The Sword of Attila

by David Gibbins

  Flavius looked from side to side. The cavalry were cantering behind the infantry, ready to gallop into the melee or around the flanks. To have sent them forward on a headlong charge would have been to risk their arrival on the ridge exhausted and in full view of the Hun archers who might by then be ranged up on the other side. Attila had clearly decided the same, to keep his cavalry in reserve, knowing that his mounted archers in particular were too valuable to send ahead up the ridge, sitting targets in that moment of uncertainty as they saw that there was no cavalry charge from the Romans to counter and only an enormous wave of infantry advancing towards them. As he ran forward, Flavius felt his mouth go dry, the sign of fear and adrenalin that he had first experienced before Carthage. The Battle of the Catalaunian Plains was to be a clash of foot soldiers, battle of the most brutal kind, thousands of men surging together and fighting with sword and club and fists for possession of that ridge and control of the battlefield.

  Immediately to Flavius’ right the left flank of the Visigoth army was advancing under Radagaisus and Thiudimer, with Theodoric and Thorismud out of sight several stades further south, where the main thrust of Ardaric’s Gepids was expected. One man, a Roman milites who had boldly run forward behind Aetius but then baulked, overwhelmed perhaps by the enormity of the army behind him and his own visibility in front of it, was weaving and staggering and straying too far to the right, ahead of the Visigoth lines; he suddenly fell to his knees and dropped his weapon, clapping his hands to his ears and curling up in a ball on the ground. Radagaisus strode up to him, his face contorted with rage, then picked the man up by his hair and lopped his head off with a single stroke of his sword, turning and holding it high so his men could see. ‘This is what happens to cowards,’ he bellowed, hurling the head in the direction of the ridge, gobs of blood flicking out around it.

  Aetius was too far ahead and too intent on the ridge to have witnessed the event, but even if he had done so, Flavius knew that he would not have tried to stop it; keeping up the momentum was all that mattered now. For first blood in a battle to be a disciplinary act on your own side was not necessarily a bad omen, as it was something that could stiffen the resolve of the soldiers who followed, but in the circumstances of this alliance, a Goth leader executing a Roman soldier in full view of the army could be seen as an act of lethal provocation, something that could lead to total disintegration of the line as the man’s comrades sought vengeance by attacking the Visigoths. Fortunately the event seemed to have been forgotten as quickly as it had been played out and the man’s body was trampled and left far behind beneath the advancing army. Flavius himself knew that Radagaisus would have had no intention of being provocative, and would undoubtedly have done the same to one of his own men if he had shown hesitation or gone to pieces, probably dealing with him with more savagery and fury than he had inflicted on the Roman.

  The ridge was no more than three hundred paces ahead now. Flavius was panting hard, the sweat pouring off his face, his heart beating like a drum. The dry ground beneath the wheat shuddered and vibrated with the pounding of thousands of armour-clad men running up the slope. Everything in the past, all of the planning and strategy, the thoughts that had occupied the long hours of the morning, seemed to recede like the flattened field of wheat behind them, and all he could focus on was the present, on a world of sensation and action that allowed little room for reflection. It was the age-old mechanism of the soldier about to go into battle, a locking down of thought processes that would otherwise only seize up at the enormity and horror of what was about to happen. All that mattered now was his grip on his sword, the pounding of his feet, the training and instinct that would kick in as soon as he made first contact with the enemy.

  Macrobius was ahead, running forward with the others of the numerus to surround and protect Aetius, to try to slow him down and draw him back behind the leading edge of the army. He was no longer needed out in front to encourage and lead the troops forward, and it was more important that he survive the initial clash in order to direct the battle as it unfolded. Aetius knew this too, and he fell back with them, letting the numerus envelop him as the infantry flowed around them and thundered up the slope. The leading elements were less than two hundred paces from the crest of the ridge, and still they saw nothing ahead, just the wavering line of wheat and the haze of the sky beyond. For a fleeting moment Flavius wondered whether the whole thing were just a dream, whether Attila and his army were just figments of their imagination, a mirage seen by the scouts in the heat haze. It was as if they were running up to a ridge where all that lay beyond was the edge of the world and a tumble into the abyss.

