deacons pray for you in the cathedral, and that smooth-tongued Bishop Sidonius say a mass. And if either Rome or the Huns must triumph, I pray it shall be Rome – of that you may be sure.’
With all his impetuous great-heartedness, he seized Aetius’ hand in his own huge paw. This Roman, his enemy. ‘My brother,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion, ‘one day perhaps, if we do not ride with you, you will ride with us.’
‘It will be a long wait, brother. You know I am a Roman.’
‘I know. You fool.’
At that moment, an almost forgotten figure stepped forward from under the shade of the colonnade. It was young Torismond. Theodoric’s second son, now in his nineteenth year.
‘My lord,’ he interrupted, his voice abrupt with excitement. ‘Father.’
The king turned.
‘Send me. Send Theodoric, your eldest son, and me with a band of men. Let us ride with General Aetius against the Huns.’
Theodoric snorted. ‘I’d rather send puppy-dogs against bison. Get you gone, boy.’
‘My lord, I beseech you-’
Even Aetius was rocked back by the blast of Theodoric’s voice.
Torismond departed.
Aetius said, ‘Your six sons, my lord. Fine lads.’
‘Puppies.’
‘Puppies improve with training.’
Theodoric glared at him.
Aetius rode out at dawn, with the old king’s blessing, and just two mounted Gothic warriors for escort. There was no danger in this quarter of the empire. The sleepy, sun-baked roads of the old province felt like the safe heart of empire now.
The gates of Tolosa opened and the three men rode forth. They had ridden only a few hundred yards down the road when there came a mighty trumpeting from the towers of the city. Aetius and his guards reined in and looked back.
The wooden gates of the city swung slowly open. There rode out into the sunlight, in magnificent array, an army of as many as a thousand Gothic Wolf-Lords in their long red cloaks, their long ashen spears slung low at their horses’ sides. Proud pennants fluttered in the breeze, horses were champing, white horses of the finest Gothic strain, high-fettled and glossy-maned. At the head of the majestic column were two youths, their long fair hair crowned with thin gold crowns, the princes Theodoric and Torismond, Sons of Thunder. Aetius’ heart surged within him.
From the top of the gate-tower, a voice roared over the departing horsemen, ‘Go east and bash the Huns with my blessing, boys! And break their wicked bones for my old heart’s sake!’
The ride back to Rome was peaceful. The news on arrival less so.
‘A punitive expedition?’ repeated Aetius.
‘Absolutely!’ Valentinian was intoxicated at the thought. He beamed at the recalled general, quite forgetting his former mistrust. It didn’t even occur to him who might have recalled Aetius, behind his back and against his orders. He skipped gaily across the room and poured the general a glass of pink Alban wine with his own hand.
The general dismissed the proffered goblet. ‘How long ago?’ he demanded. ‘Where is Empress Galla Placidia? What was the response of Emperor Theodosius in Constantinople? Is Trans-Pannonia not in his jurisdiction?’
‘Flimflam and flibbertigibbet!’ cried Valentinian. ‘Theodosius is no warrior emperor, like Us! And so it was up to Us to deliver the knock-out blow. A short, sharp shock. An entire limb of their people cut off!’
‘An entire…? Your Imperial Excellency, what form did this punitive expedition take exactly? How many were captured?’
‘Captured? None! They were put to the sword like silly, yelping puppies! That taught them! Those barbarians wouldn’t understand anything less. It’s what they do to others.’ Valentinian wagged his finger admonishingly. ‘An eye for an eye, General, and a tooth for a tooth. You won’t be hearing any more from that lot for a while, I can tell you!’
‘Men, women, children…’
‘Vermin, the lot of them! Barbarians, beyond all law and reason! Onions and rancid butter! They must be told. One has to be cruel to be kind. A pre-emptive strike, General Aetius.’ Valentinian was positively bubbling with martial confidence, his pallid cheeks aglow. ‘A few must die so that a far greater number can live. It is in the nature of things, and especially in the nature of war. It is a kind of sacrifice at the Altar of Peace!’
Aetius begged leave to depart, his teeth gritted.
Gone were his plans to take command down at Ostia. Gone were his great ambitions to rebuild the Mediterranean fleet down there at the decaying shipyards, and then to sail for Carthage to retake the African grainfields from the Vandals. Such plans had been burned up as surely as if someone had put a torch to them.
He would be needed elsewhere soon, he and his Gothic Wolf-Lords. They would be needed on quite another frontier.
EPILOGUE
The Crossing
A boy was fishing on a small tributary of the Danube, that great river of ever-changing colours, now a warm and limpid green in the early summer sun. He was not fishing very hard. The river was so beautiful, nature at the full, a peaceful pastoral scene. He trailed his hand in the clear water. Among the reeds, a dabchick was sitting on her floating nest, incubating six neat white eggs. Surely they would hatch soon. The boy wondered if he would see it. Everything was being born today, everything was coming to life. The dabchick’s partner was diving for stickleback. Trout were jumping, and the air was full of waterflies and of butterflies of brilliant yellow and blue. A ladybird was a splash of blood on reedmace close to, spoonbills swept the shallows farther off. House martens were coming down to the river’s edge to pluck up little beakfuls of mud and fly back to build their artful nests under the eaves. Marsh marigolds nodded their great golden heads at the water’s edge. It was such a peaceful scene.
The boy was almost asleep, face turned upwards to the sun, when a kingfisher flashed past in a dazzle of emerald and blue, and he lifted his head. And then he stared, open-mouthed. He might be dreaming – he wished he was. But he felt the wooden boards of the boat hard enough beneath him. He wasn’t dreaming. This was real.
Then he was reaching for the oars and tearing at them in pure panic, whimpering to himself under his breath.
No more than two hundred yards upstream, having already crossed the great Danube, the Hun army was fording this tributary to fall on the town of Margus. There was no numbering them, nor describing the way they looked.
At their head rode Attila, face set like stone. Not far behind him rode the witch Enkhtuya. On a leather thong round her neck hung two small severed hands, and from her saddle, tied by its hair, hung the head of the idiot child, eyes closed and mouth agape.
‘Sir, the Huns have crossed the Danube. They have fallen on Margus Fair.’
‘Very well.’ Aetius nodded and turned away.
All was now ready. It was time to begin.
It was time for the End to begin.
