Attila:The Scourge of God

TWENTY-NINE

‘Three across, two down, Gallus,’ the soldier called to his comrade. They were limitanei, despised frontier troops, on lookout duty on top of a small fort that formed part of the defensive chain along the Eastern Empire’s Illyrian frontier. Half a mile away stood a hilltop signal station, visible to the stations on its left and right, and to the intervening forts. It consisted of a timber scaffold, with apparatus for raising and lowering long beams, four on each side; on a clear day, these could be seen over a distance of several miles. At night or in misty conditions this system was replaced by one of timed flares synchronized with gradations on a water-clock; on the flare being extinguished, the final mark was noted by the recipient, who then consulted a table of messages corresponding to the gradations.

Gallus checked the reference chart, a square board divided into sixteen smaller squares, each marked with a letter of the alphabet: A-Q. Four squares across and two down, that was ‘M’. He consulted the message table: ‘M: hostile cavalry approaching, strength maximum.’ That was odd; and alarming. Incoming messages almost always referred to tiny isolated groups of Huns, Goths, or Sarmatians, who had crossed to the Roman side of the Danube, and were ‘A: small mounted party passing, armed’, ‘B: small foot party passing, armed’, or ‘C: nomads with herds, passing’. Large concentrations of warriors were rare. ‘Hostile’ was a first, as was ‘maximum’. ‘Sure you got the signal correctly, Paulus?’ he called.

‘See for yourself.’

Gallus crossed the keep’s flat roof and mounted the steps to the battlements. He looked towards the signal station. Sure enough, the distant installation, which resembled a giant rake with upward-pointing tines, showed three upright arms on the right side, two on the left, starkly silhouetted against the sky.

Any doubts concerning the accuracy of the message were about to be dissolved. ‘Domine!’ breathed Paulus, pointing. Five miles or so ahead, stretching to right and left as far as the eye could see, a shimmering wall of dust, dotted with winking points of light, was rolling swiftly towards them. There came to their ears a sound like the distant booming of breakers, which swiftly grew to a thunderous drum-roll. Now, they began to make out figures in the dust-cloud, skin-clad warriors with flat yellowish faces, bows slung on back and swords on hip, mounted on huge, ugly horses.

Like a tidal wave breaking on a reef, the horde of Huns crashed against the line of forts — strongholds which had held firm against Alaric’s Goths — pausing only long enough to overwhelm the defenders and torch the interiors before sweeping south, leaving a row of blazing shells, like beacons, in their wake.

On the roof of their tower, Gallus and Paulus, joined by comrades from below, strove desperately to dislodge the grapnels that showered over the crenellations. As well try to keep back the tide with a broom; no sooner was one hook removed than two more came thudding on to the walkway. Powerless to hold back the mass of Huns that swarmed over the parapet, they died where they stood. Blazing bales were hurled into the keep’s interior from the trapdoor in the roof, forcing those guarding the gate from inside to open it — and meet the fate of those above.

In the basilica of Sirmium,¹ the mighty Illyrian city which had been the headquarters of the first Valentinian in his campaigns against the Germans, and where the great Theodosius had been proclaimed Emperor, there was an air of near-panic among the decurions assembling for an extraordinary meeting of the council. When all were seated and after the ritual acclamations had been made, the president, a chubby figure with a blandly beaming face, ascended the rostrum. He was immediately greeted by a barrage of questions: ‘Is it true that the Huns have taken Singidunum². . Are they heading this way?. . What’s the army doing?. . Have the limitanei really been wiped out?’

The president raised his arms and gradually silence spread throughout the great hall. ‘Fellow decurions,’ he declared, assuming his most reassuring smile, ‘it is indeed unfortunately true that Singidunum has fallen.’ Uproar. ‘However,’ he continued, when the hubbub had died down, ‘it was to a large extent the citizens’ own fault. They kept no watch and were consequently taken by surprise. They had allowed their defences to fall into disrepair, and they made no effort to treat with the enemy. We in Sirmium, however, are in an infinitely stronger position. Our walls, the strongest in Illyria, are virtually impregnable. We’ve had ample warning, so we can strengthen any weak points and maintain a twenty-four-hour lookout. Also, I propose that we select a certain number from among our inner committee, the principales, to meet the Hun leaders and negotiate with them. We know how much they love gold. If we present them with valuable gifts, and promise a handsome subsidy to boot, I have every confidence they will leave Sirmium unmolested.’

