Death of an Empire (17 page)

A century of Roman warriors, led by a hard-bitten centurion, marched past the wagons not far from Châlons, giving Myrddion his first close view of their famed discipline. To his surprise, the
legionaries were very dark, very short and surprisingly thickset under the daunting packs they carried on their backs. A rectangular shield was used as the basis for each pack, which consisted of a bedroll, a spade, a water skin, a small supply of food and the usual flint, tinderbox and whetstone. Myrddion marvelled anew at Roman organisation that made each man self-sufficient.

Taken individually, the soldiers rarely stood higher than five foot six inches and many men were much shorter. Their serviceable armour and boiled leather protection was weighty, as were the compact thrusting spear, the narrow dagger and the sword that added considerably to the weight each man carried. Myrddion was puzzled by those swords, which lacked the crosspiece of the tribal weapons, but were longer than the Roman blades he had become familiar with in Britain. When he voiced his surprise at the weaponry, Cadoc shrugged with a soldier’s cynicism.

‘The Romans never waste anything, master, least of all useful weapons. The short sword is probably old-fashioned, given that the Empire has changed, but a weapon is a weapon, and the army won’t throw away a serviceable piece of kit. Why would they have sent new swords to Britain? What does it matter, anyway?’

‘It doesn’t, Cadoc, but I’m curious.’

‘It’ll be the death of you one day, master,’ Cadoc joked.

‘I doubt it, friend. Curiosity has kept me alive more times than I care to count.’

‘They’re runts, master! What good can those men possibly be against the wild Hun cavalry?’ Cadoc asked, his lip curling with disdain. ‘A strong breeze would knock them over.’

‘I’m not so sure, Cadoc. Look at their legs. Solid muscle! Look at the pace they are setting. Judging by the sun, they’ve been marching for five hours at that pace, but they’ve hardly broken a sweat. And they march in formation, eating and drinking on the move. If these
men are any guide, it explains why Caesar was able to muster his legions faster than his enemies.’

‘But they’re so short!’ Cadoc repeated, his voice almost shrill with disbelief.

‘Those swords and spears depend on close contact where height doesn’t matter. The size of those shields is interesting too, for they would cover most of their bodies in a defensive position, while the longer swords give them greater reach. I can see now why the Romans ruled their world.’

‘Well, I’ve yet to be convinced,’ Cadoc replied in a sulky voice, as if Myrddion’s praise for the Romans was somehow a slight on the prowess of the Celts. Myrddion was forced to abandon the conversation with regret.

Summer had come, along with days of sunshine so bright and vivid that Myrddion’s eyes were painful from the glare and the dust that rubbed his eyeballs raw. Ripening grain stalks raised their heads towards the sky and sunflowers followed the daily path of the sun through the skies with large yellow faces that were pregnant with seed in their deep, velvet-black centres. The occasional clusters of cottages were empty of both humans and livestock, leaving the land trapped in an eerie silence.

The Catalaunian Plain was wide and almost completely flat, except for a long ridge whose summit, though not high, dominated the agricultural land below it. Streams crossed the ridge, some dry in the hotter months. As night fell and the allied armies set their cooking fires alight, the vast number of men, almost thirty-thousand in total, created a midnight blanket that was dotted with countless small red flowers of flame.

At a vantage point below the left horn of the ridgeline, the allied kings gathered to hear the Roman general elaborate on his plan of action. None of the kings seriously chose to challenge Aetius for the overall control of the battle that was to come. Square, stolid
and professional, Flavius Aetius radiated the calm, workmanlike confidence of a man who made his living from the trade of death. Moreover, Aetius bore an almost supernatural luck. In the failing years of the Empire and the new prominence of second-rate minds, Aetius flamed like a comet with his brilliance, his intellect and his capacity for lightning-fast strategies that devastated any enemy so foolish as to chance his arm against the Empire’s most successful general.

As he looked up at the ridgeline, Aetius saw, with a lurch in his breast, that the Hun had taken part of the high ground. He pointed to the firefly lights of cooking fires clearly visible on the right horn of the ridge.

‘See? Attila has always had the luck of the chaos-lords and, if I’m honest, the skills to capitalise on any landscape that presents itself when battle is imminent. Look to the north!’ He pointed towards the spot where the Hun’s forces were assembled. ‘That’s Attila’s main encampment over there. He expects us to come roaring onto the plain like tyros and then he’ll loose an attack from the heights against our rear. If we were so foolish as to act impetuously, he’d crack us like lice between his thumbnails.’ Aetius began to curse like a foot soldier. ‘Unfortunately, they beat us to the ridgeline, damn them to the tortures of the gods. But it’s not a disaster for us. Given Attila’s mistake in concentrating on just a part of the heights, we are still in a position to capitalise on his errors.’

