Attila:The Scourge of God

TWENTY-FOUR

‘Unconquered Eternal Rome, Salvation of the World’, ran the inscription on the coin that Aetius, awaiting the arrival of his officers at his headquarters in Provence, absently rolled between his fingers. The obverse showed Valentinian in armour dragging a barbarian by the hair, the reverse a winged figure representing Victory. (Officially it was an angel, but the symbolism was obvious.) Aetius smiled at the irony of the coin’s message. Did those idiots of procuratores who ran the mints at Rome, Mediolanum, and Ravenna, really think that such fatuousness fooled anyone?

The officers began to file into the command tent. When all were seated, Aetius took up his position beside a large campaign map of Gaul, supported on an easel facing his audience.

‘Serious news, gentlemen,’ he announced briskly, ‘just arrived by fast courier from Raetia. It seems that trouble’s breaking out in Gaul on three fronts. First, Aremorica.’ With a pointer he circumscribed a large area in north-west Gaul. ‘The Bagaudae have risen in revolt against the big landowners and the Roman authorities in general. Second, the Burgundian Settlement.’ The pointer indicated a strip of territory along the upper Rhenus. ‘The tribe’s broken its boundaries and is invading the Belgic provinces. Thirdly, our friends the Visigoths in Aquitania.’ The wand rapped south-west Gaul. ‘Up to their old tricks again; hoping to expand their territory eastwards. It seems they’re preparing to invest Gallia Narbonensis. Any questions, gentlemen, before I go on?’

‘How do ve know all sis?’ asked a German cavalry commander.

‘It’s thanks to General Rufinus, whom some of the older ones among you may remember. Apparently, he was able to spy on a convention of Burgundian leaders, and overheard their king telling them what I’ve told you. He then covered over a hundred miles on foot through rough country, to bring the news from Gaul to Spolicinum fort in Raetia. Got mauled by a wolf on the way, and died later from wounds and exhaustion. Rome owes that brave old man a debt, gentlemen. Thanks to him, we’ve learnt about the situation early enough to be able to take effective counter-measures.’

‘And those are, sir?’ This anxiously from a middle-aged protector, or senior officer.

‘I was coming to that. You’re probably thinking that, with just one field army to cope with three major insurrections simultaneously, we’d be hopelessly overstretched.’

‘Well, wouldn’t we?’ interrupted a tough-looking duke. ‘Putting it bluntly, sir, I don’t see how we can cope. If it was just the Bagaudae on their own we had to deal with, we could manage — they’re a rabble of slaves and peasants. But these wretched federates, the Burgundians and Visigoths, they’re a different matter. In my opinion, we’d be well advised to sue for peace and, for the time being, grant them the land they want.’

‘If you’d allow me to finish,’ Aetius protested mildly, ‘I was going to add that our field army won’t have to fight on its own. Reinforcements have been promised and should be arriving any day.’

‘Household troops from Italia, I suppose,’ sneered the duke. ‘Much use they’ll be. Parade soldiers who spend more time polishing their kit than campaigning.’

Aetius raised his hands in exasperation. ‘You’ve a short memory,’ he sighed. ‘Who was it helped me — twice — in the recent civil wars in Italia? The Huns, my friend, the Huns. That was in Rua’s time. Now, their new king, Attila, who’s an old and loyal friend, by the way, has sworn assistance. His word is even more to be trusted.’

A stir of interest swept round the tent. Faces which, following Aetius’ original announcement, had registered shocked concern now showed relief and eagerness.

‘Here, then, is what we do,’ continued Aetius. ‘Marcus, my old warhorse, remember how you held the Huns in check while I scouted Aspar’s lines?’

A grey-haired duke grinned in recollection. ‘Aspar son of Ardaburius — the Alan general who cramped our style in that Ioannes business? Hard to forget it, sir. Tremendous fellows in attack, your Huns. But nearly impossible to hold on a leash.’

‘Well, this time I’ve an easier job for you. The Visigoths, bless their hearts, have decided to oblige us by laying siege to Narbo Martius¹. But, as we know, like all barbarians they’re hopeless when it comes to siege operations. Shouldn’t be too difficult for you to keep them pinned down with Roman troops, until I can send a force of Huns?’

