The Sword of Attila

by David Gibbins

  The two Roman comitatenses commanders got up. ‘The sun is near its zenith,’ Anagastus said. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day, the longest of the year so far.’

  ‘The longest of our lives, for those of us who see it through,’ Aetius said, reaching for his helmet. ‘Milites, we have had our last council of war. The next command I issue to you will be on the battlefield. I will be riding at the head of the comitatenses, and King Theodoric will be at the head of the Visigoths. Relish the sight of two bitter enemies joined together to fight the greatest foe that any of us have ever faced. My command will be to engage the enemy, to fight to the last drop of blood to vanquish Attila the Hun.’

  Four hours later Flavius sat in the improvised mead hall of the Visigoth king, having downed his fourth cup of watered-down wine in a toast and eaten his fill of roast boar and venison. He knew that for some here the drinking would go on until dawn, that their engagement with battle would be in a drunken haze, but he was determined to rise with a clear head and not be debilitated by the dehydration that came from too much wine. Such reasoning seemed far from the minds of Thorismud’s companions, who were passing along an ancient aurochs’ horn embellished with gold, each of them downing its contents in one, the horn being filled to the brim with ale for each new drinker from a wooden keg. At the head of the table Theodoric was sitting next to an ancient uncle he had brought along as his adviser, a silvery-haired man with skin like leather who bore more scars than all of the rest of them put together. It was said that he had fought against the Romans more than seventy years before at the Battle of Adrianople, and he had been regaling Theodoric and those closest to him who could hear above the boisterous noise with tales of wars of the past, of battles where myth and reality seemed intertwined. Flavius could hear him now, his low, deep voice incanting in the old Gothic dialect of the East, telling of a battle he had fought somewhere in a mountain fastness of the North: Hand to hand we clashed, in battle fierce, confused, prodigious, unrelenting, a fight unequalled in accounts of yore. Such deeds were done! Heroes who missed this marvel could never hope to see its like again.

  Flavius strained to listen, but a huge roar came from the opposite side of the table as the last of the captains downed his ale, dropped the horn on the bench and threw up over the ground. The rest of the men began to crash their hands on the table, drumming in unison, and the servant filled up the horn again and handed it to the same man, who tossed it back in one but held it down this time, belching and joining in the noise. Flavius saw Thorismud eyeing him and then raising his hand for quiet. ‘So, Flavius Aetius,’ he said loudly, lifting his cup and gesturing towards him, the wine spilling over the side. ‘Your grandfather Gaudentius was a Goth warlord, and yet your mother is descended from Julius Caesar. Are you a Goth, or are you a Roman?’

  The bellowing and table-thumping died down, and all eyes were on Flavius. He looked around, seeing the red-faced chieftains, bearded and long-haired, adorned with the neck torques and arm rings that were the badges of rank and prowess among their men, their helmets on the table in front of them. They looked the very image of the barbarians of old, the foes of the Caesars whom he had first seen as a boy on the great sculpted columns and arches of Rome. Drink had made them boisterous and bawdy, but it had also made them appear as what they really were. Some barbarians had become Romanized, men like Flavius’ grandfather, but the court of Theodoric was still a court of Goth chieftains, and in this place Flavius was the odd one out. He remembered Aetius’ last words before leaving the council of war. Until the rise of Attila he and Theodoric had been mortal enemies, and the men around this table would have been bent on nothing but the destruction of Romans, whether or not those Romans had Goth grandfathers. They were drunk, but that was all the more reason to be careful now in what he said.

  He raised his right forearm on the table, conscious of the eyes watching him, and rolled down his sleeve, revealing the four parallel scars where the Alaunt had gouged into him twelve years earlier before the walls of Carthage. ‘I am neither,’ he said, looking at Thorismud. ‘I am a warrior.’

  There was silence among the men, the only noise the crackling of the fire. Then someone bellowed approval and banged the table with his fist, and the others joined in. Thorismud held up his hand. ‘You are a warrior, but who do you serve?’

