Attila: The Judgement

by William Napier

  Aëtius helped the dazed alchemist to his feet.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘take your box of tricks back below, and don’t let me ever see it on deck again. If I do, it goes into the water - and you follow it.’ He kicked the chest lid shut. ‘And get some vinegar on those burns.’

  The fire on deck sizzled out. Mercifully, Nicias’ incendiary invention had not yet been perfected. Many there prayed that it never would.

  4

  THE SHARK AND THE DRAGON

  Three days on, they had passed several cargo ships plying the busy sea routes between Syracuse, Nicopolis, Alexandria, Antioch, Rhodes, Thessalonika. They hailed them and asked for news of pirates, and the cargomen shook their heads and said they had encountered nothing . . .

  ‘Alexander the Great once captured a pirate,’ said Prince Torismond. ‘The King demanded, “How dare you molest the seas?” “In the same way that you dare molest the earth,” said the pirate. “I molest the seas in one small ship and I’m called a pirate. If I did so with a great navy, I’d be called an emperor.”’ The prince grinned broadly. ‘That’s philosophy, that is. For what are kingdoms but great bands of brigands?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Aëtius dryly. ‘Now define “sophistry”. ’

  On the fourth morning, serenely sailing a calm sea in a gentle north-westerly, coming gradually round to north into the Aegean and losing sailpower, inshore of the isle of Melos, they saw a lone ship near the northern horizon; she was coming their way. After maybe half an hour she had come much closer, though set on a course astern of theirs. She had a big, faded sail which might once have been black but was now a light, streaked grey. One of those battered, barnacled ships that show their sailors are poor and harmless. Then she turned and came towards them with surprising swiftness, and they realised that these sailors were not of the poor and harmless variety, but contemptuous of such menial chores of maintenance as scouring a ship’s decks or keeping a trim sail. Such tasks are for slaves. These were the kind of sailors who, if their ship began to split at the seams, would simply scuttle her and take another. Meanwhile, this one was of that variety which is scruffy, grimy, and very, very fast.

  Rufus stood nearby. ‘Sir, you see the other ship, too? There on the horizon?’

  Aëtius squinted. Damn the boy. He could see nothing. ‘Describe.’

  ‘Another dromond. Seems to be turning bow-on towards us . . . sail bellying out.’

  And the wind was with them. The nearer ship was now a mile off, less. She would close on them in a few minutes.

  ‘We could turn south with the wind and try to outrun them - maybe reach Crete.’

  Aëtius did not even consider such an option.

  ‘Hortator, double that drum! Break your backs down there, slaves! All spearmen below the fly deck, half a side, and keep yourselves out of sight till I give the word. Bring my sword up, boy. Princes Theodoric and Torismond, to me on the poop deck - bring a few bowmen. Master, keep a steady course east. Give ’em the sun in their eyes if they try to come in behind or portside. No, you bearded Cretan loon, get below! We want none of your wretched fire-balls now. We’ll call you when the fight is over.’

  The princes and their best men soon appeared on deck, buckled and helmed. Aëtius’ eyes narrowed at the helmet that adorned Prince Theodoric’s blond locks.

  ‘What in the name of Lucifer have you got on your head?’

  The rest of the wolf-lords, and Torismond, wore plain enough Spangenhelms, tall domed helmets reinforced with crossbands of iron or bronze. Theodoric, however, wore a helmet set with studs of coloured glass which gleamed from the highly polished bronze. He removed it again, looking displeased.

  ‘It’s an inheritance of my family, always worn by the eldest son in battle.’

  Aëtius took it from him without asking. ‘Very pretty it looks, too. These glass settings will really help an enemy blade get a purchase with a downard blow. Cut straight in. Very handy. Why not just take off your helmet and offer him your scalp? On your knees?’

  Theodoric looked sullen.

  ‘This is no fighting helmet, boy.’ He handed it back. ‘Get yourself a plain iron-hat with crossbands like the rest of your men.’

