Death of an Empire (20 page)

Now, the newly anointed king took Aetius’s place overlooking his father’s grave. In the crook of each arm, he bore a naked sword.

The first weapon was a plain thing, a steel blade that seemed to ripple in the noon sun. The pommel was undecorated, except for a binding of sharkskin designed to prevent a warrior’s hands from slipping on blood. Theodoric had carried this superb weapon into battle, but many men who were seduced by surface values would have rejected its utilitarian beauty.

‘My father needs no pretty words to praise either his courage or his loyalty,’ Thorismund began with a soldier’s economy. ‘He understood that Attila and his barbarians posed the single greatest threat to his throne, so he served the Roman Empire because he understood the need for combined action by good and reliable allies.’

A rumble of agreement followed this brief beginning of a speech that Myrddion sensed would carry more of a threat to Aetius than a simple paean of praise to his father’s might.

Thorismund raised the second sword, gripping it by the centre of the blade, careless of the risk of cut fingers. This sword was ceremonial and beautiful with cut gems, freshwater pearls and chasing in orange gold. The blade was workmanlike but heavily decorated with a pattern of hunting beasts. Myrddion doubted that it was good for anything much but display.

‘This blade is the sign of my father’s kingship, inherited from his father and his grandfather as tangible proof of his right to rule. Let it go into my father’s grave so that the gods will recognise it when he joins them at the feastings of heaven.’

Respectfully, one of the guards took the ceremonial sword, jumped into the grave pit, and laid the weapon along Theodoric’s left side.

‘I will win a sword of my own so that my father will know that I honour his shade, and will find my own renown.’

Aetius watched Thorismund under lowered, shaggy brows as the Visigoth warriors roared their approval.

‘But this blade was my father’s pride, regardless of its lack of gems or its ordinary appearance,’ Thorismund cried, raising the first weapon so that it flamed briefly in the noonday light. ‘Sky Weaver is its name, and its blade will cleave even the invisible air. With this weapon, my father won and held an empire to rival the size and strength of Rome itself.’

Now the Visigoths howled their approval and Myrddion sensed a deep, ancient enmity towards all things Roman that still survived beneath the treaties and the polite compliments of the allies.

‘This blade reminds us of Theodoric’s commitment to the Goths, to his ancestors and to the ascendancy of our people. His battle sword represents what our king stood for, a strong homeland free from the demands of strangers as overlords, while still honouring the treaties that give us security and power. This
weapon must go into the ground with him, but I will make another so that the might of no other peoples will ever enslave us or demand allegiance from us, without honour or deference. Hail, Theodoric of the Visigoths.’

This time, as the weapon was placed in Theodoric’s sword hand, the gathered Visigoths did not cry out their approval. Something deeper and more primal stiffened their mouths and squared their shoulders. Aetius frowned, and Myrddion saw one of the general’s hands clench briefly.

Thorismund steps on dangerous ground, but so does Aetius, Myrddion thought. But is Thorismund another Theodoric, to avoid the mantraps that the Roman general will lay for him?

As golden ornaments and wooden chests of precious objects joined Theodoric in his last sleep, the crowd stirred like the fields of grass by the riverbank. Imperceptibly, the mood had changed, and Aetius must have felt the chill memory of old, broken treaties on both sides. Then, as the first clods of earth began to fill both grave pits, the general gathered his toga around his body and bowed to Thorismund before leaving the field.

Myrddion watched the Roman contingent depart and was surprised to see several heavily cloaked women being carried back to the Roman camp on litters. A flash of red curls was visible under one closed hood, and when the woman turned her head back towards the graves, a pair of brilliant eyes sought him out.

The glance, so swift and intense, touched Myrddion viscerally so that, for a moment, the sun ceased to shine and the breeze to blow, although he could still feel their touch on his face. That fleeting, shared intimacy of eyes stirred the young healer’s romanticism more than a sexual touch or a lewd thought. The meaning of her silent communication was hidden from him, but Myrddion had recognised Flavia by her mismatched eyes and by his body’s immediate response to her presence. ‘Is this love?’ he
muttered to himself, then was grateful that no one had heard his foolishness.

