by Barry Sadler
Casca considered his choice and gave his oath not to interfere. Alaric kept him under close watch for a few days, though Vergix was given complete freedom of movement.
There was nothing Casca could do but wait and watch the events that were coming; he knew there could only be one end at this stage.
It came soon. Alaric took the attempt of the Dalmatians to reach Rome as a breach of faith, and moved on the city again. As winter was on them, he took first the port of Ostia from which all grain had to be shipped by barges up the Tiber. With this single move, he once more had Rome at his mercy and the specter of famine again struck the city.
The gates of Rome were opened to Alaric by those who wished to curry favor for themselves. He occupied the city and proclaimed a senator named Attalus the Emperor, which was rapidly ratified by the Senate. Alaric knew that he could never unite all Italy behind him unless he had an acceptable figurehead, and Attalus was of a respected and noble family.
Things went well enough for a time, but fortune smiled on Honorius, who received reinforcements and gold from Africa through the able hands of Count Heraclian. He broke agreements time and again, violating their truce with Alaric and the fickle population of Rome removed the purple from the shoulders of Attalus.
For the third time, Alaric came to the city, but this time there would be no saving it. The Salerian Gate was opened for him by his agents and the Goths poured into Rome with a vengeance. This time they were to take what they wanted from the city and its people. The only places given protection were those of worship; they were not to be touched.
Casca stood with Alaric and Vergix as the Goths entered the Salerian Gates. He saw the first flame lick up to the night sky. One thousand sixty three years after her founding, Rome was being sacked, a fate she had given to innumerable other cities.
Alaric watched his captive. He understood the emotions going through him. He told Casca sadly, "There is no other way. Rome has to be cleansed that a new order may be founded. I will not kill Rome, only cut off the diseased parts."
A troop of two thousand Vandals poured through the gates which were now in flames. "We do not have much time to speak. I will be needed soon, but understand this. I have long admired the accomplishments of your nation. If I can infuse the vitality of my tribesmen with the culture and knowledge of Rome, there could come a new order which could hold the world together for centuries. But before that can take place, an example has to be made. Rome has to learn to accept and obey. Thousands will die, but that is a small price to pay for what both sides will win if I succeed. Between us we will become one people so powerful, both in arms and knowledge, that no one could ever stand against us. The days of the Roman Republic will be brought back."
Casca took a deep breath and let the air out slowly.
"You know what I say is true, Roman. This day be glad it is I and not the King of the Huns whose men are riding through those gates."
Casca's eyes were stinging both from smoke and emotion as he replied, "I know that what you are saying is true, but still the knowing and the seeing are two different things and it hurts me to watch my city die."
Vergix shifted, uncomfortable at the conversation. His was a simpler mind. He wanted to be in on the looting, but he did not wish to offend his friend.
Alaric signaled for one of his officers to come to him. The Goth saluted with drawn sword.
"Take this man to Ostia. He is to be put on board the first ship out to any port other than one of Italy." He put a leather pouch of coins in Casca's hand. "Go away from me and this place. There is nothing for you here but pain and nothing you can do to help anyone. Perhaps I will succeed in my dream, perhaps not. That is in the hands of fate. All I can do is to follow my wyrd and you can do no less yourself. Go away from me, Roman! You give me too much pain, for I see myself in your eyes and it is not good for a man to look too closely at himself. Go away, Roman, go away."
Casca obeyed and followed after the Gothic officer after saying farewell to Vergix. The two rode away from the flames of Rome. He never looked back. In some ways he hoped Alaric would be successful, but he was a dreamer and dreams seldom come true.
For six days the rape of Rome continued. Nobles found themselves on their knees serving food and drink to Goths and Scythians, watching as the barbarians took their pleasure with their daughters and wives. They could do nothing to protest or to stop it.
Rome had to be taught a hard lesson. Alaric had the fires put out after the first night.. He would not have the city burned to the ground, but all that was in it belonged to his men. They could not be denied their rights a third time.
He had two hundred of his own men beheaded for disobeying him and starting fires. As a rule, the barbarians were merciful when not provoked by resistance. But any who stood between them and what they wanted was silenced in his protests with an ax or sword.
On the seventh day, Alaric gave the order for the plundering to cease. He was obeyed. His wagons were loaded with the spoils of Rome. Gold and silver statues were melted down for easier handling. Furniture and clothing, anything that was of value, was taken and this time the secret hoards of the rich were found when tongues were loosened with red hot irons.
Only one senator lost his life at the hands of a Goth: The rest of the nobility, though treated roughly, were given their lives and ransomed at modest prices.
There was nothing left for the barbarians in Rome. They went back into the country, passing thousands of panic stricken citizens who had fled the city. These they ignored. They already had more spoils than they could count and the few pitiful possessions of the refugees were of no interest to them. Ten thousand slaves were taken with them just to haul the wagons and carry on their backs the wealth of Rome.
Alaric watched it all from his horse. Now perhaps Honorius would be ready to listen to reason and there could be made a new beginning that would benefit them all.