‘I’ll enjoy it, sir,’ declared Marcus, rubbing his hands. ‘A series of hit-and-run raids to harass them and disrupt their supplies, while they blunder about with siege contraptions which fall to bits or fail to work. Why, we could even besiege the besiegers. Pen them in and starve them, by throwing up a circle of earthworks around their positions — as Stilicho did against Radogast and his Goths at Florentia. I should know; I was there.’

‘Excellent. That’s the Visigoths taken care of, then. Now, the Bagaudae. Litorius, I recall you did a first-rate job guarding our retreat after the Battle of the Fifth Milestone. Would it be beneath you to deal with the bandit revolt?’

‘Absolutely not, sir,’ rejoined the count. ‘I’m no Crassus, who felt soiled by taking on Spartacus and his slave army.’

‘Splendid. You’ll need a large force. The rising will affect a huge area — about a quarter of Gaul. Take half of what’s left of the field army, after Marcus has had his pick, and I’ll send you half the Huns. When you’ve crushed the Bagaudae, you can join forces with Marcus against the Visigoths. Myself and Avitus² here’ — he nodded to a tall officer with patrician features — ‘will move against the Burgundians with the remainder of the Romans and the rest of the Huns. Right gentlemen,’ he concluded brightly, looking round the rows of faces, ‘that covers everything, I believe. Begin your preparations immediately. We march tomorrow.’

Spolicinum Fort, Province of 2nd Raetia, Diocese of Italy [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum]. The year of the consuls Flavius Theodosius and Flavius Placidius Valentinianus, Augusti, their fifteenth and fourth respectively, VIII Calends June.³

I was at the Villa Fortunata when my father’s letter arrived with the terrible news of the Burgundian rising et cetera. Fearing for the safety of my dear Clothilde and Marcus, I rode with all speed to Spolicinum (which seems little changed since I was last here twelve years ago) as it lies on the most direct route to the Settlement. Here, I was told the sad tidings that Gaius Valerius had died soon after writing to me. He is buried in the soldiers’ cemetery outside the fort. In my grief, I found comfort in the knowledge that he had given his life in the service of Rome. He could have wished for no better end. I have left some money, together with instructions, for a gravestone bearing this inscription:

GAIUS VALERIUS RUFINUS: COMMANDER OF THE PRIMANI LEGION: 77 YEARS OF AGE. HE LOVED ROME AND SERVED HER WELL. HE IS LAID HERE.

In his letter, Gaius begged me to consider re-entering the service of Aetius, who, he believed, is the only man who can deal effectively with the crisis in Gaul. I had thought my break with Aetius irrevocable, but tempora mutantur, as they say. I will consider my father’s plea. Whether Aetius would take me back is another matter, and I could be putting myself at risk in approaching him; he might bring me before a military court for switching my allegiance to Boniface.

Tomorrow, I leave for the Burgundian Settlement via the valley of the upper Rhenus. The roads, I am assured, are still in good repair though now outwith Rome’s direct administration. I leave this journal here at Spolicinum for safe keeping, for I fear there will be little leisure or security where I am bound for.

From their position on a Pannonian hilltop, the two royal brothers watched as the Hun cavalry set out for Gaul. Soon, individual warriors disappeared in the dust-pall stirred up by sixty thousand horses — a vast greyish-yellow cloud which filled the plain and rolled swiftly towards the western horizon.

‘Well, brother,’ I hope you think it’s worth it,’ snarled Bleda. ‘That’s a tenth of our fighting force you’ve just lent out. And for what? So you can improve your standing with your Roman friends, I suppose?’

