Attila:The Scourge of God

FORTY-SEVEN

Imposing in his senatorial toga — an archaic survival from the days of the Republic — Avitus faced the assembly of Visigoth chiefs ranked behind their aged king in the great basilica of Tolosa. They were clean-shaven, clad in dalmatics or Roman-style tunics — indistinguishable from Romans in fact, save by their tall stature and blond colouring. Theoderic alone, with his long moustaches, and white hair falling to his shoulders, retained the fashion of his ancestors.

‘Your Majesty, nobles of the mighty nation of the Visigoths,’ Avitus began, in a mild and friendly voice, ‘I thank you for your welcome, and applaud your courage in deciding to resist — alone — the Scourge of God. Indulge me, while I touch upon your past. These Huns Attila leads are the same cruel savages who drove your forebears from their homes, condemned your nation, like the Israelites, to wander forty years. But where the seed of Abraham had only the desert in which to pitch their tents, the fair expanse of the Roman Empire was the scene of your exile. I will readily admit that many times during your long sojourn your people have been wronged by Rome, as — let us be frank — Rome has been wronged by you. But there has been much of friendship also. It was the Romans gave you refuge from the Huns, and your warriors have filled our legions, proving among the staunchest of Rome’s defenders. Stilicho, Rome’s great commander, many times spared Alaric when he could have destroyed him. Athaulf, brother of that mighty leader the father of your present king, married Galla Placidia, mother of Rome’s present Emperor. And you were finally granted your homeland — Aquitania, the fairest of Gaul’s provinces — by the Emperor Constantius, Valentinian’s father, who married Placidia after Athaulf’s death. Many are the mutual ties that bind the Romans and the Visigoths. Search your hearts, and, if you are honest, which I know you are, you will acknowledge that what I say is but the truth.’

Avitus paused. There was a general murmur of agreement, and nodding of heads. So far, the senator thought, he had his audience’s sympathy. But that would change in an instant to hostility, if he misjudged things. He must proceed with circumspection.

‘Yet our two peoples, who should be friends, are enemies. That is indeed a pity, never more than now.’ He allowed his voice to rise. ‘You think you can prevail against the Huns, that because, eleven years ago outside this very city you slaughtered sixty thousand of them, you can again defeat them. I tell you, that is folly and delusion. Attila comes against you with ten times that number; do you really think you can prevail against such odds? You will, of course, fight valiantly — as you always do. But you will be destroyed. And it will have been a useless sacrifice. Your widows and orphaned children will be slaughtered or enslaved, your churches desecrated and your habitations razed. The Visigoth nation will vanish from the earth as if it had never been. Is this what you want to happen? For believe me it will happen, if you hold to your present course.’ He paused again, gauging the mood of his hearers. A tense silence gripped the assembly.

‘Let the Romans and the Visigoths put their differences behind them, and join together against our common enemy,’ he continued, once more lowering his voice. ‘Then, when the other federates — the Franks who are loyal to Merovech, the Alans and Burgundians — see the example we have set by our alliance, they will be encouraged to join us. Only if all Gaul combines to resist him can we defeat Attila.’ He raised his voice again, to finish almost on a shout. ‘Divided we can only fail; united we shall win. Visigoths, avenge your ancestors!’

The senator waited anxiously for his hearers’ reaction. For a few seconds, not a sound was heard throughout the great building. Then Theoderic turned towards his following. ‘Avitus speaks wisely,’ he declared. ‘Let us join the Romans.’ His words were greeted with shouts of assent, which gradually blended in a mighty crescendo of approval.

As he breathed a huge sigh of relief, Avitus realized that he was shaking and soaked with sweat.

FORTY-EIGHT

I myself shall throw the first javelin, and the wretch who fails to follow my example is condemned to die

Jordanes, Gothic History, 551

‘Nothing, my lord,’ the messenger told Anianus, Bishop of Aureliani, an ecclesiastic noted for his zealous piety. ‘Not a sign of any relieving force, I’m afraid.’

