Attila:The Scourge of God

provided every warrior kept his nerve — no easy task when confronted by a mass of charging horsemen. Locking his shield with those of his companions on either side, each man planted his right foot forward and fixed his spear-butt firmly in the ground, holding his weapon inclined between his shield and that of the man on his right. Again and again, the Ostrogoth cavalry swept up to the wooden barrier and hurled their javelins, hoping to break the Visigoth line, only to wheel round as their mounts balked in face of the deadly frieze of spear-points.

‘Well done, my heroes!’ shouted the aged Theoderic, his long white locks streaming behind him as he rode along the ranks to encourage his men. ‘Only hold fast, then they can never break us.’ But his courage in exposing himself proved fatal. Arcing through the air, a heavy Ostrogoth angon struck him in the chest and, mortally wounded, he fell from his horse.

Instead of discouraging the Visigoths, however, his death had the opposite effect. Burning for vengeance, they surged forward, no longer a defensive shield-wall, but a charging mass fronted by a bristling hedge of blades. So ferocious and determined was their attack that the Ostrogoths were forced to give ground, retreating stubbornly pace by pace, fighting all the way. Both sides, being Germans, mostly scorned the use of armour or lacked the wealth to own it, which resulted in frightful wounds and a high casualty rate. A spear-thrust in the torso was almost sure to pierce a vital organ, while a blow from a sword could inflict spectacular damage. Pattern-welded, edged with razor-sharp steel, these fearsome weapons — almost exclusively the preserve of nobles — could slice off heads and limbs with ease, and in the right hands cleave a man from skull to crotch.

On the left flank, the Romans waited, silent, motionless: cavalry, consisting of light scouting squadrons, heavier Stablesian vexillationes, and one or two formidably armoured units like the ‘Equites Cataphractarii Ambianenses’; infantry, comprising a few of the old legions still proudly bearing their eagles, now outnumbered by the newer units with their dragon standards — the Celtae et Petulantes, Cornuti et Brachiati, and many others, the red crests of their helmets a vivid contrast to the sombre grey of their mail. Beyond the Romans, the remainder of the German allies stood in loose formation, mainly unarmoured infantry with spears and shields. Their chiefs were mostly mounted, many wearing Spangenhelms and body armour, and armed with swords.

A message-carrier came posting up to Aetius, who was seated on his horse a little way in front of his troops, flanked by his two chief generals, Aegidius and Majorian.

‘Sir, it’s the Alans!’ gasped the messenger. ‘They’re falling back — Attila’s got them on the run!’

‘Splendid,’ said Aetius, smiling enigmatically.

‘They’re falling back, sir.’

‘Thank you, Tribune,’ replied Aetius crisply, ‘I heard you the first time. Off you go now and find out what’s happening on the right wing. Dismissed.’

‘Well, gentlemen, Attila’s taken the bait it would seem,’ Aetius remarked with satisfaction to his two generals. ‘Now to see how well young Torismund can play his part.’

Some time later the galloper returned with news of heavy fighting on the right: the Visigoths were apparently beginning to gain the upper hand.

‘Tell the trumpeters to sound the advance,’ Aetius ordered him. Then, turning to his generals, ‘To your posts, gentlemen.’ He shook each by the hand, then added quietly, ‘May God be with us. Jupiter or Christ? Perhaps it does not matter what we call Him, for surely He has heard our prayers and will grant us victory this day.’

As the last deep notes of the bucinae died away, the whole left wing began to move — infantry in the centre, cavalry on the flanks. Both Roman and German foot advanced in attack formations, cunei, which, despite the name, consisted of broad-fronted columns rather than triangular wedges. Carapaced in armour, legs swinging as one at the regulation marching pace, the Roman columns resembled monstrous metal centipedes. The enemy — Attila’s German subjects other than the Ostrogoths — surged forward to meet the Roman-led wing, chanting their war-cry and banging spear-butts on shields. As the gap between the two forces narrowed, the Roman campidoctores began to call out their ritual training admonitions: ‘Silentium; mandata captate; non vos turbatis; ordinem servate — Silence; obey orders; don’t worry; keep your positions.’