Privately, the president intended to make quite sure that any delegation to the Huns would be headed by himself. For he had decided, as a personal insurance policy, to take a leaf out of the Bishop of Margus’ book. Just in case the projected negotiations failed. The bishop had provided the Huns with a pretext for their invasion. They alleged that he had plundered certain burial sites of their kings, north of the Danubius, removing valuable grave-goods. When, in order to appease the Huns, the Roman authorities had been about to hand the bishop over, the wily cleric had stolen a march. Making a secret deal with the Huns, he opened the gates of Margus to them, in return for his life being spared and a substantial reward. Whereupon Margus, the city that six years earlier had witnessed an important treaty with the Huns, was given over to fire and sword.

As anything that offered hope of averting a visitation by the Huns was what all the councillors wanted to hear, the president’s suggestion was eagerly seized upon, and a deputation quickly appointed, headed, with general consent, by the council’s president. Soon afterwards it was reported that the Huns had been sighted approaching the city; the delegation prepared to head for the main gate. But as they left the basilica, they were surrounded by an angry, frightened crowd. Word of the plan — which had perhaps been overheard by an eavesdropping janitor on duty in the basilica — had leaked out. The ordinary citizens of Sirmium, who had long ago lost the right to elect the council, suspected that the delegates were preparing to effect a sell-out in order to save their own skins. These suspicions were reinforced when, as a result of the deputation being jostled and rough-handled, some of the intended gifts came to light.

What had started as a heated demonstration soon flared up into a full-scale riot — something deeply feared by all Roman councils, whose authority was backed up by an often inadequate police force. Sirmium had only the night watch and a skeleton garrison of superannuated limitanei; both, on this occasion, conspicuous by their absence. Through some malign alchemy, the truculent crowd was transmuted in a twinkling into a raging mob which, after beating up the delegates and robbing them of the gifts intended for the Huns — thus effectively destroying any hopes of buying them off — proceeded to storm the basilica and give chase to the departing councillors.

At the first sign of trouble, the president, streetwise and cunning, had darted for cover behind a row of stalls. Now, under cover of the fighting and confusion, he slipped into a side alley and made his way to the city walls. Removing a massive key from under his dalmatic, he unlocked a postern gate and stepped outside the ramparts — to find himself confronted by six mounted warriors: from an advance party sent to reconnoitre the environs of the city, ahead of the main Hun force. Switching on his most ingratiating smile, he moved towards the riders, holding aloft in one hand the postern key, and in the other a heavy bag which chinked.

The first arrow transfixed his stomach, the second his throat, cutting off his screams of agony. Within seconds, he resembled an oversized pincushion which twitched briefly on the ground, then lay still. Picking up the key and the bag of solidi, one of the scouts galloped back to report to his captain while the others, laughing, resumed their circuit of the city.

Despite its massive fortifications, Sirmium held out against the Huns for an even shorter time than Singidunum. Within an hour of their first being sighted, the city, like a rock in an angry sea, was surrounded by a swirling horde of Huns. With a courage born of terror, the citizens, using improvised weapons — kitchen knives, gardening-tools, even prised-up cobblestones — strove to stem the flood of Huns that threatened to engulf the ramparts, as ladders and grapnels thumped against the battlements, and siege-towers, constructed under the direction of captured Roman engineers, were wheeled against the walls. For a time, they succeeded in keeping the enemy at bay. Infected by a mood of febrile triumph, they redoubled their efforts, hurling ladder after ladder crashing to the ground, each scattering its load of Huns, or fighting with such desperate fury that even the ferocious savages who had gained a footing on the walkway were daunted.

But their optimism was premature. Suddenly, the defenders found themselves embattled on two fronts, as Huns who had infiltrated the city through the unlocked postern poured on to the ramparts from the staircases on the inside face of the walls. The Sirmians’ new-found confidence evaporated as suddenly as it had arisen, and they began to throw down their weapons in droves; in a few minutes all had surrendered.

