Death of an Empire (18 page)

‘We will make our camp on the first piece of flat land on the edge of the ridge, friend Captus. I know such a position puts us in danger and we can be overcome by any determined contingent of cavalry, but my water tells me that there will be a mountain of wounded by the end of tomorrow. We must be prominently placed and clearly visible if we are to be of any use. Please, Captus, ride ahead and find me clean water, the shelter of trees and a position close to the probable battleground. It looks as though none of us will get any sleep, but if we work through the night we might just be prepared for the bloodbath.’

Captus glared at Myrddion’s resentful tone, and reached out one mailed fist to grip the young man’s shaven chin in order to see the healer’s eyes as clearly as the dim light permitted.

‘You are no fighter, Myrddion Emrys, and have as little knowledge of the field as a child, so your complaints about working all night are churlish. General Aetius expects that the dawn will bring an attack . . . and he’s usually right. So yes, we must work through the night, and you must be prepared to accede to his demands. Your whining does you no credit!’

Myrddion flushed with embarrassment and was glad that the darkness hid the sudden flush of colour on his cheeks. ‘You’re right, Captus. Consider my rudeness to be that of a boy who has decided his own actions for far too long. My pride prompted my complaints – and I’m sorry.’

Instead of leaving Myrddion to mull over his want of manners, Captus drew his horse back to pace at the speed of the wagons. ‘What do you see within your heart, healer? Will we fail on the morrow? I am vowed to protect you so that you may save those who might live, but much depends on our battle plan.’

‘We will endure . . . succeed . . . and Attila will feel death coming
for him. His supply lines are far too long and his ambitions are disappearing in the night winds. Trust to Aetius and the kings, and the day will be yours.’ Myrddion watched Captus pale a little and chuckled. ‘No, this is not the product of a dream that tells me what will happen. It’s just plain common sense.’

Relieved, Captus also chuckled. ‘I’ll find you the site you need for the tents. If I must serve in this role, I’ll find the best position available to protect the greatest number of men. And, while I’m at it, I’ll ensure that we can see the disposition of the battle lines when they are determined. We must have good intelligence if we’re to be effective. And I’ll make sure that there’s a workable space between you and that vain old Spaniard.’

‘Since honesty appears to be the coin of conversation on this night, Captus, please explain to me why such puissant kings as Merovech and Theodoric would abdicate their power to an ageing Roman general who has little understanding, or care, for their people. I don’t understand it. Theodoric rules a land far larger than all of Italia and Merovech’s lands are nearly as rich and as wide, yet they defer to a short, autocratic tyrant as if they were mere boys.’

Captus flushed, and Myrddion saw the big Frank’s fist clench. For a moment, the healer prepared to duck the warrior’s swinging arm, but Captus’s good sense reasserted itself as he realised that Myrddion meant no offence. Carefully, the Frank tried to explain the strange politics of the lands of ancient Gaul.

‘Flavius Aetius deserves respect, not because we revere the Romans, but because the general really is a
magister militum
. We are aware that the empire is all but dead, but Aetius is a master of battle, a lord of carnage who holds a long view and an instinct for the field of conflict that is lacking in the tribal kings. They accept that they are his inferiors in this regard. And because no tribe, nor the Romans themselves, have the strength to repel the Huns alone, we must unite to repulse a common enemy. No army can have five
or six heads or, like the hydra, it will thrash around aimlessly until each head is cut off, one by one. So an army of many component parts must have one head. Who better than Flavius Aetius?’

Myrddion bit his thumb reflectively. What Captus said made sense, but the healer was still puzzled by the deference that such redoubtable kings offered so freely to the Roman.

‘But why him? Surely the empire has less venal, more amenable generals?’

Captus snorted with repressed humour. ‘You don’t like our noble Roman, do you? No, he’s the best that’s left. He’s the wiliest, the most ambitious and the man most determined to succeed. The empire is full of greedy, second-rate minds who would seize power with hands stained with blood shed in ambush, but Aetius is a man who’ll face you from the front. The mind that doesn’t fear the darkness before the battle begins contains an intellect that can defeat Attila and the Hungvari hordes.’

‘I hope he comes at me from the front, if he decides to sweep me from his path.’