On the command ‘Jacite’, a storm of javelins and lead-weighted darts arced up from the Roman ranks, who then immediately locked shields fore and above, in the ancient but tried and tested testudo formation, to form an impenetrable ‘tortoise-shell’ against which the enemy missiles thudded harmlessly — in contrast to the Roman volley, which took a heavy toll. Then the two sides slammed together with an earth-shaking crash. For a while, the battle swung to and fro, with neither side gaining the advantage. Then slowly, inexorably, the allied forces, stiffened by the steady and disciplined Roman contingents, began to push Ardaric and his Gepids back.

From Torismund’s hill, Titus was able to observe the progress of the battle from the start. In the centre, under relentless pressure from the Huns, he saw Sangiban’s front begin to waver and buckle, and a great concave salient form in the Alan line as Attila’s onslaught started to take effect.

The Ostrogoths were now in action against the Visigoths, while to his right the two wings of the opposing armies were as yet unengaged. Gripped by a dreadful fascination, Titus watched as the battle slowly began to evolve its own patterns and rhythms. In the centre, the Hun advance pressed relentlessly forward, while to the left, after some ferocious fighting, the Ostrogoths were beginning to fall back. Now, on Titus’ right, the Romans and their allies were moving, meeting head-on Attila’s subject Germans under Ardaric. For a time, the outcome of the battle swayed in the balance. Then the two wings of Attila’s force, its weakest sections, began to crumble. With shocking suddenness, they broke, first the left wing then the right, and streamed back in headlong flight, looking like a scatter of moving dots, pursued by the dark clumps of their victorious foes. Around Titus on the hill, the Visigoths formed up at Torismund’s command, and charged downhill to attack Attila’s retreating forces from the rear.

With his wings disintegrating, Attila’s centre — now isolated by its forward momentum against the retreating Alans — was dangerously exposed on both flanks. Suddenly, Titus saw the genius of Aetius’ plan: calculating on the Alans’ expendability, he had ensured that the Huns’ initial success became their downfall. Leaving Torismund and his men to deal with Attila’s broken wings, the other Visigoths and the Romans, together with the other federates, abandoned the pursuit to smash into the Hun centre from either side. So mighty was the impact that Titus could hear, faint with distance, the clash of shields meeting and the ring of steel on steel. Then, guiltily aware that he had allowed events to overtake him, he began to scramble down the slope to where he had left his horse tethered.

Badly mauled, the Huns managed to make it back to their entrenchments where, from behind the wagon- wall, their archery kept their foes at bay, until the coming of darkness caused the allies to withdraw.

Although far from destroyed as a fighting force, Attila’s army had sustained enormous losses, and he knew that he had been soundly beaten — his first defeat. Curiously, the thought did not trouble him — the reverse, in fact. He realized, with a stab of wry astonishment, that his chief feeling was one of relief. No more struggle, no more never-ending demands on his ability as a leader to conquer more and yet more lands, and reward his people with a constant bounty of pastures, gold, and plunder. Life as King of the Huns had become a burden he was ready to lay down. Tomorrow the Romans and their German allies would close in for the kill, like hunters with a bayed lion. But he would cheat them of their greatest prize, himself. For Attila, there would be no captive chains, no exposure to jeering mobs as he was dragged behind a Roman chariot to face a shameful death. No; he would die magnificently, and in a manner befitting a king, so that generations down the ages would recount with awe and admiration how Attila had perished.

He gave orders for a great funeral pyre, consisting of the saddles of his cavalry and his own finest trophies, to be erected within the wagon-walls, and issued instructions to his most trusted captains to set fire to it when the final assault came — as it surely must on the morrow. Then, seated atop the monstrous pyramid, he prepared to wait out the night, his last on earth.

The moon rose, illuminating a stark and dreadful scene. Between the two fields of myriad flickering lights that marked the rival camps, and extending on either hand for as far as he could see, the dead lay strewn in heaps and windrows where they had fallen, for the fighting had ended too late for burial to be possible. Attila cast his mind back over his long and eventful life. He would not dwell with regret on his unfulfilled ambitions for his people; the time for that was past. Instead, he would savour those defining moments when the blood ran high and keen, with the senses at their sharpest — when he faced the challenges that marked great turning-points in his life.

He recalled how, as a boy of ten, he had fought a lynx which had attacked the flock he had been guarding.