  The table went quiet again, and everyone watched expectantly. Flavius picked up his cup and looked at Theodoric, who was sitting impassively at the head of the table, enjoying the rowdiness of his men but not joining in. Flavius raised his cup towards the king, drank it down and then slammed it on the table. ‘I serve,’ he said, wiping his lips, ‘whichever king shows the greatest prowess in battle, and whichever leads his men to victory or glorious death.’

  Thorismud stared at him, his eyes unfathomable, and then brought one hand crashing down on the table, picked up his cup and raised it. ‘To our king,’ he said. ‘To Theodoric, King of the Visigoths. May the god of war shine on him.’ He drained his cup and the others followed suit, belching and bellowing for more. Flavius let the slave refill his cup, but he left it brimming, stood up and bowed to the king, and made his way out of the tent. In the time that they had been feasting the sun had gone down, and in the twilight he could see the fires of the Goths and the Romans flickering along the banks of the river. He walked towards the edge of the water. The low clouds broke and the half-moon shone through, causing myriad ghostly reflections on the ripples in the river and bathing the scene in an eerie light. The trees along the bank rustled, and he felt the warm breeze on his face. If battle were truly to be joined tomorrow, it would be hard fought in this heat, with thirst as big a foe as the enemy. He would need to make sure that the men of his numerus were well watered and had filled their skins before the order came for the advance.

  He heard movement behind him, and turned to see Theodoric coming towards the river bank. He was wearing his two swords, the shorter scramasax on his left side and the long sword of the Goths on the right, and he held his hands on the gold and jewel-encrusted pommels as he stood by Flavius and stared into the waters. The clouds had closed up again, and the waters looked dark, forbidding, like an image of the river Styx from the ancient accounts of the voyage to the underworld. Theodoric took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the smell of wine and the smoke of the mead hall coming off him. ‘Tomorrow, this river will run red,’ he said quietly. ‘Men will slake their thirst on their own blood.’

  Flavius remembered the mantra of the Goths on the eve of battle. ‘Tomorrow will be a good day to die,’ he said.

  Theodoric turned and looked at him, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘My time draws to an end,’ he said. ‘This battle will be my last, and soon Thorismud will take over my mantle. If you survive, Flavius Aetius, you must look to yourself. Allegiance neither to a Roman emperor nor to a Goth king will see you through to old age. If it is to be the god of war that you follow, choose your god with care.’

  Flavius watched him walk away and disappear back into the tent, and then he looked to the north-east and the undulating treeless plain where they knew that Attila had his encampment. Attila would be there too, around an open fire, his lords of war intoxicated and telling tales just as the Goths were doing, his encircling laager of wagons providing a wooden fortress like the palace far off in the folds of the steppe-lands that Flavius had once visited. He remembered his time there, the scarred cheeks and piercing eyes of Attila as he had sat beside him, and for a fleeting moment he missed it, wishing that he too was over there by the fire sitting next to the emperor, seeing battle not in strategy and tactics but in the adrenalin and exhilaration of a people who had been born for war.

  The clouds broke again, above the Hun lines, and for a second he thought he saw something extraordinary, a ball of white with a streaking tail reaching high into the night sky. It was blotted out almost as quickly as it had appeared, and for a moment he wondered whether it had merely been a strange effect of the moon, reflected against the clouds. But he rem
embered as a boy studying the course of comets with Dionysius the Scythian in Rome, and hearing the monks in Chalôns predict that this year the great comet recorded by the Babylonians would reappear. Even the men of God believed that this would augur momentous events: the birth or death of great kings, defeat or victory in battle, events that would shape the world to come.

  Dionysius had scoffed at augury, and Flavius knew better than to believe in fate. But, staring across the plain, he wondered whether Attila’s shamans had seen it too, or whether they were too busy reading the cracked shoulder blades of oxen beside the fires, preparing their own rituals of divination. He stared at the sky again, seeing only darkness. If it was an omen, it could only mean one thing, but he did not have to believe in augury to know what lay ahead. He had seen the preparations around him, the two sides resolutely encamped, the bleak plains ahead, the perfect killing ground.

  It was an omen of war.

