Attila:The Scourge of God

TWENTY-THREE

Forced to think the unthinkable, Gaius acknowledged to himself that the impending crisis — simultaneous risings by the Burgundians, the Bagaudae, and the Visigoths — was one of the most serious Rome had ever faced. Conceivably, it might deal the Western Empire — already terribly weakened by the loss of Africa — a blow from which it could not recover. Always in the past, the times had thrown up a man of sufficient stature to meet the challenge of external danger: a Scipio to match Hannibal, a Marcus Aurelius to hold the line against the Quadi along the Rhenus and Danubius, an Aurelian to wipe out the Alamanni sweeping into Italia, a Boniface to crush the Moors in Africa. But now, with Boniface gone, who was there in the West capable of dealing with the present danger? Reluctantly, Gaius was forced to face the unpalatable truth that the answer was the man who had first betrayed then destroyed Boniface: Flavius Aetius. Well, so be it. A great leader need not necessarily be a good man, more’s the pity. After all, Julius Caesar’s path to greatness had been stained by treachery, bloodshed, and deceit.

With the fate of the West hanging in the balance, his choice of route to Spolicinum was of crucial importance. He had two options. The first was to head south-west down the Rhenus valley to Basilia from his present position south of Argentoratum, then follow the Rhenus which now turned sharply east, to the southern shore of Lacus Brigantinus on which the fort was situated.

The advantage of this route was that it was easy: it followed top-grade military roads built when the Rhenish salient was of vital strategic importance. That frontier might now be abandoned, but roads of such quality would still be serviceable. There were, however, two disadvantages. The route, at least as far as Basilia, lay in the broad fertile valley of the upper Rhenus, thickly studded with Burgundian settlements. With the rising imminent, anyone suspected of being Roman would be at risk. (Even before its proclamation, the ordinary tribespeople seemed to have been aware that something was brewing, hence the anti-Roman feeling Gaius had sensed.) The other disadvantage was the route’s length: forming two sides of a triangle, it must measure at least two hundred miles, an impossible distance for someone of Gaius’ years to cover on foot in four days.

The second option was to cut south-east across country to Lacus Brigantinus in a straight line. By following this third side of the triangle, the distance would be almost halved, representing an average daily stint of about thirty miles — feasible although demanding, especially for an old man. This route, apart from being much shorter, had the great advantage that it was known to Gaius — although from thirty-three years previously. To counter the lightning advance of Alaric’s Goth host into Raetia, Stilicho had summoned Roman troops from wherever they were stationed in the West, even including the Twentieth Legion in Britain. Gaius’ unit, then stationed on the Rhenus, had made a forced march to the threatened province, over the same route that he now intended to take. The terrain was punishing, a densely wooded mountain-chain which the Germans called the Schwarzwald.¹ The way was navigable, using certain mountain peaks as landmarks, and threading certain valleys; Gaius just hoped he could remember them. The area was however sparsely inhabited, so security shouldn’t be a major problem. With a touch of gallows humour, Gaius reviewed his plan in military fashion.

1. Objective

The Roman fort of Spolicinum on Lacus Brigantinus.

2. Aim

To warn (within four days) Spolicinum’s garrison about the risings of the Burgundians et alii.

3. Means

i Manpower: one retired general, reasonably fit but aged.

ii Rations: bread, salt beef, and beer — enough to last several days. (Clothilde has been generous with her provisioning.)

iii Weapons: lacking. (Except in areas troubled by Bagaudae, Roman civilians are forbidden by law to carry them.)

iv Base and communications: non-existent.

v Route: south-east across the Schwarzwald from the Rhenus to Lacus Brigantinus. Distance approximately 100 miles.

Gaius woke in the grey dawn, chilled and stiff after his second night in the watchtower. Feeling every one of his seventy-seven years, he rose gingerly from the bed he’d made from last autumn’s fallen leaves, and flexed the stiffness from his joints. What was it Marcus Aurelius (one of Gaius’ heroes) had said about getting up at dawn? ‘When loth to rise, bear this thought in mind: I am rising for a man’s work.’ Very appropriate in the present circumstances, Gaius thought wryly. Shivering beneath his cloak, he ate some of the food Clothilde had provided, washing it down with beer from a leather flagon. A robin whirred down from a gap in the roof, and perched on a fallen beam beside him. Its feathers fluffed up against the cold so that it resembled a tiny red and brown ball, it hopped closer, regarding Gaius hopefully with a bold, bright eye. Smiling, he tossed it some crumbs, and they partook of breakfast together.

