Attila:The Scourge of God

Phrudis,¹ to join the rest of the general’s cavalry, who had dismounted and were having a scratch breakfast of bucellatum, the hard biscuit carried on campaign as emergency rations. ‘The Franks are all drunk as pigs, snoring their heads off — even the guards. They obviously think there isn’t a Roman soldier within a hundred miles.’ Swinging down from the saddle, he accepted the biscuit and cup of wine that Aetius handed him. ‘Thanks, sir. You know, I think we could take them,’ he said, shooting the general a shrewd glance. ‘We may be only light cavalry, but we’d have the advantage of surprise, and. . Well, let’s just say I don’t think we’ll get another chance as good as this.’ He took a pull at his wine and grinned disarmingly. ‘What do you say, sir? Are you game for it?’

From Constantius’ tone, he might have been suggesting a spot of hare-hunting on his family’s estate in Provincia, thought Aetius with wry amusement. He liked this dashing young man, who had turned up out of the blue one day at Aetius’ camp, with half a dozen tough-looking bucellarii in tow. In a take-itor- leave-it way, he had offered his services, and Aetius had taken him on for a trial period, as a tribune with an acting commission, pending confirmation by the Consistory. Apart from hinting that he was persona non grata in his home district (because of a scandal involving the seduction of a local senator’s wife), Constantius divulged nothing of his background, beyond stating the obvious: that he was from a wealthy family of land-owning aristocrats. Beneath the light-hearted insouciance, there was, Aetius suspected, a tough and self- contained young man, worldly-wise beyond his years. A superb horseman and natural leader, whom the men seemed to take to immediately, Constantius, along with his hard-riding retinue, had soon proved useful.

With fast-moving light cavalry units of the field army, Aetius was endeavouring to discover what the Franks were up to. Officially federates, under King Chlodio they had recently broken out of their assigned territory along the lower Rhenus, and were reported to be pushing west through the province of the Second Belgica, towards the Phrudis. After his scouts had told Aetius that they’d sighted a large party of Franks encamped by the hamlet of Vicus Helena near Nemetacum,² Constantius had volunteered to carry out a solo spying mission on the band in question. Acting alone, he argued, he would be able to get close to the Franks and observe their dispositions in detail.

He had been as good as his word.

‘Strength?’ enquired Aetius.

‘Hard to be exact — their tents and shelters are spread over a wide area. Between five and ten thousand, I’d say.’

‘Distance?’

‘Not much over twenty miles. Flat water-meadows all the way — An easy three hours’ ride.’

‘Is it a war-party?’

‘That wasn’t my impression, sir. Seemed more like a festive outing, like a picnic on a grand scale.’

‘A picnic! Come, Constantius.’

‘No, seriously, sir, it looked as if they’re preparing a big celebration. They’re dressed up in their best outfits; there are several pavilion tents, and the place is crawling with cooks and scullions. And’ — Constantius paused, then went on slowly — ‘this may be significant. There’s one really big, brightly coloured pavilion, flying a flag.’

‘Chlodio?’

Constantius shrugged and smiled. ‘Well, it just might be we’re in luck, sir.’

‘Then what are we waiting for? Get yourself a fresh horse; I’ll pass the order for the bucinator to sound “Saddle up”.’

Theudebert was happy. With a full heart, he looked round the long trestle table at his fellow Franks: resplendent in their best and brightest tunics, close-fitting like their trousers; some wearing gold arm-rings or neck-torques, gifts from King Chlodio for loyal service or outstanding courage. He himself, in recognition of his years and many valorous deeds when of fighting age, was seated only three places from the King’s right hand. The old days were coming back, he thought, his eyes misting with nostalgia as his mind drifted back nearly sixty years to when he was a young warrior.