  16

  The wind rustled through the wheat on the plain, a whispering, haunting sound that seemed to set the men on edge, their heads rising above the flattened patches along the river bank where they had been lying since dawn waiting for the order to move. All that morning the air had been still, the heat rising inexorably until they were dripping with sweat under their armour; at least the breeze had brought them some respite. Flavius watched it now, eddying and gusting up the stalks of wheat on the slope in front of him, and yet again he scanned the ridge to the east for any signal from the scouts who had crept up there during the night, seeking concealed positions to overlook the enemy encampment on the other side. The wait all morning for a signal had seemed interminable, but at least the sun had risen high enough that it would no longer be in their eyes when the assault took place; the enemy had lost an obvious tactical advantage there, but they were probably playing the same game, waiting to see which side would draw the other into battle, all eyes on that ridge where the commanders knew that the key to any victory must lie.

  Flavius felt for his gladius and then shifted the shoulder belt that held the additional sword he was carrying on his back, its long blade sheathed and the hilt concealed beneath a woollen cover. He took a water skin from one of the Alans who were trudging to and from the river to keep the men replenished. Sangibanus, their leader, was skulking somewhere behind, miffed at not being invited to join the council of war; but he was the least of Aetius’ worries, the Alans in their present state of fitness posing no threat to world order after the battle and serving a useful purpose today as water-carriers. Aetius came up to him, took a swig from the proffered skin and then stared at the ridge himself, his eyes narrowed. ‘Walk with me, Flavius.’ They made their way out of the flattened patch that served as headquarters and twenty paces or so into the wheat in front of the Roman lines, out of earshot. Aetius turned to him, speaking quietly. ‘You still feel certain that Attila will break? It has been eight hours since dawn.’

  Flavius nodded. ‘Attila is a cunning tactician, but he is not a patient man. He will order his troops to the assault before you do, magister militum.’

  Aetius took another swig, wiped his mouth and handed the skin back to Flavius. ‘All right. We shall continue to wait for the signal from the scouts. We can hold out for another day if need be.’

  ‘Attila will not wait that long. He has no stockpiles of food as we do. To delay for another day he would have to send men out foraging, weakening his force and making him more vulnerable. He has no choice but to attack today.’

  Aetius nodded and went back to confer with his two comitatenses commanders, Aspar and Anagastus. The disposition of their forces was based on intelligence received earlier from scouts about the spread of the enemy below the other side of the ridge and the likely order of battle. When the time came they would lead their two armies up the northern flank of the slope to confront the Ostrogoths under Valamer, as well as Attila’s Huns in the centre, while to the east the Visigoths were ranged against the Gepids under Ardaric. Flavius recalled Aetius’ negotiations the day before with Theodoric and Thorismud to ensure that the two Goth armies did not meet in battle. It was wisdom that might have escaped a lesser commander than Aetius, one without his political nous and good judgement born of his own Goth background; he knew what made his people tick. Modern generalship, Flavius had realized, was a far more complex business than it had been at the time of the Caesars, when there had been a rigid chain of command and the legions were rarely allied in battle with a force as powerful as themselves, particularly one that had been their sworn enemy only a few weeks before.

  The Visigoth king and his sons were not with Aetius, but were in their own separate headquarters with their chieftains half a mile to the south. That too had been a careful strategy on the part of Aetius, underlining a promise he had given to Theodoric that he would be an equal ally in the field, not a subordinate. By keeping the Visigoth commanders away from his comitatenses staff he had also avoided flare-ups that could easily have arisen between former enemies and destroyed in an instant their chances of success in the coming battle. Aetius was playing a balancing act on many levels, yet even so in this waiting game it could only be a matter of time before the Visigoths questioned his strategy, potentially launching an independent attack of their own and disastrously weakening his plan. Flavius could guess what was running through Aetius’ mind, why he had taken him aside and questioned him again about Attila. The sooner the Huns attacked now, the better.

