by M. K. Hume
‘Tomorrow we can fight from a position of relative strength with the high ground protecting our rear. The legionaries, together with Merovech and Childeric, will nullify Attila’s force on the centre of the plain while Thorismund and King Theodoric control the high ground and engage the Hun forces. We can meet the Hungvari horde with the knowledge that it would be virtually impossible to outflank and surround us. Let these facts be known to your men to give them heart. Tell them also of the healer’s prophecy that we shall win this battle in the field. I put no trust in soothsayers, but I will use anything that gives advantage to our cause.’ The general gazed around the assembled kings. ‘Do you have any further questions?’
The kings were silent for, after all, there was very little left to say.
‘Then let’s be about our business, and may the gods bless our endeavours till we meet again at battle’s end.’
Myrddion watched a contingent of the Salian Franks rise from their cooking fires, mount their horses and fade into the darkness at a walk, leaving their fires to burn throughout the night. His ears strained to hear the sound of a large troop of Visigoth horsemen moving through the darkness, but he could hear nothing except the murmur of other soldiers who remained at their campsites.
‘They’ve taken the time to muffle the hooves of their horses,’ Finn explained unnecessarily. ‘They’re at pains to give no warning of their intentions.’
Later in the evening, as the healers were readying themselves for another night sleeping under the wagons, a messenger arrived to instruct them that they were to assemble the field hospital just beyond the left horn of the ridge. Myrddion protested that late at night was no time to break camp, but the messenger stared at him stolidly and reminded him that General Aetius was in charge and he had made the decision to relocate his healers to a new position.
‘Argue it out with him, if you’re so stupid,’ the man said unemotionally. ‘His plans go far beyond such trivial matters.’
‘Very well, you may inform General Aetius that we will obey his orders,’ Myrddion replied. Vechmar simply grimaced with annoyance. Then, wearily, the two men woke their servants.
Grumbling, unhappy and feeling unappreciated, the healers packed the wagons, harnessed the horses and, using torches made out of heavy branches wrapped with oil-soaked rags, set off for their appointed post. Unexpectedly, Captus and his guard appeared out of the darkness and joined the cavalcade. The tall Frank was unusually silent.
‘I expected that you would be taking part in the battle, not babysitting us,’ Myrddion murmured.
‘So did I, healer. So did I!’
Captus was quietly angry, so he held his nervous horse on a very tight rein. Myrddion could see the silhouette of the captain’s profile by the flaring torchlight. His lips were pressed tightly together and what could be seen of his features expressed disappointment and chagrin.
‘I’m sorry, Captus. As far as we’re concerned, you’re released from your duty to protect us.’
Captus responded by reefing up the head of his horse with a cruel twist of his arms. The beast squealed and stopped dead in its tracks, while Captus glared up at Myrddion on the high seat of his wagon.
‘You lack the power to order me in any capacity, healer. I am Merovech’s man, and he is busy organising a frontal attack while Thorismund takes the ridge that looms so threateningly above us. This peril is but the beginning, for my lord will face the wrath of Attila in the morning. I would serve as the lowliest archer in his army if I were given a choice, but my lord has placed a value on you that is far greater than my honour, or the long loyalty of my troop in his service. Yes, I resent my orders. You have taken more than my tooth, healer, whether it was your intention or not.’
‘So leave then, Captus, because we’ll not inform on you. Your assistance to us has been too valuable for such telltale, unmanly behaviour. Take my hand and good speed to you, for I know how it feels to be parted from your chosen trade.’
Captus’s lips twisted bitterly and he ignored Myrddion’s proffered palm, although the younger man could not take offence because he saw, by the set of the warrior’s shoulders, that Captus was divided between his oath, his duty and his desire to follow his master into battle. No insult was intended on Captus’s part.
‘Truly, Master Myrddion, if I were a man of broken honour, I would grab at your offer with both hands. But I am King Merovech’s man. Should he die on the morrow, his orders would remain between him and me, but I would always know that I had let him down. I am sworn to obey, and I will, but don’t expect me to enjoy my safety.’
