Attila:The Scourge of God

Thuringi’s territory, was broken only by the patter of raindrops on the ground, still carpeted in early spring from the autumn’s fall of leaves.

With a cold, controlled fury, Cleph thought of his father’s death last summer at the hands of Gisulf, an arrogant young lout of the local chieftain’s comitatus. Cleph’s father, a kerl or peasant farmer, had remonstrated with Gisulf when the latter had carelessly ridden through his field of standing wheat. Gisulf’s response was to club the older man aside with his spear-butt. The heavy iron cap-spike had connected with his temple, delivering an unintentionally fatal blow. Later, confronting Cleph, Gisulf had tossed a Roman solidus at the lad’s feet.

‘Wergeld, in payment for your father’s life,’ the warrior had declared loftily. ‘A lot more than his man-worth, considering he was only a kerl.’

‘I refuse it,’ replied Cleph, spitting on the gold coin, ‘as is my right.’

Clearly dismissing as an empty threat the implied claim to exact blood-vengeance, Gisulf shrugged and rode on laughing, leaving the solidus glinting in the mud.

But Cleph had been content to bide his time. Over many weeks he had noted Gisulf’s habitual movements, while at the same time allowing the warrior to become lulled into a false sense of security. Of late, Gisulf had taken to keeping a tryst on each Wotan’s-day with a wealthy widow in a nearby hamlet. Cleph knew the route his enemy would take, having trailed him on several occasions, and now from his hiding-place listened for the sound of Gisulf’s approach.

At last it came, muffled by the damp earth of the track: the thud of hooves. Then into the clearing cantered Gisulf, a heavy-set young man mounted on a rawboned destrier. Hefting the angon, Cleph drew back his throwing-arm, waiting for the moment when the other would have just passed level, exposing his broad back as a perfect target.

Suddenly Cleph heard a faint, muffled booming — the moot-horn! This was the prearranged call to arms for all owing allegiance to Etzel,¹, whether Huns or subject Germans, a summons which, issuing from the dread King of the Huns, would brook not the slightest of delays. Instantly lowering the angon, Cleph turned and made off through the trees at his best pace, in the direction of the horn-blast. His vengeance would keep, he told himself. Gisulf was living on borrowed time, which would elapse as soon as campaigning with Etzel should be over.

From the Mare Suevicum to the Danubius, from the Rhenish lands to the Imaus Mons,² wherever the war-horns sounded, men ceased whatever task they were engaged in, and hastened to their local muster. A fisherman casting his nets off the mouth of the Viadua river³ abandoned them and rowed for shore; a shepherd in the Carpates foot-hills left his flocks; a farmer ploughing in a forest clearing in Boiaria⁴ unyoked his oxen and hurried from his field; a fowler in the marshes of the River Vistula laid down his snares unset; a hunter in the Caucasus, about to loose an arrow at an ibex, let down his draw. . Such was the effect of Attila’s huge authority. Obedience, instant, total, was the one inalienable condition he demanded from his subjects, the least infraction of which was punishable by crucifixion or impalement. But his rule could be generous as well as stern: devoted or courageous service often rewarded with a costly gift such as a mail shirt, a jewelled cup, a golden dish.

From every quarter of Attila’s vast realm, rivers of armed men began flowing towards the upper Danubius: Gepid horsemen from the Carpathus foothills, dark-skinned Alans, blue-eyed Sciri and Thuringians, mounted Ostrogoths, above all countless Huns from the limitless steppelands above the Mare Caspium, the Pontus Euxinus, and the lower Danubius. All these, and many other, lesser tribes, who acknowledged Attila as overlord, merged at last into one enormous horde as they converged on the assembly place, the northern shore of Pannonia’s Lake Neusiedler.

When the last contingents had arrived, the great host, headed by Attila himself, clad in a simple coat of skins and carrying no weapon, began to move north-west towards the Belgic provinces of Gaul.

¹ The Germans’ name for Attila.

² The Urals.

³ The Oder.

⁴ The Carpathians; Bavaria.

FORTY-SIX

Very many cities have been destroyed: Aluatica, Metis. . 1

Hydatius, Chronicles, sixth century

Even in March of that fateful year, the consulships of Marcian Augustus and Adelphius, and the one thousand, two hundred and fifth from the founding of Rome,² ice-floes still dotted the Rhenus at its junction with the Nicer.³ On a hill-top overlooking the confluence, Bauto, an Alamann shepherd, drew his cloak more closely around him and scanned his flock with anxious eyes. After such a bitter winter, he would have to be especially vigilant with newborn lambs these next few weeks: the foxes’ hunger would make them bold. Just then his keen eyes picked up something strange, what appeared to be a bank of mist obscuring the foothills of the Wotanwald, whose peaks defined the eastern horizon. Odd, he thought. The day was cold and cloudless; even distant objects stood out sharply. Not a day for mist, that was sure. What was that sound, like a far-off murmuring? Must be the wind. But the murmur grew in volume to a steady reverberation like a roll of drums or rumble of thunder. It seemed to be coming from the mist, which was rapidly getting nearer. In fact it was not mist at all, he realized, but a line of billowing dust-clouds among which sparked and glinted a myriad points of light. It was an army. But an army such as no man had seen before, for surely it could not be numbered in mere thousands, but only in scores, perhaps hundreds of thousands. Bauto watched in awed fascination as the vast host poured through the mountain-passes and rolled in a spreading tide towards the Rhenus. Forgetting his sheep, he turned and began to run downhill with loping strides, to warn the villagers of Mannheim.

‘Attila has no quarrel with the Romans, only with the Visigoths,’ declared Valentinian to Aetius. They were in the reception chamber of the palace of Ravenna’s imperial apartments. The Emperor waved a roll of parchment. ‘He guarantees it in this letter, which expressly states that he wishes to be my friend. My friend,’ he went on in spiteful triumph. ‘He makes no mention of you, Patrician.’

‘This is folly, sir,’ rejoined Aetius wearily; he was unable to bring himself to address Valentinian, whom he despised, as ‘Your Serenity’. ‘Are you so blind that you can’t see what his game is? Divide and rule, or in his case conquer. He’s trying to set the Visigoths against the Romans and vice versa, also you against myself. In your case, he’s obviously succeeding. I imagine Theoderic in Tolosa has also received a letter such as you have there, assuring him that Attila’s only quarrel is with the Romans.’ He pressed on bluntly, ‘I notice you’ve omitted what the letter goes on to say: that Attila insists on his marriage to Honoria taking place, together with a dowry of half the Western Empire — terms which the government has naturally refused. Also that he replace myself as Master of Soldiers in Gaul.’

Valentinian stared at Aetius in astonished fury. ‘How do you know this?’ he shouted. ‘The letter is privy to myself.’

‘I have my sources; the Consistory does not consist entirely of servile fools,’ retorted Aetius. ‘There are some whose priority is to serve Rome, rather than seek advancement by flattering yourself.’

‘Who are these traitors?’ shrieked the Emperor, trembling with rage. ‘I demand their names. I will have them banished — no, executed.’

‘You don’t really expect me to tell you?’ responded Aetius with amused contempt. ‘Some of us have principles, even if you do not.’ Since Placidia’s death less than four months previously, Valentinian’s obsessive fears had increased alarmingly. Whatever her faults and limitations — and they were many — the Empress Mother had