“Terrific was his semblance, in no mould

Of beautiful proportion cast; his limbs

Nothing exalted, but with sinews braced

Of chalybaean temper, agile, lithe,

And swifter than the roe; his ample chest

Was overbrow’d by a gigantic head,

With eyes keen, deeply sunk, and small, that gleam’d

Strangely in wrath as though some spirit unclean

Within that corporal tenement install’d

Look’d from its windows, but with temper'd fire

Beam’d mildly on the unresisting. Thin

His beard and hoary; his flat nostrils crown’d

A cicatrized, swart visage; but, withal,

That questionable shape such glory wore

That mortals quail’d beneath him.”

—George Herbert

Attila the Great, Descendant of Nimrod, By the Grace of God King of the Huns, the Goths, the Danes and the Medes, The Dread of the World—he had many other names, and embraced them all—strode down the side of the long table about which his chieftains were gathered, in the long low building he had chosen as his temporary base of operations in eastern Gaul. Huns, Ostrogoths, Scythians, along with the Burgundian princes he had just defeated, rebel Franks, and even renegade Romans were gathered about it, lords and rulers in their own right, now (those who would submit) the captains of a vast force roughly seven-hundred-thousand strong, spread out in an iron fist plunging deep into the womb of Gaul. They remained seated, trying to look straight ahead, not daring to meet his exalted eye for more than the briefest instant.

Contrary to the myths that swirled about him, there was nothing particularly striking in his appearance. True, his mixed Mongol blood made him appear somewhat exotic to Europeans, with his swarthy complexion, wisp of beard, flattened nose and curling black hair. He was in fact less than the average height, though powerfully built, his body seeming to ripple with nervous strength as his hand clasped and unclasped the hilt of his sword. His gait was certainly arrogant, as if he were fully convinced of his own superiority, and God-given right to rule. Still, this could be any Hun chieftain of mixed, central Asian ancestry.

Until one met the eyes. These were small, dark and deep-set, seeming not to fit his large head and scowling brows. But that was when, moving restlessly back and forth, they did not fall on you. Once they did, it required no forced etiquette to turn away. On some instinctive level they hit you like a physical blow: those of a predator. Death lurked in those eyes.

But as Onegesius, his Scythian second-in-command knew, this was not out of any undisciplined sadism. Except during sex, and sometimes to vent his rage on the innocent, Attila did not enjoy inflicting pain. He didn’t mind it, either. It was just the way a Hun ruler did things. And Attila was the very model of his kind: shrewd, cunning, deadly in arms, extortionate, ruthless and relentless. To western Europe he was the “Scourge of God,” to the barbarians, more barbarous still, and to the Church of Rome, the literal anti-Christ.

These perceptions puzzled him somewhat, as his ancestral Khans had all shared his estimation of the value of human life—which is to say, no value at all. But he was happy to use the western aversion to all-inclusive slaughter when waging, or simply threatening war. Both Roman Empires, the eastern at Byzantium and the western in Rome, had paid huge tributes to pacify the Huns—first to Rugilas, his revered uncle, and now to himself. As well they should. He had himself conquered, through force and fear, all the lands as far north as Scandinavia, and west throughout Germania, to say nothing of his holdings in Asia. And as a younger man, this had been enough for him.

But not now. The God of War had chosen Him to rule the world, and by God he would do it. He had risen to the top of the pyramid though sheer will, violent cunning and natural superiority; and those upon whose backs he stood in triumph must pass the gold upward toward the zenith, the sun. Attila!

Onegesius stood beside his place at the head of the table, pulled back the large ebon chair in the subservient gesture he knew so well. The Scythian did not mind, for he was richly rewarded for his loyalty. People in the street or on the field of battle bowed to him, dared not meet his eye, and he could take whatever plunder came his way, including women.

Not for nothing had Attila spent his youth as a peace hostage in Rome, nor had he failed to learn from the Latin ability to delegate and administrate. And while he hated them for their soft, pampered ways, their unearned wealth and their ignorance of the earth beneath their feet, still, he had learned a great deal from the Romans. In no other way could he have conquered and maintained one of the largest (if shortest lived) Empires in all of history.

He met Onegesius’ eye—this man was one of a handful permitted to return his gaze—found there no sign of sedition, and so took his seat. Slaves entered carrying pitchers of wine for the goblets already set upon the table, poured silently, and the ritual meal began.

Onegesius watched the faces: watched everything, as always. Then catching in turn the eye of each guard he had set at the four corners of the room, and finding there no look of warning—Attila had not demanded them, and in fact frequently walked, dined, and even slept unguarded—he sat down to the right of his master. He would not remain so long, but such was the established custom.

Those new to such gatherings were surprised, and a little alarmed, to find that while their own plates and goblets were made of ornamented gold and silver, Attila himself used plain wooden utensils. Similarly, his chair, though somewhat higher than the others, could hardly be called a throne. His clothes were clean—a somewhat more elegant version of the herdsman’s jacket and trousers, the round, fur-rimmed hats worn by his soldiers—but that was all. They were not gaudy or jeweled, nor was his person. He was said to have twelve mighty crowns (for such ran the bastardized legend), and certainly possessed a number of real ones, but he rarely chose to wear them on the march. No rings or bracelets, no jewelry of any kind but for a large, cunningly wrought medallion— an enormous ruby, ringed by gold and silver filigree snakes which seemed to move as he did. ‘The Dragon’s Eye’ it was called, and was supposed to give him the ability to see into the hearts of his enemies.

But those who knew him well understood that while he also claimed it as a talisman—he incorporated the beliefs and terrors of all his subjugated peoples—in truth he wore it primarily in memory of his Visigoth wife, the beloved Gudhrun, who had died in giving birth to their second son. In a fit of anger he had strangled the baby, who lived while she died, then hacked his firstborn son and heir to pieces. But he preferred his nephew anyway, and had no wish to raise a successor as great and powerful as himself.

He had loved Gudhrun too much, that was all. She was so lovely, and he had long ago realized the more beautiful a woman was, the more pleasure it gave to cause her pain, to dominate, abuse and sodomize her. It had brought him unparalleled orgasms for six years to see the sweet suffering in her face as he did so, and run the edge of his dagger across her most sensitive regions. He simply could not bear the thought of her going into the Afterlife alone, and so had sent her two sons with her. Or so he told himself. Yes, he had loved her too much.

For this reason he did not hate the Visigoths. In fact he respected them, and their forceful king, Theodoric. But he would subdue them, find another like her, and above all, make Rome pay for its petty insolence.

For they had arrogantly refused to double their tribute to him, or give him the princess Honoria in marriage. Why she had sought him out as her protector—they had met many years ago, and she then seemed repulsed by his appearance, his reputation for cruelty—was something of a mystery. That she had been caught in adultery with her steward, he knew. She had been disgraced, and thrown into prison by her mother, Galla Placidia: a scheming slut, if ever there was one.

But all this meant little to him, and he’d always had a perverse desire for her firm, boyish form. And her unexpected proposal, brought to him by her personal bodyguard (who had no doubt tasted her fruits very young), gave him the pretext he needed for waging war on Rome, and claiming half its remaining Empire, including Gaul, as his rightful dowry.