‘If they don’t come soon, it’ll be too late!’ cried the bishop, too distracted by worry to conceal the desperation in his voice. ‘Listen to that.’ In the distance, a regular thump-crash could be heard, as the Huns’ great battering-rams, designed and built by captive Romans, thudded against the city walls, dislodging cascades of shattered masonry with every blow. ‘But we must have faith,’ he muttered, more to himself than to the other, ‘faith that the Holy Shepherd will not abandon His flock to the Scythian wolves. Return to the ramparts, friend, one last time, while I renew my supplications to our Father.’

With a feeling that it was a hopeless exercise, the messenger hurried from the forum, which was crowded with anxious citizens, back to his post on the battlements, and bent his gaze towards the south. As he expected (and feared), the horizon remained empty of anything that moved. No — wait. There was something, surely: at the very limit of his vision, a tiny pale spot which seemed to grow as he watched. A dust-cloud! Pulse racing, he pelted back to the forum, barged his way through the densely packed throng and gasped out his news to Anianus.

‘It is the aid of God!’ exclaimed the bishop. Immediately his cry was taken up by the townsfolk, who, headed by their spiritual leader, poured on to the walkways behind the walls’ crenellations. The dust-cloud, now clearly visible, was suddenly blown aside by a gust of wind, revealing serried ranks of armoured Romans marching beneath their standards, together with a multitude of fair-haired giants armed with spears and shields.

‘Aetius and Theoderic,’ declared Anianus, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘Fall on your knees, good people,’ and give thanks to God for our deliverance. Let this fourteenth day of June be ever noted in the calendar, in commemoration of His favour extended to our city of Aureliani.’

‘Look, they’re going!’ shouted a soldier, pointing to the scattered suburbs beyond the walls. Like a fast-ebbing tide, the Huns were pulling out, leaving their siege-engines behind. Before the van of the relieving force had reached the city gates, the Huns were no more than a dust-cloud in their turn, rolling swiftly east towards the Sequana.

‘They’ve crossed the Sequana, sir,’ announced the scout, pulling up his lathered mount before Aetius.

‘And?’

‘They’re pressing on to the north-east, sir — even faster than before, I’d say.’

Dismissing the man, Aetius allowed himself to hope. Attila had seen the huge size of the force marching against him at Aureliani, not only Romans and Visigoths, but also Franks, Burgundians, Alans, and Aremoricans. Being always as prudent as he was bold, the Hun king had decided to withdraw. Could it be that Attila, daunted by the sheer scale of the alliance his invasion had provoked, had decided to return home?

‘What do you think, Titus?’ he asked his aide, tried and tested in the course of many campaigns. ‘Will he push on to the Rhenus?’

Looking at his commander’s haggard face, etched with lines of strain from holding the Western Empire together, while wearing himself out winning over the federates in Gaul while also countering the hostile machinations of Valentinian, Titus felt a stab of pity. In the same position, Titus would doubtless find himself clutching at any straw. But for Aetius that would be a dangerous luxury. The general was exhausted, utterly drained by coping with demands which would have broken lesser men. Small wonder, then, if he had allowed his judgement to be clouded by a temporary weakness. Suddenly, Titus knew where his duty lay. He must ensure that his master’s mind remained clear and objective, even if it meant destroying any false hopes he might long to cling to.

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ replied Titus gently. ‘That would be unlike Attila. Invading the West is the biggest commitment he’s ever made. He can’t afford to back down; to do so would be to shatter his prestige and thus forfeit his grip on his empire.’

‘But you saw what happened at Aureliani,’ objected Aetius, in a tone bordering on querulous. ‘That was two days ago, and he’s still retreating.’

‘It is not a retreat but a tactical withdrawal, sir. If he’d stayed, he would have been squeezed between our forces and the walls of a hostile city — a worse position would be hard to imagine. If he’d offered battle then, he would have risked defeat in the very heart of Gaul, with no avenue of retreat. Believe me, sir, he’ll stop and face us as soon as he finds ground favourable to himself.’

Aetius shook his head and passed a hand over his face. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he acknowledged with a weary smile. ‘What have I been thinking of?’ He clapped the other on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Titus Valerius — a true Victor to my Julian.¹ “Ground favourable to himself” — that means an extensive, level area, where he can deploy his horse-archers to the best advantage.’ The general’s brow furrowed in thought for a few moments. ‘There’s only one place in this region that fits that description: the Locus Mauriacus — or the Catalaunian Plains, as it’s usually called — huge plains to the south of Durocatalaunum² — that’s a small town about fifty miles north-east of here.’