Attila studiedly ignored his brother — as he could afford to, ever since he had stamped his authority on the Huns, by his conduct at the Treaty of Margus. It was pointless trying to explain his ambitions to a coarse buffoon of limited vision like Bleda. The Empire of the Huns was now vast, approaching in extent that of the Romans. It stretched from Scandia to the Mare Caspium, uniting for the first time in history, the Teutonic peoples of Germania and the nomads of the steppes. A great achievement, surely? Perhaps; but only if it contained the seeds of permanence — like Greece or Rome. Otherwise, it might fall apart and vanish as quickly as it had arisen. In a vague yet passionate way, Attila yearned for something more satisfying than power and plunder. He wanted greatness for his people, so that in future ages men would speak of Attila not as they would of the cruel tyrant Gaiseric, whose African kingdom was surely transitory, but as they did of Alexander or Caesar, whose legacies survived even to this day. Which was why he needed the help and advice of Aetius and, if possible, the friendship of the Romans. (And that would now be hard to secure, Attila conceded. After Margus, his name throughout the Eastern Empire had become a byword for ruthlessness and terror.)

Although Attila would never admit it, Bleda had a point. The Council, and the Huns generally, would expect rewards for the massive investment they had made in backing Aetius. In the past, such credit had been handsomely repaid. But with the West now weakened and imperilled, could that still be guaranteed? Attila could only hope that it could.

‘I see a wild ass running over the plains, and an eagle flying above it. Together, they attack and put to flight a wild boar.’ Unbidden, the words in which the seer Wu Tze had described the first part of his vision, rang in Attila’s brain. Suddenly, the meaning of the words was clear: the wild ass of the plains must represent the Huns; the eagle was the symbol of imperial Rome; the wild boar was a favourite emblem among the Germans, standing for courage and ferocity. In other words, the Huns and Romans would join together to defeat the Germans — exactly what was beginning to develop! Awe tinged with dread rose in the King. What did the rest of the vision mean? Angrily, he shut his mind against further speculation. Attila would be the master of his own destiny.

When Titus reached the village where his family lived, he found it semi-deserted. Under Chief Vadomir, Clothilde’s father, all the able-bodied men had left to join the host of King Gundohar, which had headed north to claim more land for the tribe. Rumours had filtered back of fighting with the Romans, but whether skirmishing or pitched battles was unclear. His joy at being reunited with Clothilde and Marcus was clouded by awareness that, should things go against the Burgundians, the village might become the scene of fighting or the target of raiding-parties. That night, when both were spent after passionate lovemaking, made more intense by long separation and the present ambience of insecurity, Titus mentioned his fears to Clothilde.

‘Come away with me,’ he added on sudden impulse. ‘You, I, and Marcus, travelling as a small group, could easily make it to Roman-occupied Gaul. My horse can carry you and Marcus, and we can ride and tie.’

‘And leave my family and my people, at this time of peril for them?’ She sat up below the furs that covered their bed, and gently traced her husband’s features with her hand. ‘Darling, my heart urges me to do as you suggest. But. .’

‘But your conscience tells you otherwise,’ Titus completed the sentence. ‘I understand,’ he said bitterly. ‘At least, I think I do.’ He gazed at her in the faint illumination from the embers of the cooking-fire. Her face, serene and relaxed after love, and framed in heavy coils of flaxen hair, had never looked so beautiful. He was filled with an aching love, and a fierce longing to protect her and their child.

‘As my husband, you could command me and I would have to obey,’ she said. ‘But that would not be the Titus I married, the man I know and love.’

‘I can’t bear the thought of harm coming to you!’ exclaimed Titus in anguish, knowing that the price of forcing his family to flee would be the loss of her respect and, in the end, her love. ‘What must I do?’ he cried, more to himself than to Clothilde.

‘What would Gaius Valerius have done, my love?’ she murmured gently, planting a kiss on her husband’s brow.

All at once Titus’ doubts and inner conflict cleared away. Gaius would have stayed — as he, Titus, must. It was the right, the Roman thing to do.

‘My people need a leader,’ said Clothilde, seeming to sense her husband’s change of mood. ‘Darling, you could be that leader. The men left behind are old and weak, and they are also, being Germans, by nature fierce and quarrelsome. Without someone to guide them, they would argue among themselves and nothing would be done to prepare against attack. If the Romans came, they would rush out against them with what makeshift arms they could collect, and all be killed. Then it would be the turn of the women and children. But you, my dearest, are young and strong. You have served among the Romans and know how war is managed. It might take persuasion, perhaps even knocking heads together, but the villagers would listen if you put a plan to them. If an attack came from regular Roman troops, you as a Roman might be able to negotiate peaceful surrender terms. Alan or Frankish federates fighting under Rome’s banner would be a different matter.’

