Attila:The Scourge of God

THIRTY-SIX

The tempest that had raged over Britain for many days and blown the two sea eagles from their hunting range above the Cambrian cliffs almost to the shores of Gaul, was at last abating. The two great birds swooped and soared among the lessening gusts. Then, finding a field of stable air some thousands of feet above the Fretum Gallicum, the narrow strait between the coasts of Gaul and Britain, they turned north-west and headed for their eyrie, with slow, majestic flaps of their huge wings.

From such a height, the whole of Britain’s Saxon Shore, with its chain of forts extending from the Metaris Aestuarium to the Isle of Vectis,² was encompassed by their indifferent gaze: Branodunum, Garannonum, Regulbium, Rutupiae, Portus Dubris, Anderida and mighty Portus Adurni.³ For more than a hundred and fifty years, these massive structures had kept at bay the blue-eyed heathen pirates from across the German Ocean. Now, but thinly manned by unpaid limitanei, they were failing to hold the line. These second-rate frontier troops were all that remained of the Army of Britain after the usurper Constantine (self-styled the Third) had, more than a generation before, led away the legions into Gaul, never to return.

No longer under the unified command of a Count of the Saxon Shore appointed from Ravenna, the forts had become mere isolated strong-points, between which the Saxon raiders could row their craft unchecked up creeks and estuaries, to ravage far inland. With no Duke of Britain to organize resistance, the hinterland behind the forts was reverting to heath and scrubland, as people fled the land to migrate west or seek shelter behind the strong walls of the cities. Grass now grew on the splendid roads that had once echoed to the tramp of Roman cohorts; the fox and badger made their lair in abandoned farmsteads, and the mosaic floors of crumbling villas became the hearths of passing war-bands.

On the wrinkled sea beneath the eagles’ flight, three dots crept towards the British coast.

‘To Flavius Aetius, Patrician, Master of Soldiers in all the Gauls, in his third consulship, greetings. I, Ambrosius Aurelianus, your friend and fellow Roman, humbly ask that you will heed my plea on behalf of the miserable inhabitants of this island: defenceless sheep harried by the Saxon wolves, whose plight-’

Ambrosius threw down his stylus in disgust. Had he really written that? With the blunt end of the instrument he erased what he had written on the waxed tablet. Seeking inspiration, he began to pace the room, an upper chamber of an inn in Noviomagus⁴ which, as consularis of the province of Maxima Caesariensis, he had taken over as his headquarters. Ambrosius chuckled to himself. Consularis of Maxima Caesariensis! A meaningless euphemism plucked from the imperial past and bestowed on him by Noviomagus’ remaining decurions, and implying governorship of an area covering the whole of south-east Britain. In fact, of course, he was nothing more than a successful warlord, whose fief precariously extended from the Fretum Gallicum northward to the Tamesa, and east to west from Cantium⁵ as far as near Sorbiodunum the ancient Hanging Stones.⁶ He supposed he owed his position to a record of proven ability as councillor, then mayor, and latterly resistance leader; also perhaps to the mystique conferred by his senatorial rank, and the fact that he was a Roman from a distinguished consular family — a real Roman, not a Celtic chief with a veneer of Romanitas.

He looked northwards over the city’s neat grid of red-roofed houses to the chalk ridge⁷ swelling on the horizon, the whole scene bathed in mellow summer sunlight. But that idyllic view masked an uncomfortable reality. Beyond the city walls, where once were only gravel pits and cemeteries, extended a wide belt of cultivated strips; with the rural population crowding into the towns, these had in effect replaced the villas as centres of food production and distribution. And those distant hillsides, once grazed smooth by sheep, were now disfigured by a creeping pelt of furze and bracken.

His reverie was interrupted as a retainer, accompanied by a stranger in the garb of a minor cleric, appeared in the doorway.

