earthen fighting-platform behind, it presented a formidable barrier. Its main weakness was that its perimeter was too extensive for his scant force to guard effectively. The best he could do would be to concentrate his defenders at whatever points came under attack. A simple system of horn-blast signals to control basic movements had been worked out and rehearsed. Fingering the Chi-Rho amulet the subdeacon in Ravenna Cathedral had given him all those years ago, he offered up a prayer to God.
Titus started. At the edge of the forest where, moments before, there had only been a distant line of trees, a fringe of riders had materialized. About two hundred strong, they began to advance at a slow trot across the intervening fields. As they drew nearer, Titus began to make out details: stocky powerful men on big ill-conformed mounts; the yellowish skins, slitted deep-sunk eyes, and flat beardless faces of the riders, all of whom were armed with bows. These were not Romans, they were Huns.
‘Keep close to the fence!’ shouted Titus, and the warning was passed around the ring of defenders. The Huns, increasing their pace to a canter, then a gallop, fanned out to form an extended line, then, wheeling, began to race round the palisade, discharging arrows in a high trajectory so that they fell close behind the barrier. But, by following Titus’ advice and keeping their bodies pressed close against the wall of stakes, the defenders escaped injury. All save one who, rashly raising his head above the parapet, took an arrow in the throat and fell back, fatally wounded.
Their initial foray completed, the Huns regrouped, then split into several parties which positioned themselves at various points around the fence. Ordering his defenders to assemble opposite these concentrations, Titus, with his own detachment, anxiously watched the nearest group of Huns. Half rode forward whirling noosed ropes round their heads, the rest drawing their bows to give covering fire. The ropes snaked out and several running nooses fell over the tops of two adjoining posts in the palisade; the tough hide ropes tautened as the Huns’ mounts backed. With several horses pulling against each post, they were subjected to tremendous strain, which must eventually uproot them.
From the piles assembled at various points along the fighting-platform, Titus and his men hurled volleys of stones at the ropers — dangerous work, for even momentary exposure above the fence attracted a salvo of arrows. Nevertheless, they succeeded for a while in keeping the Huns at bay, some slashing at the ropes, while others discouraged fresh attempts to noose the posts, by maintaining a barrage of stones. But when five of his men had been shot dead and three wounded, Titus realized that the position had become untenable, and ordered the signal blown for a retreat to the meeting-house. Carrying their wounded, the defenders streamed back to the great hut and joined the women and children inside. The leather flap which served as a door was now removed. It would hardly deter an assault, merely hinder observation by the defenders.
To carry the building, the Huns would have to dismount and try to force the doorway. Choosing ten of the strongest men, Titus waited with them against the wall on either side of the doorway. Through the entrance, he watched the Huns make short work of breaching the palisade, then assemble close in front of the meeting- house.
A knot of dismounted Huns with drawn swords suddenly rushed the doorway. Titus ceased to be aware of anything except what was happening immediately in front of him. A barrel-chested Hun came at him, swinging a vicious cut at his head. Titus blocked the sword with his billhook, felt a numbing shock as his arm absorbed the impact. The man was pushed up against Titus as more Huns pressed in from behind, preventing either man from wielding his weapon. A rancid stench from the man’s unwashed body and filthy skin garments filled Titus’ nostrils; glittering with ferocity and malice, the Hun’s deep-set black eyes glared into his. Knowing it was risky, but that it was the only way he could gain an advantage, Titus leapt back, creating a gap between himself and his adversary. The man stumbled forward, tried to parry Titus’ billhook. Too late; the bill’s vicious blade slashed down, sinking deep into the angle between the man’s neck and shoulder. Bright arterial blood fountained from the wound, and the man sank to the ground.
Filled with a kind of battle-madness, Titus swung and hacked with the bill at the press of Huns pushing through the entrance. A truly fearsome close-quarters weapon — more than a match for a sword — the billhook cleared a bloody path in front of Titus. . Suddenly there were no more Huns, and he was standing gasping in the doorway beside the five other survivors of the attack, all wounded, some severely. Looking down, Titus saw that he had a deep gash in his thigh, besides several cuts. Dead and dying Huns littered the entrance — testimony to German courage and fighting ability, even among old men too advanced in years to join the host.