And so it proved. On the night of 19 June, Attila’s headlong retreat slowed; his rearguard was overtaken by the allies’ van, which led to a bloody clash between the Franks and Gepids. While the confused skirmishing was raging in the moonlight, Aetius, leaving his generals Aegidius and Majorian³ to contain the situation, rode off to reconnoitre the terrain. A risk, but one he felt he had to take. Although he intended making a wide flanking detour to avoid the Hun positions, the chance of encountering outlying hostile pickets couldn’t be discounted.

Dawn disclosed a vast and, at first glance, absolutely level plain stretching away on every side to the limit of his vision. Underfoot, the ground was firm and dry, a circumstance causing the Huns to betray their presence by a great pall of dust rising several miles to the south. Aetius’ heart sank. The Locus Mauriacus was perfect for the manoeuvring of Attila’s cavalry, which would give him a clear advantage over the Roman-led coalition with its comparatively weak horse. Reports put Attila’s force at half a million — surely an over-estimate. But even allowing for exaggeration they could scarcely number less than a hundred thousand. Against which Aetius could field twenty thousand Romans, twenty thousand Visigoths, and perhaps a similar number for all the other allies put together. A maximum of sixty thousand, at best a little more than half the numbers Attila had at his command.

With a sick feeling of despair, Aetius acknowledged a grim fact: unless he could devise a way to neutralize the odds against him, he faced certain defeat. Then, at that stark moment, he noticed something which lifted his spirits from despondency and sent them soaring. His observing of it Bishop Anianus would undoubtedly have ascribed to Divine Providence, Aetius thought irreverently. With a wry chuckle, he wheeled his horse and spurred for the Roman lines.

In a private chamber in the imperial palace of Ravenna, Valentinian, white-faced and shaking, scanned the latest dispatches from Gaul. ‘He gave us his word, Heraclius,’ he cried in a trembling voice to the plump eunuch standing nearby. ‘In his letter to us, Attila swore that his only quarrel was with Rome’s enemy, the Visigoths. But now we learn that all the federates in Gaul, the Ripuarian Franks excepted, have combined against him. What can this mean?’

‘It means, Serenity,’ said Heraclius, the emperor’s favourite, and chief adviser, ‘that Attila has played you false. Deceit is his stock-in-trade, and playing one enemy off against another. I fear his plans of conquest are not limited to Aquitania, but extend no doubt to all of Gaul, perhaps also Italia, and even Hispania.’

‘Why were we not warned?’ wailed Valentinian. ‘We are surrounded by fools and cowards — Aetius especially. He should have foreseen Attila’s intentions and taken steps to counter them. Can he still stop the Huns, do you suppose?’

‘We cannot count on it, Serenity,’ replied the eunuch imperturbably. ‘In that respect, the record of Rome’s Eastern armies is hardly an auspicious precedent.’

‘Then we must prepare to leave!’ exclaimed the emperor. ‘Go at once to Classis, Heraclius. Charter a galley, the fastest you can find, to transport immediately to Constantinople ourself, the Augusta and her daughters, I suppose, and key members of the Council, and as many court servants and imperial guardsmen as can be accommodated.’

‘And also one whose chief concern is Your Serenity’s abiding welfare?’ Heraclius suggested smoothly.

‘Yourself, you mean? Yes, yes, but hurry. Others may well have read the auguries.’

‘It shall be done, Serenity. The vessel will be ready within the hour. But before I go, perhaps I may caution against immediate embarkation.’

‘Why, pray?’ snapped Valentinian

‘Just that supposing Aetius were to prevail against Attila, Serenity, then return to Italy to find the throne vacated. .’ Heraclius shrugged, and spread his hands suggestively.

‘We take your point,’ said Valentinian worriedly, after a pause. ‘Aetius has long striven to undermine us and usurp our power. You think he might be tempted in our absence to usurp the throne itself?’

‘The history of Rome, Serenity, is sadly strewn with examples of ambitious generals seizing the purple — the usurper Iohannes in your infancy, to name but one.’