He came back to himself, realized the others were waiting nervously for the accustomed ritual of the cups.

“Onegesius,” he said, raising his wooden chalice toward his second. The Scythian stood proud, as always, to be the first name called. He drank heartily to his exalted King. Attila then saluted each of his chieftains in turn, calling them by name as they rose, in order of rank and importance. They would remain standing throughout, drinking to his glorious reign, until all had shown their respect in this way, Attila himself never rising.

Never drinking, either, until the end. Despite his enormous wealth and power, except on wedding banquets (his own) he remained largely abstemious. The man chosen by the gods to rule the world must not abuse his body, or dull his mind with too much drink. Though of late this Spartan self-discipline had become harder and harder to maintain.

At last Attila rose and drew his sacred sword. It was purported to have been given him by the God of War, the living, naked sword the Scythians had long worshipped. In fact it had been found by a herdsman while pursuing a stray, tracking it by the trail of blood it left in its escape. The legend was that this ‘glittering sword’ had been found standing upright, as if dropped from the Heavens, reflecting brilliant rays of the sun as it suddenly pierced the clouds. Attila recalled with amusement the miserable peasant, trembling in fear as he presented the old and rusted weapon to his mystical and all-powerful King.

He could not help studying it with approval once again. Though it had been hideous at first, the Scythian smiths had made of it a thing of beauty: strong, balanced, imposing and deadly. Or perhaps they had simply forged a new one; what did it matter? The work had been overseen by Onegesius himself, and, along with the strange man’s fierce loyalty (and genius for domineering cruelty), accounted in no small measure for his ascendancy as his trusted second. Or trusted as far as he trusted anyone. For this, truly, was the weapon of a living God. He stopped just short of claiming that title for himself.

But I may yet, by Attila!

That his own beliefs consisted of the combined mythology of half the known world, spoke not only of the nomadic conquests of his people for centuries, but of the confused and contradictory nature of the man himself.

And yet he was of a piece, a true Lord of Chaos. He could be unspeakably cruel (perhaps simply heartless), yet he knew when to punish, when to reprieve, and even to reward his subjects. Those who submitted, lived safely under his rule. Those who resisted were obliterated from the face of the Earth. There was a method to his madness, learned at the feet of Rugilas, for whom he had always been a favorite. It was even whispered that his famous uncle had passed the kingship on to both Bleda and himself, to make Attila take that last step toward greatness: the ruthless murder of his own flesh and blood.

In fact he had killed Bleda of his own volition, not only to make himself the sole and absolute monarch, but to fulfill the Roman prophecy that their Empire would be destroyed by a supernatural being who, like the mythical Romulus, had propitiated the gods by the murder of his own brother.

He thumped the sword’s hilt loudly on the table, and the meal began.

That is to say, there had been a method to his madness until recently. While arrogance had always made him unpredictable, understanding the value of random terror….. As he felt the years advance upon him, and could no longer ignore the grim whisperings of his own mortality (a thing he would not have believed possible), he had grown restless and dissatisfied. And still the death of his wife and sons tormented him: in the first case because for all his perceived power he had not been able to save her, in the second, because it was done by his own hand. Perhaps the Romans had poisoned his mind after all. Such a thing should not trouble a Hun, for whom life was but a fevered dream, and he had only done it (as he so often defended the indefensible) to send them all to Valhalla together.

Perhaps he truly was going mad. He drank off his cup at a single draft, seized hold of the slave girl serving him, and, tearing open the front of her dress, bit into her breast until it bled. Then threw her aside, weeping (she had not dared to scream), for his later pleasure.

After but the briefest alarm and hesitation—such displays of brutality were not unknown in the barbarous king when he was displeased, and she was, after all, only a slave—trays of cooked meat were brought in on either side, and the wine poured again. His eyes reverted to their old trick of whipping back and forth about the room, trying to enjoy, as he used to, the discomfiture of his captains and generals.

Onegesius again accepted his searching look, understanding the reason for it. As he himself knew, even those closest to a despot could not be allowed to grow too comfortable. For herein lay Attila’s power. While he could never have articulated the thought, the Scythian knew that his master’s atavistic rule was based on an animal fear so deep, so raw, that it inspired a slavish devotion in the hearts of his people, a relentless fear in the minds of outsiders. In some ways he truly was the Devil (Fear) incarnate. Such was his power over the subconscious, subhuman psyche.

When this was done, the meal was eaten largely in silence, with no one speaking unless directly addressed by the King or his second. He was usually content to let Onegesius question them on the day’s activities, which in Gaul had been directed primarily—aside from the necessary military victories—at reawakening the old fear and dread of the Huns in Visigoth, Frank, and Roman alike, just as the Mongols had done to the Chinese and central Asians for time out of mind. The gruesome sign-post which had so shaken Thule, though planted by a subordinate along with countless others, was in fact his personal motto:

“Where my horse has trodden, no grass will grow.” He had slain millions in his time, and he would slay millions more…..

Again his consciousness returned to the present. For as Onegesius questioned each leader in turn, one man, a Burgundian but recently subdued and assimilated, hesitated in his answer about the slaughter of women and children in a village he had been instructed to raze. The stronger among the Germanic peoples always did retain a defiant nobility. Perhaps that was why Gudhrun had moved him so strangely. And why he so hated this man now.

The great Attila’s eyes, like those of a beast or a demon, seemed to blaze in their sockets. Twisted fires burned in that tormented soul, as Onegesius knew all too well. For he had seen him kill on the battlefield in an orgy of cruelty like nothing that even he, a vicious and violent man, had ever seen or imagined. The Scythian glanced quickly at him now to determine if this were a truly horrid passion, or merely irritated rage. He felt his chest, which had tightened, relax into a more normal state of tension as he perceived it was probably the latter. Not that anyone else would know, and he himself could not take it for granted.

Because the King was changing; even his loyal friend and ally was forced to admit this. Attila had never let anyone know what he was thinking, much less feeling, Rugilas’ unalterable creed. Yet now…..

“I want to be feared and respected,” he had told him just that morning, in what Onegesius had taken as a rare confidence. “But if I can only have one, then let me be feared.”

The Scythian, true scythe of Attila, knew what was expected of him now, and so demanded sharply of the gathering as a whole:

“Who else was present?”

The Hun who had been sent to watch the Burgundian lord spoke gravely. “I was.”

“Make your report.”

“We entered the village as instructed, though Hama and his men showed little passion for the kill.” Attila’s eyes flamed whiter still.

“They were Burgundians,” said the man sullenly. “My own people.”

“Silence!” roared Onegesius. Then to the Hun captain, “Continue.”

“His hesitation allowed some of the women and children to escape into the surrounding forest. I pursued them, along with several riders. The vermin scrambled up into the trees, shrieking and crying.”

“And what did this man do?”

“He said to leave them, they were no threat to us.”

“You finished them,” said the Scythian confidently.

“Yes, Lord. We set fire to the trees, and roasted them alive. Or if they jumped or fell, we trampled them beneath our horses’ hooves.”

“Bastards!” cried Hama, rising and reaching for his sword. Which, of course, was not there.

