The Sword of Attila

by David Gibbins

  Macrobius took a deep swig from a water skin that they had filled from a spring that flowed out into the bay at the point where they had pulled up, and then ripped off a hunk of bread and cheese from the food supply in his bag. ‘I think I can see the shape of the island ahead, due north, about a mile away across the lake,’ he said, munching noisily. ‘To get there we’ll have to cross the current again, but with this breeze behind us we could make it within an hour.’

  Flavius and Arturus lay stripped to the waist on the thwarts beside the paddles, their bodies covered with the scars of battles long past. Arturus raised himself, took a swig of water from the proffered skin and shaded his eyes, looking north. ‘One of my informers told me that the island is always shrouded in a kind of fog, making it seem cut off from the world completely. I think you’re right, Macrobius. I can see it too.’ He jostled Flavius, who was half-asleep on the thwarts. ‘Time to put our cassocks on again. Even an order of self-flagellating monks wouldn’t have the collection of scars we’ve got, and to be seen like this would be something of a giveaway. We need to keep up the disguise and suffer the heat until we make contact with the first Hun outpost, when we would do best to divest ourselves of anything Christian and reveal ourselves for who we really are.’

  Flavius reluctantly pulled on the heavy cassock and swung around on the thwarts, taking the skin from Arturus and drinking deeply. Macrobius steered away from shore and towards the bank of fog, helped along by Flavius and Arturus paddling where the pull of the current was more discernible, and then letting the sail take them into the northern part of the lake. As they approached they could see the curious play of the wind that kept the island shrouded in fog, a consequence of its location, nestled against the cliffs, and the continuing gorge of the river beyond – the high ground caused the southerly wind to swirl back on itself and push the following breeze high into the air, in turn causing the water in front of the island to appear unruffled and the morning mist to remain over it, hanging beneath the wind like a miasma well after the rest of the lake had cleared.

  The sail flapped as the breeze rose above them and Macrobius brailed it up, swinging the yard so that it was perpendicular to the boat and unstopping and shipping the mast. He took the tiller again, and Flavius and Arturus slowly paddled forward into the fog, the mist swirling around them until they could see only a few paces ahead. They began to hear sounds, distant knocking and hammering, the rise and fall of human voices. A line of evenly spaced wooden posts appeared out of the gloom, evidently there as waymarkers for approaching boats and indicating that the lake was becoming shallower. The smell of rotting fish and human ordure began to rise off the water, sure signs of habitation nearby, and then another smell assailed them, a sickly sweet odour that they knew too well from the aftermath of battle. It was Macrobius who first spotted the source, pointing to the posts coming into view out of the mist ahead. ‘We’ve got company,’ he said.

  Flavius peered, and then he could see it clearly – a post with a cross-beam and the blackened form of a human corpse suspended from it, the ribcage bared and holes in the abdomen where birds had pecked it clean. Further on there was another, and then another, dozens of them in varying stages of decomposition, some no more than torsos with the heads and parts of the legs missing. Flavius nearly retched as they slid by, trying to breathe as little as possible. Macrobius pointed up at the last one in the row. ‘Looks as if our disguise won’t keep us safe here either.’ The corpse wore the shredded but unmistakable remains of a monk’s cassock, with a wooden cross on a leather band wound around one skeletal hand. Arturus took away the sleeve he had been holding against his mouth and curled his nose in distaste. ‘As monks we won’t have people pestering us for our wares or assuming we’re carrying hidden gold. But nobody’s safe here. Every moment we’re on that island we’ll be one step away from a knife in the back; put a foot wrong and you’ll be out here in this execution ground. We’re going to have to be careful.’

