Attila: The Judgement

by William Napier

  One night as they lay encamped in that haunted country, Orestes heard his master crying out in terror. He ran into his tent with his sword drawn, and saw to his horror that Attila was rolling on his pallet, eyes wide and mouth foaming, yet apparently still asleep, unable to see. Orestes thought the King had gone mad. He dropped his sword and, seizing his shoulders, tried to shake him back to sense. The next thing he knew was an agonising pain in his side. Attila had stabbed him.

  Orestes sat back, clutching his ribs. The wound was not deep but it bled badly. Gradually the king regained consciousness, staring wild-eyed. Orestes drew his hand up from his side, his fingertips wet and red. He held them before Attila. Attila stared at him, the wild light going from his eyes, reason returning, and with it that depth-less sorrow. How haunted he looked. He drew his arm across his spittle-flecked mouth and stared up at Orestes, panting.

  ‘I dreamed,’ he whispered, almost inaudibly, his voice a dry and exhausted croak between gasps, ‘I dreamed that you had turned against me, that you came into my tent to kill me, saying that I was mad, for I had vowed in my madness to slaughter my way into heaven.’

  Orestes said nothing, pressing his side to stop the bleeding. Attila seemed oblivious of his hurt. At last, the Greek said that his Lord should sleep now, and went to find a comrade to bandage him up.

  As he left the tent, he glanced back. Attila sat up on his furs, staring around, lips working, seeing nothing.

  The next city the Huns came to was Rhemi, all but abandoned like the rest. Bishop Nicias had refused to desert his post, however, seeing the threat of death as any true Christian should: nothing but a portal to eternity. With him there remained a handful of Gallo-Roman knights, too young to have wives or children and so perfectly contented to die likewise, but adamant that they would not flee before the heathen invaders.

  The weather turned bitter, and there were flurries of snow. The great host of Attila remained outside the city, but Attila himself, having heard of this holy man’s stubbornness, rode on through the narrow streets with a small company of his favoured warriors and Chosen Men. They were wary of ambush, but none came. They emerged into the main square of the city, with the fine façade of the cathedral on the eastern side, facing the Basilica, and the splendid baths and the portico of the marketplace along the other two sides. Attila sat his horse and stared around. A cold spring wind blew through the square, and the horses stamped their hooves. The ghostliness of the depopulated town was eerie and unreal. Even more so the little group across the square from them, on the steps of the cathedral, a Christian priest and eight youthful knights, gazing back at them, silent and unafraid.

  ‘What is this?’ roared Attila with sudden anger.

  ‘Welcome to our city,’ Bishop Nicias called back. ‘I believe you have travelled far.’

  Such mocking insouciance enraged Attila all the more. The eunuch priests of that pale, etiolated, defeated Christian god were not supposed to face death as fearlessly as his finest warriors. They were supposed to kneel and plead and whimper, before having their heads snatched back and their pallid, lamb-like throats briskly cut. Attila drove his heels into the flanks of his skewbald pony and cantered across to them. His warriors instantly fanned out and nocked arrows to their bows, training them on the little group on the cathedral steps. It could still be a trap. A hundred soldiers might lie in wait inside that stern grey cathedral.

  Attila reined in fiercely before the nine, his sword hanging loosely from his right hand.

  ‘Do you not fear me, eunuch priest? I will shortly slay you where you stand.’

  Bishop Nicias looked mildly puzzled. ‘Well, first, I am no eunuch, having all my parts intact, as the Good Lord made me.’ At this wretched jest, his accompanying knights actually smiled. Attila shot them furious looks. ‘Second, why on earth should I fear you, just because you are about to part my spirit from my mortal flesh? It will only free my soul to fly heavenwards and be with my Christ. Death is the fate of all men. It is your fate, too, great Lord Attila.’

  Attila gazed at him intently. ‘Do you truly not fear death, old man?’

  ‘Truly not. But I know you do. Which is why I have remained behind here, on the steps of my cathedral: to invite you to throw down your sword, and enter in, and be baptised in the name of Christ. I am here in the hope of saving your immortal soul.’

  Attila’s fury erupted, and he raised his sword and brought it down. The holy man died where he stood, unflinching, slumping almost gently to the ground before Attila’s horse. A moment later, arrows slammed into the eight knights, killing some and mortally wounding the others. Even then, not one of them reached to draw his weapon and fight, as if the example of their bishop had been his last word to them. Attila himself loomed over them and finished them with thrusts of his sword.

  His men gathered round him, but crying, ‘Leave me be!’ he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and surged forward, up the steps, over the bodies of the slain and in through the great west doors of the cathedral. The moment he had passed through, they slammed shut.

  His men waited, perturbed. Orestes had visions of Attila’s horse leaving bloody hoofprints all down the white marble paving of the aisle.

  He appeared a short while later, still mounted, dragging the doors open again awkwardly from the saddle. He stared up at the sky. ‘Strange,’ he muttered.

  Orestes said, ‘My lord?’

  He still gazed upwards, as if searching heaven. ‘That there should be thunder out of so clear a sky.’

  His men exchanged anxious glances.