Somewhat cheered by the visit of his feathered guest, which — had he still really believed in the old gods — might have seemed a good omen, Gaius left the watchtower and took stock of the terrain. To the west, in Gaul, rolled the long line of the Vosegus Mountains, their crests glowing in the sun’s early rays. Eastwards, across the Rhenus in Germania, loomed the forbidding mass of the Schwarzwald, covered in dark firs, except where isolated peaks broke through the dense pelt of vegetation. Spring had come late that year, and patches of snow speckled the high summits. At the foot of the bluff on which he stood flowed the Rhenus, its broad valley, once chequered by vineyards and fertile farms, now reverting to scrub, the sites of villas marked by roofless ruins and weed-choked fields. In their place had sprung up isolated hamlets, each a score or so of thatched huts encircled by a palisade and surrounded by an untidy jumble of arable plots and pasture.

‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ or, more appropriately, ‘gloria Romae,’ thought Gaius sadly, as he made his way down to the river. For a few nummi, he was able to persuade an early-rising farmer to row him across the river, and was pleased that neither his appearance nor his German aroused any curiosity. In a few hours, heading south-eastwards by the sun, he had crossed the flat valley-bottom and reached the foothills of the Schwarzwald.

He paused to rehearse the key features of his route, aware that any miscalculation could be disastrous. He tried to create in his mind a map of the Schwarzwald: a great triangular massif, narrow at the top or northern end, wide at the base demarcated by the Rhenus where the river turned eastwards, and bisected by a chain of mountains running north to south. He combed his memory for the landmarks he must locate to have any hope of tracing his route. Separating the foothills from the massif proper there was, he seemed to remember, a stream called the Gutach, after crossing which he must surmount the steep western flanks of the chain, where it would be fatally easy to become lost in the tangle of valleys that seamed the slopes. Once the height of land was reached, the worst would be over. An ancient trackway, the Hohenweg, followed the ridge, whose main summits were the Kandel and the Feldberg, to a deep ravine called the Hollenthal, running west to east and leading to the valley of the River Alb which debouched into the Rhenus upstream of Lacus Brigantinus.

Reassured at finding the Gutach more or less where he remembered it, Gaius forded the stream at a point where the channel braided. Then, in order to avoid those treacherous ravines, he struck up one of the lateral spurs that ran down from the mountain-chain like ribs projecting from a backbone. Tall, dense-packed, rising from a mossy carpet studded with ferns and berry-bearing plants, the pines closed round Gaius, enshrouding him in a twilight world suffused with a not unpleasant smell of resin and damp mould.

Gradually the slope steepened, at times becoming precipitous; on these pitches Gaius could make progress only by gripping branches and hauling himself bodily upwards. His breath became a series of tortured gasps, his leg-muscles, unaccustomed to this sort of punishment, seemed on fire with pain. More and more frequently he was forced to halt and rest his trembling limbs, while he sucked air into burning lungs. Navigation, by the angle of the slope and occasional glimpses of the sun, was virtually reduced to guesswork. Not until he had climbed above the treeline and reached the summit chain, a matter of ascending some four thousand feet, would he be able to check his bearings by getting a sighting on one of the landmark peaks.

Darkness found him still on the westward-facing slopes. To be benighted in the forest at high altitude was not good. Cold and attack by wild animals presented real risks. However, most large animals — bear, bison, and wild boar — had been hunted almost to extinction by gangs supplying animals for the Roman Games, and had only recently begun to recover. Lynx and wildcat were less rare, and capable of inflicting serious damage, but were shy, and dangerous only when threatened. Which left wolves. Normally, they gave man a wide berth, but they might attack if prompted by hunger.

Making separate piles of dry wood, ranging from tiny twigs to fallen limbs, Gaius scraped some punk from a hollow log and ignited it with his strike-light flint and steel. Blowing steadily on the smouldering tinder until it burst into flame, the old soldier fed it from the fuel he had prepared, until he had a vigorous blaze going. Gratefully, he huddled close to its cheering warmth.

Ribs showing through its matted coat, the old wolf that had been trailing Gaius, halted when it saw the fire flare up. Fires meant danger, searing pain, light that dazzled and confused. He lay down on his belly, eyes fixed on the figure crouching with hands extended towards the flames. He was content to wait, knowing from experience that, come the dawn, the man would kill the fire and begin to move again.