The inhabitants were assembled on a plain near the city and divided into three parts. The first class consisted of the garrison and men capable of bearing arms. They were massacred on the spot by Huns who, with bended bows, had formed a circle round them. The second class, consisting of the young and attractive women, and skilled tradesmen such as smiths and carpenters, were distributed in lots. The remainder, being neither useful nor a threat to the nomads, were turned loose — many to perish of starvation in the fire-scorched wasteland to which the Huns had reduced northern Illyria. Emptied, the city was looted of anything of value, then systematically demolished, with a thoroughness which almost justified a saying that was already gaining currency: ‘The grass never grows where the horse of Attila has trod.’

In furious impatience, Aspar, son of the great Ardaburius, veteran of the campaigns against Ioannes (successful) and Gaiseric (unsuccessful), and now commander of the joint East-West army assembled in Sicilia for the reconquest of Africa, paced the colonnade of his headquarters in the Neapolis district of Syracusa. For perhaps the tenth time that morning, he looked down at the Great Harbour, crammed with the expedition’s warships, hoping to spot the arrival of a fast galley — one must surely soon bring word from Constantinople. News of Attila’s onslaught on Illyria had arrived weeks before. The expedition had immediately been suspended, but the expected imperial missive ordering it to return to the capital, to counter the Hun threat, had so far failed to arrive.

The Romans were letting Gaiseric run circles round them, Aspar thought, in frustration mingled with contempt. The combined naval and military armament of both empires had been ready to move against the Vandal tyrant. And Theoderic, King of the Visigoths, in a bizarre reversal of his recent anti-Roman operations, had been burning to lend his support to the expedition! (His daughter, married to Gaiseric’s son, was suspected of involvement in a plot to poison the Vandal king, and had been sent back to her father by Gaiseric — minus her nose and ears.) But Gaiseric, as cunning as he was cruel, had stolen a march on the Romans and their new Goth friends by forming an alliance with Attila, who had promptly obliged by invading the Eastern Empire.

If only he could be given a free hand, Aspar fumed. There was that business over the usurper Iohannes sixteen years ago, for instance. He’d just about had Aetius stalemated, and could have gone on to beat him if he hadn’t been summoned back to the East over a trifling border dispute with Persia. Then there was that chaotic shambles in Africa, when the Vandals had been allowed to destroy the joint forces of both empires, because the commander-in-chief, Boniface, had lost his nerve. Had the command been his, Aspar told himself, the result would have been very different. (Of course, the fact that he was an Arian had all along probably blocked any chance of his being appointed Master of Soldiers.) And now, when the safety of the Eastern Empire’s northern dioceses depended on getting an army there as quickly as possible, here he was stuck in Sicilia, while Attila ravaged Illyria at will.

It was all the fault of Arnegliscus, the new Eastern Master of Soldiers, thought Aspar bitterly. Ambitious, brutal, and slow-witted, Arnegliscus had murdered the previous Magister militum, a fellow German, and usurped his post. He’d have had no difficulty in persuading his imperial master, the weak and pliable Theodosius, that he’d done so to forestall a plot against the Emperor, say. And the fact that he was supported by the circus faction of the Greens (the people’s party) would have put Theodosius under extra pressure to confirm him in the post or risk provoking a riot. By the time that ponderous Teutonic mind had got round to deciding that something should be done about the Huns, Attila would probably be battering at the gates of Constantinople.

Being a fair-minded man, however, after a little reflection Aspar reluctantly admitted that he was being less than just to Arnegliscus. He was allowing frustration and impatience to colour his assessment of the man. Coarse-grained and limited the German might be, but the very fact that he had become Master of Soldiers showed that he at least possessed two sterling qualities, leadership and courage. Otherwise, the legions would never have accepted him. For the same reason, he could hardly be considered stupid: fools did not become top generals. Nor, as Aspar could testify from personal experience, did paragons of gentle forbearance. In the dog-eat-dog world of Roman power politics, Arnegliscus might have been compelled to eliminate his predecessor in order to forestall his own assassination by one who feared a rival. As for his embroidering the truth in order to influence Theodosius, well, hadn’t every successful general and politician been compelled to play that game, from Pericles to Constantine and beyond?