‘Very well,’ conceded the Emperor reluctantly. ‘Charter the ship, but we shall not sail immediately. If Attila wins, I daresay we’ll get advance warning before he has time to cross the Alpes.’

‘A wise decision, Your Serenity.’

The allied camp near Durocatalaunum [Titus wrote in the Liber Rufinorum], Province of Lugdunensis Senonia, Diocese of the Gauls. The year of the consuls Marcian Augustus and Adelphius, XII Kalends Jul.⁴ First light.

We reached Aureliani just in time. The Huns were already in the suburbs when the Romans and their allies arrived on the scene. Rather than let his army be trapped around the walls of the city, Attila, ever the cautious tactician, abandoned the siege and pulled back across the Sequana. This was a major gain for Aetius, and a setback for Attila: the capture of Aureliani would have given the Huns a strong base from which to launch an offensive against the Visigoths’ homeland, Aquitania.

My admiration for Aetius knows no bounds. On receiving the news that the Visigoths had decided after all to join us, he immediately set about negotiating with the other federates in Gaul, which involved prodigious journeyings and feats of persuasion. The upshot: a huge force, united in fear and hatred of the Huns, has been assembled in an amazingly short time. To the Roman army and their powerful ally the Visigoths have been added large contingents of Alans, Franks, Burgundians, and even Aremoricans (perhaps, late in the day, the last-mentioned realized that rule by Rome is preferable to ‘liberation’ by Attila). How strange, and heartening, to witness Roman soldiers collaborating in the most friendly way with their erstwhile enemies. Our only weak link is Sangiban, King of the Alans, who treacherously tried to betray Aureliani to Attila and switch his allegience to the Huns. Fortunately, the conspiracy was detected and annulled, and Sangiban has now rejoined the fold. But he and his people will need watching.

The federates seem well enough equipped, especially the Franks and Visigoths. All have round shields, and either a spear or several javelins apiece, as well as arms such as knives or throwing-axes. Most still scorn body-armour, but many now have helmets. The wealthier own swords and horses. Whatever our German allies lack in discipline, they more than make up for in courage and resolve. Our own Roman troops are steadier and better trained, although their armour and weapons generally could be in better shape — some are patched up and kept in service long after they should have been scrapped. The trouble is that many of our weapons fabricae, like those at Augusta Treverorum or Lauriacum⁵ which lie within federate or abandoned territory, are no longer in production, while the ones in Gaul that are — as at Durocortorum and Argentorate Stratisburgum⁶ until their recent sacking by Attila, that is — operate on a much-reduced scale because of cut-backs in central funding. Much of our gear now has to come from fabricae in northern Italia, at Cremona, Verona, et cetera. Unaccountably, a few months ago supplies for a time stopped coming from this source. (Aetius suspected the jealousy of Valentinian at work.) However, when Aetius had three managers charged with peculation, resulting in their dismissal and imprisonment, supplies miraculously resumed.

The scale of Attila’s devastation in northern Gaul is truly appalling — far worse than the reports had led us to believe. Most places of any size between the Rhenus and the Sequana have gone up in flames, and indiscriminate massacres have routinely followed the capture of a city. One hears blood-curdling stories of the atrocities committed by his Thuringians: accounts of victims tied between horses and torn apart, or staked down and crushed beneath wagon wheels are chillingly convincing. They have had one positive effect, though: to give an iron edge to the allies’ determination that Attila must be defeated.

Calling in his wings from around Nemetocum and Vesontio⁷ as he retreated from Aureliani, and closely followed by our coalition’s forces, Attila has chosen to make a stand south of the town of Durocatalaunum, where the terrain favours his cavalry. The area is one enormous plain, flat and dreary beyond imagining, its monotony unrelieved except by stands of poplars and winding tributaries of the Matrona river⁸ on which the town stands. We have pitched our tents within sight of Attila’s entrenchments,⁹ after some heavy skirmishing in the night, when our van caught up with some of Attila’s German allies. Everyone expects there will be a great and bloody battle today. Morale is high, though I would say the mood is one of grim resolve rather than excited optimism. Apart from last night, when he went off to scout the lie of the land, Aetius has been everywhere, chatting with the soldiers round their camp fires, briefing leaders, visiting the sick, checking supplies, et cetera. The man’s energy is inexhaustible. Just the sight of his famous battered cuirass and (carefully dis-arrayed) scarf is enough to put new heart into everyone.

