all, but must be taken far, far away from Rome, beyond the frontier. For in some strange way, as yet unforeseen, they may yet save Rome. Or the spirit of Rome, if not the monuments and the temples and the palaces.’
The general leant forward passionately, his dark eyes blazing afresh. ‘Do your duty, man: take them back to Britain with you.’
‘But I have thirteen years yet to serve, sir, unless I get leave.’
‘You go when you go,’ said Stilicho vaguely. ‘A burden they are, but remember them. Galla fears them, and the Church fears them, and yet I think it need not. For they are things of power if rightly used, and may yet save Rome in some way I cannot foresee. The Books have never been wrong – only wrongly interpreted.’ He sat back and looked suddenly like a weary old man. He passed his big hand across his brow. ‘I could not destroy that last Book. It seems to me that those who start out by burning books end up by burning men.’
The two men sat in eerie silence for a while. The camp outside was all but silent. An owl hooted, the sound carrying through the still, airless night. But within the tent, the two troubled soldiers seemed to feel the wind of the centuries pass by, brushing their very skins like a ghost. They felt both small, and burdened with something far greater than they could comprehend. The end was coming, they knew, but it was not an end whose shape they or any mortal man could see clearly. And it was all the more terrifying for that.
The lieutenant saw in his mind’s eye a woman in a long white robe walking sightlessly through a thick sea-fog towards a cliff edge like the green and windswept headland of Pen Glas, above the beloved Dumnonian valley he called home. He wanted to cry out, but was dumb and helpless, and he saw the woman walking on with a stately dreaminess towards that teetering edge and the black-fanged rocks far below. And he thought that the woman was Clio, the Muse of History herself.
‘You see things.’ It was the general’s voice cutting in sharply.
The lieutenant came back from his reverie with an effort. ‘I… ’
‘Unusual for a soldier.’
‘My… my people in Britain have often been fili, barda – poets and seers and such – as often as they’ve been soldiers.’ Lucius tried to laugh it off. ‘You know what a reputation we Celts have.’
Stilicho made no comment. Instead he said, ‘There’s another thing I want from you.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m sending you back to Rome tomorrow.’
‘But, sir, the Palatine Guard have requested no Frontier Guards within the city precincts. That was why me and my lads were packed off with you to Pavia, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. And we’re up for it, too – crack at the Goths and all that. But I don’t think-’
‘And the whores of Rome beginning to wear your men out too, eh, soldier?’
Lucius grinned. ‘Lads were beginning to say they were a bit exhausted, yes, sir. Said that, after Rome, going back to the Pictish frontier would be a holiday.’
‘Well, the Pictish frontier is abandoned for good,’ said Stilicho grimly. ‘But there are plenty more frontiers still to fight for. The Rhine and the Danube must be held.’
‘Sir.’
‘Anyhow, I am well aware of the tensions between the Palatine Guard and Frontier troops who get stationed back in Rome. But those are my orders, and I am, as the Palatine Guard might need to be reminded from time to time, master-general of all Rome’s armed forces. So never mind those nancy-boys. You and your century will return to Rome tomorrow. I want you to look out for someone for me.’
‘Sir?’
‘Among the hostages there’s one who really matters – for obvious reasons just now. The Hun lad, name of Attila.’
The lieutenant grinned. ‘I’ve met him.’
The general was startled. ‘You have?’
‘It was my squad who brought him in, that night he escaped from the Palatine after cracking the codeword.’
Stilicho stared hard at the lieutenant. ‘That is no coincidence, I feel sure,’ he said quietly. ‘Well, as you may have gathered, there’s something special about the lad. I don’t know what.’
‘Eagle sitting on his shoulder,’ joked the lieutenant. An old proverb.
‘Something like that,’ said the general, almost to himself. ‘The eagle, the storm-bringer.’ Then, more briskly, he said, ‘Anyway, I want you to look out for him. No more escape attempts, of course. But look out for him in other ways, too. We really don’t want to piss off his grandfather, Uldin, at this stage.’
The lieutenant nodded.
‘The boy longs to be home, I know, but I don’t want him running off into the streets again. Far too dangerous, especially given his appetite for a fight. But if ever things changed – circumstances – and you felt he was in more danger in Rome than running free… Do you follow my meaning?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘The Huns – the Huns are not our enemies. They are not empire builders, so they have no reason to be empire destroyers. They neither fear the destruction of their own homeland nor desire that of another, a philosopher once said of them. After all, how could their homeland be destroyed? It is not a city or a country. It is the earth itself. How can you destroy the forests and the plains of Scythia? They don’t want to capture Rome. They want freedom, the wide open plains, pastureland for their horses and their cattle, good hunting. They don’t envy what the Romans have. They don’t want to take up residence in the Palatine, or recline in the Baths of Caracalla with lots of pretty Greek bumboys around to oil them and whatnot. And they will never, ever turn Christian. They will keep to their own religion, and their own kind.’
‘And they’re pretty good warriors, too.’
‘Pretty good?’ echoed the General. ‘I saw them tear into Rhadagastus’ army – who were no school-boys – and demolish them as if they were slaughtering a flock of sheep. God help us if they should ever turn against… ’
There was a heavy silence.
‘It would be like a beast-fight in the arena,’ said the lieutenant, ‘between a bear and a buffalo.’
‘Exactly.’ The general took another glug of wine. ‘It would get messy. But, as I say, I don’t see that it’ll ever happen. As long as we keep on friendly terms with them, there’s no reason to see the Huns as a threat.’
‘I take your meaning, sir.’
‘And the hostage lad is a part of that. So guard him well, and see that no harm comes to him. I’m fond of the lad.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘You have my word.’
8
The following afternoon, when Attila had finally been released from his lessons for the day – Livy, always Livy, and the Glorious Founders of Rome – he ran to the kitchens at the rear of the palace, and took his place at the big, scruffy table where the hostage children usually had their supper. He was the first to arrive. But unusually, as soon as he had taken his seat, Bucco, the big fat Sicilian slave, brought him a bowl of soup and some bread on a wooden trencher.
Attila devoured it: Livy always made him hungry. As soon as it was gone, Bucco was back to refill his bowl. The boy was mystified as to what he might have done to be so royally treated. But when he looked up at Bucco, the slave was looking down at him sadly. Almost… with pity.
‘Bucco?’
‘Little master?’
Attila waved his hand around. ‘Where are the others? Hegemond and Beremond and the rest of them?’
Bucco shifted uneasily and let his eyes drop. At last he said, in a voice that was no more than a whisper, ‘Gone, sir.’