Suddenly, Aspar’s pulse began racing. Oars flashing in the sunlight, a fast galley shot from behind the islet of Ortygia and raced towards the entrance of the Great Harbour. Backing water with a stylish flourish as it neared the mole, it shipped oars and glided gently to its moorings. Surely this, at last, must be the ship bringing the orders for the expedition to return to the Golden Horn. The Alan general waited expectantly for a messenger to arrive, and, sure enough, a little later a biarchus was ushered into his presence. The man handed Aspar a sheaf of scrolls. The general scanned each briefly, with growing impatience and concern: fodder returns for the new cavalry barracks at Nicomedia; a complaint about the quality of a batch of javelin heads from the state arms factory at Ratiaria; a plea for a diploma of discharge on behalf of a standard-bearer claiming disablement. .

‘You’re quite sure there’s nothing from the palace?’ he asked.

The biarchus looked in his satchel and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. Wish I could say different. There’s not a soldier in the empire but wishes you and the army were back home.’ He added anxiously, ‘Er, best forget I said that, sir.’

‘Said what?’ smiled Aspar. He suddenly came to a bold decision; this farce had gone on long enough. ‘What’s your ship’s next destination?’

‘Cyrene, sir.’

‘No it isn’t. Tell the captain I’m requisitioning his vessel to take me immediately to Constantinople.’

‘Yes, sir!’ With a delighted grin, the man saluted and hurried off to deliver the general’s command.

Theodosius, the second of that name, Emperor of the East Romans, the Calligrapher (of all his royal titles, the one of which he was most proud), laid down his pen from the task in which he was engaged: copying, in beautiful Rustic capitals, Jerome’s Third Attack on the Pelagian Heresy. ‘Will it do, sister?’ he enquired anxiously of the handsome but dowdily dressed woman in her early forties who had just entered the scriptorium.

‘I’m sure the monks of my new monastery will be impressed,’ sighed Pulcheria wearily. She went on with a hint of impatience, ‘There are, however, also worldly matters which have a claim on your attention. I would remind you, brother, that the generals have been waiting more than an hour.’

‘Oh dear, as long as that?’ murmured the Emperor contritely. ‘Well, we’d better see them, I suppose.’ He rose from the writing-desk; two slaves dressed him in a purple robe and slippers, then placed the imperial diadem on his head. Meekly, he followed his sister, the Augusta, along a succession of corridors to the audience chamber. This was a grand colonnaded affair, overlooking the jumble of splendid but asymmetrical series of buildings, cascading downhill towards the Propontis,³ that made up the rest of Constantinople’s imperial palace.

The two men who bowed low, ‘adoring the Sacred Purple’, at the entry of the royal pair were very different in appearance. Aspar, the Alan general, was slight, with delicate aquiline features and olive colouring. The other was tall, of massive build, with shoulder-length yellow hair and fair skin, a magnificent specimen of manhood. This was Arnegliscus, the Master of Soldiers. Their dress pointed up the contrast between the pair. Aspar’s simple military tunic and leggings still bore the marks of travel, for he had come straight from the docks on the Golden Horn. The German was got up in the full regalia of a Roman general, complete with silvered cuirass and bronze-studded pteruges, leather strips protecting the shoulders, and the lower body from waist to knee.

Theodosius and Pulcheria seated themselves on thrones. ‘Aspar,’ declared the Emperor, ‘we are displeased that you have taken it upon yourself not only to return to Constantinople without our permission, but to commandeer a naval vessel, thus preventing it from transacting important business in Cyrene.’ Striving for stern censoriousness, Theodosius succeeded in sounding merely peevish. He turned to Pulcheria. ‘His presumption is inexcusable, do you not agree?’

‘Let us hear what he has to say, before we judge him,’ replied the Augusta. ‘You may speak, Aspar.’

‘Your Serenities must excuse me if I speak in plain terms,’ began the Alan. ‘The situation as I see it is approaching crisis. Our army is absent and divided — half on the Persian frontier, the rest in Sicily. Meanwhile Attila is rampaging freely throughout Illyria, destroying cities, massacring or enslaving the people. It makes no sense that our troops are not here. As a matter of the most urgent priority, I say we must recall both forces without further delay.’ All at once, Aspar realized that any appeal to reasoned compromise would probably fail. To make sure it was his view that prevailed, he was first going to have to daemonize the big German. Reluctantly switching to attack mode, he went on, ‘Frankly, I am at a loss to understand why the Master of Soldiers has not done this already.’ Despite having an Asiatic contempt for petticoat politics, Aspar was thankful for the presence of Pulcheria. Strange, he thought, that each half of the empire was run by a strong-willed woman controlling a weak Emperor. But where Pulcheria was sensible and decisive, Placidia was inept and devious; where Theodosius was merely ineffective, Valentinian was vicious and a liability.