‘Something warns me, friend Captus, that no one will know any safety tomorrow, so don’t torture yourself. But if you decide to stay, then work for me willingly or go on your way. In our bloody trade, a half-hearted man is a liability.’
The healers’ wagons moved slowly onwards, but were passed by dim shapes in the darkness as Sangiban and his warriors began to move into position to make the main offensive into the plain. In the darkness, the Visigoths stole like wraiths towards the ridge, or took up positions immediately below it, ready for a quick offensive. These men would sleep after eating dried meat and drinking plain water, without the comfort of a warming fire during the night.
Puzzled, Myrddion looked down the makeshift road and saw the stolid shapes of Aetius’s legions, some climbing, but most massing on the plain, ready to move into the centre of the battle. All combatants avoided clear moonlight until they reached the top of the plateau or the edge of the plain. Only the cavalry, many thousands of them, remained in reserve and these were settling into position along the wings of the ridgeline. Aetius was breaking long-held tactical rules of combat by sending his allies into the field in the dangerous darkness, for warriors were vulnerable on invisible and treacherous ground. Myrddion expected his first casualties before dawn, felled by broken limbs and heads from falls upon the scree-covered slopes. By the light of a fitful moon, he could dimly perceive the central, and highest, point of the ridge that, as yet, had not been taken by either combatant. The healer wondered if it would be the key to the battle that was to come when light began to stain the dark sky.
‘We will make our camp on the first piece of flat land on the edge of the ridge, friend Captus. I know such a position puts us in danger and we can be overcome by any determined contingent of cavalry, but my water tells me that there will be a mountain of wounded by the end of tomorrow. We must be prominently placed and clearly visible if we are to be of any use. Please, Captus, ride ahead and find me clean water, the shelter of trees and a position close to the probable battleground. It looks as though none of us will get any sleep, but if we work through the night we might just be prepared for the bloodbath.’
Captus glared at Myrddion’s resentful tone, and reached out one mailed fist to grip the young man’s shaven chin in order to see the healer’s eyes as clearly as the dim light permitted.
‘You are no fighter, Myrddion Emrys, and have as little knowledge of the field as a child, so your complaints about working all night are churlish. General Aetius expects that the dawn will bring an attack . . . and he’s usually right. So yes, we must work through the night, and you must be prepared to accede to his demands. Your whining does you no credit!’
Myrddion flushed with embarrassment and was glad that the darkness hid the sudden flush of colour on his cheeks. ‘You’re right, Captus. Consider my rudeness to be that of a boy who has decided his own actions for far too long. My pride prompted my complaints – and I’m sorry.’
Instead of leaving Myrddion to mull over his want of manners, Captus drew his horse back to pace at the speed of the wagons. ‘What do you see within your heart, healer? Will we fail on the morrow? I am vowed to protect you so that you may save those who might live, but much depends on our battle plan.’
‘We will endure . . . succeed . . . and Attila will feel death coming for him. His supply lines are far too long and his ambitions are disappearing in the night winds. Trust to Aetius
and the kings, and the day will be yours.’ Myrddion watched Captus pale a little and chuckled. ‘No, this is not the product of a dream that tells me what will happen. It’s just plain common sense.’
Relieved, Captus also chuckled. ‘I’ll find you the site you need for the tents. If I must serve in this role, I’ll find the best position available to protect the greatest number of men. And, while I’m at it, I’ll ensure that we can see the disposition of the battle lines when they are determined. We must have good intelligence if we’re to be effective. And I’ll make sure that there’s a workable space between you and that vain old Spaniard.’
‘Since honesty appears to be the coin of conversation on this night, Captus, please explain to me why such puissant kings as Merovech and Theodoric would abdicate their power to an ageing Roman general who has little understanding, or care, for their people. I don’t understand it. Theodoric rules a land far larger than all of Italia and Merovech’s lands are nearly as rich and as wide, yet they defer to a short, autocratic tyrant as if they were mere boys.’
Captus flushed, and Myrddion saw the big Frank’s fist clench. For a moment, the healer prepared to duck the warrior’s swinging arm, but Captus’s good sense reasserted itself as he realised that Myrddion meant no offence. Carefully, the Frank tried to explain the strange politics of the lands of ancient Gaul.