Captus began to laugh, but softly, for the night was still and dangerous men could well be listening. ‘He warned you, didn’t he? He’ll not bother with you, unless he starts to wonder how you read his mind. You must learn to keep your head down, healer. My master may admire you, but if it comes to a trial of strength he will follow Aetius until such time as the Roman has outlived his usefulness.’ Then Captus shrugged. ‘Don’t look so perplexed and worried, Myrddion. Your fears may never come into being.’

‘By the gods, Captus, I thank you. I think I’m finally beginning to understand my place in the puzzle of this strange land. It seems we’re all in the hands of the gods, whoever they are. I’ll trust in my skills, my two hands and my ability to stay out of the general’s way. Fortunately, I inherited my father’s devilish luck.’ Myrddion grinned, and the torch attached to the wagon’s side lit his eyes
with a lambent sheen of red and gold, as if the young man saw the world through a veil of blood or fire. ‘I give you my promise that you will win glory, Captus, even though you believe you’ve been given a minor role in the coming chaos. These words are not prophecy, but reason. I can swear that you will be more important than even you believe you could be, for those who serve with a pure heart never labour in vain.’

‘Excuse my doubts. Now I must be about my master’s orders.’ Flushed with embarrassment, Captus kneed his horse into a canter. Then, with a muffled sound of hooves and sliding gravel, he was gone.

‘Even with skins to cover our allies’ hooves, I can’t believe the Hun is ignorant of the movement of so many men. General Aetius is taking a huge gamble,’ Cadoc muttered as he slapped the reins on the rumps of his pair and set them into a trot.

Myrddion did not reply. He was reviewing Castor’s description of the prophecies, with their promises of the death of a great man, and hoping that, in this instance, he was wrong.

And so they travelled under a dying moon until they reached a small, elevated plateau to the left of the ridgeline, a position that permitted some visual understanding of the plain below.

When Captus found the rise and deemed it suitable for their requirements, he set up a guard to secure the makeshift camp that would soon be erected. Then, as soon as Myrddion’s party arrived, the remaining guardsmen and Myrddion’s workers set to work to cut grass for sleeping pallets and raise the huge leather tents. Vechmar’s apprentices settled into their tasks like parts of a well-oiled machine and Theodoric’s gift of widows and camp followers soon found ready work in the collection of water, which was stored in large, sealed leather containers that folded easily when they were empty. Bridie, Brangaine and Rhedyn enjoyed ordering the new women to complete the most onerous tasks such as
chopping herbs and roots and preparing them for use. Although they were urged to be silent, the women still gossiped together in whispers as the newcomers were told what tasks would fall to them in the morning. With relief, Brangaine was able to allocate the cooking to a plain, raw-boned woman who claimed to prefer the sight of food to the sight of blood, which ‘no decent person should have to see’. Brangaine herself set to work pounding herbs in a mortar so that their medicines would be ready for the casualties that would come. Willa hung in a cloth round her neck, sleeping and crying thinly by turns as she struggled for her foster-mother’s attention. Stolidly and patiently, the servant woman worked on, infusing feverwort into boiling water and creating a rather smelly mix of radish paste in pottery jars.

Cadoc performed marvels by unwinding large bolts of new cloth provided by the grateful population of Aurelianum and cutting lengths into usable bandages. Later, he boiled them over fires that were shielded by tree branches to minimise any chance of discovery from the ridgeline above. As the light of day broke through the darkness to the east, the camp was fast settling into the old patterns of the healer’s craft.

Now the time of waiting began in earnest.

Accompanied by Captus, Myrddion moved away from the wagons and stared up towards the crest where, initially, the fates of the peoples of the west would be decided.

The ridge was long and curved into a sickle shape. While not high, it would cause any determined attacker to think twice before charging up its treacherous slopes, which were bisected with narrow, dry watercourses. Scree, the lack of heavy cover and the constant threat of an enemy above created a hazardous field of combat. Any young boy with a slingshot, or the strength to move medium-sized boulders, could hold a dozen men at bay for a time, inflicting damage with the destructive earth slides that could be
engineered so easily. Above them, although not visible to the healers below, Thorismund and his father held the horn of the ridge. The Romans and the Franks had moved into position on the plain during the hours of darkness, and now banners were unfurled to the sky; Attila’s black standards ranged against the eagles of Aetius. Above the warring camps, the highest land lay bare, stark and vulnerable. It was a prize to be won, its peak tantalisingly close with its promise of advantage in a battle that threatened to be long, hard and vicious.