  To their right the piles of a wooden quay appeared, and then the mist parted to reveal a dockside filled with small boats like their own and men heaving goods up ladders and tossing them from boat to shore. They veered away from the execution ground, leaving the terrible smell in their wake, and slowly made their way between the boats until they found space for a berth, Flavius and Arturus raising their paddles while Macrobius turned the tiller and let the boat glide in. A boy in filthy rags appeared from nowhere, leapt on board, took the painter from its coiled position in the bows and tied it to a post on the quay, holding the boat tight while Arturus and Flavius jumped ashore. Macrobius picked up one of their bags to heave it up, but Arturus halted him. ‘Best to pay the boy to watch over them,’ he said quietly. ‘Anything brought ashore will be assumed to be trade goods, and will be searched and taxed. If they do that, they’re likely to search us as well, and if they find our weapons we’ve had it. If we’re questioned, we say there’s a small monastery at the far end of the island and we’re stopping on our voyage north to pay our respects, and then will be on our way.’

  Macrobius grunted, laid a blanket over the bags and leapt ashore, narrowly missing jamming the tip of the scabbard under his cassock into the post. Arturus took out a gold coin and showed it to the boy, who shook his head, and then he added another, eliciting the same response, until he produced a fifth coin, at which the boy snatched them and ran up the quay to a huge Goth mercenary who had been standing with crossed arms watching their arrival. He inspected the coins, bit into one to test its purity, took them and gave the boy one in return. When Arturus saw that their payment had been accepted he quickly led the other two up the quay and onto a stone revetment, the place where goods were offloaded and where trading took place. Goth mercenaries were everywhere, policing every transaction, each one accompanied by a boy who collected money and scurried between the bales and amphorae and barrels that filled every available space, with traders of all nationalities weighing goods on scales and using volume measurements that had been carved into marble tables on the quayside.

  It all seemed orderly, but there was none of the hustle and bustle of a normal market; to Flavius, the absence of shouting and theatricality was unnerving, as if this were a place governed by threat and fear rather than by the normal rules of commerce. As if to underline the tension, there was a sudden bellow from one of the tables and the Goth policing the transaction hooked his arm around a trader’s neck and yanked him up by the throat, dragging him shrieking and gesticulating towards a metal cage at the far end of the quay facing the execution ground; the boy who had been standing beside the Goth picked up the gold coins that had spilled from the trader’s hands and handed them over to the Goth when he returned, the two of them resuming their positions in front of the table and the traders elsewhere carrying on as if nothing had happened.

  Arturus pulled his hood close over his head and led them towards the mass of tightly packed buildings that covered the island beyond the trading area, most of them constructed from crudely hewn timbers with river mud used to plaster over the walls at street level, keeping out the sewage that ran down ruts in the alleys between the buildings. Arturus held up his hand to halt them as a cart trundled by, stacked with wine amphorae cushioned in straw and bundles of other goods. Flavius peered out from under his hood, and then quickly dropped his head and kept his eyes averted, a tremor in his heart. In front of the boys pulling the cart had been two heavy-set men in black cloaks and segmented armour, their foreheads sloped and their hair bound tightly behind their heads, three parallel scars running down each cheek. Flavius knew that he had just seen his first Hun warriors, close enough to kill or be killed. It brought home the reality of their mission as never before, and as he shuffled forward he felt his breath shorten and a metallic taste in his mouth, the signs of apprehension and excitement that he had only ever experienced before in the lead-up to battle.

  On the edge of the square a prostitute leered out of an upstairs window, the first woman he had seen on the island
; she exposed her breasts before being pulled back inside by one of the Goths who were up there with her. Arturus led the way as they plunged into an alley and followed its winding course up a series of terraces and embankments, the rickety upper storeys of buildings crowding in around them. Macrobius suppressed a curse as he narrowly missed being drenched by a bucketful of slops from an upper-floor balcony, its reeking contents joining the filth that lay in pools and gutters on the alley floor. Arturus paused at a crossroads and then veered left and took a sharp right, taking them down a covered section like a tunnel and then through a succession of small courtyards. Eyes were watching them from the darkness, under hoods and in the recesses of doorways, and Flavius felt uneasy and vulnerable, his hand on the hilt of his sword under his cassock. Here they could be murdered and robbed and nobody would ever know what had happened to them, their bodies pulled off into a dark alley and pushed out into the river.