‘Arnegliscus?’ invited Pulcheria.

The commander shrugged. ‘Come the autumn,’ he said slowly, ‘Attila must return to his meadows beyond the Danubius. Already his horses grow thin; he has all but exhausted the pastures of Illyria.’

‘And next year?’ sneered Aspar. ‘Having discovered that the empire provided such easy pickings, do you really suppose that Attila will fail to return? Or that he won’t keep coming back year after year — until the empire takes a stand? Or is it perhaps that Arnegliscus is afraid to match himself against the Hun?’ In fact, as Aspar well knew, Arnegliscus was no coward; few Germans were. But if it took a confrontation to unblock the log-jam of inactivity, so be it.

The German rose to the bait. ‘Anyone who says Arnegliscus is afraid, lies,’ he growled.

‘Fine words!’ retorted Aspar. ‘But words are cheap. Let us see if you dare match them with fine actions.’

An angry flush suffused the German’s cheeks. ‘Perhaps now is not the time for action,’ he countered, his tone defensive and his blue eyes flashing with resentment. ‘To confront Attila at this moment is to risk the destruction of our armies. I say let the Huns ravage Thracia, Dacia and Macedonia.⁴ Poor, thinly populated, in the last resort they are expendable. It is the wealthy east and south — Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Libya — that we must safeguard above all. To attack them, Attila must first take Constantinople. And that he cannot do.’

Privately, Aspar was forced to concede that what Arnegliscus said had much to recommend it. The mighty walls of Constantinople could withstand the worst assault that Attila could hurl against them, and, with the capital inviolate, the security of the Eastern Empire’s heart was guaranteed. But abandon Illyris Graeca⁵ to the fury of the Huns? Unthinkable. Wasn’t it? For the first time, Aspar was assailed by a creeping doubt regarding the wisdom of taking the field against the Huns — at least until the armies of the East had developed effective tactics against the terrible archery of the nomad hordes. But it was too late to row back now.

‘So you would have the army sit safe behind the ramparts of Constantinople,’ he sneered, ‘without lifting a finger to help, while Attila’s savages wreak havoc and destruction throughout Illyria, Thrace, and Macedonia? To settle for a shameful policy of appeasement — that is the coward’s way.’

‘Enough!’ said Pulcheria sharply. ‘Rather than fight among ourselves, we should be planning how to deal with our common foe. Aspar is right. Things must not be allowed to drift any further. Let us recall our legions from Sicilia and the east; the situation on neither of these fronts is critical, and anyway operations can be resumed when the present danger is past.’ She turned to Theodosius. ‘Agreed, my lord?’

‘Oh, very well,’ assented the Emperor testily. Then, as if to avoid giving the impression that he was passively yielding to pressure, he sat up erect on his throne and announced loudly, ‘It is our word and our command that the African Expedition and the troops now serving on the Persian frontier be immediately recalled to Constantinople, and that they be put in readiness to march against the Huns. You, Arnegliscus, will be in overall charge, with Aspar as your second-in-command.’

Surveying the Roman dispositions from a low hill behind the cavalry wing on the army’s left, Aspar was overwhelmed by uneasiness. The terrain was hot, barren, and dusty; in the distance, the Thracian trading-port of Kallipolis⁶ huddled beside the blue waters of the Hellespont. A splendid opportunity to check ‘the Scourge of God’, as Attila was becoming known, had been squandered by the folly of the Emperor.