At this Attila stunned them all with a cry of rage so bestial….. Unable to contain himself, he lept up on the table and drew his sword in a single motion, then flew at the man.

The German had just time enough to raise his forearm in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. But though he had begun to show signs of age in other ways, Attila was still lightning fast, and enormously strong. The angling blow took off Hama’s wrist, and bit deep into the side of his neck. The man fell and twitched, slowly bleeding to death.

The company, even the Huns, were startled. Though all had known at once the man must die for his insolence, none had ever seen their god-King perform the sentence himself, much less at a court banquet. However bloody Attila could be in battle or in bed, there was enough of the monarch and statesman in him, he had spent enough time among western rulers….. And was it not beneath his dignity to thus soil his own nest?

The room was silent, even Onegesius wondering at his King’s sudden fury. Having completely misread him. . .who would he turn on next?

But Attila himself seemed to realize his mistake, his potential loss of face. And while the ancient blood-rage of his race told him that a chosen of the gods could and should do as he pleased, especially in violence and murder. . .still the statesman in him prevailed. Barely. How he loathed these western restraints. Still, he must appear benevolent in his own court. He turned to the captain who had correctly reported the outrage.

“Take command of his men,” he said coldly, as the other looked down deferentially. “And if they hesitate tomorrow, disembowel them, set their entrails on fire, and take your time with the townspeople. Do you understand?”

The man nodded, not daring to speak. Then Attila beckoned to one of the guards, another rarity.

“Get him out of here. Cut his body to pieces, and feed it the dogs.”

Then turned, and strode out of the chamber.

The men rode more slowly now, more cautiously. They had done what they could for the few survivors of Tarasco—and this was little more than to crudely bandage gaping wounds, or grant a swift and merciful death to those who asked it. For none were unscathed, and none, so far as they could tell, had escaped or been captured. Whatever the enemy’s objective, it did not seem to include the taking of slaves. At least not yet. And now, after a grim counsel in the town’s center, they had decided (or simply accepted) that their one option lay in finding Theodoric’s summer encampment, where he kept his host in readiness for just such a threat.

But as they stopped again some miles to the west, in a glade among thick forest they hoped would conceal them, the question occurred, in its way, to all of them. Had there ever been a threat like this one? And were the Huns here to stay, or had they only bloodied the underbelly of Gaul to terrify and extort greater sums from the Romans and the Visigoths both? For to the west an outlier of the once proud Empire yet stood, which Theodoric had not been able to subdue.

Ironic as it was, since the Visigoths and Romans had been bitter foes since the time of Alaric, the company could only hope this was the case: an act of aggression directed at the Western Empire, rather than themselves. For if the Huns decided to stay, and could not be driven out, there was nothing left for the peoples of Gaul—Visigoth, Roman, Frank, Saxon and Burgundian—but subservience. They would be scattered, dominated, absorbed into the ranks of the subjugated, as the Ostrogoths and other tribes of central Europe had been, sundered from all culture, enlightenment, identity or independence. And of late Attila had shown an ever-growing disdain of Christianity. Thus their faith, too, would be taken from them.

Dorlas had said nothing since finding his country ravaged and his family slain. For though he had buried his wife and daughter, and stood now with his arm about his son, trying to console him, he was himself beyond all consolation. As he watched him, Thule feared that whatever bonds had joined himself and the other Franks to the Visigoth cause must surely give way. Though his company was more or less evenly divided between Dorlas’ riders and his own—Thule was not so foolish as to allow himself to be outnumbered—still he dared give the man no hard commands. For he suspected (correctly) that the only thing that kept him going now was the primal need for vengeance: to make someone pay, to inflict the same kind of pain that he himself was feeling. And this made him dangerous.

But while the transformation from grief to hate surely formed a large part of his psyche, when Dorlas caught his eye and approached him steadily, the man’s words surprised him.

“We cannot fight them alone,” he said simply. “We must join together as in the days of our youth: all the Gothic peoples, perhaps even the Romans, who surely must feel threatened as well. There is no other way.”

Thule was silent, considering. “Would the northern Franks listen to you, as one who has been so long among us?”

He nodded gravely. “These, the southern provinces were once our home, and still are to many. Though we who first conquered these lands have ourselves been conquered, and for that reason have no great love for the Visigoths, and still less for the Romans, our oppressors of old, surely they will see that it must be done. My own words, here and now, should tell you that.”

Thule moved closer and offered his forearm, which the other clasped hard. “Very well, then,” he said. “I release you, and all your men. Clearly there is nothing more we can do here. The survivors spoke of thousands of men, and the scattered fires speak of many thousands more. We must save our fighting strength for a time and place where they will make a difference. Be careful, and when you reach your sundered kinsmen…..” He had to choose his words carefully, so they would not sound like those of a lord to a lesser man, but rather one man in need to another. “Send word to Theodoric when you may, that we may combine our forces, and coordinate our defense.”

Dorlas nodded gravely, turned and cried out to his men in their own dialect. The Franks mounted, prodded their animals, and rode swiftly away to the north, heedless of peril. For their own lives meant little if they failed. Gaul was their home, and always would be.

Thule turned back to Krieg. “I suppose the Vandals won’t help us, safe on the far side of the Pyrenees.” While this was more a statement of bitter fact than a question—and Krieg saw there some personal grudge, or animosity he had not witnessed before—he shook his head solemnly.

“The words ‘help’ and ‘alliance’ are no longer in their vocabulary, even among the various tribes. You should have seen them at Bent River, like wolf packs that had joined together to kill larger game, but then wondered who would turn on who next. If anything, they would seek to join forces with the Huns, though remaining separate, and divide the spoils between them. There has even been talk of an alliance between them.”

Thule ground his teeth in impotent wrath, hating them now more than ever. “But what of the Romans? They still maintain an Imperial presence, provinces to the north and west.”

“Yes,” said Krieg. “But will they fight?”

“As with Dorlas,” Thule replied, more with his heart than his mind, “they too are threatened by the Huns. Valentinian will not let the Western provinces crumble. He dare not.”

“Valentinian?” asked Krieg. “That name is not known to me.”

“The son of Galla Placidia, now Emperor of Rome, though she is said to be the real power behind the throne.” Krieg shook his head, knowing little of the state of Rome after his departure from Italy. “It is too long a tale to tell standing. Let us sit in the shade, and wash the foul taste of murder from our mouths.”

Krieg agreed, and they went to sit on a flat stone at the further edge of the clearing, allowing their tired horses to graze as they would. They passed Thule’s drinking skin, the last of the wine, back and forth between them. As they did so, some semblance of humanity began to return to them, though both were still anxious, almost in shock at the rude awakening to yet another desperate defense.

“We are of one mind,” said Thule, “as to the folly of my grandfather’s conduct after the sack of Rome?”

“From what little I know of it, yes, but that is far from all. I would be grateful for a better understanding of the state of Rome now, and therefore of its Gallic provinces—whether we can expect any help from that quarter.”

“Of course.” Thule drew a deep breath, galled, as ever, by the memory of Alaric’s stupidity.