  Then he heard it. The drumming of their feet seemed to magnify twofold, a throbbing noise that hammered into his ears. The ground was no longer just vibrating but was shaking, blurring the line of the ridge ahead. And then the Hun army burst into view, thousands of black-clad men bellowing and swaying on the line of the ridge, no more than ten paces ahead of the leading Roman soldiers. He barely had time to register it before the two armies crashed together, the huge momentum of each side causing the men to concertina forward until the centre was a solid mass of human flesh, crushing the men in the middle with a force that rebounded back on either side, knocking the men ahead back into Flavius and pushing those behind him sprawling into the wheat.

  As he picked himself up and the line shook itself out the pounding noise was replaced by a cacophony of shrieking and bellowing, by the clash of steel and the thud and crunch of maces and clubs. The tangle of bodies from the initial crush had become the front line, the Huns on one side and the milites and Visigoths on the other, swinging and hacking at each other, also taking out men of their own side who were too tightly packed to avoid their own comrades’ weapons. Bodies piled on bodies until the two sides were too far apart to make contact, and then they were climbing and slipping over the mound, no longer able to wield their weapons but gouging at each other with hands and teeth, going for the eyes and throats as they had been taught. The press of men coming up the slope forced more and more into the meat grinder, thousands fighting desperately for their lives in a strip of land no more than ten paces wide and already piled high with bodies. Blood came pouring down the slope past Flavius in viscous rivers of red, as if the ridge itself were bleeding, bringing with it hacked-off fingers and limbs and worse, hunks of meat that looked as if they had been torn from living flesh by wild animals in a feeding frenzy.

  Flavius was stunned by the ferocity and speed of the attack, and he knew that the thousands of others poised along the line just behind the fighting must feel the same. But he knew that they must keep their nerve and hold their ground, ready to counter any breakthrough and prevent the Huns from storming down the Roman flanks. Already he could see men from both sides who had made it over the pile of bodies, fighting desperate duels before being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. He saw Huns using the weapon that had most struck fear into the Parthians three years before, the weighted lasso, flicking out of the enemy line like snakes’ tongues, instantly killing the Romans and Visigoths who took the full force of the lead weights in the face, and wrapping around the necks of others who were pulled off their feet and dragged helplessly into the Hun lines to be finished off with swords and clubs, their hands clutching at their necks and their noses and eyes spurting blood as the nooses tightened.

  Out of the swirling mass a Hun warrior came staggering towards them, one eye missing and the side of his face horribly mutilated, as if a dog had savaged him. Aetius raised his sword, but Macrobius leapt ahead and ran the man through the neck, twisting him aside with the sword still embedded and dropping him to the ground as he gargled out his last breath. Another man came into view behind him, but this time it was the Goth chieftain Radagaisus, a gory mess of skin hanging from his mouth and an eyeball swinging from a tendril below, the grisly results of his struggle with the Hun; he staggered by, lurched and fell to the ground wide-eyed, an axe embedded deep in his back. Along the line to
the left Flavius could see blood and pieces of meat flying through the air like mud from a speeding cartwheel where a numerus of Iberian axemen had entered the fray, their weapons flashing above the melee as they raised them up and swung them down with sickening noises of splintering bone and pulverized flesh.

