Attila:The Scourge of God

recall.

Time to move. Filing into the city through the Aurean Gate would slow the column, as would its exit via the Ariminum Gate. But every second Titus could shave from his journey back to base to deliver his report would gain his commander, General Aetius, precious time to prepare for the battle that now seemed inevitable.

Titus clambered back down through the trapdoor giving access to the roof, and down a ladder to a platform supported by scaffolding, where artisans were finishing a wall mosaic. It showed Christ enthroned on a globe of the world, separating the sheep from the goats at the Day of Judgement. The face was wonderfully depicted, its expression combining tenderness with strength, compassion with power. Momentarily overcome with emotion, Titus knelt before the image and made the sign of the cross. (A pagan for almost all of his young life, Titus had recently converted to the new faith.) Feeling strangely comforted and strengthened, he descended more ladders to the floor. A subdeacon, who had smuggled Titus into the cathedral, was waiting at the foot of the scaffolding. The pair hurried through the vast building with its five naves, fifty-six marble columns, and glorious mosaics glowing blue and gold in the dim light. The cleric unlocked the great double doors.

‘Farewell, my son.’ He pressed into Titus’ hand a Chi-Rho amulet, the crossed Greek letters symbolizing the Christians’ faith. ‘Let Christ and His holy angels have you in their keeping, and may Fortune favour your enterprise.’

From the slight eminence where Aetius had set up his headquarters in front of the Hun encampment, Titus watched the enemy deploy half a mile to his fore. Tinged with fear, excitement churned in his stomach. Aspar had chosen his position well, extending his forces in a triple line on a stretch of comparatively firm ground between swamps so that he could not easily be encircled. Protecting his flanks were the heavy cavalry — catafractarii and clibanarii — with the light cavalry and horse archers forming the centre. Well to the rear were parked the supply wagons. Titus looked behind him to where the Hun riders waited, an impatient, milling horde.

This was going to be exclusively a cavalry battle, he reflected, something virtually unprecedented in Rome’s long history, where until comparatively recently victories had been won by heavily armed legionaries. The transport ships carrying the Eastern infantry from Constantinople had been dispersed by a storm and their commander, Ardaburius, captured. On the Western side, barring a small Roman entourage, Aetius’ force was drawn from his allies beyond the Danube, the Huns. They were mounted archers, probably the most formidable light horsemen the world had ever seen.

Supremely skilled equestrians, whose marksmanship was unrivalled, Aetius’ Huns vastly outnumbered the Eastern cavalry. But, unlike Aspar’s tightly disciplined troops, they hardly constituted an army in the strict sense. None of the tribes making up the force owned allegiance to any of the others. And each warrior fought very much as an individual, totally lacking in loyalty to his fellow tribesmen and motivated solely by plunder and reward. Nevertheless, the Huns made terrible opponents. Nearly fifty years before, they had fallen on the Goths, one of the most warlike of the German tribes, forcing them to seek refuge within the Roman Empire.

After receiving Titus’ report on the strength and movement of the Eastern army, Aetius, then camped a few miles from Ravenna, decided to offer battle to Aspar. Realizing the futility of trying to fight a pitched battle in the swamps surrounding the city, he had moved north-west to less waterlogged terrain.

Accompanied by a knot of officers and tribunes, and, as always, wearing his dented cuirass and carelessly tied scarf, Aetius emerged from the command tent and joined Titus’ group of dispatch riders, scouts, and junior officers. A young man of middle height, the general radiated energy and confidence. He squinted at the sun, which was a quarter of the way through its arc, and shook his head wryly.

‘I’d like to hold things off until the ninth hour at least,’ he declared.¹ ‘We’d have the sun behind us and those lobsters over there would be frying in their armour. But I’d never hold the Huns back that long.’ Smiling, he looked round the circle of faces. ‘So, gentlemen, unless anyone’s got a better plan I suggest we open the games. Bucinator, sound the advance.’

The trumpeter put his lips to the mouthpiece of his circular instrument and blew a series of sonorous blasts. The Hun horsemen trotted forwards: squat, powerfully built men with flat Asiatic faces, dressed in filthy skins and mounted on ugly but tough-looking brutes; each man carried a short recurved bow and densely packed quiver. Titus watched in awe as they flowed round the hillock on which the Romans stood, and rolled across the ground between the armies in an accelerating tide which seemed to extend to the horizon on either hand.