Following the recall of the troops from Sicilia and the Persian front, Aspar, with Arnegliscus’ agreement, had bought time by arranging a truce with Attila, through promising the return of fugitives, also paying part of the arrears of tribute fixed by the Treaty of Margus. Time which he had made good use of to begin to hammer the two halves of the army into a disciplined, united force capable of taking on an unfamiliar and terrible enemy. But, to Aspar’s fury, these solid gains had been needlessly thrown away. With a false confidence inspired by the return of the legions, Theodosius had forced Aspar to renege on his promises to the Hun king. By order of the Emperor, fugitives were not after all to be returned, nor was any further tribute to be paid. Predictably, Attila had been enraged, and had responded by launching a strike to the east: taking Ratiaria (an important state arms factory and the base of the Danubius fleet), Naissus, Serdica⁷, and Philippopolis. With the Huns now dangerously near his capital, Theodosius had ordered a reluctant Arnegliscus to take the field against them. Unsurprisingly, the half-trained army had suffered two reverses. Pressed ever eastwards by the victorious Huns, it had been outflanked by Attila and now, its retreat cut off, had been forced into the Chersonesus of Thracia, the narrow peninsula bounding the northern shore of the Hellespontus.⁸

Never was a position more hopeless, thought Aspar despairingly, looking at the way Arnegliscus had drawn up the army. The infantry were arranged in a solid block twenty-five ranks deep, with a cavalry wing on either side. The formation resembled a plump partridge, a partridge ready for plucking. The two engagements with the Huns so far had been running skirmishes rather than full-scale encounters. Now, boxed into the Chersonesus, the Romans had no choice but to fight a pitched battle. What on earth was Arnegliscus’ tactical thinking? By concentrating his men in a solid mass, the German presumably imagined he was maximizing their effectiveness. That might have made sense in the days of the Macedonian phalanx, but against a highly mobile and — in terms of numbers — vastly superior enemy, armed moreover with long-range weapons, it was suicidal folly. Ultimately, however, the blame must lie largely with himself, Aspar admitted, with a sick feeling of guilt. If he hadn’t overridden Arnegliscus and persuaded the Empress to take the battle to the Hun. .

Arnegliscus had positioned the Roman force on open ground facing the direction the enemy must approach from, with the supply wagons some distance to the rear. What he had failed to grasp was that there was no rear. He was inviting the Huns to employ their most successful tactic: to move round behind their opponents and encircle them. Unless something was done, the Battle of Kallipolis would prove to be another Hadrianopolis. Well, he, Aspar, wasn’t going to stand by and let disaster overtake them, without first putting some suggestions to his superior. Dispatching a galloper to summon Areobindus, the commander of the cavalry on the right wing, Aspar spurred over to Arnegliscus’ command tent behind the infantry. Dismounting, he strode inside.

Arnegliscus was seated at a table strewn with maps and documents; there were also a flagon and goblets. He stared at Aspar with some irritation, but retained enough manners to offer the general some wine.

‘Thank you, but I prefer to keep a clear head,’ retorted Aspar. ‘I have several suggestions that must be made.’

‘“Must”?’ growled Arnegliscus, his blue eyes widening. ‘You forget yourself, I think.’

‘Yes, “must”, snapped Aspar. At that moment, Areobindus, a tall German with hair cut short in the Roman fashion, entered the tent. ‘As things stand,’ Aspar pressed on, ‘you face almost certain defeat. Your flanks are exposed, therefore the Huns will surround you. The infantry are packed together in a solid mass, a formation far too deep to allow the rear ranks to help those in front.’ He turned to Areobindus. ‘You can see that, surely?’ he appealed.

‘Aspar does have a point, sir,’ Areobindus observed tactfully. ‘Our front would become more effective if you were to expand it; eight ranks are quite sufficient to give staying power. May I also suggest that the wagons are brought up closer to the line? They would then be protected and could, if occasion arose, be deployed to form a protective screen. Left where they are, they will certainly be looted and destroyed.’

‘Above all, you must protect the flanks,’ urged Aspar, his heart sinking as he noted a look of stubborn defensiveness settle on Arnegliscus’ face. ‘Only a mile from here, there’s a steep-sided valley, not too broad for our troops to span. Our flanks would then be secure.’ Actually, what he was suggesting was, Aspar knew, a desperate enough alternative; to form an unbroken front across the valley would mean stretching the Roman line perilously thin. But almost any plan would be preferable to the present arrangement.

‘I had thought guarding the flanks was the duty of the cavalry,’ said Arnegliscus sourly. ‘I must have been mistaken.’