‘A message for you, sir,’ the retainer announced in halting Latin, before retiring. Ambrosius sighed. It was a matter of regret that Britain, part of the empire for nearly four hundred years, was discarding Rome’s legacy with unseemly haste. These days, you were lucky to hear Latin spoken in the streets; everyone was reverting to the native British tongue which, prior to the loss of the diocese, had been shunned by anyone with social or political ambitions. Roman dress, too, had been virtually abandoned, as had refinements like bath-houses, central heating, three-course meals, and reading the classics. It was a sign of the times, he thought sourly, that he couldn’t even find a secretary with enough command of Latin to take dictation in the tongue of Cicero and Claudian.

Smiling, Ambrosius looked enquiringly at the cleric.

‘I come from the Bishop of Autissiodorum, Your Honour,’ the man said, ‘on whose staff I serve as a humble reader. The bishop, who is on an official visit to Britain, finds himself in your vicinity and wonders if he might avail himself of your hospitality.’

Germanus here in Britain! Ambrosius’ mind whirled, delight at the thought of seeing again his old friend and fellow Roman mingling with consternation at the prospect of entertaining such a distinguished guest and his inevitable retinue. This might include, besides priests, deacons, and subdeacons, acolytes, exorcists, readers, and singers.

Dismissing the cleric with a message of welcome for the bishop, Ambrosius began shouting orders to his household to prepare food and quarters. His was a rough-and-ready military establishment, hardly suitable for receiving a high official of the Church; nevertheless, he must do his utmost not to shame his guests. He glanced with dismay at his clothing: baggy British trousers (none too clean) and a rough tunic of chequered pattern. He couldn’t greet the Bishop of Autissiodorum — a senator to boot — like that. But he had discarded his dalmatics one by one as they wore out, as being totally impractical for the active soldier’s life he led. Then relief flooded him as he remembered his own senatorial toga, packed away years before as something unlikely to be needed again. Smoothing his cheeks with pumice from the last consignment he had been able to obtain before trade with Gaul closed down, he donned the noble, if archaic, garment, carefully adjusting its folds to create an imposing air of gravitas.

‘Germanus, old friend!’ A lump rose in Ambrosius’ throat as he embraced the bishop warmly. ‘How long has it been? Seventeen years? Do you remember, on that first visit, after you had confuted the Pelagian heretics, how you led a British host against the Picts and Saxons and routed them by shouting “Alleluia”?’ Privately, Ambrosius was shocked by his friend’s appearance. When he had last seen him, Germanus still bore the worldly stamp of the provincial governor he had once been. Now he was gaunt to the point of emaciation — the result, no doubt, of a self-imposed ascetic life. Instead of the richly embroidered episcopal vestments Ambrosius had expected, the bishop wore a rusty black robe (a hair shirt showing at the neck), with a leather bag of relics slung across his chest. And his previous bluff geniality of manner had been replaced by a self-effacing meekness.

‘That victory was due to the terrain rather than any action of mine,’ replied the bishop modestly. ‘You see, I already knew that the surrounding hills gave back a powerful echo. When we raised our cry, the poor barbarians must have thought they were hopelessly outnumbered, so decided not to risk a contest. But that’s all in the past.’ He smiled sadly at Ambrosius — a smile of singular sweetness. ‘Though I find the people still strong in the faith, much has changed in Britain since last I was here. Then the towns still had their decurions and bishops, who continued to run the public services, if imperfectly. Now all that is gone. Enlighten me my friend.’

‘The old imperial system’s completely broken down,’ confirmed Ambrosius, handing his friend a brimming beaker. ‘British beer; no more wine from Gaul, I’m afraid. More than once, I’ve appealed to Ravenna to re-occupy the diocese, but with the trouble in Gaul it seems there are no troops to spare. For the present, anyway. Everything here’s reverted to a semi-tribal system of autonomous regions, with local warlords taking the place of hereditary chieftains.’ He grinned wryly. ‘Me, for instance. A warlord called Cunedda rules the North and Cambria, where his sons Keredig and Meiron have been apportioned subsidiary districts. Then there’s Vortigern in Cantium. A fool, who’s negotiating with two Saxon chiefs, Hengest and Horsa, for help against local enemies.’ Ambrosius shrugged despairingly. ‘It’s like asking wolves to protect the flock.’

‘But if your leaders were to combine against the common enemy?’