  Arturus stopped for a moment, cocked his head as if listening, and then carried on. ‘There’s someone following us,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Keep on walking as if nothing is wrong. When I move to conceal myself, do the same behind me.’

  They passed a dilapidated shrine to the Holy Mother, paused in front of it and crossed themselves with a due show of devotion before carrying on. The alley ahead was blocked by a throng of people around a fish-seller, all of them bidding for a great sturgeon laid out on the cobbles in front, so Arturus led Flavius and Macrobius down a parallel street towards another quay beside the river, partly shrouded in mist. He turned right, then ducked behind a pillar and flattened himself against a wall, gesturing for the other two to do the same. All that Flavius could hear was the dripping of condensation from the roof gables onto the street, and the lap of the current against the stones of the quayside. Suddenly Arturus darted out and pulled a figure back against the wall, one arm locked around his throat and his other hand over his mouth. It was a small, nondescript man, swarthy and bearded like many of the boatmen Flavius had seen in the port, possibly a Thracian from the lower Danube. Arturus twisted the man’s head up and spoke close to his ear, in Greek. ‘Who do you work for?’

  The man tried to say something, but Arturus kept his hand clamped over his mouth. He twisted his head more sharply, and the man made a strangulated noise, his eyes wide with fear and his nose dripping blood. ‘I said, who do you work for?‘ He took his hand from the man’s mouth, and he gasped and spluttered, coughing and retching. Arturus clamped his hand down again and the man made a noise like a squealing pig, the blood from his nose splattered over the wall as he tried to breathe. Arturus released his hand again and held him higher, his arm still held like a vice around the man’s neck. ‘I won’t ask again,’ he snarled.

  ‘An Illyrian named Segestus,’ the man said through gritted teeth, his Greek heavily accented, his voice hoarse and tight. ‘He paid me to look out for three westerners dressed as monks who’d be arriving on the island. I was supposed to follow you and find out who you were meeting, and then report his location to another.’

  Arturus twisted hard, and the man gasped in pain. ‘Who?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know his name,’ the man said, spitting blood. ‘One of the Goths who controls this place. Let me go, and that’s the last you’ll see of me.’

  Arturus put his hand again over the man’s mouth, twisted hard and held him suspended just above the ground. Flavius heard the crack as his neck broke, and then saw him go limp. Arturus carried the body to the water’s edge, slipped it in and pushed it out into the current, watching it disappear into the mist as he washed his hands. He shook off the water, stood up and returned to them. ‘Segestus is one of Heraclius’ agents,’ he said, wiping his hands on his cassock. ‘The man they’re after is Priscus of Panium. Ever since the embassy to Attila, the eunuchs in Theodosius’ court have wanted him dead. Even though it was their emperor Theodosius who sent him to Attila, the eunuchs don’t like the fact that Priscus gained Attila’s confidence, and they especially don’t like the fact that he’s writing a history of the Huns, something that might paint their own machinations in a bad light.’

  ‘But Heraclius is Valentinian’s eunuch,’ Flavius said.

  ‘We’ve known for a long time that Heraclius is in the pay of the eastern eunuchs. He’s their eyes and ears in the western court, and is able to influence Valentinian to comply with their wishes. Aetius has tried to warn the emperor, but to little avail. All we can do is limit the damage by keeping the emperor ignorant of much that goes on, thus reducing the chances of Heraclius overhearing anything of strategic importance. Valentinian had the makings of a capable emperor, but as long as Heraclius is there it suits us that Valentinian spends his life aloof from the real world in the palace in Ravenna, where his relationship with that odious creature can do least harm.’

  ‘And yet somehow he found out that we were planning to meet Priscus.’

  ‘He has spies everywhere, probably even among Aetius’ trusted staff,’ Arturus said grimly. ‘He knows that we’re on to him and that we’ve tried to limit his access to important information, so he’s redoubled his efforts with his own circle of spies. It’s a constant battle, a game of cat and mouse.’