CHAPTER THREE
Dry winds blew clouds of dust skywards. In the pre-dawn light, it looked as if the skies were weeping through a shaded veil of blood. Stretching back farther than the eye could see, the tribes and the nations of the Hun were on the move.
Ch'ing Li kept to the flanks, bypassing the warriors. No one paid him any heed. He was just one man alone and no threat to the power of the Huns. Ch'ing Li, former minister to the Emperor of the Dragon throne of the Eastern Chin, did not look the part he had played for many years as an imperial advisor. Gone were the robes of fine silk and pavilions filled with the softness of beautiful women and the rarest of viands. Gone were the rings of gold and jade as was his seal of office, the Chu hou wang. Now he was wearing only rags covered with filth and dust to protect his thin almost maidenly body from the elements.
But under his robes, carefully wrapped in a covering of oiled waterproof silk, was the key to new fortune and power. There was only one man he could take it to that might understand what it meant and put it and him to use. Attila.
Several times he had been halted by patrols of the King of the Huns, but, as always, when he said he was a messenger from Chin, they permitted him to pass, after a gift of a few coins to prove that he was not a beggar and therefore fair game for their pleasure. When he ran out of coins, he showed them the scroll wrapped in its precious silk.
The Huns were an ignorant people who were still mystified by the fact that words and messages could be made with squiggles on paper. But his manner, though his clothes were poor, was that of one used to power. They let him pass.
Ch'ing Li halted his weary horse on a rise. Shading his eyes with a thin, blue veined hand, he looked to the west. There he could see his goal, a number of tents on high ground with a ring of warriors around them facing outwards, weapons in their hands. Near the tents were set the standards of the Huns. The horse and yak tails of the western and eastern tribes mingled with those of the Alani, whose standards were the skulls of their enemies, set on tall poles.
There were over fifty tall poles around the tents. That meant th
at Attila and his brother, Bleda, were having a meeting with his Toumans, Cur-quans and chieftains. Where the standards were, so were the leaders. He kicked his animal into a half-hearted gallop.
As he neared the ring of armed warriors, he reined his horse to a standstill. Fifty archers had their bows aimed at him, the strings drawn back to their ears. A thick bodied warrior wearing armor made of bone scales came to him.
Ch'ing Li got his first good look at a Cur-quan of the Huns. Harmatta was near the age of fifty though he wasn't sure of his birth date himself. His upper lip was graced with a long wispy mustache. His features looked as if the artist designing him had gotten tired and left the work only half finished. The cheekbones were too high and thick, the nose flattened at the bridge making the nostrils flare out. His face has been seared with hot irons in his infancy, and the nose was flattened at birth by having a band tied over its bridge to spread it out so that the nasal guard of a helmet would better fit him.
In his face Ch'ing Li thought he could barely make out some other bloodlines. The hair under the bell shaped helmet had dirty yellow streaks mixed in with the gray, and the eyes had an off blue cast to them, nearly gray. On his arms were bands of gold set with enough gems to buy a dozen handsome slave girls of Egypt.
When he spoke it was in the tongue of the Kurtigur. Ch'ing Li had planned for this event. When he had first been sent into exile from the courts of Chin, he had been taken to the Jade Gate and thrust out into the wilds. He barely managed to reach the oasis town of Ho t'ien near the great wastes of the Tkla Makan.
There he had stayed, using the small gems he had sewn into the lining of his robes to provide the bare necessities of life. While in that desolate and crude trading post and halfway house for those traveling the Silk Road, he decided upon the course he would take and the necessity of meeting the King of the Huns.
To prepare for this, he purchased, at a very reasonable cost, a slave who knew their tongue. He forced himself to learn the animal guttural sibilants that served the Hun as speech. His slave had died five weeks earlier when they had run short of food and water. His slave was not a good provider; therefore, he was of no use. Ch'ing Li poisoned him, leaving the corpse to dry in the sun of the high desert.
Harmatta spoke again, "What do you wish here, dog? Can you not see this is the camp of Attila?"
Ch'ing Li threw back the cowl of his hooded robe, showing his face. There was no fear in the brown eyes behind their heavy lidded epicanthic folds. Only calm, cold intelligence showed through them.
Harmatta knew this man was not a beggar, neither was he a warrior. Ch'ing Li worked his tongue around the uncomfortable speech of the Huns replying slowly, "I come as a messenger to the Lord Attila, that and no more."
Harmatta spoke again, stepping out of the line of warriors until he was near enough to the stranger to haul him off his horse. "I am Harmatta, Hetman of the Kutrigur and servant to the Master. I will take your message to our Lord."
Ch'ing Li repeated himself in the same manner and tone. "I come as a messenger to the Lord Attila, none other may hear the message I bear."
Harmatta chewed at the end of his mustache. The man was not afraid of him. For one to demand to speak to Attila and no other meant that he must have important information or else he was a fool who wished to have his spirit join those of his ancestors. This little man did not look or sound like a fool.
Others from the compound gathered to hear the conversation. Several enjoyed Harmatta's discomfort in dealing with the imperturbable little weakling. Among them was the elder son of Attila, Arnak, looking like a younger version of Harmatta. Beside him was Ongesh, first adviser to Attila and Master of the Commissary. Both wore armor of the style favored in Constantinople, richly embossed, decorated with designs of silver and gold.