‘But the Franks are Germans like yourselves. Surely they would be more likely to spare the village.’

‘Not so. There is little fellow feeling between the German tribes. We may mostly be tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, speak variants of the same tongue, have once all worshipped the same fierce gods, but that’s as far as it goes. To a Frank, a Burgundian is almost as much a foreigner or a potential enemy as a Roman. And federate troops, whatever tribe they may belong to, are notoriously undisciplined. Believe me, if the Franks come, rape and slaughter will be the village’s likely fate. If the Alans — who are not even Germans but of eastern origin — such a fate will be a certainty. But no more about such things for the present. Now we should sleep, my love. But first, let us pray to Christ, who is both your Lord and mine. He will surely guide you through every trial in the days ahead.’

Titus looked round the circle of old men, women and children gathered in the open space before the village meeting-house. Most looked indifferent, some even hostile. ‘My name is Titus Valerius Rufinus,’ he announced in German. ‘Thank you for agreeing to hear me. I think you all know who I am — the husband of Clothilde, Vadomir’s daughter.’

‘And a Roman,’ growled an ancient greybeard. ‘I fought against Gratian and the first Theodosius, and one lesson I learnt was never trust the Romans. Both those emperors broke treaty after treaty with our people. I say the Romans are a perfidious race. Why should we listen to you, who are one of them?’

‘Yes, I am a Roman,’ responded Titus, keeping his tone mild and friendly. ‘By accident of birth. But my only concern at this moment is to protect my family, and — if you’ll let me — help you to protect yourselves. Will you at least allow me to try?’

He sensed the villagers’ mood alter subtly as a result of his appeal. There followed some whispered discussion, in which an elderly uncle of Clothilde seemed to be swaying the argument in Titus’ favour. Then the previous speaker, apparently the dominant figure in the assembly, spoke again — this time in a less bellicose voice. ‘Very well, Roman, tell us what we should do.’

‘Our first line of defence must be the palisade,’ said Titus, relieved that he could now take charge. ‘I’m assuming that all weapons will have been taken by the fighting men. So we must improvise. Scythe-blades fixed to staves, pitchforks, billhooks, axes, sledgehammers — they all make effective weapons, especially billhooks. That will be the task of the men. I’m putting you in charge,’ he said to the graybeard. ‘All right?’ The other smiled sardonically but nodded.

‘Should the palisade be carried,’ Titus continued, ‘we will retreat to the village’s strongest building, the meeting-house behind us here. The most vulnerable part of it will be the thatch, so the women and girls must fill every kettle, pail and cauldron — anything that holds water. Clothilde, will you organize that?’ A look of mutual love and trust flashed between husband and wife, assuring Titus that that particular task was in safe hands.

‘Now, you boys and girls,’ Titus concluded. He held up a small gold coin which gleamed enticingly in the late-spring sunshine. ‘This tremissis goes to the one who collects the biggest pile of stones by sunset.’ He looked round the assembly, and felt a sudden rush of affection for these rough and simple but essentially good people, who had entrusted him with their protection: grey-haired ancients in furs and homespun; women in sleeveless dresses, a few with bright shawls or neckerchiefs; tow-headed children with dirty faces and bare feet. A tiny army, of which he was commander. A little flock, whose shepherd he had become. ‘Right, everyone,’ he said with a grin, ‘let’s get started.’

After days of anxious waiting, the attack came suddenly. Titus had posted lookouts close to the forest verge. Shortly before noon, one came running with the news that he had spotted horsemen approaching through the trees. A horn was sounded to recall the other sentries and warn the villagers. All came hurrying into the central space before the meeting-house.

‘You all know what to do,’ Titus said quietly. ‘Men and youngsters over twelve, proceed now to your stations at the palisade. The rest go inside the meeting-house. ‘We’ll join you if the fence falls.’