  ‘Great Tanjou,’ said Chanat, ‘we heard no thunder.’

  Attila’s reaction was shocking. He rounded on the venerable old warrior and gripped him about the throat with his mighty left hand. With his right he held his swordpoint to his throat. Chanat’s horse whinnied and backed away, but Attila held on with a vicelike grip, his own horse moving in tandem.

  ‘You lie!’ he cried, and the stately buildings around the square echoed back, lie, lie, lie. ‘You heard thunder! You lie, to make me think I am hearing phantoms, that I am haunted by the Christian god there in his charnel-house church! You would have me think myself mad, ride out into the wilderness, fall on my sword, that you may plant the first of your own seed on the throne of the Huns!’

  But Chanat was no man to be bullied, even with a swordpoint at his throat. ‘No, my lord,’ he said quietly. ‘The first of my seed, the Lord Aladar, died serving you under the walls of Constantinople. And we do not lie. We heard no thunder.’

  Attila’s eyes bulged, his mouth worked. Then he released Chanat, and sank back in his saddle. There was a long silence. In a nearby street, the cold wind slammed a wooden shutter back and forth in a desolate rhythm. Finally he pulled his horse around, his expression once more blank and hollow, tossed his sword away to clatter on the worn cobblestones, and rode back out of the square.

  Geukchu glanced enquiringly at the old warrior, almost with sympathy.

  ‘I still endure,’ growled the old warrior. And he said it as if he were under a curse.

  They rode after Attila, only Orestes dropping down from his horse - clutching his side still bandaged and sore from the stab-wound - to retrieve the sword. For was it not the sword of Savash?

  The northern battle group under the command of Geukchu had swept through the valleys of the Mosa and the Scaldis, destroying the cities of Tornacum and Cameracum along with many others, and then descended on the city of Lutetia, on the island in the River Sequana in the country of the Parisii. Attila’s horde was approaching likewise from the east.

  Here again, history has already become legend; and yet it is an established fact that the Huns did not, after all, ever capture or destroy Lutetia, but passed it by and rode on south. Some say that the men of the city were preparing to flee, horrified by the sight of not one but two approaching dust-clouds: on both northern and eastern horizon. But the women of the city, made of sterner stuff, insisted that a holy maid called Genevieve had pr
omised them the city would never fall to Attila.

  ‘A holy maid!’ scoffed the men. What did holy maids know of war and warriors?

  The women said she was praying to God even now, quite calm and resolute, in the circular Baptistery of St Jean-le-Rond. Some of the men went to look, peeking in on her, and saw that it was as the women said.

  Across the river, the Hun horsemen were already massing. The modest walls of the city and the narrow stretch of river seemed little protection. Even less did the prayers of an unworldly young girl called Genevieve. But a large group of the women took refuge in the Baptistery with her, singing hymns and psalms, and then men joined them, crowding around outside. The spring air resounded with many voices lifted in praise of the Lord God of Hosts, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. And when they looked again, they saw that the Hun horsemen had miraculously disappeared.

  It is impossible to distinguish the truth from the legend of St Genevieve. But, for whatever reason, the Huns never laid a violent hand upon Lutetia. Maybe it was entirely pragmatic of Attila to wish to push on south as rapidly as possible. He wanted to destroy another enemy, before that enemy could join up with the Roman Army. He wanted to make it to Tolosa.

  5

  THE RIDDLE OF THE WOLF

  Aëtius’ legions marched the six hundred miles from Aquileia to Gallia Narbonensis in twenty-six days, each legionary carrying his full forty- or fifty-pound pack on his back. It rained much of the way, and snowed heavily at times. Reviewing their achievement, Aëtius felt they had performed satisfactorily.

  As they neared Tolosa, he ordered his men to stand down while he and his commanders rode on in alone. It would not do for a force of twenty-five thousand to appear suddenly below the walls of the city unannounced. The irascible King Theodoric might get the wrong idea.

  It seemed only moments after they had announced themselves at the East Gate, that there came a frenetic clattering of horses’ hooves down the steep cobbled street within, and there were the princes Theodoric and Torismond on their white chargers, faces shining.

  ‘You have come to destroy Attila at last!’ they cried.

  ‘I must speak to your father first,’ said Aëtius gravely.

  Old Theodoric received him in a small chamber heated by a burning brazier, and wearing a great white fur cloak across his back. He grasped Aëtius’ hand in his bearlike paw and squeezed it tight, smiling beneath his beard.

  ‘By God you gave my boys a good time of it, so you did, out there in the East. My eldest damn near lost his arm, and if he had I’d have come after yours! But he’s well now: young flesh and bone knit well. Sit. Drink. You, boy, bring us wine - well-cooked.’

  Cooked wine? In the name of Light ...

  There was no time for small talk. ‘So,’ said the old King, ‘you will face Attila on Gaulish soil.’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘You know his numbers?’

  ‘A hundred thousand.’

  Theodoric shook his great shaggy white head. ‘More. I think two hundred thousand. They are ill-provisioned, and far from home, living only on what they can loot. Can you calculate how much fodder two hundred thousand horses travelling in winter need?’