“There we were in Rome, at the heart and capitol of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. We had beaten their armies, humbled their leaders. The future was ours, if only we had the sense to seize it. But what did Alaric do?” Though Krieg knew part of the answer, he shook his head, wanting to know more of what had always struck him as one of the greatest military blunders of all time.

“He left Ataulf, his brother-in-law, in control of the city, and set out for more plunder. After several meaningless battles, he tried to take Naples and was repulsed. But rather than regrouping, reinforcing, anything, he musters a fleet at Rhegium, and sets sail for Africa!

“A storm arose, perhaps even the wrath of God at his. . .aahh. There are no words evil enough. The storm rose and wrecked them in the straits, the ships smashing into one other, or going aground. A lucky few escaped with their lives, as did Alaric himself. But he had caught the fever from his soaking, and died shortly after.”

“Which left Ataulf in command, still in possession of Rome, but with a vastly diminished force,” said Krieg, filling in the blanks.

“Yes. Thank the good Christ he was not so foolish, at least not yet. But Ataulf saw that we could not remain in Rome. There was still the Eastern Empire, and the Huns to contend with. They had already devoured the Ostrogoths, and remained a terrible threat.”

“What did he do?”

“The only thing he could in the end. He forced Honorius, then Emperor, to give him his sister—Galla Placidia—in marriage, thus bonding our two peoples together.”

“You seem dissatisfied,” said Krieg. “It sounds inevitable, even wise.”

“Yes, but he did not count upon the cunning of the shrew. Placidia has the heart of a spider, and a sting to match. Through seduction, promises of wealth, and God knows what else, she convinced her new husband to remain in Rome. My father and I wanted no part of her scheming, and plainly saw that we must be off: the looming threat of the Huns, and Ataulf’s dissipation under her influence. And so, with the greater part of our people, we moved on north and west. We came in time to Gaul, forcing Honorius to grant us major land holdings here, and taking others ourselves, by force….. We dared to hope that we had at last found a permanent home.”

“What happened to Ataulf, and those who remained behind?”

“The only thing that could happen,” said Thule. “But understand, all this took place over a period of years.” Krieg nodded. “Honorius died, under suspicious circumstances. Placidia then convinced Ataulf that only a true Roman on the throne would pacify the Eastern Empire at Byzantium, the Huns to the north, to say nothing of the Roman people themselves, who were restless under Visigoth occupation. Again Ataulf gave in, and placed her son, Valentinian, on the throne.

“At that point he had apparently served his purpose, and was poisoned, his guard and our remaining soldiers slain in a sudden uprising. Bloody-minded bitch! Can anyone doubt it was her doing?” He paused to calm himself. “Valentinian is now Emperor in name, though I make no doubt his mother controls him as she did Ataulf.”

“Who commands the Roman army now?” asked Krieg. For herein lay the crux of the matter. If only the man was not a puppet, but a real fighting General…… For there was no escaping the hard reality. Only an alliance between the Visigoths, Romans, and all the Germanic peoples of Gaul, could hope to withstand the Hun invasion.

“Yes,” said Thule, following much the same line of reasoning. “His name is Aëtius, and a more ambitious, and therefor ruthless commander we could not hope for, or dread. Also, he spent his adolescence among the Huns, as Attila did with the Romans: as peace hostages, a common practice to deter sudden hostility.”

“Who is this Attila, who wages war on women and children? And what is his relationship with Aëtius now?”

“He is the nephew of Rugilas, who had no sons of his own, and is therefor mostly likely the new Hunnish king….. Attila and Aëtius,” he said more thoughtfully. “That is the problem, the unanswerable question. The two are said to have been companions, even friends, as a result of time spent in the opposing camps as adolescents, then together as young men.”

“Go on.”

Thule released a troubled breath. “While because of his time among them Aëtius probably knows more of the Huns and their tactics than any man living, and therefor how best to confront them….. Will he do it? Where does his first loyalty lie? Will Placidia allow him to take charge, become Magister Militum, and muster the full strength of the true Roman Army? He is said to be shrewd, ambitious, a clever, even a great general. But will he fight? And will he fight with us?”

Krieg allowed his friend a moment to gather himself, then went on. “This Attila, can you tell me something more about him?”

“…..the last news we had of the Huns was that Rugilas was dying, and would pass the kingship on to both Attila and Bleda, his older brother.”

“Surely such a sharing of power cannot last?”

“No,” agreed Thule, though he had secretly hoped the brothers would quarrel, and divide their kingdom, thus making the Huns less deadly and overpowering. “I make no doubt that Attila has killed him by now, being the wiser, and more ruthless of the two. This invasion may well be some violent statement of his own ascendancy. And his dream of a Visigoth queen.”

“What do you mean?” asked Krieg, unable to follow.

“Some years ago, Attila married a young Visigoth woman who took his fancy—a captured slave—his first wife. It is said that she since turned on him, killing her sons and herself out of shame for her degradation, and pure hatred of her violent and abusive husband. At least that is the story.”

Krieg was appalled. If true, this was the most ghastly tale of revenge he had ever heard, or could well imagine.

“Don’t place the blame on her,” said Thule defensively. “For a Visigoth girl, raised as a Christian, herself the daughter of a Lord, it must have been an unbearable agony. To be taken, humiliated, and forced to lie with that animal. To bear his children, knowing they would one day rule, a bane to their own blood, her beloved people…..”

Though he could envisage the girl’s horror, seeing it to a lesser degree in the tragedy of Katera, he could never himself forgive such a brutal act of matricide. “It certainly doesn’t speak well of his treatment of her,” was all he could say.

“You cannot begin to understand my loathing of him,” said Thule bitterly. “She was one of our own, my cousin. But even that is not the whole of it.”

“What could be more gruesome?” asked Krieg, returning to the earlier point, “than killing her own children?”

“She not only killed them,” said Thule grimly, repeating the legend, “but served them to him at a banquet as the meat of some young animal. Then told him what she had done, and killed herself in his presence.”

The blackness, the horror, were overwhelming. While he could not but despise the woman for it….. What was this Attila? What unspeakable cruelties toward herself, her family, and even her children, had this bestial man committed? Perhaps he really was the Devil incarnate, the anti-Christ spoken of in Revelations, that most gruesome and hideous of prophecies. He shivered in revulsion. “And yet he still pines for her, and wishes to replace her from among the Visigoth women of Gaul?”

Thule nodded darkly. “And to accomplish this he is willing to lay waste the entire countryside, as he did at Tarasco. I am sick to my stomach just thinking of it. He is a stain, a plague, which must be purged from the very face of the earth. Until he is dead there can be no peace, no sanity, for any of us.”

Krieg sighed painfully. “So he is something of a madman. Unfortunately, that doesn’t of itself make him a bad general, at least in the short run. Can you tell me…..” He looked over at his friend to see if he was willing to continue, both the discussion and the campaign. But the set expression of his face answered both questions.

Good, he thought. It has not crushed him. Both men knew the nightmare was real. “What kind of fighting man is he?”

“You strike upon the root of my fears,” admitted Thule, the struggle against despair clearly written in his eyes. “As a mere captain, still a young man, he routed our eastern flank as we sought to withdraw from Rhetia. He could see that we were retreating, yielding the countryside to him. Yet still he charged, followed after us. He slaughtered so many, so swiftly…..”

