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Valentinian
to the Roman Senate, 425
    Flavius Placidius Valentinianus, Emperor of the West Romans – the third of his name to wear the purple – son of the Empress Mother Galla Placidia, Most Noble One, Consul, Defender of the Nicene Doctrine, et cetera, et cetera, was bored. Earlier, he’d given his tutor the slip (anything to avoid another history lesson about the Carthaginian Wars) and hidden in the palace gardens where, at the edge of the miniature lake, he’d caught six fine bullfrogs. It had been tremendous fun blowing them up with a straw until they burst. They swelled up like bladders and just before they popped, their eyes, staring into his, had blinked. That gave him a wonderful feeling of power. He looked forward to the day when he was old enough to take over ruling the empire from his mother. Then he would have power over Romans, not just frogs. He could kill anyone he wanted to, just for fun if he chose. Would his victims blink before they died? The thought gave him a delicious thrill.
    He could hear in the distance, his tutor, a Greek freedman, calling him. Valentinian chuckled. The man sounded not just anxious but terrified. As well he might: if his royal charge was found to be missing, he could expect a severe whipping plus loss of manumission. The frog episode had left Valentinian feeling both excited and restless. No good looking for cats to bait; the strays that prowled the palace grounds had long since learnt to hide on sighting him. Then a delighted smile broke over the boy’s face as a faraway sound came to his ears, the clucking of chickens from the imperial hen-coop. Uncle Honorius, the late Emperor, had doted on the fowls; hand-feeding them had been his favourite occupation. Though they were now surplus to requirements, no one had found a pretext to remove them.Eyes shining with anticipation, the Emperor headed for the chicken-run.
    â€˜I want you to take a message to Galla Placidia,’ Aetius told Titus. They were in the villa outside Ravenna that the general had commandeered for his headquarters. (Since the incident with the
catafractarius
, Aetius had taken Titus more and more into his confidence.) ‘Tell her my terms are these: that my Huns be paid off in gold; that I dismiss them on condition that they be ceded Pannonia; and’ – Aetius grinned wolfishly – ‘that I be made Count.’
    â€˜You can’t mean it, sir!’ exclaimed Titus, shocked by the cool effrontery of the general’s demands. ‘We’re hardly in a position to bargain, surely? The battle with Aspar was a stalemate. And with Ioannes betrayed and executed three days before we arrived, it seems to have been, well, a bit of a futile gesture, if you ask me. Pannonia – you’re actually proposing to give it away? To use a Roman province as a bargaining chip?’
    â€˜My dear Titus,’ sighed Aetius, in the tones of a patient school-master explaining a point to a slow-witted pupil, ‘you’re failing to grasp the bigger picture. In fact, we’re in an excellent position to put pressure on our beloved Empress. Aspar can’t wait around indefinitely; he’s needed back in the East. And with the Franks and Burgundians flexing their muscles in Gaul, Placidia daren’t withdraw troops to counter any moves I might make. Also, she’s desperate to see the last of my Huns. As to Pannonia, it’s finished anyway; devastated during the Gothic Wars and never really recovered since. If we let the Huns have it, at least it becomes a useful barrier against further German encroachment. And Ioannes? He was never destined to be more than a puppet, with me pulling the strings. With him gone, at least I can play an open game.’
    â€˜Sir, may I ask you a question?’
    â€˜You may, young Titus, you may.’
    â€˜There’s something that’s been bothering me for some time, sir.’ Titus paused uncomfortably, then pressed on.