The wolf had seen the passing of twelve winters, none more bitter than the last. He was a huge animal and in his prime had been magnificent, with a glossy pelt of thick grey fur, shading from near-black to whitish on the belly. A successful pack leader for many years, he had fathered many strong cubs, all from the same dam. Then, four winters previously, his life had changed traumatically. His mate had fallen to a hunter’s spear; he pined for her, his leadership had lost its edge and he had been ousted by a younger rival. Forced to hunt alone, he had subsisted well enough until last winter when the red deer and the roe, his staple prey, had become scarce because, unable to dig through the crust of hard-frozen snow to browse on the underlying vegetation, many had died or migrated. He had been reduced to hunting small rodents. Once, in desperation, he had tried to steal the bait from a hunter’s trap; hunger had made him careless, and he set off the deadfall, which collapsed, maiming a forepaw. Now, lame and starving, the wolf had suppressed his instinctive fear of man and, in order to survive, was prepared to hunt and kill this member of their kind. The man, he sensed, was old and weak. He should be easy prey.

Gaius slept in brief snatches throughout the long, long night, tending the fire in the intervals between. As the first grey light filtered through the branches, he kicked out the embers and continued on his way. Gradually, he became aware of a faint booming sound. The noise grew louder, the earth began to tremble, and suddenly, entering a glade, he found himself confronting a mighty waterfall crashing and foaming down hundreds of feet in seven wild leaps from platforms of granite. The Falls of Triberg, he remembered, with a lifting of the spirit; he was now not far below the height of land. He pressed on; soon the trees thinned out, giving place to grassy slopes with here and there an isolated stand of mountain pine, and at last he stood on the summit ridge.

The weather was crisp and clear, so that even distant tops — the Herzogenhorn, the Belchen, the Kandel — stood out sharp-etched against the sky. Anxiously, he scanned the horizon to the southeast, and there it was, his main landmark: round-topped and bare, towering above the other peaks: the Feldberg. Spent but enormously relieved, the old general sank down and unbuckled his satchel. The worst was behind him. With the going now comparatively level, he should tonight reach the Hollenthal below the Feldberg; and tomorrow should see him through that narrow valley to the Alb, and then the Rhenus. The back of the journey would then be broken, and he could expect to reach Spolicinum on the fourth day as planned.

Having breakfasted, Gaius set out feeling much refreshed, and still uplifted in spirit; provided the weather held, allowing him to keep the Feldberg and the Kandel in view, navigation should no longer be a problem. Especially as there was now a clear-marked ridgeway track to follow, the Hohenweg. In contrast to the previous day, the going on the tops was superb, being firm gravel or springy turf. From the Kandel, fantastic views unrolled around him: the Vosegus and Mons Jura ranges and the distant rampart of the Alpes, while below, set off by the forest’s sombre green, tarns gleamed like turquoises. Then, at some point in the afternoon, his soldier’s instinct told him he was being followed. Turning, he saw some fifty paces behind him a huge wolf, long of leg and muzzle, gaunt to the point of emaciation, its fur dull and staring, lips drawn back in a snarl baring rows of vicious fangs.

Gaius experienced a moment of gut-churning fear. Clearly, the wolf had only one purpose in its mind, and he was in the poorest position imaginable to resist attack. He was remote from habitation; he had no weapon, not even a stick. Above all, he was old, lacking the strength to fend off an attack — something the wolf would have sensed instinctively, reinforcing its determination and aggression. Yet there had to be something he could do; there always was, even in the most desperate situation — as he had learnt during years of hard campaigning.

Then it dawned on Gaius that he was not, after all, entirely without means of defence; these grassy tops, studded with granite outcrops, were littered with stones of every shape and size. Even the heaviest stone, with only the power of an arm behind it, wouldn’t suffice to counter an attack by a savage wolf, but arm-power could be assisted. Propelled by a sling, a tiny pebble acquired enough force to kill. Think man, think. He had it! Dumping the contents of his satchel on the ground, Gaius hastily refilled it with stones, then hefted it by the carrying-strap, testing its weight and swing. Now he had a truly formidable weapon, the equivalent of the gladiator’s ball-and-chain.

The wolf attacked suddenly, coming at Gaius in a weaving rush. He swung the weighted satchel, missed, tried to dodge but felt the slashing teeth rake his thigh. Had its damaged foreleg not slowed the wolf’s impetus, it would have inflicted serious injury instead of merely a nasty gash. Twice more it charged, coming in from the side, gaining in confidence as its teeth ripped the man’s flesh. Both times Gaius’ improvised weapon missed its target, mainly because of the difficulty in co-ordinating timing and balance to deliver an effective sideways blow.