“How many men do you suppose he now commands?"

“Who can say? Everywhere they go the Huns conquer, and forcibly enlist every soldier they subdue. When they first swept in from the steppes of Asia, their fighting strength was close to three hundred thousand men. Perhaps with their subsequent forays—they are said to have conquered as far north as Scandinavia—they have doubled, or even tripled that number.”

At this, Krieg was forced to fight off his own demons. The terror of early manhood, a world at war, had returned to trouble his declining years. What would become of his young family if he was left no choice but to fight, and this time (as seemed ever more likely) he was killed?

But what would happen to them if he did not? The Visigoths (and Vandals) had once thought they were safe, cradled in the valleys west of the Carpathian mountains, only to find themselves scattered like chaff before the cruel Asian wind. The Pyrenees were higher, and broader, yet the Vandals had crossed them; and even the mighty Alps had not stopped the hordes of Alaric from descending into Italy, and in time, laying waste to Rome itself.

It was all so horrible, so meaningless: war’s senseless destruction. When would it end?

But his heart still beat inside him. He was a man, and not vanquished yet.

“Do you know where Theodoric has taken his host?”

“I have a rough idea,” said Thule evasively. But Krieg could hardly blame him for that. Shifting alliances, unknown dangers all around, seemed the very essence of this age of Darkness.

“Do you still wish me to ride with you?”

“Yes,” said the Visigoth gravely. “While we have both fought the Huns as younger men, yours is the greater experience. Also, I would not be shorn of your friendship now. There are few men I trust….. You are one.”

Krieg nodded. Now more than ever, true allies were needed.

Thule rose, walked back to his horse and remounted. Without any spoken command, the remainder of his men did the same, in their diminished numbers even more fearful of ambush, and the sudden death that could spring from any quarter. For the tactics of fear, though despicable, are no less effective for it. And if you can cow an opponent beforehand, the battle is already half won.

Again they set out slowly, cautiously, and none murmured or complained when Thule sent the Vandal forward, along with a man of mixed blood who knew the country, to scout their way.

What else could they do, but follow?

Thirty-Five

But though they rode west and a little north for many hours, no enemy showed itself. Krieg alone was not surprised by this. For the Huns of his early manhood were known for two things (beside savage cruelty and cunning): lightning attack, seeming to rise out of the grass like stinging serpents, and the ability to melt back into the landscape just as quickly.

But as he and the scout that Thule had sent with him continued forward, they came across a swath of trampled grass, which they stooped to examine as the others slowly came up behind. At a sign from Thule, the first man—younger, and therefore less experienced—continued on. While Krieg remained on one knee, trying to read the riddle of the tracks.

“How many do you count?” said Thule. For he was unsure whether to push on, or to follow the stream that lay a short way ahead—which Hadric, the second scout, was now examining, and which led into overarching forests beyond.

“With another people, I could make at least a reasonable guess. But the Huns. . .and I’m not wholly convinced these marks are theirs. . .will sometimes ride in a file to disguise their numbers, or in a broad swath, to exaggerate them. And they, along with the other skilled tribes of central Asia, are so much of a piece with the earth itself that it is almost impossible to know how many, how far, how long ago.”

“Speak plainer,” demanded Thule. “I must make a decision.”

“For now I can only tell you that these are not Gothic tracks. They came from the southeast, and are now heading due north. . .and that it was probably some hours ago.”

“Then let us head south and west,” said the Visigoth peremptorily. “And find shelter for the night.”

Still Krieg hesitated, examining the ground. “What is it?” asked Thule impatiently.

“Perhaps, though I can’t be sure, the first signs of hope.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are footprints here, along with those of the horses. Not all of the troops are mounted.”

“Couldn’t they be prisoners, or slaves?”

“I don’t think so. The footprints are large, those of men. Soldiers.”

“They took no prisoners at Tarasco,” put in one of Thule’s men.

“Yes,” said Krieg, “and the direction isn’t right. Perhaps these men were held in reserve, and took no part in the slaughter.”

“But when they invaded Rhetia,” began Thule, almost afraid to hope, “there wasn’t a foot soldier among them.”

“That was the Hungarian plain,” said Krieg, becoming a little more confident, though he could still not be certain whose soldiers these were. “The forests were not so thick, or so many.”

“What difference does that make?” asked Kudric, the first words he had spoken since the horrors of the town. Perhaps even he was grown sober in the face of this new threat, sensing, through his father, the crushing burden of command.

“The difference between certain death,” replied Krieg calmly, “and a fighting chance for survival.”

“How so?” asked Kudric. And there was no trace of arrogance in his voice.

“The Hun riders have swept across the heart of two continents, an irresistible wave of destruction. But if now they have brought foot soldiers with them, or better still, had to leave some of their horses behind for lack of fodder and open ground…..”

“Yes,” said Thule, understanding. “And if they are not all Huns, but a mixed army, less loyal, and therefore less fanatical….. Well,” he added, not wanting to release the tension too much. “Let us wind our way up the stream, yonder, riding in its midst, and therefore leaving no tracks of our own for several miles. Then perhaps we can pass the night in relative safety.”

He glanced quickly at Krieg, the friend he sometimes admired (and therefor envied), and when the other made no contradictory sign, led them toward the stream where the first scout waited. And turned south, back toward the hills from which it flowed.

“We camp here,” said Thule finally, as they came to a sheltered clearing. Despite his words, he had led them closer to ten miles up the stream, till they were well among the foothills from which they had so recently descended. Though somewhat relieved by Krieg’s words of hope, still he could not recover from the shock of finding war and death where he had looked for rest and comfort. And his instincts told him he should not. For he remembered the Huns of his youth, and knew it would take all their strength and courage for the Visigoths to survive as a nation, a free people.

And this was everything.

His men began to disperse to picket the horses, and raise what skeletal defenses they could before pitching their tents, and posting sentries all around. No order had to be given for this, and for that at least he was grateful.

Krieg made his sleeping place at the fringes of the camp, as always, thinking to retire alone, and to rest his troubled mind and aching limbs. Though the bitterest cold had been left behind, still he felt stiff, tired, and far from young.

But to his surprise, Thule came toward him as the others began to drop off to sleep, and laid his sleeping furs beside him.

“I can’t let you retire just yet,” he said, in the closest thing to an apology that his position allowed.

“It’s all right,” said Krieg, knowing, at least in some measure, what he must be feeling.

“While I’m glad for your words at the trail,” said Thule, “I need to know as much as possible about our enemy. I’m afraid I was still too young to be objective when we fought them the first time. And now, with my mind racing….. I need to hear the voice of reason.”

“How did they seem to you then?” asked Krieg as a starting point.

“As they do now. Devils,” cursed the Visigoth bitterly. “They are like the very wrath of God, punishing us for the sins of Alaric.”

“They are only men,” said Krieg to calm him. “But truly wild men,”

he was forced to add. “Well.” And he began his more detailed account.