‘Flavius Aetius deserves respect, not because we revere the Romans, but because the general really is a magister militum. We are aware that the empire is all but dead, but Aetius is a master of battle, a lord of carnage who holds a long view and an instinct for the field of conflict that is lacking in the tribal kings. They accept that they are his inferiors in this regard. And because no tribe, nor the Romans themselves, have the strength to repel the Huns alone, we must unite to repulse a common enemy. No army can have five or six heads or, like the hydra, it will thrash around aimlessly until each head is cut off, one by one. So an army of many component parts must have one head. Who better than Flavius Aetius?’
Myrddion bit his thumb reflectively. What Captus said made sense, but the healer was still puzzled by the deference that such redoubtable kings offered so freely to the Roman.
‘But why him? Surely the empire has less venal, more amenable generals?’
Captus snorted with repressed humour. ‘You don’t like our noble Roman, do you? No, he’s the best that’s left. He’s the wiliest, the most ambitious and the man most determined to succeed. The empire is full of greedy, second-rate minds who would seize power with hands stained with blood shed in ambush, but Aetius is a man who’ll face you from the front. The mind that doesn’t fear the darkness before the battle begins contains an intellect that can defeat Attila and the Hungvari hordes.’
‘I hope he comes at me from the front, if he decides to sweep me from his path.’
Captus began to laugh, but softly, for the night was still and dangerous men could well be listening. ‘He warned you, didn’t he? He’ll not bother with you, unless he starts to wonder how you read his mind. You must learn to keep your head down, healer. My master may admire you, but if it comes to a trial of strength he will follow Aetius until such time as the Roman has outlived his usefulness.’ Then Captus shrugged. ‘Don’t look so perplexed and worried, Myrddion. Your fears may never come into being.’
‘By the gods, Captus, I thank you. I think I’m finally beginning to understand my place in the puzzle of this strange land. It seems we’re all in the hands of the gods, whoever they are. I’ll trust in my skills, my two hands and my ability to stay out of the general’s way. Fortunately, I inherited my father’s devilish luck.’ Myrddion grinned, and the torch attached to the wagon’s side lit his eyes with a lambent sheen of red and gold, as if the young man saw the world through a veil of blood or fire. ‘I give you my promise that you will win glory, Captus, even though you believe you’ve been given a minor role in the coming chaos. These words are not prophecy, but reason. I can swear that you will be more important than even you believe you could be, for those who serve with a pure heart never labour in vain.’
‘Excuse my doubts. Now I must be about my master’s orders.’ Flushed with embarrassment, Captus kneed his horse into a canter. Then, with a muffled sound of hooves and sliding gravel, he was gone.
‘Even with skins to cover our allies’ hooves, I can’t believe the Hun is ignorant of the movement of so many men. General Aetius is taking a huge gamble,’ Cadoc muttered as he slapped the reins on the rumps of his pair and set them into a trot.
Myrddion did not reply. He was reviewing Castor’s description of the prophecies, with their promises of the death of a great man, and hoping that, in this instance, he was wrong.
And so they travelled under a dying moon until they reached a small, elevated plateau to the left of the ridgeline, a position that permitted some visual understanding of the plain below.
When Captus found the rise and deemed it suitable for their requirements, he set up a guard to secure the makeshift camp that would soon be erected. Then, as soon as Myrddion’s party arrived, the remaining guardsmen and Myrddion’s workers set to work to cut grass for sleeping pallets and raise the huge leather tents. Vechmar’s apprentices settled into their tasks like parts of a well-oiled machine and Theodoric’s gift of widows and camp followers soon found ready work in the collection of water, which was stored in large, sealed leather containers that folded easily when they were empty. Bridie, Brangaine and Rhedyn enjoyed ordering the new women to complete the most onerous tasks such as chopping herbs and roots and preparing them for use. Although they were urged to be silent, the women still gossiped together in whispers as the newcomers were told what tasks would fall to them in the morning. With relief, Brangaine was able to allocate the cooking to a plain, raw-boned woman who claimed to prefer the sight of food to the sight of blood, which ‘no decent person should have to see’. Brangaine herself set to work pounding herbs in a mortar so that their medicines would be ready for the casualties that would come. Willa hung in a cloth round her neck, sleeping and crying thinly by turns as she struggled for her foster-mother’s attention. Stolidly and patiently, the servant woman worked on, infusing feverwort into boiling water and creating a rather smelly mix of radish paste in pottery jars.
