Chanat.’ He gazed out over the field again. ‘Aetius’ day is almost ended,’ and he struck his fist upon his saddle so that his horse harrumphed and shifted.
‘Then let us fight, Great Tanjou. It is time.’
Attila nodded. ‘My order is coming.’
‘General Aetius, sir. War-band approaching from the north.’
Aetius sighed. Another little volunteer force to mess up his lines. He could do without them, frankly. He rode around the back of his lines and skirted the hill.
Across the sunlit farmland came a neat column of, at most, two hundred men, spears to the sky. Aetius’ heart stirred, despite his more rational reservations. Two hundred, coming to fight two hundred thousand. Here was valour.
As they drew nearer he saw the leader of the column, a broad-shouldered fellow with a white beard. He gasped.
The leader reined in and nodded. ‘Master-General Aetius of the Romans. Ciddwmtarth of the western Celts and his knights, at your service.’
Aetius tried to speak but could find no words, could only seize Lucius’ arm in its studded leather vambrace.
The old soldier’s eyes twinkled in his lined face to see this famously stern Roman general so moved. He had a heart after all.
‘Gallant little Britain comes riding to rescue all of Europe from the hand of tyranny and the Hun.’ Lucius’ voice was deep and dry indeed.
Aetius spoke with deep sincerity. ‘You are welcome, friend, welcome. You asked for our aid and got none. Now you come riding to our aid unbidden.’ He shook his head.
Lucius said nothing.
‘Are your people safe while you are gone?’
‘There will be more fighting to be done upon our return,’ said Lucius laconically.
Aetius recovered himself. ‘This will not be forgotten.’ He looked at the man riding behind Lucius: perhaps fifty or so but his hair still dark, his face unlined, his brown eyes observing this exchange with quiet attentiveness. ‘And you. You are…?’
The man nodded. ‘My name is Cadoc, son of Ciddwmtarth.’ And he smiled. Yes, fate was strange.
‘To think,’ Aetius murmured, shaking his head again, ‘to think, there were once four boys who played together on a Scythian plain. A Roman and a Hun, and Greek and Celtic slaves.’
‘ Taken for a slave,’ growled Lucius. ‘Not slave-born.’
‘Not slave-born, no. Nobly born,’ said Aetius quickly.
Lucius harrumphed. Cadoc still smiled. Then he said, ‘The sisters who weave the web weave in many tricks and turnarounds. The Greek boy
…’
‘Orestes. He still rides with Attila, too. The Four Boys. Today we are all together again.’
‘To play together on a wide and windy plain, as of old.’
Aetius could feel his eyes begin to swim. How desperately sad was life. Not boyhood: boyhood was sweetly ignorant. But how sad to grow to manhood. He steadied himself by telling them once more that they were most welcome.
Lucius’ only response was to ask where he and his knights should fight. Aetius said that they might choose. He had no jurisdiction over men of such valour.
‘Very well,’ said Lucius, heeling his horse forward. ‘But first we must speak with Attila.’
‘You…?’
Between the astonished lines of the opposing armies, two men rode out from the Roman lines across the divide between them, walking their horses slowly and unhurriedly. One was a fine old fellow with long white hair, wearing a gold fillet, and a middle-aged, mild-looking fellow followed just behind.
Ready to greet them, the Huns drew back their bows.
The old fellow scanned the Hun lines until he saw who he wanted, and rode straight over to him. Hun bowstrings creaked. The Great Tanjou came forward a little on his pony. The pair stopped. Eyes met fearless eyes.
‘I know you,’ said the King of the Huns.
‘Since you were a boy you have known me,’ said the old man, and his voice was strong and bitter and unafraid.
The Great Tanjou glanced at the other man, then back at the leader.
‘Once I saved your life in the backstreets of Rome,’ said Lucius. ‘Once I saved your life in a vineyard. Once I saved your life on a lonely plateau in the mountains of Italy. My men died rather than hand you over to your enemies.’
‘Who turned out to be Romans, too.’
‘Who turned out to be Romans, too,’ the Celt agreed, almost with impatience. ‘Did I save a boy’s life, only to bring all this’ – he waved his arm wide – ‘this destruction down upon the world?’
‘Eternity’s work!’ snarled Attila. ‘Every man has his burden to bear. You have yours. I have mine.’
Lucius’ voice shook with anger. ‘If ever you owed a man anything, you owed your life to me in those days, Attila. No more than a friendless runaway, you were then.’
The king flinched, stormclouds moving over his ravaged face.
Another man approached: the bald-headed Greek. He regarded the two closely, and then a smile flitted over his habitually expressionless features. ‘Well, well,’ he said softly.
‘This battle,’ demanded Lucius roughly. ‘How many men will die? How many widows will you make?’
‘Many tens of thousands!’ cried Attila. ‘Yet still far fewer than the Romans have made in their twelve hundred years of tyranny. You are a fool to be here, old Lucius. This day will be cruel beyond imagining. But I remember you. Stay here and when the battle is concluded, I may reward you with gold – though doubtless you are too noble of soul to be interested in mere gold.’
Lucius did not honour this with a reply.
Attila’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘Then drop your spears and depart, you and your Celts. No one is interested in you any more, neither I nor Rome. Go back to your miserable, fog-bound island, if you have any sense. You are worthless here. What has your little island kingdom to do with Rome, or Rome with you?’
‘Much,’ said Lucius. ‘Britain may be an island, a sweet green island. But no man is an island.’
Attila leaned forward and spat. ‘For myself, and my People, and this great battle before us,’ he said, ‘the die is cast.’ His lips curled at the bitter allusion, and he added in a low voice: ‘By a King of Kings from Palestine
Two Empires were sown;
By a King of Terror from the East,
Two Empires were o’erthrown.’
The second Celt instantly responded, his voice still quiet but his every word clear: ‘When the wise man keeps his counsel,
The conqueror keeps his crown;
One empire’s birth was Italy,
The other was his own.’
Attila glared at him, jerking his reins up to his chest as if for protection. ‘What is that?’ he rasped. ‘What is that you say?’
Cadoc only smiled politely and said no more.
Instead, Lucius said, ‘He is a remarkable one for poetry, my son. I taught him much – old rhymes, verses, even snatches of ancient prophecy, supposedly!’ He gave a curt laugh, sceptical or ironic, it was impossible to say. ‘And do you know, he remembers every word. It is a gift of my people.’ He looked Attila in the eye, and then Orestes. ‘ Every word. ’
Attila’s horse was restless beneath him, side-stepping, champing at its bit, sensing his agitation. ‘Speak that verse once more. Repeat it to me,’ he rasped. ‘Speak!’ There were stormclouds over his face again, and beside him Orestes, too, seemed strangely perturbed. But father and son had already pulled their horses round and were walking back to the Roman lines.
