attempt at capture, the little tyke, and got back to his homeland. Sabinus remembered the story vaguely. The boy had been all of ten or twelve when he did it. It was said that the emperor’s mother still remembered him bitterly, still wanted him gone. And somehow or other, that old winebag Ruga had helpfully got rid of him, for a few more hogsheads of cheap wine.
But not for ever, it seemed.
Now he was back, and not a bit mellowed by age, apparently. Frontier intelligence said he’d promptly slaughtered his uncle, then his brother, set the crown on his own head, pulled together a whole horde of disparate tribes out of the godforsaken wilderness, and then led the lot of them back over the Carpathians to the Huns’ old pasturelands north of the Danube. A deliberate provocation. That was when Valentinian had ordered a punitive attack. Theodosius agreed. Idiots, both of them, Valentinian stupid and corrupt, Theodosius just stupid. Their most idiotic failing, to underestimate this thorn in Rome’s side since his boyhood. Now the VIIth itself would have to settle the matter.
As always, it was kings and emperors who ran up the bill and the soldiers who paid it.
Sabinus swallowed a last chunk of bread.
Deep night fell.
Attila. That was his name.
The western sky burned on.
5
In a bowl in the hills, a few dozen stragglers huddled. Six or seven families, children and toddlers, dogs, a goat kid, a single handbarrow laden with household goods, kitchen utensils ill-chosen in panic for saving. They lit no fire. They had heard of the terror visited on Margus, and had fled from Viminacium at dusk. Fled from the wrath to come. At Margus, the rumours said, the savages had slaughtered everyone. Every living thing. Dogs and cats, priests and sheep, babes in arms and ancients in their beds. Blood flowed in the gutters. The earthen backstreets were churned to rust-coloured mud.
One refugee from a farm, his bloody arm wrapped in filthy bandages, had come to Viminacium and spread the news. Some had counselled retreat within the walls of the fortress, but the refugee laughed, a horrible, weak laugh. ‘Not with these ones,’ he said. ‘We’d be no more than live bait to a wolf.’
‘With a whole legion to protect us?’
The refugee shook his head. ‘That legion is finished. History. Poor bastards.’
They fled into the hills.
Now it was a chill summer night, but they lit no fire. The fire of Margus away to the west still burned. It would be their own beloved town of Viminacium next, their houses and homes. Now they had nothing but their own families and a few pots and pans. The people could not even look at each other for sorrow. Above them the pure white stars wheeled. All was silent. They prayed and waited for nothing to happen. Only silence and the night. Please God.
In answer there came a distant rumbling. Horsemen. The pagan horsemen.
Mothers clutched their hands over infant mouths. A man pushed the goat kid roughly to the ground and hauled a bag over its head. The rumbling came closer. Many horsemen. They were ascending into the hills all around. The people looked up at the dark rim of the bowl where they lay hidden, eyes wide with terror. Above them the stars shone down. The moon was behind clouds but the vagabond people were brightly lit by starlight.
And then against the starlit nightsky, dark shapes arose. Horses tramped their forefeet and their nostrils steamed. Their riders pulled up their reins and looked down.
The rim of the bowl filled with the silhouettes of the pagan horsemen, spiky with bows and spears. The people below them, trapped and unarmed, groaned low. Mothers clutched infants to their breasts as if that might save them. Some buried their faces in their cloaks. Very young children began to cry, sensing their parents’ terror.
After an agonising time, the line of horsemen parted and a single figure came riding down the slope towards them. The people’s groans died away and they waited. The horseman stopped beside them. He was naked to the waist even in the cold night. His cheeks were deeply grooved and blue with ritual tattoos. He looked over them. Then he spoke, his voice deep and hoarse.
‘See how your army protects you. See how your emperor loves you.’ He shook his head.
One or two of the refugees dared to look up.
‘The army that did not protect you will be destroyed. Your emperor, too, and his empire, will be destroyed. All that you love, will be – must be – destroyed. It is written. But you.’ He shook his head again, and those who dared to look thought they saw him smile. ‘You I will not destroy. Now go your ways. Flee away south. Or east, west, north, it matters not. But remember: I am coming.’
He pulled his horse round and galloped away up over the rim of the bowl, and in seconds every one of his warriors had vanished after him.
The people stared at each other.
The stars shone down.
In a tent of the Huns, a captive from Margus stood blindfolded with his hands roped behind his back. He wore the close-fitting white gown of a priest of the Church and a wooden chi-rho on his chest.
He felt strong hands seize his blindfold and tear it off.
He blinked.
By firelight and the single torch in the tent he saw several barbarian chieftains. Before him, a half-naked savage wearing his hair in a topknot. Big gold earrings danced against his cheeks. The man’s arms and chest were scarred and tattooed and very strong.
The man smiled and, to the priest’s astonishment, spoke in perfect Latin.
‘You are a Christian priest, yes?’
He nodded.
‘You drink the blood of your god and eat his flesh,’ said a strange little man at the back of the tent.
It was Little Bird the shaman. He shook his head and his beribboned topknot danced. ‘What a barbarian you must be.’
The warlord signalled and another of his warriors raised the tent flap. Seated outside by a low campfire were a woman in a grimy red dress and three children, two girls and a boy.
‘And this is your family? The boy’s name is Theophilus, as is yours.’
The priest swallowed. ‘I do not know them.’
‘And three times Peter denied Christ.’
The priest was even more astonished. A savage who spoke Latin and alluded to Holy Scripture.
‘Even the devils in hell believe in God, and tremble.’ The warlord smiled. It was not a smile to comfort anyone. ‘You are not only a priest, you are a bishop. The Bishop of Margus.’
He shook his head. ‘I, I…’
The warlord reached out and put his big right hand round the priest’s throat. He rested it gently there.
‘Do not lie to me again, or I will squeeze your soul out of your gullet.’
‘He will, you know,’ put in Little Bird helpfully. ‘I’ve seen him do it.’
‘You are the Bishop of Margus, and this is your family. She is your wife, or perhaps your concubine. The children are your seed.’
The priest wept. ‘Mine is the family of Christ. I do not have a family. Leave them be.’
The warlord squeezed, briefly.
After the priest had sucked in air and staggered to his feet again, mopping the tears from his eyes, the warlord recommenced.
‘You know her.’ He raised his voice. ‘She is your concubine, your whore. You disdained to marry her.’
Hearing those words the woman looked up. The warlord glanced back, caught her expression of fury, and