  ‘What should I do with this?’

  ‘That?’ Aëtius grimaced. ‘You can give it to your granny as a pot to piss in, for all I care. We’re not playing toy soldiers now.’

  Torismond stifled his giggles. Theodoric returned below.

  The rowers were tired and aching after two weeks at the oar, but now was the time they would have to work hardest. The wind dropped further but still the silent dromonds came on. Suddenly it seemed a cruel, flat-calm, malevolent and glittering sea. ‘Wine-dark’ indeed, thought Aëtius, clutching the stern-post, watching the bosun haul the big rudder round, feeling the wind desert them. Blood-dark, more like. ‘Wine-dark’ was Homer’s lyrical view of it. Blind Homer.

  The nearing vessel had a single bank of oars and a mainsail, like the Cygnus, but it boasted high parapets and a solid raised deck over the rowers to protect them from incoming missiles.

  The master turned to Aëtius in consternation. ‘They’ll destroy us in a missile exchange. They stand much higher, as does their sister ship coming in there.’

  ‘Thank God it’s no battle group,’ muttered Aëtius.

  ‘There may be squadrons in the area,’ said the master. ‘You heard what they did on the island of Zakynthos? Sent back sackfuls of heads to their king, Genseric.’

  ‘We’re going to Constantinople. We have business there. I trust our rowers can still get up to ramming speed?’

  ‘Ramming?’ growled the master. ‘You’re crazy.’

  Aëtius grinned, allowing him the impertinence. He knew the score. The stately, high-sided galleys of old were always vulnerable to ramming by low, skimming Liburnians and dromonds. But those sleek wolf-ships were very vulnerable to having a huge boulder dropped onto their hull, holing them instantly. Naval warfare by dromond and Liburnian nowadays was all about keeping your distance and shooting missiles, bolts, fire-arrows - those accursed fire-pots of Alexandria. Only a madman would still practise ramming as a tactic.

  ‘Prepare for ramming,’ he confirmed. ‘But let ’em come in close first.’

  ‘Then there won’t be enough distance to get up to speed.’

  Aëtius did not repeat orders.

  ‘You think like an old legionary,’ said Prince Theodoric quietly, having overcome his sulks about the helmet.

  Aëtius frowned. ‘Meaning?’

  Thedoric looked at him respectfully but without fear. ‘Meaning, you want to get up close to your enemy, engage face to face, looking him in the eye, and stab him in the guts with your old-fashioned gladius. You think that’s how a true-hearted man fights, and you think to do the same at sea. You want to ram and hole this pair beneath the waterline, right up close. But there are two of them, and they stand higher than us. Ram one and you will get stuck yourself. The other will come alongside and we’ll be attacked on two fronts. Each pirate ship probably carries a hundred cutthroats. My wolf-lords are valiant beyond words, but they are not superhuman. They will all be destroyed.’ The young prince braced his shoulders. ‘And I will not have them destroyed.’

  This haughty, blue-eyed prince in his gold-fillet, an unsalted adolescent, offering criticism of his naval tactics . . . ? But Aëtius quelled his indignation. ‘Trust me,’ he said.

  The second ship was a mile or two off now, moving in close astern. They were to be surrounded, as expected. But the Cygnus would surprise them. Never do the expected. Alchemical Alexandrian fripperies won no battles, but rather courage, discipline, and a dash of the wholly unexpected. Aëtius grinned. It was good to be fighting again.

  Before boarding at Massilia he had ordered a big grappling-iron and a couple of boarding-planks from the naval stores. Now he commanded them to be brought up and laid at the stern of the ship, the grappling-iron roped.

  ‘The stern? But we’re ramming at the bow!’


  ‘Just follow orders, sailor.’ He went below.