“They build few permanent structures, as you know. True nomads, they pillage to survive, hunt, forage, and drive their herds, living off the land. That is what makes them so dangerous. Most armies must travel with great baggage wagons filled with food and supplies. The Huns, at least those of old, would simply muster their warriors, mount their swift horses and be off.”

“Is it true they are also cannibals?” asked Thule with dread.

“I don’t know. But when you think about it, it’s hard to see how else they can feed vast armies on the move. They are master foragers, as I said. But still…..”

To this Thule could make no answer. “Go on,” he said reluctantly.

“They are a truly atavistic people, in any case. They are practically born on horseback, can ride and shoot as mere boys, and know no other life than that of nomad and conqueror. When their women and children accompany them in a true migration—thankfully we have seen no signs of that— they procreate (if that word can be applied to such savage copulation) and are born in the same cattle-drawn carts, often without stopping.”

“Go on.”

“To see them fight is not to see horse and rider, but the two as one, able to read each other perfectly, and therefore strike with great swiftness and cunning. And this unity extends to the force as a whole. They seem to be able to anticipate and react to each other’s movements almost without conscious thought.

“How?” asked Thule, both fascinated and horrified.

“When they attack,” answered Krieg, trying to understand it better himself. “It is like watching a flock of birds reacting to the swoops of a falcon, moving as one to some unseen signal. Except, of course, that they themselves are the bird of prey….. And when charging, they sometimes appear to come at you in a mad dash, without order. But there is a method to their madness. At times they sweep down on you with their wild, unearthly cries, only to withdraw after the briefest skirmish, seeming broken and in full flight. But when you try to pursue, they turn on you, and other forces you did not see seem to close from all directions at once.” He paused. “You do know that Dorlas was right? We can’t hope to defeat them alone.”

“Why do you think I seek out my father?” said Thule irritably.

“That’s not what I mean. If the Huns have invaded in a body, bringing with them all the armies they have assimilated from the greater part of Europe….. That they are not all Huns will be no advantage, if they can crush us with sheer numbers. We could find ourselves opposing half a million men. All the Visigoths, Franks and Burgundians together could not hope to withstand them.”

“How do you know so much?” asked Thule, his suspicious nature returning.

“We fought them together, Thule. You know that their numbers under Rugilas could range anywhere from fifty- to three-hundred-thousand men. And they were then still fairly new to Europe. Who knows how many armies they have since subdued, and forced to join their swelling ranks?” Thule grunted resentfully, but Krieg knew that he must drive the point home.

“And their ability to shoot from horseback—the Huns themselves—means that they can decimate our forward ranks before we ever draw close enough to engage them hand-to-hand. And if we try to charge first they will simply feign retreat, stringing us out, and cut our flanks to pieces when they feel the time is right. And even when you do close, and they turn to their swords instead of bows….. They are as fey and reckless as any soldiers have ever been, seemingly without fear: as if death were glory, and life but a dream.”

“We beat them at Tooth Hills,” said the Visigoth stubbornly.

“Yes, but barely, and they had already scoured the countryside for a thousand miles before they crossed the Carpathians. Their forces were dispersed, their plans uncertain. At that we only rebuffed them long enough to withdraw to the west….. And now they have followed after us. They are here, and Gaul is no longer safe.”

“Speaking to you is like arguing with Death.”

“I’m sorry, Thule. I wish I could give you better news.”

“There are still the Romans. Not for nothing did Ataulf force Honorius to give him his sister in marriage. It binds us together, however tentatively.”

“Yes. I hope you are right.”

“We cannot know these things until we speak with Theodoric,” said Thule firmly, wanting no more debate. 

“Yes, but either way.” Krieg hesitated.

“Say it, and let us have done.”

“I fear that Gaul is no longer a place of even relative peace for the Visigoths. Your father may have to move on to Spain, whether he will or no.”

To his surprise, Thule did not answer harshly. “Too well do I know it,” he said at length. “In truth I feared some stroke like this. It formed no small part of my thinking, in offering to lead our people south. Yes. It may now be easier to persuade my father that such is our only real hope. Though I warn you, such sentiments must come from me—not from an outsider, and not while he is overwhelmed and grieving.”

Krieg nodded his understanding. It wasn’t difficult to put himself in Theodoric’s place. After all the burdens he already carried, the wars that he had fought, trying to win a permanent home for his people, to be faced in the end with perhaps the greatest threat of all.…. He only hoped it would not be the death of the aging King. Or of his son, in whom he placed such hope.

Or of me, he thought ruefully, remembering imperfectly his own words to Cassius:

“When you reach a certain age, ‘victory’ and ‘success’ lose their meaning. All you long for is peace, and the safety and well-being of those you love.”

He thought of Lana, said a silent prayer of thanks that she was far away from all of this. And that he had no more sons to sacrifice to the unquenchable gods of war.

“Josef,” he whispered mournfully. “Franz.” Perhaps it would not be long before he joined them….. But no. He had another family now, and he must live for them.

He released a weary breath, and turned on to his side to sleep. Thule turned the other way, and only wished he could. The glorious campaign to drive the Vandals from Spain and win a true home for his people. . .had been rendered meaningless in the face of brute survival.

“Please help me,” he whispered, knowing no other prayer. “Dear God, if you exist, please help me.”

Meanwhile, back at the Visigoth’s Spanish encampment, Euric was preparing to set out on his first true southern reconnaissance. For while he took to heart (and fully shared) Thule’s caution that they must not be discovered by the Vandals, he needed to know something of the lie of the land for when he Theodoric returned. Strangely (to those who did not know him) the King had trusted his brother with the overall plan, but not his son.

So he gathered about him five of his most trusted scouts, giving each strict instructions about what they could, and could not explore. Then together they set out, a little west before turning south. This, so that if they were seen in their southing, it would be difficult to trace them back to the fortified camp. They were also careful to cover what little evidence there was of their passing—for Euric was every bit as shrewd and experienced as Krieg—for at least the first several miles.

But by mid-morning they had reached a propitious southern turning—a natural gully, with a small stream running down its center, and trees lining both banks—which would not only take them unerringly to the lands below, but also provide a clear and relatively safe way back, as well as a natural rendezvous point: the rock-rimmed cleft in which they were now gathered.

Euric thought to repeat his instructions before descending and splitting up into groups. But studying the solemn, serious faces gathered around him, he reminded himself that each man had been hand-picked for his experience, intelligence and discretion. So instead he simply patted his horse’s neck, guided it gently into the stream and said only:

“Careful now. You know the dangers.”

The six made no move to disperse until the surrounding hills became shallow, the broad plains opening before them. Then they separated as previously arranged, into three groups of two men each. For this was the established pattern. Partners inevitably saw more than one man alone; each gave the other some protection; and their combined accounts provided a more complete and objective picture of the lands they had traversed.

Euric himself—along with Thalic, the man Thule had sent to bring Katera back to the camp—continued to follow the stream south, while the other two pairs were instructed to hug the foothills, east and west respectively, as closely as they could, and not to venture more than a mile or so from them, and then only if they could do so with the aid of natural cover. There was no need to dwell on what could happen if they did not. All knew what was at stake, and none wished to experience the Vandal propensity for (and expertise in) the use of torture to extract information, thus laying their enemies bare. And all save Thalic (who was sterile and a widower) had children or grandchildren they would not endanger for the world.