Nevertheless, he knew that if he could hold on, and shut his mind to the pain and loss of blood, his chance would come. So far, the wolf had been probing for weaknesses, testing his reactions. Sooner rather than later, in order to finish the contest, it must launch a frontal attack. Gaius now had the feel of his weapon; could he but land a solid blow, the odds might tilt in his favour.

On its fourth attack, the wolf came in for the kill, charging straight at Gaius and, when a few paces distant, springing for the throat. But Gaius was prepared. Already whirling the satchel round his head to build up impetus, he timed his blow sweetly. As the huge animal hurtled through the air towards him, the bag, with the full impact of its massive weight, slammed into the creature’s head with a meaty crunch. The animal collapsed on the ground, its head and neck horribly missapen. Gaius swung the satchel in a second tremendous blow, and crushed the beast’s skull like a stove-in barrel. A shudder rippled through the wolf’s body, then it lay still.

Reaction hit Gaius. He swayed, as blackness seemed to gather before his eyes. But he must not faint, he told himself; he must find the will-power and the strength to keep going and complete his mission. His wounds were bleeding copiously, so he tore strips from his tunic to make bandages, and managed to staunch the worst of the bleeding. Emptying the stones from his satchel, he replaced them with the provisions scattered on the ground. Though his stomach rose against it, he made himself eat in order to keep his strength up. Then, slowly and painfully, he resumed his journey, forcing himself gradually to increase his pace, in an effort not to lose time.

He reached the Hollenthal just as the sun was setting, and in the semi-darkness managed to clamber down the ravine’s steep and craggy nearer wall to its floor, aware that, in his weakened state, a night spent on the exposed tops might see him perish from the cold. Too tired to gather fuel for a fire, he passed the hours of darkness in a fitful doze, shivering beneath his cloak.

Next morning, he pressed on eastwards through the Hollenthal. The name, which meant Valley of Hell, was apt, he thought, oppressed by the savage chaos of rocky turrets that loomed on either side. The ravine narrowed, became wilder, the fantastic spires and crags of its containing walls seeming to defy every law of order and possibility. Then, with a welcome though almost shocking suddenness, the grim scene changed to one of beauty. The valley broadened, the grisly cliffs fell back, replaced by gentle slopes of green studded with groves of beech and starred by flowers, while the air was filled with birdsong and the chirring of grasshoppers. This, Gaius recalled, was called the Himmelreich, the Kingdom of Heaven.

The rest of that day passed in a dreamlike blur. He seemed to have crossed a threshold, beyond which pain and tiredness were scarcely felt. After skirting a marshy tract, the Todtmoos, or Dead Man’s Swamp, he joined the Albthal, a desolate valley lined with firs and beech growing between grey outcrops of granite. At times the Alb was a gently rippling stream, at others, where the valley twisted and steepened, a mountain torrent swirling round bends and crashing against rocks in cascades of spray. In these stretches, Gaius could proceed only with the utmost difficulty, clinging precariously to moss-grown crags and overhanging branches, as he worked his way along banks whose slopes at times approached the vertical. Then suddenly, far below him through a gap in the trees, he glimpsed a mighty river, slow-moving, majestic: the Rhenus! And those wooded slopes fringing the farther side were the Roman province of Maxima Sequanorum.

By now totally exhausted, Gaius staggered and stumbled the last few miles, reaching the Rhenus late in the afternoon. Shortly afterwards he was picked up by a state barge carrying timber and building stone, bound for Felix Arbor, a fortress on Lacus Brigantinus to the east of Spolicinum. At sunset, the barge put in at a landing-stage on the Roman side for the night, and the following morning rowed slowly upstream and entered the lake. Some hours later, Gaius was helped on to the pier serving Spolicinum, where some off-duty soldiers volunteered to take him to the commandant. He was delirious and very weak, but his mind cleared long enough for him to convey the news about the risings in Gaul.

As a personal favour, he asked that a messenger be sent to his son at the Villa Fortunata, and this was readily granted. Calling for a diptych, he scratched a brief letter to Titus, then tied the cords and gave it to the bearer. Gaius lingered for a few more hours, while the fort’s surgeon fought to save his life. But the old soldier’s heart had been overtaxed and he had lost too much blood. He died murmuring lines from Namatianus’ poem of farewell to Rome: ‘ “Te canimus semperque, sinent dum fata, canemus: hospes nemo potest immemor esse tui.”’²

¹ The Black Forest.

² ‘Thee we sing [O Rome], and shall ever sing, while the fates permit; no guest of thine can be forgetful of thee.’ This noble poem was penned in 410 — ironically, the very year in which, a few months later, Rome was taken and sacked by Alaric.