Attila:The Scourge of God

destabilizing effect on Litorius. At times he had seemed rashly over-confident, once, for example, leading a scouting-party into an ambush, from which it had extricated itself only with difficulty; at other times he had been cautious to the point of timidity, more than once allowing concentrations of Bagaudae to escape. Quintus hoped that, when faced with the formidable Visigoths, Litorius’ nerves and skill would not desert him.

The army pushed on, past the milestone marking the centre of Gaul and into the plateau of Arvernum:⁵ a strange region of lava deserts and extinct volcanoes shaped like cones or domes, the whole area seamed by valleys of contrasting greenness, which provided welcome fodder for the horses. Where the River Dor⁶ joined the Elaver⁷ the army picked up the Via Rigordana — once a Gallic trackway leading to high summer pastures, now the main Roman road to Nemausus through the Cebenna.⁸

Like a swarm of locusts the host rolled south, past Tigernum Castrum⁹ above a spectacular gorge, then climbed through successive zones of woodland: oaks and chestnuts, birch and beeches, finally a belt of pines debouching on to a series of undulating plateaux spotted with shallow reed-lined lakes and bathed in a strange pearly light. The route then led through an unearthly landscape of volcanic peaks, fantastic humps and spires of black lava looming above wooded gorges and sculpted cliffs, some resembling titanic water-organ pipes. At Revessium¹⁰, where the Via Rigordana crossed the Via Bolena linking the Elaver and upper Liger, the army came in sight of the mighty outrider of the Cebenna. Round and bald, its approaches sprinkled with the rare white groundsel, the mountain’s summit marked the southern limit of Arvernum, and formed the watershed of the Oceanus Atlanticus and Mare Internum¹¹.

The Huns, having had licence to pillage at will in Aremorica, became a serious nuisance in Arvernum. Complaints about their depredations were brought to Litorius almost daily by outraged landowners and magistrates. The local inhabitants — descendants of the fierce and volatile Arverni, whom Julius Caesar had quelled only with difficulty — were not the sort of people to suffer wanton spoliation meekly. Most plaintiffs the Roman commander managed to placate with apologies, promises of reparation, and on occasion compensation from his own purse. One incident however, was to have consequences both immediate and far-reaching.

As the army passed Avitacum, the estate of Senator Avitus — who was fresh from helping Aetius in the Burgundian campaigns — a servant remonstrated with some Huns who were carelessly trampling terraces of vines. Typically, they ignored the man, but when, with misguided courage, he persisted, one of the Huns, displaying an almost casual contempt, drew his sword and killed him. Quintus reported the matter to Litorius who shrugged wearily, remarking, ‘These things happen, Quintus. I can’t be everywhere.’ He sent an aide to fetch a purse of gold and told the man, ‘Take this to the servant’s family with my regrets.’

But the matter did not end there. An hour later, Avitus himself came spurring up and drew rein right in front of Litorius, forcing him to halt. ‘Keep your money, Count,’ he snapped, throwing the purse on the ground. ‘It’s tainted. I’ll provide for my man’s family myself.’ He went with cold anger, ‘Is this how you keep discipline among your troops? If so, small wonder the barbarians despise us.’

‘The Huns are not the easiest of people to control, Senator,’ replied Litorius, flushing.

‘Aetius can manage them. If you cannot, perhaps another should be commanding here. I demand that you point out the guilty man.’

Litorius could hardly refuse. Accordingly, the army was halted and, there being no shortage of witnesses — Romans as well as Huns — the murderer was soon identified. Avitus rode up to him and addressed him briefly in Hunnish, presumably asking if he had killed the servant. The Hun, astride his horse, made no response except to smile insolently.

Suddenly drawing his spatha, Avitus cut at the man, who barely managed to swerve aside, his complacent smirk changing to an astonished scowl. Quickly unsheathing his own sword, he parried a second blow. Wheeling round each other in a display of masterly horsemanship, the two antagonists cut, thrust and parried, their blades ringing and sparking, while the nearest troops watched in delighted fascination. It was soon evident that Avitus was the more skilful swordsman; the fight had lasted only a few minutes when, with an expertly timed feint, he caused the other to open up his guard. In a flash the spatha plunged between the Hun’s ribs. As he slid dying from the saddle, Avitus wheeled his mount without a word, and galloped back the way he had come.