Myrddion spotted a narrow smudge of smoke in the distance. ‘What’s that? Who else is abroad on the plain?’

‘That’s the camp of the great Attila,’ Captus replied. ‘You can see it clearly now. You can see his cohorts, waiting in the wings to the north. There’s movement, Master Myrddion! See? Theodoric is circling towards Attila’s position on the high ground, and Thorismund’s Visigoths are attacking downhill. Attila’s troops are hurrying to cut them off.’

‘The sun is barely up and it has begun already,’ Myrddion shouted. ‘Ready yourselves, for the battle is about to begin.’

‘Look down at the plain!’ Captus cried. ‘Aetius has sent Sangiban forward in the centre. Damn me, but the Roman general is clever. Only a blind and deaf fool would trust that bastard, so Aetius puts him where he’ll absorb the full shock of Attila’s cavalry. That’s one way to fix a problem, especially when Merovech commands the other flank.’

‘Why is Aetius taking such a risk, Captus? What virtue is there in trusting a potential traitor to attack Attila’s centre?’

Captus grinned like a fox. ‘He has deployed his weakest link at a point where he cannot run, at the place of greatest danger.’

As if on cue, Attila unleashed his cavalry.

From the slight rise in the ground, Myrddion could see the mass of horsemen, their arms bare for greater mobility as they
charged towards the positions held by Sangiban and Merovech. Long, black banners underlined the ruddy light of dawn. Meanwhile, savage hand-to-hand fighting between Theodoric’s troops and another contingent of Hun warriors was just visible through the churned dust. Inexorably, the taller Visigoths were pushing forward until Myrddion saw a taller, mounted figure upon the highest point of the ridge. This warrior swung his sword in a great parabola of light and the Visigoth warriors surged forward.

‘Ayeee!’ Captus screamed, pointing to another part of the battlefield. ‘Look! The devils are breaking their backs on the Roman square.’

Myrddion followed Captus’s pointing arm.

A skeleton troop of Visigoths still held the left flank on the ridge. Meanwhile, the Salian Franks and the Romans had moved onto the centre of the plain, swinging wide towards the left to prevent the Gepid and Germanic tribes from flanking Sangiban’s men, who were now engaged in vicious hand-to-hand fighting. Theodoric was on the move as well, fighting through a wall of Huns to reach his son, Thorismund, who had attacked Attila’s Hungvari troops on the heights.

The battle had fallen into two huge engagements.

On the flat, watercourse-seamed plain, Aetius’s infantry met the Gepid force directly in front of their encampment. To their right, Merovech and Sangiban felt the full might of the main Hungvari force with a clash that Myrddion could almost feel through his bones. The whole engagement hung on a thread as men fought breast-to-breast, and died in great swaths on the blood-soaked earth.

In the second engagement, the Visigoth forces, who had split into the two wings led by Theodoric and Thorismund, smashed the Huns as they met and then pursued them from the heights. Then Myrddion saw the Visigoths turn and plunge behind the
Hun who were engaged on the plain, encircling them and enclosing the main force in a ring of steel.

Like waves on the sea, the black-clad Gepid and Hungvari warriors, many of them half naked, drove their horses desperately at the Roman squares. Like the shock of the ocean pounding against a rocky shore, Myrddion felt the crash of that meeting down to his toes. Horses screamed as Roman spears impaled their bellies, shafts slid out of legionaries’ hands as beasts fell backward, their hooves scrabbling for purchase at the empty air. And the line, five deep behind their interlocked shields, wavered . . . and held. The dead began to pile up like cordwood as the Hungvari came at the Romans again and again, but still the squares held in place.

‘Dear heavens,’ Myrddion breathed, as he tried to visualise the breadth of the slaughter. In the centre, Sangiban had been beaten to a standstill by the Hun cavalry as they threatened to break through to the allied defensive line.

‘Merovech has seen them! He rides! He rides!’ Captus was screaming, his eyes feral and wild with blood lust.

The Franks struck at the flank of one wing of the Hungvari cavalry as they were poised to attack an isolated outpost of Germanic allies. Red cloaks flying, and with their long swords and spears flashing as they commenced the reaping of a harvest of souls, the Franks struck the Hun on the flank, and in the crazed melee that followed Myrddion saw both black and red cloaks fall like sheaves of wheat.