The Sword of Attila (28 page)

Flavius turned to Aetius. ‘Congratulations,
magister militum.
It is the greatest feat of arms of all time.'

Aetius' face was set like stone. ‘The battle is not over yet. The tide of war may still turn against us. I need you by my side, tribune, to tell me what Attila will do next.'

‘Ave, magister militum.'

As Flavius and Aetius stared out from the ridge an extraordinary scene met their eyes. The slope dropped down to a monotonous plain similar to the one they had just traversed, only here there was no river in the distance to break the view. The heat of the sun and of so many men and horses in such a confined space, breathing and sweating and bleeding, had created a haze that floated above the battlefield and obscured everything more than a few
stades
distant. But out of the haze some five hundred paces below the ridge loomed the leading edge of Attila's wagon laager, the wheels facing outwards and the sides of the wagons forming a nearly continuous screen of wood like the wall of a fort. From their vantage point on the ridge they could see down into the laager, but their view was blocked by a huge dust cloud that rose above; all that Flavius could see was an occasional flash of steel and a blur of hooves and legs, and he could hear whinnying and snorting above the noise that rose out of the laager like the roar of a crowd in a stadium. He turned to Aetius, raising his voice above the din. ‘I saw this in Parthia. Attila is stoking up his mounted bowmen, riding them round and round in a circle so that they are wound tight like a coil, ready to spring to the attack.'

Aetius turned to Aspar. ‘Tell the tribunes of the
sagittarii
to line up their men in close formation in two ranks for volley fire. They are not to shoot their arrows in a high arc to fall among the enemy, but must wait until they are at point-blank range, until they can see the whites of their horses' eyes. They must only shoot on my command.'

Aspar shouted the orders down the line. Flavius turned and saw the first men of the two
numeri
of
sagittarii,
each about five hundred strong, reach the crest and unsling their bows. They had been kept in reserve behind the main force, too valuable to expend in the initial assault, but now it was essential that they establish their position as fast as possible to take advantage of the high ground. More of them arrived, panting hard, their quivers full of arrows, the iron tips shining where they had been filed to extra sharpness the night before. Another sound came from the laager, a sound that Flavius had heard before, the eerie throat-singing that had filled the night air on the steppe-lands of the East three years earlier. It was the last sound the Hun horsemen on the plain of Parthia had made before charging, and he saw the first of them appearing now, bursting out of an opening in the laager and leading a stream of riders that spread out over the plain and began to thunder up the slope towards them.

Apsachos the Sarmatian turned to Macrobius. ‘Permission to join the
sagittarii,
centurion.'

‘Permission granted,' Macrobius growled, his eyes on the Huns. ‘Just save the last arrow for me in case you see me being captured.'

The ground began to shake as the Huns charged closer. Flavius glanced to either side along to the ridge. Far to the right he glimpsed Quintus, bloody but upright, the surviving men of his unit forming a defensive perimeter at the end of the ridge. There were still too few
sagittarii
in position, less than a hundred from each
numerus,
the rest still out of sight making their way up the slope from the west. But the weakness of the position in front of the first Hun charge could work in their favour. At their current speed of attack the Huns would wheel and shoot before the bulk of the men had taken up position, restricting the casualties to the men already on the ridge. Those who followed would have to keep their nerve, stepping over the bodies of their comrades and reforming the line, but they would be there in sufficient numbers. Flavius gripped his sword hilt tightly. The Huns were less than two hundred paces away now, near their favoured range for wheeling and presenting their bows.

He knew that Aetius would not give the order this time for the
sagittarii
to shoot, that those now in position would be sacrificed to ensure that maximum effect was achieved when the rest of the men had arrived. To shoot a depleted volley now would be to send the wrong message to the Huns, would make them redouble their efforts when they swung around for another charge, believing that the ridge was poorly defended and Aetius unprepared for an assault. To stand any chance of defeating such a formidable enemy, Aetius would have to ensure that he delivered the maximum possible blow when the line was at its greatest strength.