But as Euric and Thalic rode on in careful silence, a pattern quickly began to establish itself. At first both men were afraid to hope….. But soon there was no denying it. They found no sight or sound of the Vandal horde, or even of individual tribes. And while this was not conclusive in itself—they could simply have ridden off to distant plunder, soon to return—the more reassuring sign was that they found in the Vandals’ place. . .what could only be the surviving native peoples.

These must have returned from whatever small refuge they had been able to find, having passed the winter as best they could, and crept cautiously back into their own lands once confident the marauders were gone.

Gone. Was it possible?

Keeping largely out of the natives’ sight was not difficult, as brush and trees began to crowd the banks to either side of the slowly widening stream. And so, with no small relief, he and Thalic decided to push on, still farther into what was supposed to have been Vandal-occupied territory.

But everywhere they went, even splitting up for a time to explore a short distance east and west, the signs were the same. The Vandals had moved on to the south, and the Basques and other native peoples slowly returned to rebuild their lives.

It seemed too good to be true. Yet when the scouts met again at the rendezvous point, their tale was much the same: no sign of the Vandals, only the rutted tracks of their wagons and horses, along with footprints of every size—men, women and children—heading off and not returning.

So feeling heartened, if still cautious, they returned carefully to their encampment as the sun set slowly behind them. And over the next several days, though Euric did not wish the people to grow careless, the news slowly spread that the lands beyond were largely unoccupied, and that if things remained so, they might be able to complete their southern migration with little bloodshed when the others returned. And that the land itself was everything they had been promised, trampled and burned in places now, but already healing with the coming of full Spring: a lovely and fruitful land, where they might find a permanent home at last.

Thirty-Seven

Lana’s bleeding began in the evening of the day the scouts returned. She had been secretly taking the herbs that were given her, not by Joseppa—though she doubted the woman was unaware of anything that took place in the camp—but by an elderly woman she had come to know through their communal foraging, which had gradually spread out as they continued to feel no outside threat.

Her abdomen had begun cramping that afternoon, growing more painful by degrees every hour. Until now, lying on her bed with a cloth-covered stick clenched between her teeth, she could no longer bear her suffering in anything like silence. As the first gasps and cries broke from her, Joseppa rose and moved calmly towards the new alcove they had built for her, as Thengol sat up in alarm.

“Mother,” said Lana desperately. “What is happening?”

“God’s mercy,” said the other soothingly, wiping the sweat from her face and forehead with a damp cloth. “A miscarriage.”

But while Lana herself had done this, and tried to prepare her mind for the result, the realization of the culminating act was terrifying. No! Why had she tried to kill the child—her baby—that meant life itself to her husband? And had she murdered herself as well?

“Am I going to die? Oh, Mother, why can’t I stop the bleeding?”

“Hush now,” said Joseppa, still in that calm, matter-of-fact voice that either subdued the compassion behind it, or had nothing to subdue. “Your body just needs to rid itself of the placenta, and then you should be fine. Let me go and speak to Wissen (the woman who had given her the herbs), and see if there isn’t something more she can give you for the pain.”

She knew! The bloody-minded bitch had known all along. Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it.

The old woman arrived a short time later, bringing with her a small drinking skin, filled with the aged and fermented juice of some berry—in truth little more than crude brandy—kept for the ‘restorative purposes’ which the tribe, sooner or later, always paid for.

But this was not what troubled Lana, in so many ways a child herself. Joseppa had known: had planted the idea in her mind, perhaps even thrown the two of them together and told Wissen what to expect, what to say in answer to her fears. Was there no one in the world she could trust? The thought that she had always been able to trust her husband, whose child she had destroyed, was like a lash across her most sensitive regions.

Meanwhile, Joseppa reminded herself, this was none of her doing. She would never try kill Thule’s child. Her contempt of the Spanish whore who had seduced her son’s affections was in that moment absolute.

The old woman helped Lana sit up a little, and brought the skin to her lips. “It may burn a little going down,” she said in a cracked, sing-song voice, in its way more terrible than Joseppa’s calmness. “But that only tells us the medicine is working. Your stomach may already be upset from the cramping, but the blessed juice will soon ease the pain. Yes, and your spirit as well.”

“Am I going to die?” she asked again, with large tears running down her face.

“Of course not, child. Death comes only from childbirth, of which this is but an echo. You were wise to do what you did. With complications already arising,” (a soothing lie) “you might well have died, and the baby, too. Then where would your brave husband be? So much better this way: safer, more natural.

“Oh, it hurts,” sobbed the young woman piteously. “It hurts.”

“There, there,” Wissen hushed her. “Take another drink, that’s a good girl. You’ll begin to feel better soon.” And as the old woman continued to urge the sweet liquor past her lips, she knew two things. Joseppa would pay her well for both the herbs and her discretion, and that if worse came to worst—if the woman died—no one would be blamed. Such was the frequency of miscarriage, stillbirth, hemorrhaging, and death in childbirth.

Soon Lana was all but senseless from the drink. Thengol came and knelt beside her, holding her hand and comforting her as best he could, genuinely and touchingly concerned. Secretly relieved as well, for now she might truly be his. His mother had already told him that no proper wedding had ever been performed between Lana and the grim, much older man, and that as such she wasn’t truly married; though his love for her had always overpowered any moral consideration. For conscience must be nurtured, and though his father (whom he feared) seemed to possess a strict sense of honor, his mother did not, telling him that happiness and the well-being of the family was all.

And several hours later the aborted fetus, wrapped inside the small placenta, spilled out onto the bed. The child that Krieg had so desperately wanted. . .was dead. Against her matron’s orders Lana hobbled outside and buried it in a tiny grave, sobbing all the while, and begging God to forgive her.

The child was dead.

As were the souls of the women who had murdered it.

Thirty-Eight

Thule and his diminished company set out again the next morning. To his relief, Krieg found that in seeking Theodoric’s summer encampment they traveled west, away from danger. So he’d been right. The King was no fool. He’d kept his host, along with the bulk of his people, out of harm’s way. Perhaps he’d even had some warning of the Hun invasion, and was prepared to march into Spain when Thule returned, or things got worse in Gaul? If so, he hadn’t told his son. The thought was staggering…..

Had Theodoric been planning to migrate to Spain all along? Had he only manipulated his son, sending Thule across the Pyrenees with but a small force, to prove his courage yet again? Or simply to do the dirty work of finding the best passage, and carving out a settlement from which his entire force could strike out into Spain? Which he had in fact done. All that remained was to scout the countryside, which Euric had probably done on his own.

“Kings,” he muttered to himself, as it all came together in his mind.

As previously, he and the younger man had been sent ahead to scout the company’s way. Now perhaps half a mile ahead of them, he dismounted to examine the broken branch of a small tree, some part of himself not yet at the fore of consciousness telling him it was important. Yet still his thoughts ran on, trying to fathom the maddening struggle for power and dominance among such men.