Though officially I shall not be fighting, my position as a courier should ensure that I see more of the conflict than most soldiers. I have already made my will and dispatched it to my head steward at the Villa Fortunata with instructions that, should I fall, all my property is to pass to my son, Marcus, now a fine young man studying law at Rome. To him also I bequeath the Liber Rufinorum, our family’s archive, whose compilation I trust he will continue. I have prayed to my God, the Risen Christ, and am at peace. Holding the Chi-Rho amulet given to me all those years ago in the cathedral at Ravenna, I feel that the souls of my dear wife Clothilde and my father Gaius look down on me from Heaven, lending me strength and encouragement against the coming fray.

I close now in haste; Aetius has returned from his scouting expedition and has summoned me.

When he reached the Roman lines after surveying the Catalaunian Plains, Aetius handed his blown horse to a groom and sent a messenger to fetch Titus. Looking round, he could see that Aegidius and Majorian had done a good job of pitching camp, following the night encounter with Attila’s rearguard. Approvingly, he noted the neat rows of the legionaries’ leather tents, with patrolling sentries and even a rough-and-ready ditch and stockade — Trajan would have been proud! Even the federates’ lines, stretching away into the far distance, seemed reasonably well ordered — for German dispositions, anyway. Titus appeared, and Aetius sent him to order the bucinatores to sound Arise, and to request the allied leaders to assemble in the command tent.

Surveying the motley array of German warriors and Roman officers who filed in, Aetius chuckled to himself. What would Hadrian or Constantine have thought, if they could have seen a Roman general solemnly preparing to discuss tactics with fur-clad barbarians?

‘Good morning gentlemen,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I trust you slept well. My apologies if my summons has caused you to delay your breakfasts, but I can assure you there will be plenty of time for that. The Huns are not yet astir, and my guess is that Attila is in no hurry to join battle. Clearly, he got a rude shock when we turned up in strength at Aureliani. He’ll probably play safe and postpone the fighting till late in the day, so that he can fall back under cover of darkness, should that prove necessary. I propose to exploit that. I’ve discovered that there’s high ground behind the Hun position, on their right. If we can occupy the hill while they’re unprepared, that’ll give us an enormous advantage. Torismund’ — he smiled at a fair-haired giant standing beside his father, King Theoderic — ‘does the task appeal to you?’

‘Definitely, sir,’ said the young man eagerly.

‘Excellent. Best be on your way, then. God speed and good luck.

‘Your Majesty,’ said Aetius, turning to Theoderic when Torismund had left to collect his assault force, ‘it is only fitting that the honour of commanding the right wing should fall to yourself.’ The venerable King inclined his head in assent. ‘Then I, together with the Romans and our other allies, apart from the Alans, will take the left.

‘Now, Sangiban,’ he continued, in tones suggesting he was addressing an old and trusted colleague, ‘I have reserved the most important post especially for you; the centre. This is where Attila is most likely to concentrate his main attack, using his best troops, the Huns. Who better than the King of the Alans to match against the King of the Huns?’ Ribald laughter from the Germans and Romans greeted this observation: everyone knew that Sangiban had tried to desert to Attila. The King, whose dark complexion hinted at his Asiatic origins, could only nod unhappily. ‘But don’t worry,’ went on Aetius reassuringly. ‘You’ll have friends on either side, to keep an eye on you.’ More laughter at the thinly veiled threat that, should Sangiban try to repeat his treachery, it would be instantly spotted and punished by those flanking him.

‘Right, I think that’s everything,’ concluded the general. ‘When the fighting starts, it’ll be a straightforward pounding-match, with no opportunity for elaborate tactics, and victory going to the side that doesn’t break. The lines will be so extended that there’ll be no question of the Huns trying their favourite encircling trick. I suggest you let your men eat and sleep their fill for the time being: they’ll fight the better for it. My scouts will keep me informed of what the Huns are doing; I’ll send word when it’s time for us to take up battle positions. Enjoy your breakfasts, gentlemen.’