Despite their lack of formal organization, the Huns behaved as though animated by a collective will. In a precise cavalry manoeuvre which equalled anything a crack Roman ala could perform, the riders in the van broke right and left when a hundred paces from the East Roman front, then galloped parallel to the enemy, discharging dense clouds of arrows. Their place was immediately taken by the next wave of archers, so that the scene resolved itself into two vast whirlpools of horsemen revolving in front of the static ranks of Aspar’s cavalry. The expression ‘the sky darkened with arrows’ Titus had previously dismissed as exaggeration. Now he saw that it was true.

After about an hour, the Huns withdrew out of bowshot to breathe their horses, and the results of the encounter could be observed. They were unimpressive. Judging from the windrows of shafts scattered to their fore, the Hun arrows had bounced harmlessly off the armour of the Eastern heavy cavalry. Elsewhere, the barrage seemed to have been mainly absorbed by the centre’s bucklers, which now resembled giant hedgehogs. On Aspar’s side, casualties were light: here and there a fallen horse or rider, with a trickle of wounded filtering back to the field hospital. Lacking armour or shields, the Huns had come off worse, the row of corpses marking the line of their attacking van testimony to the efficacy of the Eastern horse archers. Now, at the start of May, it was still too early in the year for the Huns’ grass-fed horses to be in peak condition, especially as the wetlands of the Po basin yielded scant pasture for fodder. The East Romans, on the other hand, had enough grain in their supply wagons to keep their horses fit and in the field for a long period.

‘This is no good,’ said Aetius, sounding remarkably unperturbed. ‘As long as Aspar holds that formation, we could keep on charging him all day and get nowhere.’ He raised his hands in mock supplication. ‘Ideas, gentlemen. Give me ideas. Well, come on — I’m waiting.’

‘Surely sir,’ volunteered a grizzled duke, ‘if we kept on attacking, we’d wear them down eventually, even if it meant heavy losses on our side. The Huns being so many, you’d scarcely feel the difference.’

‘Brilliant, Marcus, quite brilliant,’ responded Aetius with affectionate sarcasm. He clapped the veteran on the shoulder. ‘Huns aren’t Romans, you old dunderhead. You can’t tell them what to do. They want immediate results, and if they don’t get them they pretty soon lose interest. And then handling them becomes a major problem. We Romans may think of them as ballista-fodder, but I suspect your average Hun takes a rather different view. Their horses are in poor condition, remember. I don’t know how many charges they’ve got left in them; not a lot, I should guess.’ He looked round the group expectantly. ‘Any other suggestions?’

There was a silence, which began to stretch out uncomfortably, when Titus suddenly found himself speaking. ‘If there were only some way to take them in the rear, sir. I know those marshes on their flanks look impenetrable, but if we could find a way through. .?’ He broke off self-consciously, realizing that, as possibly the most junior person present, he might be speaking out of turn. ‘My father pulled off something on those lines at Pollentia,’ he pressed on gamely, ‘against Alaric’s Goths.’

‘And saved the day for Flavius Stilicho, as I recall,’ added Aetius approvingly. ‘Full marks, young Titus. I was about to make the same suggestion. The Huns are at their deadliest when they can outflank an enemy, so it’s definitely worth a try. Right, we’ll make a reconnaissance. Groom, saddle Bucephalus. Titus, Victorinus, mount up. Marcus, keep the Huns in leash till I get back.’

‘Right, let’s head for home,’ Aetius said to his two companions. He dashed sweat from his face. ‘At least we tried.’

Making a wide circuit to the enemy’s right flank, they had managed, with considerable difficulty, to pick a passage through the mosquito-ridden hell of the swamp, eventually emerging on firmer ground several miles to the rear of Aspar’s lines. What had been just feasible for a tiny party was clearly impossible for a large body of horsemen.

‘Sir, look!’ exclaimed Victor, a normally phlegmatic Batavian youth. He pointed to four horsemen in the distance, probably an Eastern scouting-party. Three, judging by their javelins and small round shields, were light horse, while the fourth had no shield and so was probably a heavy cavalrymen to stiffen the patrol. Spotting the