The Huns were within range now, swinging parallel to the ridge, the horses lunging forward and their archers turning and raising their bows. The nearest
sagittarii
tribune looked to Aetius, his face ashen and drawn, but Aetius was unmoved, standing his ground and staring impassively ahead. With a great shriek as the horses wheeled around the Hun archers released their arrows, the tips hurling through the air with a shrill whistling sound and bringing down the men on the ridge as if they were a slashed stand of wheat, every second or third man of the
sagittarii
falling dead or wounded. The tribune who had looked so desperate was sitting with an arrow through his upper thigh, the blood pulsing out from the artery in great jets until he sank slowly to the ground, and behind Flavius the
optio
Cato of his own
numerus
had dropped his sword and was struggling vainly with an arrow that had gone through his throat, gurgling and frothing blood and then falling back dead, his eyes wide open in disbelief.

The Huns had wheeled round close to the line of their wagons ready for another charge, the air in between a maelstrom of dust from the horses' hooves. Aetius turned to Flavius and gripped him by the shoulder. ‘You and Macrobius must take over the southern
sagittarii numerus.
Their centurion has also fallen. You must rally the men as they arrive and get them into position. With the heavy iron tips I ordered them to put on their arrows last night, their bows will give them an advantage of twenty paces in level flight over the Hun bows. Wait for my command.'

Macrobius was already among the men, bellowing orders to those who had newly arrived, and helping to pull aside the dead and the wounded to make space to reform the line. Within minutes there were two hundred, then three hundred men spaced along the ridge, protected at the far end by Quintus and his men, the archers matched by a similar number in the
numerus
on the other side. It was the critical mass needed to make volley fire effective, but even so it was going to be a close-run thing. The Huns were already pounding up the slope again, their horses slavering and wide-eyed and galloping under their own momentum, leaving the archers free to hold their bows ready to draw as they came within range. Macrobius stomped up and down the line, shouting orders. ‘Choose your man as they wheel around, and stay with him. When the order comes the first two men on the right of the line shoot at the first rider, and then on down the line in pairs as the Huns wheel round and come in range. Remember, they are moving targets, so aim just ahead of them. Wait for the command of Flavius Aetius.'

The ground thundered and vibrated as the first Huns began to wheel. Macrobius roared again: ‘Tense your bows.' Seconds passed, long seconds as more of the Huns wheeled round. ‘Let fly!' Aetius yelled. The first pair of
sagittarii
loosed their arrows point-blank at the leading rider, bringing him down tumbling over his horse, and in rapid succession the remainder of the
numerus
loosed as the Huns came in range. What had seemed an unstoppable charge became a scene of utter chaos, the first fallen horses having blocked the rest, and within moments dozens of horses and men lay piled in a heap on the slope, the riders behind them careering off in all directions in an attempt to avoid the carnage and then falling prey to arrows themselves. The
sagittarii
were now shooting at will, pouring a continuous stream of arrows into the Huns. Hundreds now lay dead and wounded, with the surviving horses that galloped back towards the laager mostly riderless. Flavius took a deep breath and looked back at Aetius. His plan had worked. Without a single casualty to the Romans during the second assault the Huns had been routed and slaughtered, the survivors forced back into a laager too ill-supplied to withstand a siege for long.

He made his way back along the ridge towards Aetius, pausing to kneel down over Cato, breaking and removing the arrow from his neck and closing his eyes. He felt nothing, no regret or grief, as if the passing in battle of a man he had known for twelve years was as inevitable as the cycle of the moon, and then he remembered Cato's little boy in Rome and wondered whether he would ever hear how his father had died: facing the enemy and laying down his life in the greatest contest Rome had ever fought in any of their lifetimes against a barbarian force.

He got up and went over to Aetius, and together they stared at the carnage of men and horses down the slope, watching as the
sagittarii
picked off the Hun wounded who were trying to hobble and drag themselves out of range. ‘Attila will be enraged, but he will know that he has lost any hope of tactical advantage,' Flavius said. ‘He can try a sortie again, but he knows it will have the same result. Eventually, they will be driven out by hunger and thirst. This part of the battle may be won, but the killing is not yet over.'