  Flavius wondered how many of the Hun warriors opposite were men he had ridden with alongside Attila two years before. He remembered how he and Attila had talked about what the Greeks called kharme, battle lust. He wondered whether Attila had it now, or whether he truly was unable to feel it without the sacred sword in his hand. As he looked along the line, searching for any sign of the Hun leader, he sensed a fall-off in the ferocity of the battle, the men who moments before had been throwing themselves at each other across the piles of corpses now drawing back in ragged lines on either side of the ridge. The last of the surge that had pulsed through the Roman lines since the initial assault, pushing men forward wave after wave, had finally expended itself, like a huge sea-swell that had crashed against a shore but was now falling back boiling and in disarray. He could sense the same on the Hun side too. It was as if the casualties and the exhaustion and the shock of the clash had caught up with the survivors and left them stunned, the momentum from behind no longer being sufficient to force them forward over the bodies against each other. They were like two great beasts mauled and torn after a duel, snarling and slavering but no longer able to lock themselves together in mortal combat, the will to fight still there but the energy dissipated and their limbs unable to respond.

  The battle seemed to hang in the balance. Flavius knew that the smallest event could now sway the course of history: a renewed burst of ferocity from a few soldiers in the line, the shouts of an officer leaping forward to encourage his men, a celestial sign that might suddenly take on huge significance. He knew that there would be those on the other side watching too, waiting for the right moment to make their move. And then he saw the form of a mounted warrior rising from the dark line of the Hun army, the horse slavering and stomping, tossing its head from side to side, the man on top solid and imperturbable, staring forward with both hands on his hips. Even before he recognized him Flavius knew that it could only be Attila. He was less than fifty paces away, closer than Flavius had ever imagined getting to Attila again, so close that he could see the lines of his moustache and the three white scars on each cheek. He rose in his saddle, tensed himself and bellowed like a bull, an extraordinary sound that rumbled and crackled down the line like a rolling thunderstorm. The rest of the Huns took it up, gesticulating and leering at the Romans and Visigoths only a few paces in front of them.

  The noise of bellowing was drowned out by a huge clash of arms, sword against shield, axe against greave, like the sound of a great mountain waterfall crashing into a gorge. Flavius could sense a sudden apprehension along the Roman line, could smell the fear. It was too late for Aetius to respond in kind; Attila had the advantage. But Flavius knew that Attila had also taken a big gamble; he had appeared without a weapon in hand. Perhaps by appearing unarmed he had intended to taunt the Romans, to reveal his invincibility even without weapons, and to empower his Hun army, to show them that he trusted their own force of arms to win the day. But there was a truth behind Attila’s gamble known only to Flavius and Macrobius and Aetius, a truth that could now be used devastatingly against him. Flavius sensed those in the Hun line becoming jittery, restless, girding their weapons again, preparing for a renewed assault. He glanced at Aetius, who nodded. Now was the time.

  ‘Macrobius!’ Flavius shouted, looking around at the numerus. ‘You other men – raise me up on your shoulders.’

  Macrobius immediately came forward, sheathed his sword and cupped his hands for Flavius to step into, the optio Cato on Flavius’ other side and Sempronius and Maximus behind him. When he was high above their shoulders, above the surrounding comitatenses and Visigoths and clearly visible to Attila and the Hun line, he reached back and opened the flap over the long sword that had been strapped to his back, feeling the irregular hard stone on the pommel and closing his hand around the grip. He drew it in one sweep and held it high, looking around and seeing that all eyes were on him. ‘We have the sword of Attila,’ he shouted. ‘We have the sword of Attila.’

  Macrobius had polished it the night before, and the precious metal that had been bonded with iron to make the blade stronger than steel gave it added lustre even in this haze, as if it had absorbed what sunlight there was and radiated it out over the men assembled on the ridge. As he looked at it himself, squinting in the reflection, Flavius remembered what Erecan had told Priscus about the sword, that its secret, its mastery over men, lay not in some magic of the shamans but in the cunning of the metalsmiths, in the age-old skill of those who fashioned weapons of war: those who knew that the power of a great sword made for a king lay not just in its heft and sharpness, but in the special qualities of appearance that made others rally to its bearer or cower before it.