Looking out over the empty fields surrounding the defences (the cattle had been brought inside the village), Titus was aware of his heart thumping violently. Soon he might be fighting for his life. Against fellow Romans, he suddenly realized. What did that make him? With an effort, he suppressed the thought. He was defending his family — as any man would, whatever the circumstances. And that was all that mattered.

This was his first command: he suddenly felt a huge weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Had it been arrogant presumption to persuade these people to appoint him their leader? His experience of war was limited to being present at two minor battles in which, strictly speaking, he had not even been a fighting soldier. Well, it was too late now for doubts; besides, Clothilde — one of the most perceptive people he knew — seemed to have every faith in him.

At least the palisade was strong. Composed of stout ten-foot logs driven deep into the ground, with an earthen fighting-platform behind, it presented a formidable barrier. Its main weakness was that its perimeter was too extensive for his scant force to guard effectively. The best he could do would be to concentrate his defenders at whatever points came under attack. A simple system of horn-blast signals to control basic movements had been worked out and rehearsed. Fingering the Chi-Rho amulet the subdeacon in Ravenna Cathedral had given him all those years ago, he offered up a prayer to God.

Titus started. At the edge of the forest where, moments before, there had only been a distant line of trees, a fringe of riders had materialized. About two hundred strong, they began to advance at a slow trot across the intervening fields. As they drew nearer, Titus began to make out details: stocky powerful men on big ill-conformed mounts; the yellowish skins, slitted deep-sunk eyes, and flat beardless faces of the riders, all of whom were armed with bows. These were not Romans, they were Huns.

‘Keep close to the fence!’ shouted Titus, and the warning was passed around the ring of defenders. The Huns, increasing their pace to a canter, then a gallop, fanned out to form an extended line, then, wheeling, began to race round the palisade, discharging arrows in a high trajectory so that they fell close behind the barrier. But, by following Titus’ advice and keeping their bodies pressed close against the wall of stakes, the defenders escaped injury. All save one who, rashly raising his head above the parapet, took an arrow in the throat and fell back, fatally wounded.

Their initial foray completed, the Huns regrouped, then split into several parties which positioned themselves at various points around the fence. Ordering his defenders to assemble opposite these concentrations, Titus, with his own detachment, anxiously watched the nearest group of Huns. Half rode forward whirling noosed ropes round their heads, the rest drawing their bows to give covering fire. The ropes snaked out and several running nooses fell over the tops of two adjoining posts in the palisade; the tough hide ropes tautened as the Huns’ mounts backed. With several horses pulling against each post, they were subjected to tremendous strain, which must eventually uproot them.

From the piles assembled at various points along the fighting-platform, Titus and his men hurled volleys of stones at the ropers — dangerous work, for even momentary exposure above the fence attracted a salvo of arrows. Nevertheless, they succeeded for a while in keeping the Huns at bay, some slashing at the ropes, while others discouraged fresh attempts to noose the posts, by maintaining a barrage of stones. But when five of his men had been shot dead and three wounded, Titus realized that the position had become untenable, and ordered the signal blown for a retreat to the meeting-house. Carrying their wounded, the defenders streamed back to the great hut and joined the women and children inside. The leather flap which served as a door was now removed. It would hardly deter an assault, merely hinder observation by the defenders.

To carry the building, the Huns would have to dismount and try to force the doorway. Choosing ten of the strongest men, Titus waited with them against the wall on either side of the doorway. Through the entrance, he watched the Huns make short work of breaching the palisade, then assemble close in front of the meeting-house.

A knot of dismounted Huns with drawn swords suddenly rushed the doorway. Titus ceased to be aware of anything except what was happening immediately in front of him. A barrel-chested Hun came at him, swinging a vicious cut at his head. Titus blocked the sword with his billhook, felt a numbing shock as his arm absorbed the impact. The man was pushed up against Titus as more Huns pressed in from behind, preventing either man from wielding his weapon. A rancid stench from the man’s unwashed body and filthy skin garments filled Titus’ nostrils; glittering with ferocity and malice, the Hun’s deep-set black eyes glared into his. Knowing it was risky, but that it was the only way he could gain an advantage, Titus leapt back, creating a gap between himself and his adversary. The man stumbled forward, tried to parry Titus’ billhook. Too late; the bill’s vicious blade slashed down, sinking deep into the angle between the man’s neck and shoulder. Bright arterial blood fountained from the wound, and the man sank to the ground.