They were good days, days of fighting and feasting, of hunting and adventure. In his first battle — against the Alamanni, when he was sixteen — he had possessed only a shield and spear. That day, he had killed his first man and taken his fine Spangenhelm, complete with cheek-pieces and ring-mail neck-guard. Then, as the years passed and his fame and prowess as a warrior grew, he had acquired other gear: a francisca or throwing-axe, a mail shirt, a horse, a lance, and, best of all, a pattern-welded sword of finest iron edged with steel, the gift of King Marcomir.

Then Stilicho, the Vandal who led Rome’s armies, had come down the Rhenus and wooed the Franks with fair words, persuading them to become allies, foederati of Rome, in exchange for a strip of land on the Roman side of the river. Land which the Franks could have taken anyway, so weak had Rome become, the old warrior thought in disgust. And much good had taking the foedus done his people. True to their promise, the Franks had fought valiantly but in vain, to stem the flood of Vandals, Suevi, and Burgundians that had poured across the frozen Rhenus and into Gaul. They had lost many fine warriors, but, what was worse, were then expected, under the terms of the foedus, to settle down and till the soil as peaceful farmers, a shameful thing for proud warriors, an occupation fit only for women and weaklings.

But now, King Chlodio, like a true Frank, had gathered around him a mighty comitatus, a sworn following of adventurous young men, and had led his people out of their assigned territory in the Second Germania, and into Roman Gaul. Ah, the glorious days of fighting and plunder that had followed! Swords which had grown rusty in their scabbards had drunk blood again. Tornacum and Cambracum³ had fallen to their warriors, yielding a rich harvest of gold and silver vessels, glass bowls, hoards of solidi. . He had been too old to fight himself, of course, but he had shared in the glory of his sons, who had presented him with jewelled cups, and — his most prized possession — a wonderful drinking-horn of clearest glass.

To celebrate his victories and the marriage of his son, the king was holding this splendid feast, the tables spread in the shelter of a hill, along the banks of a pleasant stream. A young scullion offered Theudebert wine; he sent the lad for ale to fill his drinking-horn. Wine was for women and Romans, he thought scornfully, as he reached to carve himself a slice of venison from the haunch further down the table. Ale was the only fit drink for a warrior.

Suddenly, a mass of horsemen in Roman helmets appeared as if from nowhere and swept along the rows of tables, overturning them and slashing at the guests. With their weapons put aside out of respect for the occasion, the Franks fought back bravely with anything to hand — knives, struts wrenched from trestles, even jugs and trenchers. Grabbing a spit, old Theudebert hurled it like a lance at a charging cavalryman, saw the wicked point pierce the soldier’s eye and emerge from the back of his skull, between the helmet rim and the lacings of the neck- guard. As the man toppled from the saddle, another horseman cut at the Frank; the spatha bit deep into Theudebert’s neck, severing the carotid artery, which spouted blood in scarlet jets. In his last moments of consciousness, the old man’s thin veneer of Christianity, scarcely two generations deep, slipped away. This day I shall feast with fellow warriors in Valhalla, he thought joyfully, for I will have died in battle.

The fight was soon over. To avoid further slaughter of his comitatus, who would fight to the death to defend their liege lord, King Chlodio raised his hands in surrender, calling on his men to do the same.

Helmet under arm, Aetius stepped forward and addressed the king. ‘In view of your people’s record of loyal service to Rome, Chlodio, I am prepared — this once — to offer you the foedus a second time. Will you take it?’

Chlodio, a tall, impressive figure with long fair hair, dressed in white tunic and hose with a green cloak, looked the general up and down with an air of calm insolence. ‘Your terms, Roman?’

Aetius shook his head in reluctant admiration of the Frank’s coolness. He recalled that in virtually identical circumstances the first Valentinian had burst a blood-vessel and died. ‘You’re hardly in a position to bargain, Chlodio,’ he answered mildly, ‘as I think you realize. My terms are these. Withdraw all your people beyond the Scaldis.⁴ That river, together with the Mosa,⁵ will henceforth be the boundary between the Franks and the Romans. Should any Frank be found without authorization west of that line, or south of