Surveying the great wall of wagons behind which his forces were deploying, Attila felt unaccountably depressed. This despite the fact that, both tactically and strategically, he had done nothing which could be faulted, and was now in a very strong position. Given the circumstances, his decision to withdraw from Aureliani had been wise, as had his disengagement from Aetius’ Frankish vanguard in the night. The plains where he was encamped were ideal for the deployment of his Hun and Ostrogoth cavalry. His forces greatly outnumbered those of the Romans and their allies. So why was he so low in spirits?

Part of it was sheer weariness. If he defeated Aetius today — and all the signs were that he would — what then? The subjugation of the entire Western Empire, to be followed, perhaps, by an epic contest between himself and Gaiseric for domination of the barbarian world? There would never be an end to it, he thought despairingly. Together with his people, he was locked into a perpetual campaign of bloody conquest, in which war became its own self-fulfilling justification, and forward momentum the only choice. The Hun warriors themselves, he had noted, seemed to share his despondency, probably because of the withdrawal from Aureliani. Lacking the patience and perspective of the Romans, who could rally no matter how many times they were defeated, to his unsophisticated fellow tribesmen retreat and failure must seem like the same coin. Perhaps if they were to receive news of a favourable divination, that would help to restore their morale.

Summoning his shamans, Attila asked them what the immediate future held. After slaughtering two sheep and examining their bones and entrails, the augurs remained ominously silent. Pressed, they confided that the omens predicted Attila’s defeat, whereupon he dismissed them with instructions to keep silent regarding the prophecy. Unconcerned on a personal level, for he was not in general superstitious, Attila decided that the next best thing to an auspicious augury would be to encourage his troops with a rousing speech. His army was so enormous that only those within a limited distance could hope to hear him, but the gist would be relayed back to the others, and the mere sight of their leader addressing them should have the desired effect.

When the vast multitude was assembled, Attila mounted a rostrum erected on a wagon-bed. ‘Faithful Huns, loyal Ostrogoths, intrepid Rugians, bold Sciri and Thuringians, stout Gepids and Herulians, fellow warriors all, today we shall win a great and glorious victory surpassing all our previous feats of arms, against the Romans and their misguided friends. Of those, the Visigoths alone are worthy of our steel. As for the Romans themselves, they pose no threat; weak and timid, they dare not fight like men, but cower in close ranks for comfort, like lobsters in their iron shells. Fight bravely, and your gods will protect you. I myself will throw the first javelin, and the wretch who fails to follow my example is condemned to die. But such a one does not, I think, exist among you. Tell me that I am right.’

A chorus of affirmation grew and swelled, blending at last into a thunderous acclamation by the entire army. When it had died away, he dismissed the host, whose components returned to their stations. His troops’ confidence and fighting spirit were now, Attila judged, fully restored, and his own black mood had lightened somewhat.

As he prepared to return to his tent to snatch a little much-needed rest before the battle, a scout came galloping up. ‘Serious news, Sire,’ he gasped. ‘The Visigoths are about to occupy a hill overlooking our right flank.’

Attila’s mind reeled. What hill? Earlier reports had assured him that the terrain was totally flat and featureless. But these plains were so vast that a lone eminence could easily have been overlooked, especially in the half-light of dawn. He should have surveyed the ground himself, of course; he would have missed nothing of tactical significance. This was what happened when a leader lost his concentration, Attila thought grimly. Within moments he was in the saddle, issuing orders to secure the hill before the Visigoths could take it — even as the feeling grew within him that it was probably too late.

¹ One of Julian’s generals in that Emperor’s Persian campaign, Victor risked censure by wisely advising against a rash attack on the city of Ctesiphon.

² Chalons-sur-Marne.

³ He was West Roman Emperor from 457 until 461, when he was deposed and put to death.

⁴ 20 June 451.

⁵ Trier and Lorch.

⁶ Reims and Strasbourg.

⁷ Arras and Besancon.

⁸ The Marne.

⁹ Still clearly visible in 1851, according to Sir Edward Creasy, in his splendid The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.