Back at the field hospital, there was work to be done, although four days had elapsed since the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain. Many patients had died, for the conflict was bloodier than anything Myrddion had ever experienced or imagined. Even the dying had hacked at each other, using teeth and nails when they had no other weapons, and the sheer scale of the hatred exposed by the battlefield had left wounds that laid bare the human body in ways that Myrddion had never seen before. Grimly, he acknowledged that he had learned more of the secrets of the flesh on that red day, and in the days that followed, than he had discovered in all his years of apprenticeship. He had much to think about.

Merovech had died within half a day of his wounding. Myrddion had been told that the end was quiet and painless, as the king of the Salian Franks slowly sank into a deep sleep from which he didn’t awaken. Childeric had covered his reddened eyes as he reported his father’s death to Aetius, and Myrddion had experienced the familiar bitterness of the tradesman who cannot master his tools.

‘What will King Childeric decide now that Merovech has gone to his ancestors?’ Myrddion asked Captus in a bleak voice. ‘And what will Aetius do now that one of his most loyal and enthusiastic allies is dead? King Childeric is a man with a cold, measured mind. He’ll not bow the knee as Merovech did. Don’t look at me like that, Captus! Merovech was no one’s pet hound, and never Aetius’s. But he was raised in Rome as a hostage to ensure Clodio’s compliance. Your master had a bond with Rome, but he took care to ensure that his son had none.’

Captus’s affronted face slowly relaxed. ‘How you’ve come to know and understand the tangled treaties of the great ones is a
mystery to me, healer, but you are right. Merovech made sure that Childeric owed no one. Nor in death will my master be a vassal of Rome. I’ll wager my new king will take Merovech home, regardless of what Aetius thinks, just as soon as Attila is cleansed from our lands. No Roman praise will send Merovech to his gods.’

‘Such hatred, Captus! Yet you explained clearly why Aetius was the sole leader of this campaign. The twisted, complicated dealings between you Franks and your masters are near as convoluted as are ours in Cymru.’ Myrddion’s face puckered swiftly into a smile, but he felt no humour. This battle had been too huge and too costly to spark even a trace of amusement or triumph, for man-gods had perished. As always, only the clever and the cold in spirit had lived to kill again.

‘Rome is done and our time is coming. You made a promise to Merovech, and I heard your prophecy with my own ears. My king died convinced that even the ultimate sacrifice was as nothing to the ascendancy of the Franks. When Aetius is dust, Childeric will rule this blood-soaked land and this battle will become the stuff of legend. I have lived to see a great change, healer, so what do we need of Roman pomp and ceremony? Childeric will bury his father, and my lord, in our way and on our soil.’

On the day after the battle, Aetius had summoned the allied kings together, and Myrddion had chosen to attend, hovering on the fringes of the crowd. Bowed with grief but cold at heart, Childeric and Thorismund had arrived to take the places of their fathers at the head of their armies. With the irony of warfare, Sangiban had survived almost without a scratch. After a day of licking their respective wounds, the two armies sat poised, ready to recommence hostilities.

‘I have received word from a Gepid warrior concerning a crisis in Attila’s camp. Because any further battle weakens us all, you must contribute to my decision. But first, bring in the traitor.’
These last words were spat out, underlining Aetius’s disgust for turncoats from whatever side they came.

The Gepid warrior was dragged to the fireside in chains, although he showed a remarkable lack of humility, considering he had deserted his master’s liege lord.

‘Why are you here, traitor, when your king still serves his master loyally?’

‘Not for much longer, Flavius Aetius,
dux et patricius, magister militum
of Gaul. I am here on the express orders of my lord, Ardaric. My king begs for safe passage through your lands so that we may return to our home. My task is to offer you intelligence that you may use as you choose.’

‘Why doesn’t King Ardaric come to me like a man, if he is so desirous of changing sides?’ Aetius’s voice was contemptuous, but the Gepid warrior stood up straight and unyielding. His blue eyes became two chips of glacial ice as he scornfully swept his eyes over the short stature of the Roman general.

‘I expected better of the
magister militum
, who should have some understanding of the strategic realities under which we live. My lord Ardaric rules a land that has been under the control of the Hun army for years. We struggle to retain Gepidae honour on every day of our captivity. My king has acted in accordance with his duty to his subjects when he sends me to you as his envoy. He does not choose to ally himself with you, for to do so would be to break his oaths to Attila. But he does not wish to have his warriors slain in a fruitless struggle against an enemy who is our brother in race and history. You speak with contempt, Roman, but the other kings here understand the realities of Gepidae life.’