  They were magnificent men but they looked terrified, these Gothic spearmen, sea-green and shaky. The massive clunk of the ram, the sounds of battle at sea, would terrify them. They were fine and powerful, but barbarian and undisciplined. Today they might die, here in these salt wastes far from home. How could a sea death be a heroic death? Food for fish. It was not the Visigothic way. They looked to their princes and this commander, this Aëtius, the Roman beloved of King Theodoric, and saw that he did not have the aura of death about him today.

  Prince Torismond appeared beside Aëtius.

  ‘Trust me,’ said the general again. ‘Consider the regard I have for your father. There is no Christian king finer, and you are his sons. You are in my care.’ Would that King Theodoric cared so much for his daughter, he thought bitterly.

  Torismond looked a little reassured.

  He sent further orders to the master. ‘Unchain the slaves now. The instant we ram, pull them back from below. You understand? To the stern. Shift the ballast to the bows. Our foredeck will soon be smashed in from above by pirate missiles. Keep the wolf-lords hidden until the moment I give the order. And ready your sailors to throw out the grappling-iron.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The second ship,’ said Aëtius patiently.

  ‘How do you know she’ll come anywhere near?’

  ‘She’ll come. Hook her in, then throw out the boarding-planks.’

  The pirates must have been flogging their enslaved rowers nearly to death, their vessels came on so fast. The first was only half a mile off now, the second still two or three miles off but closing fast.

  ‘Pull us up to full speed.’

  ‘We can’t outrun them.’ The master was right. The first pirate ship was already turning, ready to cut across their bows.

  ‘I don’t intend to outrun them. I intend to engage them.’

  The rowers were driven harder.

  From the nearing enemy ship, a couple of exploratory arrows came over the water but fell short. At the prow they could see her captain, narrowing his eyes. Very tall and whip-thin, with long, lank hair, bleached fair in sea and sun. He was naked but for a thick gold torc round his neck, torn breeches and a wide sword-belt, sword bare in his hand. More of his cutthroats sat along the yardarm with bows and arrows.

  The Cygnus surged forward steadily, the pirate ship inexorably gaining on her, curving in tight. Away to their right was the little sunlit island of Melos. The Visigothic spearmen crouched below, beside the unchained slaves. The two ships closed slowly, amid the vast serenity of the sea.

  Not taking his eyes from the enemy ship for one second, Aëtius said to the brothers beside him, ‘You can swim, can’t you?’

  They shook their heads miserably.

  ‘Then today you might have to learn - either that or make sure we don’t go down. Order your wolf-lords well.’

  As she closed, they could see the pirate ship better: the Draco, with a saurian red dragon painted along the boards. Rufus squinted across to the second ship, which was giving them a wide berth, coming in astern; her prow was scratched with crude runes.

  ‘The Vandal tongue,’ said Aëtius.

  ‘It looks like “Halfish” or something.’

  ‘Haifisch - the Shark.’ He roared below, ‘Wolf-lords at the ready!’

  The master looked deeply unhappy.

  Suddenly the Draco hauled round, her oars digging into the backwash, and came broadside on to this helpless fleeing merchant ship, blocking her off.

  ‘These pirates must be just out of school,’ murmured Aëtius. ‘Ramming speed - now!’

  Immediately the hortator’s drum below accelerated into a furious rhythm, and the bosun’s lash whipped through the fetid air below. The slaves hauled on their oars, blistered and bleeding hands straining in one last effort, and the Cygnus surged forwards, straight towards the Draco.

  The pirates stared at the oncoming ship, dumbfounded. The Haifisch altered course again to keep up with it.

  ‘That’s it,’ muttered one old hand. ‘We’re finished now. Good as sunk.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Aëtius, arms folded, smiling. He strode to the stern and dropped down. The wolf-lords sat crammed along the sides of the underdeck clutching their spears in their huge hands, yet looking like men about to go into arena naked and unarmed, or to their execution. Aëtius nodded to them. He told them not to be afraid. He told them their one hope of survival now, and it was a good one. ‘Lay aside your ashwood spears,’ he said. ‘This is close-up sword-work.’ He explained what they must do. ‘Imagine you’re taking a castle,’ he said. ‘If you fail to take it, you drown. We all drown - food for the circling Haifisch.’