  ‘A lot - more than the Huns have prepared for. The country will be stripped bare.’

  ‘You could just leave them to starve. The asses. Your own lines of supply are well ordered, I presume?’

  ‘Of course. Are we not Romans?’

  Theodoric guffawed. ‘So you are. Well-organised as always, I’ll stake my beard on it.’

  ‘And our numbers: twenty-five thousand. They are the finest: well trained, fighting-fit, and full of confidence. But they are only twenty-five thousand.’

  Theodoric shook his head again, his eyes gleaming in the light of the brazier. ‘It is not enough.’

  ‘If the wolf-lords of the Visigothic nation rode with us—’

  ‘No!’ Theodoric roared. ‘Do not ask us. This is not our war. We are not Attila’s enemies. He comes for revenge against Rome.’

  The cooked wine arrived. Aëtius tasted it. It was heated, spiced, honeyed, and quite revolting. He drank it down manfully.

  ‘And after, when Rome is destroyed and Gaul laid waste?’ he resumed.

  ‘Then we will see. Maybe our own kingdom will ... extend. But I will not sacrifice my beloved people for Rome.’

  There was a long silence.

  Then Aëtius said, ‘Give me your hand.’

  Theodoric frowned but held out his huge bear-paw of a right hand, a fat gold ring on every finger.

  ‘What danger is a wolf with only one jaw?’ murmured Aëtius.

  Now Theodoric listened. He liked riddles.

  Aëtius began to press his thumbtip into Theodoric’s palm. Theodoric stared down. What game was this?

  ‘Does this hurt?’

  ‘Of course not, you dolt,’ growled the King.

  Keeping his thumbtip in Theodoric’s palm, Aëtius circled his strong forefinger round the back of his hand. Finger and thumb came together in a cruel pincer movement, biting in deep between the narrow bones, setting the nerves tingling.

  Theodoric snatched his hand away. ‘Son of a ... Now, that hurt!’ He tucked it into his left armpit and glared at Aëtius. ‘And this illustrates what, pray? Except that a wolf with one jaw is harmless, but one with two less so, which I knew already.’

  Aëtius waggled his thumb before Theodoric’s eyes. ‘Attila.’ And his forefinger. ‘Genseric.’

  Theodoric shrugged. ‘It may be so. I still do not believe there is an alliance between the Vandals and the Huns against you, but it may be so.’

  ‘Not against us,’ said Aëtius quietly. ‘Against you.’

  Theodoric got to his feet and strode about the little chamber, the walls feeling as if they were about to burst asunder, too small to contain his huge presence. When he had calmed down a little, Aëtius resumed.

  ‘Of course, Genseric is already at war with us, fighting with Attila. His ships were at Constantinople and got a nasty surprise.’

  ‘My boys told me. What was that flaming weapon exactly?’

  ‘Information reserved only for our allies.’

  ‘Damn your balls!’

  Aëtius smiled. Then he said, ‘Amalasuntha, your daughter.’

  Theodoric’s expression softened instantly.

  ‘She is married now to Genseric’s son?’

  ‘That she is. And not a day goes by when I do not miss her sweet smile, her laughter like a running stream.’ He looked stern again. ‘You see, my old Roman friend, we are kin, the Goths and the Vandals. Our tongues are the same, our religion, our very names.’

  ‘Your religion? But Genseric fights with the heathen Huns. He is a creature of treachery.’

  ‘He is my kinsman now. Have a care, Roman.’

  ‘Forgive me. But I do not trust him.’

  ‘Well. Each man to his own. Let us eat.’

  They dined in the great hall of the palace, and it was like a scene out of Homer, a barbaric magnificence, tempered by the Visigoths’ only recently acquired and civilising romanitas. A huge fire blazed in the centre of the hall, and they ate sitting upright at long wooden tables, while bards sang old lays of battles in near-legendary eastern forests and open plains, against long-forgotten enemies. There was no mention of ancient battles against the Hunnu.

  Aëtius tried to tell himself this was not time-wasting, and forced himself to eat well, avoiding staring into the great hearth-fire and thinking of all of northern Gaul ablaze. The Visigoths took it as a personal affront if their guests did not stuff their stomachs almost to vomiting. The princes sat nearby, grinning from ear to ear and devouring plateful after plateful of roasted venison and boar. On the adjacent table, those valiant wolf-lords Jormunreik and Valamir drank beer from huge auroch horns decorated with silver filigree, draught after draught until they both fell drunkenly asleep where they sat. Nobody took the slightest notice. Probably they would be up at dawn tomorrow and out hunting, with
headaches that would have kept any lesser man groaning in a darkened room for a week.

  These were the allies the Romans desperately needed ...

  Looking distinctly uncomfortable amid these scenes was a fresh-faced, rather purse-mouthed young deacon of the Church of Gaul.

  Aëtius made polite and tedious conversation with him awhile, and then asked, ‘And what of this Council of Chalcedon? While Attila and his hordes are on the brink of engulfing the entire civilised world in flames, what keeps Emperor Marcian and the pious Empress Pulcheria so busy, exactly? What are the Eastern bishops debating?’