Thorismund nodded, a trifle too quickly to have really considered the Gepid’s argument, but Childeric, Sangiban and several lordlings inclined their heads slowly in agreement, for it is beholden on a king to keep his people alive as best he can.

‘Tell the people of Tournai, Cambrai, Worms, Mainz and Amiens that Attila will understand if a king chooses to disobey him. I can hear them laughing beyond the shadows.’ The Gepid warrior raised his manacled hands high. ‘I am Erikk Horsebreaker, lord of many acres, not some slave to be treated like a starving dog stealing food from your fireside. Hear my words and decide what they are worth. But you harm your honour, Flavius Aetius, when you treat me like a cur.’

‘Release him,’ Aetius snapped, his face drawn into a tight mask. Sensitive to the mood of his allies, he could not ignore the sympathy for the Gepid warrior that existed at the allied fireplace, but he hated to be countermanded even if he was forced to give the orders himself. If the Gepidae tribes came within his sphere of influence, and he could harm them without personal damage to himself, then Ardaric would be reminded why the Romans had ruled the world.

‘We feared defeat before the battle even commenced. Attila had ordered his diviners to sacrifice a sheep so that its entrails could be read. When this task was undertaken, Attila tried to hide the results, but the rumours soon leaked out that the portents were bad – and you know how rumours spread.’ Erikk shrugged in a wholly foreign manner, while Aetius and the other kings waited impatiently for the diviner’s prophecy to be revealed.

‘The Huns were promised a disaster and Attila was urged to change the site of the engagement, or pull out completely and attack Châlons instead. No one wanted to fight a pitched battle on that cursed ridge. Only one detail of the prophecy gave hope to the Hungvari, a prediction that one of the great leaders of the allies would die in the conflict to come. Attila sent his men to fight in the full knowledge that they were doomed, hoping that
you
, Flavius Aetius, would be the one to perish on the Catalaunian Plain.’

As Aetius raised his eyebrows, Thorismund uttered an
exclamation that was partly a cry of pain and partly a snarl of fury at the capriciousness of the gods of war. Erikk Horsebreaker turned to address him.

‘Yes, we were aware that King Theodoric of the Visigoths was dead, for my king and I both saw him perish. He fought to his last breath but was accidentally slain by his own friends.’

‘Tell me!’ Thorismund roared.

‘After King Merovech defeated Ardaric during the night before the main battle, we were already a spent force. King Merovech and his valiant son, Childeric, were responsible for the loss of at least five thousand of our warriors. Yes, lord kings, five thousand Gepid warriors perished at the bidding of the Hun bastard. We who remained were used to stiffen the Germanic king Walimir’s troops, but we were already in retreat when Theodoric fell. I had a clear view from a tumulus of stone behind Attila’s front line. King Thorismund, your noble father was at the head of the charge against King Walimir, who was attempting to remove his forces from the field. A spent javelin struck King Theodoric and both horse and rider fell. I saw Theodoric rise to his feet just as his own Visigoths rode him down, for they were unable to halt the charge. Your father raised his sword and swung it at the sun, as if to call his cavalry onward, even if it meant his own end. Then he fell! Aye, your father had a good death and I would wish for the same.’

‘It may be useful to know how our noble ally died,’ Aetius interrupted, ‘but I can’t see that it has any bearing on Attila’s plans.’

Aha! Myrddion thought. The general’s diplomacy is slipping badly. Perhaps the old fox is afraid.

Erikk Horsebreaker bowed ironically and far too deeply for courtesy, causing Aetius’s telltale brows to twist and writhe with a life of their own.

‘When night came, we were attacked by a small contingent of Visigoth cavalry. I believe you were at their head, King Thorismund.
You were forced to fight yourself free from the encounter with great loss of life, but Attila was incensed that his base camp should be so easily breached. The Dread of the World, as he calls himself, expected a further night attack and further retribution, so his warriors were forced to remain awake throughout the long hours until morning. Attila is a little mad!