‘Then we’d have no trouble driving off the Saxons,’ declared Ambrosius with feeling. ‘To say nothing of the Caledonian Picts or the Scots from Hibernia.’ He sighed. ‘But it’ll never happen. Disunity has always been the Celts’ Achilles’ heel, from Vercingetorix and Boudicca onwards.’ He paused, then added grimly, ‘But in any case it may be too late. The thing we’ve all been dreading has begun to happen.’

‘You mean the adventus Saxonum?’

The other nodded. ‘The coming of the Saxons. As settlers, not raiders. Let me tell you what transpired at Anderida.’

The patrol from the Numerus Abulcorum, the unit of limitanei stationed at Anderida, grumbled under the unaccustomed weight of helmets and mail, issued from the stores on account of a recent increase in Saxon raids. All except Ludvig, a tough old laetus; a German ex-prisoner granted freedom and some land in exchange for military service under Rome. He had witnessed the departure of the legions under the usurper Constantine, and he was convinced that one day they would return. ‘The eagles will come back, lads,’ he would announce periodically, a remark which earned him much good-natured chaffing. ‘Not this year, perhaps, but soon. They’ll be back — just mark my words.’

Halting the straggling line of soldiers, the biarchus ordered the signaller to sound the recall, to bring back those on point duty before the patrol returned to the fort. The man raised a cow-horn to his lips, but before he could blow it the forward scout burst from a stand of pines ahead, frantically gesturing for silence.

‘Saxons!’ the man gasped as he reached the patrol. ‘Three longboats approaching the shore about a mile ahead.’

Swiftly, the biarchus made his dispositions, first leading the patrol inland to avoid being spotted by the enemy, then approaching the landing-site under cover of a dense patch of bracken. Beyond the ferns, the ground fell steeply to a shingle beach which here threw out a long spit. In the lee of this natural breakwater, in the process of beaching, were the three Saxon craft, big clinker-built oared boats with a stepped mast to take a sail. The scene was curiously homely and unthreatening: women and children being helped on to the spit by their menfolk; saplings with netted root-balls, baskets of seed, bundled tools, all being offloaded with tender care; a puppy yapping with excitement.

‘They look sort of. . innocent,’ whispered a young soldier.

‘They do, don’t they?’ responded the biarchus. ‘But they’re not. Raids we can cope with — just. Settlers are something different. These people mean to take our land. Soon they’ll be arriving by the boatload with every wind that blows from the east. So it’s us or them.’

‘You mean. . we kill them all, even the women and children?’ breathed the young soldier in horror.

‘Just so, lad,’ in a grim voice. ‘Look, I don’t like the business any more than you do. Just remember that cubs grow into wolves.’

With hand gestures, the biarchus spread his men in a semi-circle to cut off escape, then gave the signal to charge.

The slaughter was swift, and total. Surrounded, taken by surprise, their backs to the sea, the Saxons stood no chance, and were cut down where they stood. The only survivor was the puppy, which the young soldier stuffed wriggling inside his tunic. The boats were stove in and sunk.

‘Shouldn’t we bury them?’ suggested someone hesitantly. ‘They may not have been Christians, but still. .’

The biarchus shook his head. ‘Leave them. Strewn along the beaches by the tides, their corpses may serve as a deterrent to the next arrivals.’

As the patrol neared Anderida, one keen-eyed soldier pointed to two specks in the sky heading north-west. He called out, laughing, ‘Ludvig, you were right. Your eagles have come back.’ ‘We should begin with something strong and direct,’ said Germanus, who was helping Ambrosius re-draft the letter to Aetius. He paused briefly then suggested, ‘How does this sound? “To Aetius, consul for the third time, the groans of the Britons. .” ’

¹ In error for Aetius; see Notes p.436.

² The Wash to the Isle of Wight.

³ Brancaster, Burgh Castle, Reculver, Richborough, Dover, Pevensey, Portchester.

⁴ Chichester.

⁵ Kent.

⁶ Stonehenge near Old Sarum (an abandoned settlement by Salisbury).

⁷ The South Downs.