Attila

by Ross Laidlaw

  Calling in his wings from around Nemetocum and Vesontio7 as he retreated from Aureliani, and closely followed by our coalition’s forces, Attila has chosen to make a stand south of the town of Durocatalaunum, where the terrain favours his cavalry. The area is one enormous plain, flat and dreary beyond imagining, its monotony unrelieved except by stands of poplars and winding tributaries of the Matrona river8 on which the town stands. We have pitched our tents within sight of Attila’s entrenchments,9 after some heavy skirmishing in the night, when our van caught up with some of Attila’s German allies. Everyone expects there will be a great and bloody battle today. Morale is high, though I would say the mood is one of grim resolve rather than excited optimism. Apart from last night, when he went off to scout the lie of the land, Aetius has been everywhere, chatting with the soldiers round their camp fires, briefing leaders, visiting the sick, checking supplies, et cetera. The man’s energy is inexhaustible. Just the sight of his famous battered cuirass and (carefully dis-arrayed) scarf is enough to put new heart into everyone.

  Though officially I shall not be fighting, my position as a courier should ensure that I see more of the conflict than most soldiers. I have already made my will and dispatched it to my head steward at the Villa Fortunata with instructions that, should I fall, all my property is to pass to my son, Marcus, now a fine young man studying law at Rome. To him also I bequeath the Liber Rufinorum, our family’s archive, whose compilation I trust he will continue. I have prayed to my God, the Risen Christ, and am at peace. Holding the Chi–Rho amulet given to me all those years ago in the cathedral at Ravenna, I feel that the souls of my dear wife Clothilde and my father Gaius look down on me from Heaven, lending me strength and encouragement against the coming fray.

  I close now in haste; Aetius has returned from his scouting expedition and has summoned me.

  When he reached the Roman lines after surveying the Catalaunian Plains, Aetius handed his blown horse to a groom and sent a messenger to fetch Titus. Looking round, he could see that Aegidius and Majorian had done a good job of pitching camp, following the night encounter with Attila’s rearguard. Approvingly, he noted the neat rows of the legionaries’ leather tents, with patrolling sentries and even a rough-and-ready ditch and stockade – Trajan would have been proud! Even the federates’ lines, stretching away into the far distance, seemed reasonably well ordered – for German dispositions, anyway. Titus appeared, and Aetius sent him to order the bucinatores to sound Arise, and to request the allied leaders to assemble in the command tent.

  Surveying the motley array of German warriors and Roman officers who filed in, Aetius chuckled to himself. What would Hadrian or Constantine have thought, if they could have seen a Roman general solemnly preparing to discuss tactics with fur-clad barbarians?

  ‘Good morning gentlemen,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I trust you slept well. My apologies if my summons has caused you to delay your breakfasts, but I can assure you there will be plenty of time for that. The Huns are not yet astir, and my guess is that Attila is in no hurry to join battle. Clearly, he got a rude shock when we turned up in strength at Aureliani. He’ll probably play safe and postpone the fighting till late in the day, so that he can fall back under cover of darkness, should that prove necessary. I propose to exploit that. I’ve discovered that there’s high ground behind the Hun position, on their right. If we can occupy the hill while they’re unprepared, that’ll give us an enormous advantage. Torismund’ – he smiled at a fair-haired giant standing beside his father, King Theoderic – ‘does the task appeal to you?’

  ‘Definitely, sir,’ said the young man eagerly.

  ‘Excellent. Best be on your way, then. God speed and good luck.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Aetius, turning to Theoderic when Torismund had left to collect his assault force, ‘it is only fitting that the honour of commanding the right wing should fall to yourself.’ The venerable King inclined his head in assent. ‘Then I, together with the Romans and our other allies, apart from the Alans, will take the left.

