down. The open gateway was piled with the slain. It was a mockery of a battle. Other Huns simply sat their horses and waited, grinning and sharpening their knives. They would ride into this stiff-necked, barely defended city in an orderly column. What were the fools thinking of? Yet still they could see them rushing about on their simple walls: middle-aged men, young men and old, armed with fire-irons, butcher’s knives and pitchforks. They could even hear a deep, sonorous voice, a leader of sorts, shouting continual encouragement.
In the church tower, the young priest with the good eyesight kept continual watch on the road south.
Aetius was riding at the front of his column, having just stopped for grain. He summoned Knuckles and Arapovian alongside him. As his close guard, they too were mounted. Arapovian rode with elegance. Knuckles slumped like a sack of turnips, the fast trot jolting him terribly. He disliked horses in general, and the one beneath him in particular. The horse didn’t look too happy either.
‘Give me a donkey over a horse any day,’ he used to say. ‘Donkeys have brains. Horses just have nerves.’
Aetius wanted to know what else they had learned of the Huns in the disaster at Viminacium. Speaking as survivors.
‘They are the finest warriors in the world, man for man,’ said Arapovian bluntly.
Aetius inclined his head noncommitally.
‘They are hunters,’ explained the Armenian, ‘pure hunters. They have spent their lives hunting over the Scythian plains, creeping up unseen and unheard, even unsmelt, on creatures far more sensitive than us – wild horses, saiga antelope, deer. The children begin hunting fieldmice and marmot this way. Beware of any people who are great hunters, you city-dwellers, you townsfolk. You will be hunted next.’
Knuckles added his own more light-hearted observation, somewhat coarse in nature, expressive of his suspicion that they were also far too intimate with their horses – an observation which had Tatullus threatening to clock him for impertinence before his commanding officer.
Aetius reined in sharply and gazed along the road north, his eyes narrowing. ‘Do you see dust?’
‘I’ve been watching it grow for the last half-league or so,’ said Arapovian calmly.
Aetius rounded on him. ‘Well, why didn’t you say, you damn fool?’
Arapovian arched his fine black eyebrows at the master-general. ‘You didn’t ask.’
These two… As good a pair of soldiers as he’d ever had under his command, but they drove him to distraction.
‘Get back in line,’ he growled.
The dust-cloud rose above the horizon. Aetius sent out his fastest scouts to ride north along the hills on their right and report back with all speed. They returned within minutes.
‘Lancers, you say?’
The scouts nodded, their horses foaming with sweat.
‘Easterners?’
The scouts looked hesitant.
‘You’re scouts, damn you!’ roared Tatullus in their startled faces. ‘Didn’t you use your eyes?’
‘I think they were easterners,’ said a scout nervously. ‘They had black moustaches, a lot of them.’
‘Moustaches,’ growled Aetius. ‘We’re planning our campaign around bloody moustaches. You,’ – he glared at the scouts – ‘into line. And bring me better intelligence next time.’
‘Sir!’
Aetius regarded his colleagues.
‘It can only be one thing,’ said Germanus.
‘I agree.’ Aetius looked grim. ‘That moustachioed, yellow-bellied runaway Sangiban fleeing from Aureliana. Which means we know precisely where the enemy is now.’
‘And Aureliana is entirely undefended.’
‘The last milestone said sixteen miles. We’ll be there in two hours. Meanwhile, we must first persuade Sangiban of the error of his ways. Bring up the Moorish Horse!’
In moments the five hundred splendid African cavalrymen had appeared under their commander Victorius, a prince of Mauretania.
‘Take those hills,’ said Aetius, indicating the ridge to the north-east. ‘Don’t trouble about concealment – in fact, make sure you’re seen. There’s a column of Alan lancers coming down the road, and I don’t want them thinking they can turn tail and run. I want them to think they’re surrounded. Yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Moors on their white chargers went coursing away across the meadows and up the low green hills, their white camel-hair cloaks flowing in the wind.
Sangiban cursed in the name of Ahura Mazda the moment he realised there was a column ahead on the road, and cursed again when he gave the order to turn round and one of his commanders pointed out to him that there were more horsemen occupying the ridge all along their left flank and behind.
Sangiban adopted a fixed smile, and rode forward to greet the new arrivals.
The Roman commander cantered out alone to meet him. It was Master-General Aetius. Sangiban had met him before. He cursed a third time, silently, and his fixed smile broadened. They reined in their horses. Aetius’ glance took in the Alan warlord’s eyebrows curved like black scimitars, his flashing, unstable eyes, startlingly blue in his swarthy face, his thin lips and aquiline nose. Behind him, a good proportion of his easterners even had freckled faces and fair hair, which they wore scooped back in gold bands. Some said they were descendants of the army of Alexander the Great. They were handsome devils, right enough. But they were riding the wrong way.
‘Lord Sangiban.’
‘Master-General.’
‘I am glad we met you. You were coming to warn us of the approach of the Huns?’
Sangiban let his smile go at last and nodded gravely. ‘They are besieging Aureliana. We managed to evade destruction by the skin of our teeth, and raced southwards to inform you.’
Aetius’ eyes roved over the elegant Alan horses: no sweat.
It was his turn to smile. ‘Do not fear, our gallant ally Sangiban. You shall yet have your chance to be avenged on your ancient foemen.’
Sangiban looked puzzled. ‘General?’
‘We will put you and your lancers in the thick of the fight.’ The smile vanished. ‘Fall in.’
As he watched the Alan lancers ride past and join the column, Germanus joined him.
‘Three thousand in all?’
‘More or less. Useful.’ Aetius looked after them. ‘Fine fighters when committed. Otherwise, totally untrustworthy. ’ He pushed himself up in his saddle and bellowed back to the column. ‘To Aureliana, riding trot!’
‘The Huns will be inside the city by the time we arrive, sir,’ said Germanus as they moved forward. ‘This will be no cavalry fight.’
Aetius knew what he meant. What did it matter if their horses did arrive tired? This would be hand-to-hand fighting in the streets – if there was any fighting at all left to be done. But Germanus didn’t know the terrain.
‘The Huns will be ranged north and east of the city,’ he said, ‘between the Loire and a low line of hills. Well- wooded hills.’
‘You mean…?’
‘Not enough room for them. Not for an army of two hundred thousand. They’ve got themselves trapped. We want our horses fresh enough to fight, believe me. The people of Aureliana must hold out just a little longer.’
Bishop Ananias turned to his citizen leaders. ‘They’re coming in now. Prepare yourselves.’
He sent word once more to the lookout in the church tower. One last desperate hope. No, the answer came back: still no sign of a relief column.
The Huns came galloping in through the east gate tightly packed, swords and spears at the ready, and found themselves in long, narrow East Street. They surged on, only to find the side streets blockaded by overturned carts, crates, stacked wine barrels, blocks of building stone. Immediately they began to feel trapped and claustrophobic. The houses and churches hemmed them in. This was no terrain for horse-warriors. This was like fighting in a cavern.
The people of the city had vanished into their houses, or maybe underground. The sky overhead had turned a