Areobindus stiffened and an angry gleam appeared in his eye. Determined not to be drawn, Aspar said coolly, ‘I shall ignore that, sir. Another thing. The men have been standing in the sun for hours. They’re hot, thirsty, and demoralized. Issue them with food and water, and give them permission to stand down until the enemy’s sighted. They’ll fight better rested and on a full stomach. Also, a few words from yourself might help to raise their spirits.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Arnegliscus, ‘it shall be done. And I shall extend the line as you suggest. Also the wagons will be brought up closer to the rear. These things are only sensible, I grant. But I see no need for other change. The army stays where it is.’

Further argument was pointless, Aspar realized. He glanced at Areobindus, who shrugged resignedly. ‘On your head be it,’ Aspar said to Arnegliscus. ‘If the year of the consuls Maximus and Paterius⁹ is remembered in Rome’s annals for another Cannae, Rome will know whom to blame.’ Saluting, he left the tent, mounted, and rode back to his station.

A murmur passed along the Roman lines as a galloping scout hove into sight. A little later, the commanders assembled in front of their units to announce that the enemy was close; and that from this moment on the men were to maintain silence, observe orders, and keep position.

A bank of what seemed like mist or smoke had appeared on the horizon. Extending on either hand to the limit of visibility and growing taller by the second, it rolled swiftly towards the waiting Romans. A distant murmur changed to a steady pattering, which in turn became a rumbling roar. The earth began to tremble. Now dots could be made out in the dust-cloud, dots which rapidly grew into galloping riders.

‘Right, boys, let’s have the barritus,’ called a primicerius. ‘Make it a good one.’

Clashing their lances against their shields, the Romans gave their battle-cry, beginning on a low note and swelling to a deafening shout. It was intended to raise morale when the line confronted a charging enemy, but this time the barritus wavered and died away as the Hun formations, instead of engaging the Roman front in a head-on attack, split and wheeled when just beyond javelin range, to pour past the army’s flanks in two enormous masses and reunite behind its rear. Now the Romans found themselves encircled in a vast whirlpool of horsemen, who began to shoot their arrows.

In a continuous blizzard, the shafts arced high in the air, to plunge down on to the Romans. The front ranks, the only men issued with both helmets and mail coats, and with enough room to raise their shields, remained comparatively unscathed. But the soldiers in the middle, helmeted but lacking body-armour, and so close-packed they were unable to use their shields to protect their upper bodies, began to suffer terrible punishment. The cavalry wings did their best to keep the Hun archers at bay, charging time after time to drive them back. Barring scouts and skirmishers, the Roman horse consisted of heavy armoured cavalry, virtually invulnerable to arrows, and more than a match for their opponents on an individual basis. But when outnumbered on a huge scale their effectiveness was severely limited.

Once, in an attempt to come to grips with the enemy, the trumpets on the Roman side sounded the advance. But the encircling Huns merely kept pace with the advancing Romans, whose formations began to lose cohesion and to take even more casualties. When the halt was eventually sounded, the Roman infantry had been reduced to a panic-stricken rabble, desperate to flee or to engage their tormentors, but unable to do either. Taking turns to peel away and breathe their horses, the Huns were able to maintain a constant barrage, which exacted a terrible toll. Throughout that endless afternoon, the Roman ranks thinned steadily, which by a grim irony benefited the survivors, who now had room to raise their shields and protect their torsos. Only the coming of darkness brought respite to the beleaguered army.

Tortured by thirst and wounds throughout the long night, the Romans awaited the dawn with dread. But the rising sun showed only an empty plain. The Huns had gone.

To his captains, Attila’s decision to spare the shattered remnant of the Roman army smacked of commendable contempt for a negligible foe. How could they guess that it stemmed from self-disgust? Attila’s stock could now stand hardly higher. To his people he was a conquering hero, who had brought them plunder beyond imagining and made their name feared throughout the world. But to Attila himself it was all a hollow triumph, like those apples of legend which turned to ashes in the mouth. This was not what he had wanted for his nation. Any hopes now of creating a Greater Scythia were dashed for ever; he had sent home the team of advisers Aetius had provided. Posterity would remember Attila not as a second Caesar or another Alexander, but as the Scourge of God, the barbarian who had loosed death and destruction on a scale never before witnessed.

¹ Mitrovica, in Kosovo.

² Belgrade.

³ The Sea of Marmara.

⁴ The Balkan provinces.

⁵ The Balkans (region).

⁶ Gallipoli.

⁷ Ni, Sofia.

⁸ The Dardanelles.

⁹ 443.