Cadoc performed marvels by unwinding large bolts of new cloth provided by the grateful population of Aurelianum and cutting lengths into usable bandages. Later, he boiled them over fires that were shielded by tree branches to minimise any chance of discovery from the ridgeline above. As the light of day broke through the darkness to the east, the camp was fast settling into the old patterns of the healer’s craft.
Now the time of waiting began in earnest.
Accompanied by Captus, Myrddion moved away from the wagons and stared up towards the crest where, initially, the fates of the peoples of the west would be decided.
The ridge was long and curved into a sickle shape. While not high, it would cause any determined attacker to think twice before charging up its treacherous slopes, which were bisected with narrow, dry watercourses. Scree, the lack of heavy cover and the constant threat of an enemy above created a hazardous field of combat. Any young boy with a slingshot, or the strength to move medium-sized boulders, could hold a dozen men at bay for a time, inflicting damage with the destructive earth slides that could be engineered so easily. Above them, although not visible to the healers below, Thorismund and his father held the horn of the ridge. The Romans and the Franks had moved into position on the plain during the hours of darkness, and now banners were unfurled to the sky; Attila’s black standards ranged against the eagles of Aetius. Above the warring camps, the highest land lay bare, stark and vulnerable. It was a prize to be won, its peak tantalisingly close with its promise of advantage in a battle that threatened to be long, hard and vicious.
Myrddion spotted a narrow smudge of smoke in the distance. ‘What’s that? Who else is abroad on the plain?’
‘That’s the camp of the great Attila,’ Captus repl
ied. ‘You can see it clearly now. You can see his cohorts, waiting in the wings to the north. There’s movement, Master Myrddion! See? Theodoric is circling towards Attila’s position on the high ground, and Thorismund’s Visigoths are attacking downhill. Attila’s troops are hurrying to cut them off.’
‘The sun is barely up and it has begun already,’ Myrddion shouted. ‘Ready yourselves, for the battle is about to begin.’
‘Look down at the plain!’ Captus cried. ‘Aetius has sent Sangiban forward in the centre. Damn me, but the Roman general is clever. Only a blind and deaf fool would trust that bastard, so Aetius puts him where he’ll absorb the full shock of Attila’s cavalry. That’s one way to fix a problem, especially when Merovech commands the other flank.’
‘Why is Aetius taking such a risk, Captus? What virtue is there in trusting a potential traitor to attack Attila’s centre?’
Captus grinned like a fox. ‘He has deployed his weakest link at a point where he cannot run, at the place of greatest danger.’
As if on cue, Attila unleashed his cavalry.
From the slight rise in the ground, Myrddion could see the mass of horsemen, their arms bare for greater mobility as they charged towards the positions held by Sangiban and Merovech. Long, black banners underlined the ruddy light of dawn. Meanwhile, savage hand-to-hand fighting between Theodoric’s troops and another contingent of Hun warriors was just visible through the churned dust. Inexorably, the taller Visigoths were pushing forward until Myrddion saw a taller, mounted figure upon the highest point of the ridge. This warrior swung his sword in a great parabola of light and the Visigoth warriors surged forward.
‘Ayeee!’ Captus screamed, pointing to another part of the battlefield. ‘Look! The devils are breaking their backs on the Roman square.’
Myrddion followed Captus’s pointing arm.
A skeleton troop of Visigoths still held the left flank on the ridge. Meanwhile, the Salian Franks and the Romans had moved onto the centre of the plain, swinging wide towards the left to prevent the Gepid and Germanic tribes from flanking Sangiban’s men, who were now engaged in vicious hand-to-hand fighting. Theodoric was on the move as well, fighting through a wall of Huns to reach his son, Thorismund, who had attacked Attila’s Hungvari troops on the heights.