  A huge cry went up from the Roman side, resonating up and down the line. Attila bellowed again, but this time in dismay, his horse rearing up and nearly throwing him, kicking back and disappearing down the slope in a storm of dust. The Huns in the front line turned to watch him, taking their eyes off the enemy, the adrenalin that had been stoked up for the attack now leaving them confused and in disarray. Aetius seized the moment and leapt forward, sword in hand, followed by Macrobius and the others of the numerus, breaking through the front line with the comitatenses surging behind him, scrambling over the mounds of bodies and falling on the Huns. Within seconds the entire Roman and Visigoth line had closed the gap and taken the crest of the ridge, hacking down scores of Huns pressing back against the bulk of their army in a desperate attempt to escape. All along the line the Roman trumpets sounded, the signal for the comitatenses to stand their ground and halt on the ridge; Aetius had instructed his commanders to consolidate and wait for reinforcements rather than pursuing the enemy down the slope and risking running into a reformed line strengthened with archers from Attila’s reserve.

  Flavius re-sheathed the great sword, took out his gladius and watched the Huns retreat down the slope, towards the wagon laager that he knew lay somewhere in the haze and dust beyond. The noise had changed, the din of combat replaced by the shrieks of the wounded and the moans of the dying, a chorus of pain from thousands of stricken men along the line. The carnage was appalling, on a scale that he never would have thought possible in such a brief space of time. The men of his numerus had escaped unscathed, having been held back as a cordon around Aetius, but those who had been thrown forward into the churning horror of the ridge had paid a fearful price. Most of the tribunes of the leading comitatenses units were gone, as well as many of their senior officers; Aspar lay drenched in blood against a pile of corpses being ministered to by the first-aid men of his personal numerus, somehow still alive despite his neck having been ringed by a lasso and his head nearly severed.

  Attila had suffered a blow to his prestige but was still alive, and his mounted archers were still a formidable foe. He would know that the Roman army had been severely weakened, and that the casualties would include chieftains like the Goth Radagaisus who would have led from the front and would have never allowed themselves to be pulled back and protected as Aetius had. The course of the fighting to the north and south against the Ostrogoths and the Gepids was still unclear; Aetius had immediately sent out runners to inform their commanders of the success in the centre, to try to boost their resolve. But with the centre of the ridge now in Roman hands they were in an excellent position both for defence and for offence, able to counter Hun attacks up the slope as well as harass the enemy from long range. Already Flavius could see the sagittarii climbing the slope from their reserve positions, ordered up by Aetius once the ridge had been secured and ready to pour down arrows into the enemy. Along the ridge the fabri tribunes were organizing the milites to pile up the bodies, those of their companions and of the enemy alike, in a long mound along
the forward edge, creating a fortress of flesh from the carnage of battle.

  Flavius turned to Aetius. ‘Congratulations, magister militum. It is the greatest feat of arms of all time.’

  Aetius’ face was set like stone. ‘The battle is not over yet. The tide of war may still turn against us. I need you by my side, tribune, to tell me what Attila will do next.’

  ‘Ave, magister militum.’

  17

  As Flavius and Aetius stared out from the ridge an extraordinary scene met their eyes. The slope dropped down to a monotonous plain similar to the one they had just traversed, only here there was no river in the distance to break the view. The heat of the sun and of so many men and horses in such a confined space, breathing and sweating and bleeding, had created a haze that floated above the battlefield and obscured everything more than a few stades distant. But out of the haze some five hundred paces below the ridge loomed the leading edge of Attila’s wagon laager, the wheels facing outwards and the sides of the wagons forming a nearly continuous screen of wood like the wall of a fort. From their vantage point on the ridge they could see down into the laager, but their view was blocked by a huge dust cloud that rose above; all that Flavius could see was an occasional flash of steel and a blur of hooves and legs, and he could hear whinnying and snorting above the noise that rose out of the laager like the roar of a crowd in a stadium. He turned to Aetius, raising his voice above the din. ‘I saw this in Parthia. Attila is stoking up his mounted bowmen, riding them round and round in a circle so that they are wound tight like a coil, ready to spring to the attack.’