  The wolf-lords drew their swords.

  The pirate ship wallowed and struggled, trying to turn again from this impossibly belligerent prey, even as her ragged archers let loose their arrows onto the exposed decks but hit nothing. The Cygnus’ bronze-headed ram, more decoration than weapon of war these days, drove on through the water like some terrible sea serpent, white ripples curling back over its length. The master bellowed down below, the lash flailed. They were but fifty yards off, thirty, twenty . . . The pirate ship staggered and lurched as they slammed into her amidships with a terrible splintering crash. It wasn’t top ramming-speed but it was enough. The ramhead punched straight through the bulwarks of the astonished Draco, and the sea began to pour in.

  It was a pact of mutually assured destruction. Immediately, the enraged pirates began to lever huge missiles, boulders and lumps of lead up over the high sides of the wounded Draco and drop them onto the decks of the pestilent prey below. One went straight through the oak deck and into the shivering rowing-hold beneath. But the master had followed Aëtius’ orders to the letter: the unchained slaves were already pulled back from their rowing benches. The timbers were smashed but no men were hurt. The wooden walls of that narrow world began to collapse and the dark waters surged in.

  Torismond had a vision of the ship, a puny raft of life afloat on a black and infinite abyss, full of death, of creatures unknown, spawn of moonlight and black night. And this raft was being smashed to splinters beneath them. It was insanity. They would all die. But Aëtius had said to trust him. Very well. He drew his sword. War’s no sorcery, and bravery alone wins battles. That was Aëtius’ creed, as the prince was learning. Like his loyalties, and his haircut, hopelessly old-fashioned.

  The Haifisch was drawing behind them, determined to avenge the damage to her sister ship.

  ‘Loyalty among pirates,’ sneered Aëtius. ‘Wonders are many! Throw out the grappling-iron!’

  The great barnacled claw rang hard upon the Haifisch’s sides and then fell back into the water. Instantly the sailors hauled it up and threw it out again. Theodoric needed no instruction to give them covering fire as surprised pirate archers tried to hit them. His own close band of half a dozen Visigothic archers returned far more aggressive fire, and the pirates ducked behind their bulwarks, as surprised as the crew of the Draco at this unexpected belligerence. They were supposed to be taking prey. Now the prey was taking them.

  The grappling-iron flew spinning out again, slipped against the planking and then one barbed tine dropped and stuck hard over the lip of an oar-port. Perfect. Too low for a pirate to sweep down a sword-blade to cut it away, even if any dared brave the Visigothic arrows. Already the pirates were beginning to wonder if loyalty to their sister ship was such a good idea. There was only a handful of archers on this enemy ship, plus that hard-faced Roman commander in his red cloak, who’d fetch a good ransom if taken alive. But still, the pirates felt ill-omened. One of them was already nursing an arm struck with a white-feathered arrow. There was something they hadn’t understood today.

  A pirate stood up and loosed a javelin towards a sailor, but the nimble Libyan skipped aside and it stuck quivering in the deck. He pulled it free and lobbed it back. Not a serious throw, but the pirate ducked back smartly, curs
ing.

  ‘Haul in!’ roared Aëtius.

  The sailors set their callused bare feet against the boards of the Cygnus and obeyed. Slowly, very slowly, the Haifisch began to drift in helplessly, broadside on. There was an angry cry from above, an order or warning from its captain. But it was too late.

  There came another monstrous crash from the bows. The Cygnus’ splintered deck was holed again, and the mainmast began to lean forward. Water was flooding in below, floating the ballast of sand barrels. The ship groaned and began to tilt sickeningly forwards. The mainmast creaked ominously.

  ‘Haul for your lives if you’d live to see tomorrow!’ bellowed Aëtius. Soon the Haifisch jolted against the poop of the Cygnus, which was raised up by the counterweight of the water pouring into her bows.