The incident galvanized Litorius. His mood-swings and passivity were replaced by an alert yet calm decisiveness. Suddenly, he seemed to be everywhere at once, inspecting, admonishing, encouraging. Among the Roman troops, discipline and morale which had taken a knock in Aremorica, began to recover; the Huns, clearly impressed by Avitus’ demonstration of Roman authority, caused no further trouble.

After crossing the Cebenna, the army descended upon Provincia: fertile, urbanized, thoroughly Roman. At Nemausus, it swung south-west following the great military road leading to Narbo Martius. Twenty miles from that city, as the army pitched camp for the night on the north bank of the River Rauraris,¹² Litorius sent for his second-in-command. ‘Tomorrow, Quintus, the army rests,’ he said, adding water to wine in a silver mixing- bowl. ‘Not because they need to, but to await the arrival of supply wagons.’

‘Supply wagons?’ repeated Quintus, who had long ago learnt that deferential curiosity could be an aid to advancement.

‘Loaded with flour. The campaign’s Praetorian prefect of supplies has assured me the wagons are scheduled to arrive any day, from state storehouses in the provinces of Viennensis and the First Narbonensis.’

He handed Quintus a brimming goblet. ‘Only Massilian, I’m afraid — best I could get. The plan is this. Those poor devils in Narbo Martius are starving; no food’s got in for months. According to a scout who managed to get through the Gothic lines the other day, they’re on the point of surrendering. If we can get the flour in, that won’t happen and Narbo will be saved. Aetius is on his way from Burgundy; our joint forces will far outnumber the Goths, and they’ll have to raise the siege. However, we can’t afford to wait for Aetius. We must deliver the flour now.’

‘Just one point, sir,’ Quintus said delicately.

Litorius raised his eyebrows.

‘How do we get the flour through the Goths’ entrenchments? With an army the size of ours, they’re bound to get word of our coming and prepare to resist. Also, wagons are slow, cumbrous things, not easy to defend.’

‘You said one point, Quintus,’ Litorius chided gently, recharging their goblets. ‘I make that two.’ Eyes shining with enthusiasm, he began to pace the tent. To answer both: one, the Goths won’t get word of our coming because we’ll approach silently, by night; two, using cavalry we’ll dispense with the wagons to get the flour through — each horseman will carry behind him two sacks of flour. The scout has prepared a sketch-map showing where the enemy lines are weakest; that’s where we’ll strike. Marcus’ men have been primed to guide us in. Well, what do you think?’

‘It’s a brilliant plan sir,’ conceded Quintus, before continuing more dubiously, ‘but risky, if you ask me. Night operations are tricky things — so much can go wrong. Given perfect planning, preparation, and discipline, it could work, I suppose.’

‘It will work,’ affirmed Litorius, adding with a smile, ‘thanks to you.’ He placed a hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘My dear Quintus, I have complete faith in your ability to ensure that those details you’ve just mentioned function smoothly. ‘So you’d best get started. But finish your wine first.’

Wakened by a distant sound, the Goth sentry blearily opened his eyes. Guiltily, he stared about him in the grey half-light at the familiar scene: the tracery of scaffolding surrounding Bishop Rusticus’ half-rebuilt cathedral showing above the great North Gate in Narbo’s walls; the arches of the aqueducts striding above the clumsy earthworks thrown up around the city; the pole of a battering-ram, abandoned after its protective shed had been shattered by rocks dropped from the walls by the defenders; a rickety siege-tower, stuck in the space between the walls and the trenches, its wheels sunk to the axles in the soft ground. The man listened; he could hear it clearly now: a low rumbling like distant thunder, growing steadily louder. Then it dawned on his sleep-fogged brain what it was he was hearing — cavalry! Grabbing the horn suspended by a baldric from his shoulder, he blew a warning blast.

Too late. As the nearest Goths stumbled from their tents and shelters, a tide of mailed Roman horsemen swept up and over the entrenchments, and fell on the besiegers in their path. The fight was short and bloody. Taken by surprise while the bulk of their army still slumbered, the Goths in the path of the Romans fell swiftly to the chopping spathae that rose bright silver in the morning rays, swept down, then rose