  He looked at the expanse of wheat on either side, a wavering sea of gold that held more than fifty thousand men poised for battle, the largest army ever fielded by Rome in the western empire. For a brief moment he felt overwhelmed, as if the crucible of battle were in his hands alone. Aetius had made him his special adviser because of his first-hand knowledge of Attila, and had appointed Macrobius and the rest of the numerus as his personal bodyguards. It was a huge honour, but also a daunting responsibility. What if he had been wrong? It was he who had advised Aetius not to make a pre-emptive assault but to wait until the Huns themselves were charging, to meet them head to head on the ridge, to fight a bloody battle of attrition and hope to win the day there; a pre-emptive charge might find Attila’s bowmen ranged below ready to pour a deadly storm of arrows into the Romans and Visigoths and force them back over the ridge, weakening them and making them less able to resist the Hun assault that would inevitably follow. It was a tactic that Flavius had seen Attila deploy in Parthia three years before, goading the enemy into an assault over a desert ridge and meeting them with a fixed line of Hun archers.

  Flavius remembered the great sword, and holding it for the first time with Arturus in the strongroom of Attila’s palace. If he were right today, the legacy of that extraordinary adventure might not only be the absence from Attila’s hands of that sword, that potent symbol of Hun kingship, but also what Flavius had learned riding alongside him in the mock battle in the Hun stronghold, absorbing knowledge of the great warrior’s strengths and weaknesses that could now be brought to bear against him this day on the Catalaunian Plains where the fate of the western world would soon be decided.

  Along the line to the right he saw his cousin Quintus Aetius, shouting orders at the mixed numerus of Visigoth and Roman troops that he had honed into one of the finest shock formations in the army over the past months. Quintus was muscular and bronzed, a thick scar running through his stubble and down his neck, a far cry from the inconsolable boy Flavius had seen leaving the schola after he had accidentally killed his friend Marcus Cato two years ago. The others of that class were here too, those who had survived this long: one on Aetius’ staff, two among the fabri tribunes who were overseeing camp fortification behind the lines, the rest leading cavalry and infantry numeri up the slopes. Flavius saw Macrobius watching Quintus too, and they exchanged a smile. For all the bravado and toughness, they both knew that Marcus Cato was with Quintus today, that with every step he took up the slope now his ears would be ringing with those words that Macrobius had bellowed at him beside the bloo
dy corpse in the palaestra, that he owed it to his friend to stand up to what he had done like a man and carry the honour of Rome forward.

  Flavius squinted up at the sky. The sun was lost in the haze, but the humidity was rising, and he felt a trickle of sweat down his cheek. He looked at the ridge again. Suddenly he saw something, a man in the far distance running through the wheat towards them, cutting a trail from the ridge down the slope. Another one followed, and further along he saw two more raise themselves out of concealment and wave their flags. The scouts were all supposed to remain on the ridge after the assault began to signal any changes in the enemy movement, but he did not blame the two who were fleeing, seeking relative safety in their own lines rather than certain death between the two opposing armies.

  Aetius and the two generals quickly stood up, helmets on, and Flavius did the same. All along the line a huge mass of men had risen, spears and sword flashing, the comitatenses cavalry saddled up and mounted, the horses snorting and stomping. The head of the monastery at Chalôns who had been waiting with vestments and holy water for this moment tried to anoint Aetius, but he pushed him aside; this was no time for God. He stormed out ahead of the line, and then turned round. ‘Gird for battle,’ he bellowed, and then began charging up the ridge, sword in hand. Flavius drew his gladius and glanced at Macrobius. ‘Are you ready, centurion?’ He turned to the others of the numerus. ‘Apsachos? Maximus? Cato? All of you men? Are you ready?’

  They clashed their swords together. ‘Ave, tribune.’

  Flavius pointed his sword after Aetius. ‘Then to war.’

  At first the army surged forward with no certainty that the enemy was doing the same, their view of the Hun lines completely obscured by the ridge and with only the signals of the scouts to go on. Then one of the men who had come racing down from the ridge tore past Aetius, shouting ‘The Huns are coming, the Huns are coming!’ Aspar caught hold of him, dragging him stumbling and panting back up the slope as he questioned him, and then let him go. ‘Attila comes in a line up the slope just as we are, his infantry first,’ he shouted to Aetius. ‘You were right.’