Filled with a kind of battle-madness, Titus swung and hacked with the bill at the press of Huns pushing through the entrance. A truly fearsome close-quarters weapon — more than a match for a sword — the billhook cleared a bloody path in front of Titus. . Suddenly there were no more Huns, and he was standing gasping in the doorway beside the five other survivors of the attack, all wounded, some severely. Looking down, Titus saw that he had a deep gash in his thigh, besides several cuts. Dead and dying Huns littered the entrance — testimony to German courage and fighting ability, even among old men too advanced in years to join the host.

The graybeard who had originally questioned his authority, nodded approvingly at Titus. ‘You did well — for a Roman,’ he grunted.

The dying Huns were dispatched, while the women attended to the injuries of the Burgundian wounded, and replacements were chosen to make up the numbers defending the doorway. Two more Hun attacks were beaten back, each time with the loss of several defenders. With a sinking heart, Titus, himself now weakening from loss of blood, realized that arithmetic was in the Huns’ favour and that, if the attacks continued, the Huns must soon storm the meeting-house.

But the Huns, no doubt unwilling to expend more lives than necessary, resorted to a different tactic. Fire-arrows were shot high in the air, to fall vertically on to the thatched roof. This, despite having already been liberally doused with water, began to smoulder in several places. As smoke began to curl down from the rafters, a chain of vessels containing water was passed up a ladder through a gap in the thatch, to a volunteer on the roof. Flames started to break out in the smoking patches, to be doused by the brave fire-fighter. However, he was soon picked off by Hun archers who climbed on to the roofs of nearby huts. Another volunteer barely made it to the roof before suffering the same fate. By now the thatch was ablaze in so many places that any further attempts to extinguish the fire were clearly doomed. The hut filled with choking smoke and blazing thatch began to fall inside, leaving the villagers with no alternative but to leave the building and sell their lives as dearly as possible.

Resolving that they should all die together, Titus looked around in the smoke and confusion for his wife and son. As, with a swelling heart, he called Clothilde’s name, a roof beam collapsed in a shower of sparks and lumps of blazing thatch.

‘Titus!’ An agonized cry from Clothilde enabled him to locate her — pinned beneath the blazing roof beam, which Marcus was flailing at with his tunic in an attempt to beat out the flames. Titus joined the boy in his efforts and in a few moments they succeeded. With Marcus doing his best to assist, Titus strained to lift the massive timber; but to no avail. Desperately, he shouted for help — then realized that, apart from the three of them, the hut was empty. Screams and shouts from outside cut through the roar and crackle of the flames, as the villagers died, skewered by Hun arrows.

Then, above the din of slaughter and conflagration, there sounded a trumpet call, high, clear, and piercing. The unmistakable sound of The lituus, the Roman cavalry trumpet! Hope flared as Titus renewed his calls for help. Roman treatment of rebels could be uncompromising, but they would surely not stand by and let a family die like trapped rats.

Two men entered the hut. For a moment, Titus’ heart leapt; then he saw that they were not Romans but Huns. One rushed at Titus while the other advanced on Marcus with sword upraised. With a cry of anguish, Titus flung himself at his son’s assailant, dimly aware as he did so of a third figure entering the hut. Then a blinding flash exploded in his skull and blackness overwhelmed him.