  ‘Now, Sangiban,’ he continued, in tones suggesting he was addressing an old and trusted colleague, ‘I have reserved the most important post especially for you; the centre. This is where Attila is most likely to concentrate his main attack, using his best troops, the Huns. Who better than the King of the Alans to match against the King of the Huns?’ Ribald laughter from the Germans and Romans greeted this observation: everyone knew that Sangiban had tried to desert to Attila. The King, whose dark complexion hinted at his Asiatic origins, could only nod unhappily. ‘But don’t worry,’ went on Aetius reassuringly. ‘You’ll have friends on either side, to keep an eye on you.’ More laughter at the thinly veiled threat that, should Sangiban try to repeat his treachery, it would be instantly spotted and punished by those flanking him.

  ‘Right, I think that’s everything,’ concluded the general. ‘When the fighting starts, it’ll be a straightforward pounding-match, with no opportunity for elaborate tactics, and victory going to the side that doesn’t break. The lines will be so extended that there’ll be no question of the Huns trying their favourite encircling trick. I suggest you let your men eat and sleep their fill for the time being: they’ll fight the better for it. My scouts will keep me informed of what the Huns are doing; I’ll send word when it’s time for us to take up battle positions. Enjoy your breakfasts, gentlemen.’

  Surveying the great wall of wagons behind which his forces were deploying, Attila felt unaccountably depressed. This despite the fact that, both tactically and strategically, he had done nothing which could be faulted, and was now in a very strong position. Given the circumstances, his decision to withdraw from Aureliani had been wise, as had his disengagement from Aetius’ Frankish vanguard in the night. The plains where he was encamped were ideal for the deployment of his Hun and Ostrogoth cavalry. His forces greatly outnumbered those of the Romans and their allies. So why was he so low in spirits?

  Part of it was sheer weariness. If he defeated Aetius today – and all the signs were that he would – what then? The subjugation of the entire Western Empire, to be followed, perhaps, by an epic contest between himself and Gaiseric for domination of the barbarian world? There would never be an end to it, he thought despairingly. Together with his people, he was locked into a perpetual campaign of bloody conquest, in which war became its own self-fulfilling justification, and forward momentum the only choice. The Hun warriors themselves, he had noted, seemed to share his despondency, probably because of the withdrawal from Aureliani. Lacking the patience and perspective of the Romans, who could rally no matter how many times they were defeated, to his unsophisticated fellow tribesmen retreat and failure must seem like the same coin. Perhaps if they were to receive news of a favourable divination, that would help to restore their morale.

  Summoning his shamans, Attila asked them what the immediate future held. After slaughtering two sheep and examining their bones and entrails, the augurs remained ominously silent. Pressed, they confided that the omens predicted Attila’s defeat, whereupon he dismissed them with instructions to keep silent regarding the prophecy. Unconcerned on a personal level, for he was not in general superstitious, Attila decided that the next best thing to an auspicious augury would be to encourage his troops with a rousing speech. His army was so enormous that only those within a limited distance could hope to hear him, but the gist would be relayed back to the others, and the mere sight of their leader addressing them should have the desired effect.

  When the vast multitude was assembled, Attila mounted a rostrum erected on a wagon-bed. ‘Faithful Huns, loyal Ostrogoths, intrepid Rugians, bold Sciri and Thuringians, stout Gepids and Herulians, fellow warriors all, today we shall win a great and glorious victory surpassing all our previous feats of arms, against the Romans and their misguided friends. Of those, the Visigoths alone are worthy of our steel. As for the Romans themselves, they pose no threat; weak and timid, they dare not fight like men, but cower in close ranks for comfort, like lobsters in t
heir iron shells. Fight bravely, and your gods will protect you. I myself will throw the first javelin, and the wretch who fails to follow my example is condemned to die. But such a one does not, I think, exist among you. Tell me that I am right.’

  A chorus of affirmation grew and swelled, blending at last into a thunderous acclamation by the entire army. When it had died away, he dismissed the host, whose components returned to their stations. His troops’ confidence and fighting spirit were now, Attila judged, fully restored, and his own black mood had lightened somewhat.

  As he prepared to return to his tent to snatch a little much-needed rest before the battle, a scout came galloping up. ‘Serious news, Sire,’ he gasped. ‘The Visigoths are about to occupy a hill overlooking our right flank.’