The graybeard who had originally questioned his authority, nodded approvingly at Titus. ‘You did well — for a Roman,’ he grunted.
The dying Huns were dispatched, while the women attended to the injuries of the Burgundian wounded, and replacements were chosen to make up the numbers defending the doorway. Two more Hun attacks were beaten back, each time with the loss of several defenders. With a sinking heart, Titus, himself now weakening from loss of blood, realized that arithmetic was in the Huns’ favour and that, if the attacks continued, the Huns must soon storm the meeting-house.
But the Huns, no doubt unwilling to expend more lives than necessary, resorted to a different tactic. Fire- arrows were shot high in the air, to fall vertically on to the thatched roof. This, despite having already been liberally doused with water, began to smoulder in several places. As smoke began to curl down from the rafters, a chain of vessels containing water was passed up a ladder through a gap in the thatch, to a volunteer on the roof. Flames started to break out in the smoking patches, to be doused by the brave fire-fighter. However, he was soon picked off by Hun archers who climbed on to the roofs of nearby huts. Another volunteer barely made it to the roof before suffering the same fate. By now the thatch was ablaze in so many places that any further attempts to extinguish the fire were clearly doomed. The hut filled with choking smoke and blazing thatch began to fall inside, leaving the villagers with no alternative but to leave the building and sell their lives as dearly as possible.
Resolving that they should all die together, Titus looked around in the smoke and confusion for his wife and son. As, with a swelling heart, he called Clothilde’s name, a roof beam collapsed in a shower of sparks and lumps of blazing thatch.
‘Titus!’ An agonized cry from Clothilde enabled him to locate her — pinned beneath the blazing roof beam, which Marcus was flailing at with his tunic in an attempt to beat out the flames. Titus joined the boy in his efforts and in a few moments they succeeded. With Marcus doing his best to assist, Titus strained to lift the massive timber; but to no avail. Desperately, he shouted for help — then realized that, apart from the three of them, the hut was empty. Screams and shouts from outside cut through the roar and crackle of the flames, as the villagers died, skewered by Hun arrows.
Then, above the din of slaughter and conflagration, there sounded a trumpet call, high, clear, and piercing. The unmistakable sound of The
Two men entered the hut. For a moment, Titus’ heart leapt; then he saw that they were not Romans but Huns. One rushed at Titus while the other advanced on Marcus with sword upraised. With a cry of anguish, Titus flung himself at his son’s assailant, dimly aware as he did so of a third figure entering the hut. Then a blinding flash exploded in his skull and blackness overwhelmed him.
Titus opened his eyes, and was aware of a dull, thumping pain in his head. He was lying in a cot, one of a long row inside a tent; most of the beds’ occupants were bandaged. For a few moments he struggled to recall the past; then memory came flooding back — the Hun attack on the village, the desperate last stand in the meeting- house, Clothilde trapped beneath a roof beam in the burning hut. . He sat up, ignoring the shaft of agony that shot through his head, called desperately to a passing
The man hurried over, glanced at the disc suspended round Titus’ neck. ‘Titus Valerius Rufinus?’ Titus nodded, and the man went on, ‘You’re in an army hospital near Argentorate Stratisburgum. There’s someone wants to see you; asked to be informed the moment you came to.’ And he hurried off, returning a short time later accompanied by a man in general’s uniform. A familiar, stylishly distressed uniform — that carelessly tied neckcloth and battered cuirass. It was Aetius! The general’s hair was now streaked with silver, Titus noted, his face deeply etched with lines which had not been there at their last meeting.
‘General, Clothilde and Marcus? Can you tell me what happened to them?’
Aetius knelt by the cot and clasped Titus’ hand. ‘Your son is safe,’ he said. ‘He’s being cared for by a local German family. They’ll be bringing him to see you.’ Aetius paused, then continued in tones of quiet compassion.
