hair. “But it isn’t a single tribe, my dear. It’s the Huns along the Danube; the Goths, Burgundians and Franks in Gaul; the Alans in Hispania; the Saxons in Britain; as well as the Vandals in Africa. We could fight any one or two, maybe even three, but not all at once.”

“What is to become of us?” she mumbled into his chest.

“We will survive.” He tightened his arms around her. He had forgotten how good it felt to hold his wife close. “Chrysaphius has a plan to deal with the Huns. We negotiate with the others and fight when we must. The walls of the city are impregnable. We are safe.”

“Our poor daughter. Eudoxia must be heartbroken!” Athenais sobbed.

“She has little Placidia for solace. Eudocia is but four. There are many years before a marriage can take place. We may yet defeat the Vandals, or something might befall Huneric.” He smelled the lemon Athenais used to brighten her golden hair; his manhood stirred. Ashamed of his growing lust, he tried to quell it. “God will shield us. Let us pray for his good grace.”

Athenais pushed away from his arms. The fury on her face stunned him. “Pray, Husband? As if that is all it takes to keep our granddaughter safe. I’ll put my faith in a strong army.”

Athenais stormed out of the room, back stiff and head high.

Theo shook his head. He had hoped his wife’s year in the Holy Land would bring her closer to God. Her faith never ran as deep as his, but he had thought Athenais more content with God’s plan. She’d ceased reproaching him for abandoning their marriage bed and often joined his sisters in their charity work. He tried to bring back the feelings of love and promise from the early days of their marriage, but twenty-one years had dulled those feelings to mere echoes, drowned by more recent sorrow and disappointment.

Tears prickled his eyes. “Oh, my love. What happened to us?”

 

*****

 

Imperial Palace, March 443

 

OVERCOME WITH MELANCHOLY, Athenais put aside her favorite book of poems by Olympiodorus—another friend gone these many years. She rarely heard from Placidia or her beloved daughter in the Western court. She sometimes wondered if someone intercepted their letters to her or hers to them. She shook her head. No! No one would be so bold as to interfere with her correspondence.

A musician played an eight-stringed kithara in the background. She felt the kitharode’s talent was wasted on this unappreciative audience. This wasn’t the literary salon she had wanted, but it was much friendlier than Pulcheria’s ascetic court. Her attention wandered to the chatter of her women as they read to one another or gossiped in small groups. Unfortunately, she was forced to maintain a proper distance with the young matrons who made up her retinue. She could trust none of them as friends or confidants.

Her eyes itched with tears as she thought of her dear Aunt Doria, who died of a fever before Athenais left for the Holy Land. They had seen little of each other after Asclepiodotus was dismissed from service. Her face screwed up in an unattractive scowl. Another mark against Pulcheria!

Athenais had felt quietly content these four years since returning from Jerusalem. Her fights with Theo over his choice to remain chaste in their marriage were done. She thought she had regained his friendship and trust. She was reconciled to her life and found pleasure in it where she could. Except for these brief episodes of sadness—more frequent now she that had attained the mature age of forty—her only source of discontent continued to be her sister-in-law. Pulcheria constantly flaunted her power over Theo. Her husband was a good and wise ruler. Why did he need to defer to his interfering sister?

“Count Paulinus to see the Augusta,” a servant announced.

Athenais looked up in anticipation. Paulinus dropped by frequently to tell her the latest gossip or introduce her to a new author or philosopher. In a court dominated by church rules and routines, he reminded her of a past life with gayer possibilities. Before she met Theo, she had hoped for more than friendship with Paulinus. Now, she cherished their time together. She had tried bringing culture to the court but failed. Instead of transforming the court, she found herself changed, and sometimes regretted it. Her year in Jerusalem had given her an insight into another life she might lead, but she was unwilling to wholly embrace it…yet.

“Augusta! You look beautiful today.” Paulinus gave her a slight bow and a big grin.

“You say that every day, my friend.” She patted the seat next to her on the divan; he sat.

“Every day it’s true.” He picked up her hand to kiss the palm.

Athenais pulled her hand away. “Stop that! We’re too old for such foolishness. I’m a married woman.”

“And well-guarded from any lascivious attacks. What fool would offend you in a room full of your women and servants?”

She looked around the room. His playful antics seemed to draw no special notice. She relaxed. Her guest was still quite handsome in his maturity, a full head of dark hair just starting to gray at the temples, his body fit, face beginning to weather in a pleasant way, but there were dark rings under his eyes and a slight pouchiness to his jowls. “You look tired, Paulinus. Has Theo been working you too hard? Or perhaps a woman keeps you up late?”

A shadow crossed his eyes but he replied brightly, “What woman could compete with a goddess like you, Athenais? Since you are my best friend’s wife, I must settle for mere mortals, and they do not satisfy.”

“I worry about you, Paulinus. You should have married long ago and started a family.” She patted his hand. “It’s not too late. I’m sure I could arrange a suitable match with a rich widow.”

“No, my dear. We’ve had this chat before. I’m content with my life as it is.” He smiled. “As long as I can see you often.”

“Whenever you wish.” A pleasant unexpected warmth radiated from her womb. She dug her nails into her palms. She had thought herself above such temptations, but occasionally her body betrayed her with lustful feelings. She tamped them down. “Now, tell me the latest about Cyrus. I was shocked when he resigned his posts and withdrew from the court. Theo is furious with him over something but doesn’t confide in me about government business.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t good news.” Paulinus lowered his voice. “Theo is confiscating Cyrus’ property and forcing him to become a bishop in Phrygia.”

“No! Why? Cyrus has never shown an inclination for the church.” Athenais put a hand to her throat. “This smacks of punishment, not reward for all the good Cyrus did for the city.”

“It’s worse than punishment. The people of that bishopric murdered the last four Episcopal appointees. I fear Theo has sent our friend to his death.”

“This has to be Pulcheria’s doing!” Anger brought hectic red spots to her cheeks. “She is ever against any in the government who urge moderation or champion culture. Cyrus supported expanding the University and decreed that wills and judicial decisions be written and read in Greek—the people’s language. She is jealous of the people’s esteem. She also knows I support him, and therefore she automatically becomes his enemy.”

Paulinus rubbed his jaw. “I don’t think Pulcheria is behind this. There is another rising power at the court: Chrysaphius. As Chief Eunuch and head of the household, he is constantly in Theo’s presence. Even I, as Master of Offices, have difficulty getting an audience lately. Have you been much in your husband’s company?”

“Now that you bring it up, I haven’t. But surely that is because of Theo’s duties. He doesn’t have time for idle chatter. What does this have to do with Cyrus? Theo raised him to Patrician and honored him with the consulship. There’s been no hint of scandal or corruption.”

“I believe Chrysaphius saw Cyrus as a threat to his influence for those very reasons. You heard what happened at the hippodrome?”

Athenais frowned, shaking her head.

“When Theo held races in Cyrus’ honor, the crowd shouted, ‘Constantine built the city, Cyrus renewed it!’ Theo was not happy. I think Chrysaphius inflamed that jealousy.”

“Oh, Paulinus!” Athenais laughed. “The people were happy Cyrus lit the city streets and extended the sea walls against the threatened Vandal attacks. So he is acclaimed in the hippodrome one day. Theo is not so little a man that he would hold that against a loyal servant.” She sobered. “No, there is only one person who wields that kind of power over Theo—Pulcheria.”

“Perhaps you are right, my goddess.” Paulinus retrieved her hand, tracing her lifeline with his thumb.

Tingling waves of desire coursed through her hand, spread throughout her body. This time Athenais did not pull her hand back.