  Attila’s mind reeled. What hill? Earlier reports had assured him that the terrain was totally flat and featureless. But these plains were so vast that a lone eminence could easily have been overlooked, especially in the half-light of dawn. He should have surveyed the ground himself, of course; he would have missed nothing of tactical significance. This was what happened when a leader lost his concentration, Attila thought grimly. Within moments he was in the saddle, issuing orders to secure the hill before the Visigoths could take it – even as the feeling grew within him that it was probably too late.

  1 One of Julian’s generals in that Emperor’s Persian campaign, Victor risked censure by wisely advising against a rash attack on the city of Ctesiphon.

  2 Chalons-sur-Marne.

  3 He was West Roman Emperor from 457 until 461, when he was deposed and put to death.

  4 20 June 451.

  5 Trier and Lorch.

  6 Reims and Strasbourg.

  7 Arras and Besançon.

  8 The Marne.

  9 Still clearly visible in 1851, according to Sir Edward Creasy, in his splendid The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World.

  FORTY-NINE

  A conflict terrible, hard-fought, bloody, and monstrous

  Jordanes, Gothic History, 551

  Screened by a stand of willows on the banks of the Matrona, Titus watched Torismund’s Visigoths, crouching low, approach the hill on foot, then begin its ascent. They got halfway to the summit before being challenged. Issuing from the Hun camp, a large body of horsemen galloped to the base of the hill, then, dismounting, swarmed up its face on a parallel course to the Germans. But Torismund’s men gained the top well ahead of their pursuers. Turning, the Visigoths charged down upon the Huns with such impetus that the latter were broken and scattered before they could make a stand. Wave after wave of Huns tried to dislodge the Visigoths, only to fall back each time with heavy losses; eventually, further attacks were abandoned. Titus thought Attila must have decided that trying to storm what was virtually an impregnable position was too expensive. Hugging the shelter of the riverside trees, Titus returned to camp to report to Aetius.

  ‘First round to us,’ observed the general. ‘Let’s hope our luck lasts.’ He shot a keen look at his courier. ‘You realize that, potentially, Attila’s got one huge advantage over me.’

  ‘I can’t think what, sir.’

  ‘Your belief in me is touching, Titus. However, there’s no gainsaying that among his followers Attila’s word is absolute, giving him a control over his forces which I can only envy. The Romans apart, I don’t have a real command at all. The federates are here of their own free will, because it’s at last penetrated their thick German skulls that they’ve a lot more to lose by not fighting Attila than by combining against him. They could turn round now and march off, and there wouldn’t be a thing I could do about it.’

  ‘But that’s not going to happen, surely?’

  ‘Let’s hope not. I don’t trust that Sangiban an inch, but I think we’ve managed to contain him. The rest should stay in line – provided nothing happens to upset them.’

  The day, just one short of the longest of the year, wore on: a bright, cloudless day, with just enough breeze to prevent it becoming oppressively hot. The sixth hour passed and the sun began its descent from the meridian; still there was no movement from behind the wagons the Huns had drawn up in front of their entrenchments. Then, at the eighth hour, scouts came galloping up to Aetius’ command tent with the news that Attila was at last beginning to form his order of battle. As Aetius had predicted, the Huns took the centre. On their right were the Rugians, Heruls, Thuringians, Gepids, and those Franks and Burgundians who had not joined the Romans. This right wing was commanded by Ardaric, King of the Gepids. On the left were the Ostrogoths, under the three brothers who jointly ruled the tribe, Walamir, Theodemir, and Widimir.

  While the Huns and their subjects were moving into position, Titus galloped to the federate leaders with orders from the general to take up their posts. Soon, the Catalaunian Plains resembled an ant-hill into which a child has thrust a stick – men swarming everywhere, the armoured ranks of marching Romans contrasting with the loose formations of the federates. The air was filled with the harsh braying of the Goth war-horns, and the sonorous booming of Roman trumpets.

  ‘What now, sir?’ asked Titus, reporting back to Aetius.

  ‘We wait, Titus, we wait,’ replied the general calmly. ‘There’s nothing more that I personally can do. As I’ve said, I don’t control the federates. Everything now depends on whether they stick to the agreed plan. There’s one good omen: my scouts tell me that Attila himself has taken the field at the head of his Huns.’