  ‘Do you think he knows our true purpose?’

  ‘He knew that we were heading to this place to find Priscus, and he must have guessed that we intended to carry on to the court of Attila. Whether he knows about the sword is anyone’s guess. We need to be on our guard.’

  They went under another arch and then into a courtyard from which there was no exit, only a series of low doorways into the buildings. There was nobody to be seen, only a pair of emaciated cats fighting over a fish skeleton, and rats scurrying along the sides of the walls. Arturus glanced back the way they had come, looking out for anyone else who might be following. ‘Wait under the arch. I was told to go to the furthest court to the north, and then to enter the second doorway from the left. I’ll call you when I’ve found him.’

  It began drizzling, and Flavius looked up at the grey cloud that seemed to have settled into the mist, blinking the water from his eyes. ‘Let’s hope he’s there. If he’s not, we’re not waiting. We need to be out of here by sundown.’

  Twenty minutes later Arturus reappeared in the doorway, his hood up and his face in shadows, and beckoned them over. Flavius and Macrobius followed him under a low doorway, down a narrow flight of steps and along a passageway barely wide enough to squeeze through. At the end a chute led down to the water’s edge, a foetid smell rising from a muddy mass at the bottom. Arturus opened a creaking wooden door to the left, led them through a dark passage and opened another door into a dimly lit chamber. In the far corner a spluttering oil lamp revealed a man hunched over a mass of papers on a table. He looked up, took off his polished-crystal spectacles and peered at Flavius and Macrobius, his eyes watery but sharp. ‘Well?’ he said in Greek, looking at Arturus. ‘Should I speak in Latin or in Greek?’

  Flavius put a hand on Macrobius’ shoulder. ‘Latin, for the benefit of my Illyrian friend here, masquerading as a monk.’

  ‘So I see,’ the man said, switching languages and eyeing them up and down. ‘If Arturus is anything to go by, you would both be fighting monks too?’

  ‘Flavius Aetius Gaudentius, special tribune in the service of my uncle, magister militum Flavius Aetius. This is the centurion of my old limitanei numerus, Macrobius.’

  ‘Ah, the limitanei,’ the man said. ‘They are much missed around these parts. Better troops for my money than the comitatenses, who never stay in the same place for more than ten minutes and never get to know the local people and their customs, and anyway are based too far behind the lines.’

  Macrobius grunted. ‘I’m with you there.’

  ‘You must be Priscus of Panium,’ Flavius said. ‘I salute you for undertaking your embassy to Attila.’

  ‘Not the general view in Constantinople, I fear,’ Priscus said, getting up. ‘For reasons that are beyond the grasp of a mere scholar, I seem t
o be on the hit list of most of Theodosius’ eunuchs, hence my self-imprisonment in this hole.’ He was extremely tall and very ill-looking, and Flavius saw him totter as he sniffed the air. ‘I apologize for the smell. All of the sewage from this rotten carcass of a town goes straight into the river, of course, and gets swept downstream by the current, but they forget that there are little backwaters and creeks by the quays where it accumulates, especially the solid variety. But I can hardly call the city urinatores to clean it up, can I, or try to do it myself and risk one of the thugs who infest this island jumping on me.’

  ‘Arturus disposed of one of them,’ Flavius said.

  ‘So he tells me, and for that I’m grateful, but they’re like rats. Get rid of one, and ten take their place.’ He coughed violently, his whole frame racked with convulsions, and then he sat down again, wheezing and trying to recover himself. Flavius could see that he was little older than he was, but he had the sunken cheeks and sparse hair of a much older man. ‘I’d offer you water, but I have to draw it from the river out of my back window only a few paces from that mess at the bottom of the chute. But what I can give you,’ he said, uncorking a small pot and spilling out wine into three cups beside his bench, ‘is some vintage Judaean. My house slave from Panium is a Dacian who has been able to pass himself off as a trader, and he has used my depleting supply of gold to tap into the food and wine brought here for trade from civilized parts of the world. It’s the only thing that keeps me alive.’