Titus opened his eyes, and was aware of a dull, thumping pain in his head. He was lying in a cot, one of a long row inside a tent; most of the beds’ occupants were bandaged. For a few moments he struggled to recall the past; then memory came flooding back — the Hun attack on the village, the desperate last stand in the meeting-house, Clothilde trapped beneath a roof beam in the burning hut. . He sat up, ignoring the shaft of agony that shot through his head, called desperately to a passing capsarius.⁴

The man hurried over, glanced at the disc suspended round Titus’ neck. ‘Titus Valerius Rufinus?’ Titus nodded, and the man went on, ‘You’re in an army hospital near Argentorate Stratisburgum. There’s someone wants to see you; asked to be informed the moment you came to.’ And he hurried off, returning a short time later accompanied by a man in general’s uniform. A familiar, stylishly distressed uniform — that carelessly tied neckcloth and battered cuirass. It was Aetius! The general’s hair was now streaked with silver, Titus noted, his face deeply etched with lines which had not been there at their last meeting.

‘General, Clothilde and Marcus? Can you tell me what happened to them?’

Aetius knelt by the cot and clasped Titus’ hand. ‘Your son is safe,’ he said. ‘He’s being cared for by a local German family. They’ll be bringing him to see you.’ Aetius paused, then continued in tones of quiet compassion. ‘Your wife is dead, Titus. I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such heavy tidings.’

‘What happened, sir?’ whispered Titus.

‘I was there,’ said Aetius. ‘When your village was raided, the fighting was officially over. Gundohar had already surrendered, and the Burgundians been granted generous peace terms — which means, of course, that you can’t be charged with aiding rebels, if that’s any comfort. The Huns who attacked you were a stray marauding band; one of several, I fear. After the peace agreement, I travelled round with a heavily armed detachment cracking down on looting, and abuse of civilians by undisciplined units. Unfortunately, I arrived just too late to save your village. The Huns made off as soon as we approached, but I found two in the meeting-house who hadn’t noticed our arrival. Probably intent on a spot of private plunder or mopping up. One, who was about to run through your little boy, turned on me but wasn’t quick enough to stop a thrust below the breast-bone. Before the other could attack me, he was struck by falling debris from the roof — as you were yourself.’

‘And Clothilde?’

‘I tried, of course, to shift the beam, but it was hopeless. It would have taken several strong men to move it, and there was no time to summon any of my soldiers — the roof was on the point of falling in. She implored me to kill her. Her lower body was crushed beyond any hope of her recovering — even had she been freed — and I could not let her perish in an inferno. So I. . I did what was necessary. As you yourself would have done.’ Aetius paused, then, his expression bleak, said, ‘But I could not blame you if you were now to hate me.’

Titus brushed away tears, collected himself with an effort. ‘The opposite is true, sir. I hope I’m Roman enough to appreciate that what you did was an act of mercy, carried out because it was the right thing to do. For that I’ll always be grateful — as I’m grateful that you saved my life and my son’s.’

‘I made Marcus leave the hut before-’ Aetius broke off, then continued quickly, ‘Then I dragged you out. I was only just in time — the roof collapsed as we got clear. You took a nasty blow on the head and you’ve lost a lot of blood, but the doctors say that with rest you’ll make a full recovery.’ There was a short silence, then Aetius asked in friendly tones, ‘Well, Titus Valerius, what will you do now?’

‘Probably return to Italia with Marcus, sir, and manage the family estate.’

‘That, in my opinion, would be a waste of your talents. I have another suggestion.’

‘Sir?’

‘Come and work for me again. Rome needs loyal servants as never before. Especially if they happen to be the son of Gaius Valerius Rufinus, whose heroism may have saved Gaul. No need to decide anything now. I’ll come back for your answer in a day or two.’

Titus recalled his father’s final letter, in which he’d recommended just such a course as Aetius was suggesting. Also, Titus felt that in some subtle way Aetius had changed, and was perhaps no longer the ruthlessly ambitious soldier/politician he had once been. He made up his mind. ‘No need for that, sir,’ he said. ‘If you’re willing to have me back, I’ll be glad to serve you again.’

Aetius smiled and took his hand. ‘Then welcome back, Titus Valerius, “thou good and faithful servant”, as the Scriptures say.’

¹ Narbonne.

² From a distinguished Gallo-Roman family, Avitus rose to become Prefect of Gaul in 439, and briefly (455-6) Western Emperor.

³ 25 May 435.

⁴ Medical orderly.