He smiled, and turned to face Theodoric. ‘My lord?’

‘Aye, general,’ the king responded, as he stared into the darkness with a secret smile already wreathing his face. ‘What do you require of me?’

‘Oblige me by taking the left horn of the ridge, in silence if possible. We will send a contingent to join you, as will Sangiban and Merovech. The bulk of your cavalry and foot soldiers will wait behind the ridge. Let’s give Attila something to worry about.’
Aetius grinned like a ruffian, exposing worn, yellowed teeth like a sound old horse.

‘As I am ordered to take the ridge, it’s as good as taken,’ King Theodoric agreed softly. ‘But why at night? Would the heights be so advantageous to us, General Aetius?’ In this setting Theodoric stood easily, finally, as a man who appeared comfortable within his own skin. His son, Thorismund, huge and menacing, stood beside him.

‘Yes. A surprise attack, a silent establishment of foot soldiers on the opposing side of the ridge, especially carried out so soon after we arrive on the scene, will be totally unexpected. Attila is not as infallible as his men believe. The Hun will not expect such a tactic, given that neither you nor they like to fight at night. Attila sits in his camp behind the ridge while we stand before it. At dawn, we will engage the Hun on the right horn of the heights, taking them out of the battle’s equation.’

He gazed around at his audience who began to nod in agreement as they digested his plans. ‘Can you do this for me?’

‘Aye!’ The voices of the kings were firm, even the higher voice of Sangiban.

‘Thank you, my friends, for we were born for this moment. May Mithras protect us all!’

‘One moment, Flavius Aetius,’ Sangiban interrupted, and Aetius’s white eyebrows rose interrogatively. ‘Why hasn’t Attila taken the apex of the ridge? In his position, I would have no hesitation in doing so, and I like to know the motives of my enemy before I am fully committed.’

Flavius Aetius smiled silkily and every man present realised that the Sarmatian would pay for his interruption. ‘I’m sure you do, King Sangiban. I also wonder as to his motivation. What do we know about the Hun? Really know?’

‘They like to strike fast and hard on horseback so they can fall
back after inflicting maximum damage without risking harm to themselves,’ Childeric answered carefully, one finger smoothing his moustache.

‘Good, Prince Childeric. Good. The Hun prefers to fight on horseback so, where possible, they leave foot battles to their allies. I believe that a pitched battle on the heights is not part of Attila’s battle plan, and would only slow him down. It is a flaw in his strategy and we can use this weakness in his thinking to our advantage. If we take the high ground, Attila’s numerical advantage is neutralised.’

‘It can’t be that simple,’ Sangiban snapped, his eyes seeking rapidly for an answer that was more complex and satisfying.

‘I can understand Attila’s strategy,’ Theodoric decided. ‘He expects us to come roaring against him after his abortive attack on Aurelianum. He supposes that we will take his retreat there as a victory, and that we will act unwisely in an attempt to finish him off.’

‘Mmm . . . quite possibly,’ Aetius agreed. ‘But do his motives matter? If we have the high ground, we take the initiative from him. War is a game, my lords, and advantage, whether real or imagined, tips the balance in our favour.

‘Tomorrow we can fight from a position of relative strength with the high ground protecting our rear. The legionaries, together with Merovech and Childeric, will nullify Attila’s force on the centre of the plain while Thorismund and King Theodoric control the high ground and engage the Hun forces. We can meet the Hungvari horde with the knowledge that it would be virtually impossible to outflank and surround us. Let these facts be known to your men to give them heart. Tell them also of the healer’s prophecy that we shall win this battle in the field. I put no trust in soothsayers, but I will use anything that gives advantage to our cause.’ The general gazed around the assembled kings. ‘Do you have any further questions?’

The kings were silent for, after all, there was very little left to say.

‘Then let’s be about our business, and may the gods bless our endeavours till we meet again at battle’s end.’

Myrddion watched a contingent of the Salian Franks rise from their cooking fires, mount their horses and fade into the darkness at a walk, leaving their fires to burn throughout the night. His ears strained to hear the sound of a large troop of Visigoth horsemen moving through the darkness, but he could hear nothing except the murmur of other soldiers who remained at their campsites.