Arnak whispered in Ongesh's ear and the councilor left him to enter the tent of their master. Harmatta was still trying to convince Ch'ing Li to give him some idea as to the content of his message or at least who he had come from, when there came a hush over the compound. Only the guards remained standing on their feet. All others fell to their faces on the dust before the man who had come out of his tent.
Attila, son of Mundzuk, Touman of the Thousand Tribes, was watching them. Nobles and common warriors, heroes and wise men, all fell to their faces in the presence of Attila. Even his own son placed his face to the earth, knowing that not to pay proper respect as did the others could mean that his head would leave his body, depending on the mood of his father. There were no favorites where true power walked.
Harmatta followed suit when he knew that Attila was present. The only one who didn't was Ch'ing Li, who dismounted and walked slowly toward Attila.
Attila pointed at him with an extended forefinger. Ch'ing Li obeyed the unspoken command and did as the others. In the face of the Master of the Huns, he saw his death if he didn't instantly obey. He buried his face in the dry earth, waiting...
Of all the nobles, only Ongesh was permitted to stand in the presence of Attila. A short barking command from him and all were permitted to rise.
Ch'ing Li got back to his feet, standing still. Attila spoke quietly a few words that Ch'ing Li couldn't make out and Harmatta answered, "Lord, this one claims to be a messenger, but…"
His explanation was cut short by Attila's upraised hand. Silence! Attila walked over to them. With every step, Ch'ing Li knew he had chosen correctly to come to this place. If only he could survive the next few minutes. The Master of the Huns exuded raw primal power.
Attila wore none of the riches of his officers, no arm bands of precious gold. No rare gems set in rings of electrum. He wore only a plain, well used sheepskin jacket with the hair to the outside to cover his barrel chest. A wide belt of red copper encircled the thick muscles of his waist. In the belt was a long dagger of plain workmanship.
It was the face that told Ch'ing Li the story. Eyes dark, cold, controlled and very intelligent. He wore his hair in a single scalp lock set on the right side of his head to hang over his shoulder. Ch'ing Li knew the control Attila was showing was of the enforced kind and one not to his nature. There was raw brutal power and violence lying behind the heavy eyelids.
Attila looked him over, missing nothing from foot to crown. He saw everything about the man from Chin. Turning his back he spoke again quietly, every syllable dripping with intensity, "Bring this man to my tent." Attila strode back to his quarters leaving the rest of those outside to heave sighs of relief that none had died.
Ch'ing Li started to follow but was halted by the guards who searched him for weapons, removing even the thin blade he used for eating. One of them found the scroll in its wrapping and started to unroll it. Ch'ing Li snatched it back from the hands of the Hun and nearly lost his life in the doing as a thick sword blade touched his throat.
He was stopped from being killed by a single word from Harmatta who took the scroll from him, looked it over and gave it back.
Ch'ing Li was shaking with relief when they permitted him to enter the tent of Attila. Ongesh stood at the flap to the black felt structure, holding it open. Ch'ing Li hesitated. "What I have is for the ears of Attila alone." He paused, waiting.
Ongesh's face paled a little but then he waved him on inside and closed the flap, remaining outside.
Ch'ing Li remained in the tent for several hours. What went on inside or what Ch'ing Li said to the Master was never known, but when the flap opened, he and Attila came forth. There was a glint in the eyes of Attila that had a hungry look to it.
He raised his voice so all could hear clearly." By my command this man, Ch'ing Li, is to be shown honor. He is given the rank of Cur-quan. He is to be permitted to visit me at any time of the day or night without hindrance. This is my word, let it be done."
Ch'ing Li was taken to a nearby tent and shown inside. The previous owner of it had been told to get out. He only nodded his head, took his weapons and left, leaving all else there for the tent's new master. Losing his tent wasn't important; he
would merely go to Ongesh and be given a new one from the wagons.
In the shade of the black tent, Ch'ing Li let loose of his control. Sitting down on a cushion, his body started shaking with the release of his emotions. He had won! It had been a gamble that he would even be received by the Master of the Huns. It was true that he did come as a messenger, not one from a distant king, but as his own. He bore with him the scroll as his talisman. In it was the secret to power such as the Hun had never dreamed of.
The scroll contained the writings of Sun Tz'u and the collected wisdom of the wars of Chin for over five hundred years. The scroll contained it all tactics and strategy, the manner in which to use your enemy's mind against him, when to move your forces and where to stay and fight. It was all there in Tz'u's The Art of War. With the armies of Attila for tools and he to advise, there would be nothing that could stand in their way.
The armies of Attila would one day help him to gain his revenge on those who had betrayed him, forcing him to leave the court of the Son of Heaven. When he returned, it would be at the head of an army such as the world had never known before. But first they would have to move West. It was there he could gather the wealth and manpower from the nations he would subject, then he would return to the great wall and over it. The scroll of The Art of War was his secret weapon and the Huns would be his sword.