  ‘And that’s good?’

  ‘Certainly. It shows he’s worried. The one thing Attila never does is take active charge in a battle; he leaves that to his captains. He’s obviously concerned that this time, unless he leads his warriors himself, they may face defeat.’ A look of sadness settled on the general’s face. ‘I never thought to see it happen, Titus,’ he said quietly. ‘Myself and Attila, my oldest and closest friend, taking up arms against each other. A bit like Cain and Abel.’ Then his face cleared, and he said briskly, ‘I want you to join Torismund on his hill. From up there, you’ll have an excellent prospect of the battlefield. If you see anything major developing – a breakthrough by our side or theirs, for example – report back to me.’

  From the summit of the hill, crowded with flaxen-haired warriors, most of them extended on the grass resting or asleep, Titus looked out over the plains. He was awed by the vast extent of the dispositions, which stretched away before him to left and right almost to the limit of his vision: six enormous ragged blocks of men and horses. On his left, the Ostrogoths, faced by their kinsmen on the opposing side, the Visigoths; in the centre, Attila’s Huns opposite Sangiban and his Alans; away to the right, Attila’s other subject tribes, looking across a mile or so of ground at Aetius’ Romans and the remainder of the federate allies.

  For perhaps half an hour, the two great hosts stood motionless as if in silent contemplation of each other, then a mournful blare of horns sounded from Attila’s centre and the Hun cavalry rolled forward, like a swifly spreading stain. The usual manoeuvres followed – successive waves of horsemen advancing, wheeling and retreating, shooting volleys of arrows which looked to Titus like sudden shadows flitting over the ground.

  Anxiously, Sangiban, in the third rank of the Alans, watched the Hun van, led by Attila himself, hurtle towards his front. The ground began to shake as the drumming of half a million hoofs grew to a sustained roar. Now he could see the enemy clearly: squat, powerfully built men with flat Oriental faces, controlling their huge mounts with knees alone as they fitted arrows to the strings of their bows. These were the deadly, recurved, composite weapons that, in conjunction with their horsemanship, had made the Huns the most feared warriors in the world. Sangiban knew that (in theory), so long as infantry kept formation protected by their shields, cavalry would not press home a charge against an array of spear-points. The reason was that, while men can be driven on to self-destructive acts, horses cannot. But would his men hold their line? They knew they shared their King’s disgrace, and were demoralized an
d fearful. It would not take much to make them break.

  Suddenly, with a loud hissing like a nest of angry serpents, the air went dark with arrows. Most thumped into shields or clanged off helmets, but enough found their mark to create gaps in the line – a momentarily lowered shield was all it took for a shaft to pierce a throat or eye.

  When only feet from the Alan line, the Huns wheeled away to right and left, the leading riders weaving back through the open formations to make room for those behind, thus enabling a constant succession of charges to be maintained. The terrifying sight of wave upon wave of fierce horsemen bearing down on them, the pitiless sleet of arrows, and the screams of wounded men, began to take their toll. To Sangiban’s horror, his worst fears were confirmed as, despite their officers’ frantic efforts, the Alan front began to disintegrate. In twos and threes, then groups, the men turned and tried to fight their way back through the ranks to escape that terrible archery.

  Slowly at first, then with accelerating speed, the Alan line buckled and fell back. Panic began to sweep through the ranks, then suddenly the whole Alan formation broke in disorder, became a fleeing mob. Penned like sheep between the Ostrogoths on one flank and the Romans on the other, the struggling fugitives could find no refuge from the unremitting arrow-storm. The retreat became a rout, the rout a massacre, as the Huns swept the shattered remnant of Sangiban’s troops from the field.

  Meanwhile, on the right flank of the allied army, the Visigoths were also under attack from cavalry, that of their Ostrogoth cousins. Brave, with high morale, led by a heroic and respected veteran, unlike the Alans the Visigoths maintained their shield-wall intact against repeated charges. The method was simple but effective, 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.