‘They’ve taken the time to muffle the hooves of their horses,’ Finn explained unnecessarily. ‘They’re at pains to give no warning of their intentions.’

Later in the evening, as the healers were readying themselves for another night sleeping under the wagons, a messenger arrived to instruct them that they were to assemble the field hospital just beyond the left horn of the ridge. Myrddion protested that late at night was no time to break camp, but the messenger stared at him stolidly and reminded him that General Aetius was in charge and he had made the decision to relocate his healers to a new position.

‘Argue it out with him, if you’re so stupid,’ the man said unemotionally. ‘His plans go far beyond such trivial matters.’

‘Very well, you may inform General Aetius that we will obey his orders,’ Myrddion replied. Vechmar simply grimaced with annoyance. Then, wearily, the two men woke their servants.

Grumbling, unhappy and feeling unappreciated, the healers packed the wagons, harnessed the horses and, using torches made out of heavy branches wrapped with oil-soaked rags, set off for their appointed post. Unexpectedly, Captus and his guard appeared out of the darkness and joined the cavalcade. The tall Frank was unusually silent.

‘I expected that you would be taking part in the battle, not babysitting us,’ Myrddion murmured.

‘So did I, healer. So did I!’

Captus was quietly angry, so he held his nervous horse on a very tight rein. Myrddion could see the silhouette of the captain’s profile by the flaring torchlight. His lips were pressed tightly together and what could be seen of his features expressed disappointment and chagrin.

‘I’m sorry, Captus. As far as we’re concerned, you’re released from your duty to protect us.’

Captus responded by reefing up the head of his horse with a cruel twist of his arms. The beast squealed and stopped dead in its tracks, while Captus glared up at Myrddion on the high seat of his wagon.

‘You lack the power to order me in any capacity, healer. I am Merovech’s man, and he is busy organising a frontal attack while Thorismund takes the ridge that looms so threateningly above us. This peril is but the beginning, for my lord will face the wrath of Attila in the morning. I would serve as the lowliest archer in his army if I were given a choice, but my lord has placed a value on you that is far greater than my honour, or the long loyalty of my troop in his service. Yes, I resent my orders. You have taken more than my tooth, healer, whether it was your intention or not.’

‘So leave then, Captus, because we’ll not inform on you. Your assistance to us has been too valuable for such telltale, unmanly behaviour. Take my hand and good speed to you, for I know how it feels to be parted from your chosen trade.’

Captus’s lips twisted bitterly and he ignored Myrddion’s proffered palm, although the younger man could not take offence because he saw, by the set of the warrior’s shoulders, that Captus was divided between his oath, his duty and his desire to follow his master into battle. No insult was intended on Captus’s part.

‘Truly, Master Myrddion, if I were a man of broken honour, I would grab at your offer with both hands. But I am King Merovech’s man. Should he die on the morrow, his orders would remain between him and me, but I would always know that I had let him down. I am sworn to obey, and I will, but don’t expect me to enjoy my safety.’

‘Something warns me, friend Captus, that no one will know any safety tomorrow, so don’t torture yourself. But if you decide to stay, then work for me willingly or go on your way. In our bloody trade, a half-hearted man is a liability.’

The healers’ wagons moved slowly onwards, but were passed by dim shapes in the darkness as Sangiban and his warriors began to move into position to make the main offensive into the plain. In the darkness, the Visigoths stole like wraiths towards the ridge, or took up positions immediately below it, ready for a quick offensive. These men would sleep after eating dried meat and drinking plain water, without the comfort of a warming fire during the night.

Puzzled, Myrddion looked down the makeshift road and saw the stolid shapes of Aetius’s legions, some climbing, but most massing on the plain, ready to move into the centre of the battle. All combatants avoided clear moonlight until they reached the top of the plateau or the edge of the plain. Only the cavalry, many thousands of them, remained in reserve and these were settling into position along the wings of the ridgeline. Aetius was breaking long-held tactical rules of combat by sending his allies into the field in the dangerous darkness, for warriors were vulnerable on invisible and treacherous ground. Myrddion expected his first casualties before dawn, felled by broken limbs and heads from falls upon the scree-covered slopes. By the light of a fitful moon, he could dimly perceive the central, and highest, point of the ridge that, as yet, had not been taken by either combatant. The healer
wondered if it would be the key to the battle that was to come when light began to stain the dark sky.