Aetius jerked his head to the south, where a slogging match was still going on between the main Visigoth force and the Gepids under Ardaric. ‘The
sagittarii
will remain here along with the rest of Aspar's
comitatenses
to keep Attila at bay. Anagastus can now move his
comitatenses
to reinforce Theodoric and Thorismud against the Gepids. That is, if Theodoric and his sons are still alive, and if they are willing to take a
comitatenses
army under their wing. With the battle now swung in our favour, the intentions and balance of power among our allies may have shifted, Flavius. What began as an alliance of necessity between Roman and Visigoth may now become a competition to fill a vacuum left in the northern empire as the spectre of Attila recedes. For a general, orchestrating the tactics of battle quickly shifts to the strategy of politics and power-play. You should count yourself lucky that you are still a tribune and can focus on the fighting. I must now play a different game.'

Another noise came up from the laager, a hollow, booming noise, echoing from the circle of wagons into the humid air above the ridge. The soldiers stopped what they were doing, the
sagittarii
who had been replenishing their quivers, and Macrobius and the others of the
numerus
who had been squatting around Cato's body, and stared at the extraordinary scene that was unfolding below. The dust from the riders had settled and the interior of the laager was now clearly visible, the survivors of the Hun army crouched and lying in disarray around the edge, their horses corralled around them. In the centre was a mound of saddles from the dead horses that rose to five times the height of a man or more, surrounded by piled-up planks and wheels from dismembered chariots. Standing above on a platform was a man, black-cloaked and black-armoured, his feet planted firmly apart, facing the ridge. Each time he bellowed he raised his arms and clenched his hands, as if his body were knotted in rage. Flavius stared, transfixed.
It was Attila.

‘What's he doing?' Aetius muttered.

‘He's built his own funeral pyre,' Flavius said. ‘He's telling us that we may have him caged, but he will not remain so for long. The Hun is a warrior of the steppes, of vast open spaces, not used to being cooped up in fortresses and cities. He is telling us that he would rather die by his own hand or die fighting than waste away in a siege.'

Macrobius came over and stood beside them. ‘He is like a lion brought low by hunting spears that paces back and forth in front of his den and dares not spring, but never ceases to terrify those around him by his roaring.'

Aetius narrowed his eyes. ‘As soon as the Visigoths and Askar's
comitatenses
have destroyed the Gepids and there is no longer any threat of counter-attack from the flanks, I will order the
sagittarii
down the slope to a position where they can rain down arrows into the laager. The
comitatenses
cavalry will draw up on the ridge, ready to counter any last-ditch Hun foray. I am not in the business of allowing Attila his wishes, but I will either see him and his army destroyed this day or I will allow him to leave as a vanquished foe. My decision will rest on the Visigoths, on who survives among Theodoric and his sons and where their futures lie.'

Another sound reached them, this time from the muffled noise of the melee between the Visigoths and the Gepids to the south: the deep, resonating sound of a horn blasting, one long blow followed by a shorter one, as if abruptly cut off. Flavius felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, every muscle in his body tensing, an instinctive reaction from somewhere deep within his soul. He had heard that sound once before, when his grandfather Gaudentius had been cornered by wolves while they had been hunting in the forest, and he and his Goth cousins had ridden to the rescue. It was the war horn of the Gothic kings, blown only in times of greatest peril. He remembered Thorismud's question about his allegiance the night before in the mead hall. His Roman side told him that there was little he could do for Theodoric now, that his place was here beside Aetius, that the king would already be beyond help. But his Goth side told him that even if Theodoric had fallen it was his duty to join Thorismud and his brother and stake claim over the body, to fight to avenge those who had brought down the king. He knew that despite his bitter past enmity with Theodoric, Aetius must feel the same ancestral draw of the sound of the war horn, for he was even closer than Flavius to their shared Gothic ancestry, but that as general he must wrench himself away from instinct and remain rooted to this place, lord of the battlefield.