He himself had never wanted to be King, and was secretly grateful that Elise’s various plots—performed without his knowledge—had failed….. But not to the death. He felt a sudden pang of doubt and remorse. If he had done as she wished. . .would their sons still be alive? A terrible, a crushing thought. He pushed it away as his tracker’s instincts finally forced the message through: the damaged limbs he now examined were not natural, accidental, but the signs of careful, controlled human activity.

As he moved closer to examine what were surely branches cut for firewood, though carefully disguised, his conscience forced him to forget the past—Elise—and think of the here and now: of Lana, and the unborn child. Still he wished he could go back somehow, and do things differently. If only I had known what was in her heart. . .perhaps I could have loved a worthier soul….. Useless.

For now, just ahead of him at the edge of an escarpment, the younger scout too had dismounted, tethered his horse back and out of site of whatever lay below, and was urgently beckoning him forward.

Krieg wrapped the reins of the grey about an undamaged branch and came up silently. Together they looked down into a broad, dry recession, scarcely believing what they saw.

A host of Romans soldiers were encamped their, the greatest he had ever seen, bearing the red banners beneath golden eagles of the Magister Militum himself. And no thrown-together expeditionary force, such as the one the Vandals had routed in Spain. No. This was an army, close on two-hundred-thousand strong. The sun glinted from their breastplates, the tips of their spears, the red of their banners echoed in the plumed helmets of the captains and centurions. It was as if a tunnel had opened from the time of the great Caesars, and these legions marched out of it. Krieg was even more baffled than at first site of the Hun invasion.

“How did they get here?” asked the Visigoth in disbelief.

“They must have taken to the foothills farther east, and so outflanked the Huns.”

“And us,” said the man nervously, struggling to make the timeline fit. “They must have crossed our tracks, as we came down from the mountains.”

“Yes, but not known what to make of them. We could have been wrong ourselves.” The younger man looked confused. “It could just as easily have been Roman tracks we found near the stream, a scouting or an expeditionary force, heading north.”

“But what…..” The Visigoth waved vaguely at the spectacle, unable to take it all in. “What are they doing here?” Krieg only wished he knew, or that he could be surprised, by anything.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly, as hope and despair waged yet another war inside him. “Best go back and tell Thule. I’ll try to gather what I can from their movements.” But at this the other hesitated.

“Go on,” he added gently. “I’m not going to betray the only friends I have.”

The man stared hard at him. Then went to his horse, paused to look back one more time, mounted swiftly and rode off to warn the others.

A short time later, Thule himself came up on foot. “What the Devil!” he cried when he saw the vast host, fighting to keep his fear and dismay in check. “It’s Aëtius himself.” For he had recognized his distinctive banner: the infants Romulus and Remus, suckled by a she-wolf. “They must be making for Theodoric’s camp. They know he’s here! But how?”

“Aëtius,” said Krieg thoughtfully. “I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean he’s come to fight the Visigoths. Look close—there, in front of his tents. Aren’t those Visigoth scouts?”

Thule strained his eyes, at last made out several figures: a tall and straight Roman general, perhaps another general with him. Then a half dozen Captains. And finally several scouts, dressed more or less like himself.

“Traitors!” he choked.

“Or patriots.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Romans may have had a belly-full of Attila’s treachery. He is threatening their Gallic provinces, demanding half their Empire.”

“But how can I know?”

“You can’t, without going down there.”

“And where will you be?” asked Thule suspiciously.

“By your side, if you’ll let me. I would like to meet ‘the last true Roman.’”

“Oh, Aëtius is that, but hardly a comfort to the Visigoths. He’s said to be cold as ice, and sharp as razor steel: quite capable of killing us without batting an eye. Anything to preserve his precious Empire.”

“Even join forces with old enemies? And by what you say, Thule, Attila is capable of laying waste all the Visigoths, then riding on into Spain and killing both our families. He may well do it unless we can forget old hatreds, and oppose him together. Won’t you at least speak to the man?”

Thule stirred uncomfortably, clasping and unclasping his hand upon the sword hilt. “What you say is possible, but not likely. He could just as well have joined forces with the Huns. He grew up among them, and he and Attila were friends.”

“Does friendship survive ambition? Look what Attila did to his own brother. Caesar Augustus is said to have been poisoned by his own wife, so that her son—”

“Ancient history,” said Thule irritably.

“There is only one way to find out.”

“Yes,” replied Thule bitterly. “Put our heads into the lion’s mouth.”

“Better the lion than the dragon.”

Thule grunted. Then turned back to the others.

“Kudric. Prepare the men for parley.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” said Krieg.

“Why?” asked Thule sharply. “You want me to go down there alone?”

“With me, Thule. And if you don’t trust me by now, you never will.”

“These are evil times,” said Thule defensively. “It’s hard to trust anyone.”

“Yes. But if a company of riders come sliding down that hill, even under a banner of truce, anything could happen. Aëtius’ tents are in the center, as it should be, to prevent ambush or assassination. Yet we might be slaughtered before he even knew we were here. You and I, Thule, on foot.

That is how I see it.”

Kudric spoke angrily. “You will not lead my father into a trap!”

“No, I won’t not. But if you’re worried, place your archers along the crest, their bows bent, and trained on me. Just tell them to aim low. If their shots sail, and strike the Romans instead, we will all be killed.” As the young man’s eyes narrowed, Krieg at last saw some resemblance to the father, though the thought was not entirely comforting. “But more than that, Kudric, events are unfolding rapidly. This is no time to waver, or be timid.”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

Thule rose to stop his advancing son. “You’ve never lacked courage, Kudric, as all know. And you may soon have a chance to prove it.”

His son looked at him in sudden alarm.

“If we are killed or captured,” his father continued, “I want you to take command of the men….. Listen to me! If something happens to us, ride hard, back up into the hills by the stream we just left. When at a safe distance from the lowlands, travel roughly forty miles east, then down again by the Spearhead River canyon. Theodoric should be camped alongside it with his host. Tell him what has happened, and that if the Huns and Romans

are in league he must lead our people into Spain and defend the high passes, to the death if need be. There at least we will have a fighting chance. Here there is none. You must ride quickly, not stopping for anything.”

“But father!” A sudden tear glimmered in the young man’s eye.

“Peace, Kudric. I’m not dead yet. You’ve just got to be ready to assume command if things go bad. Your courage will be needed.”

His son nodded reluctantly, then turned away.

Krieg touched his friend’s elbow. “They seem to be stirring for the march. We must be going.”

Thule nodded, instructed his men to remain out of sight. Then descended with the Vandal, into what he knew not.

Thirty-Nine

It was not long before they were spotted. One sentry cried out, then another, and the eyes of the camp turned, individually at first, then more or less in unison, toward them.

“We’ve stirred the hornet’s nest now,” said Krieg. Thule only grunted, as mounted pickets rode out to challenge them, with companies of infantry assembling quickly behind.

They had reached the bottom of the hill. “Stop and raise your hand in token of peace,” said Thule, as the first of the horsemen, bearing long, iron-tipped lances came up to them. Their leader, a lean and sneering man whose bronze helmet appeared too large for his head, seemed irritated that they had halted on their own, taking away his first harsh command.

“Who are you?” he demanded coldly in Latin, “and what are you doing here?”

Thule, who spoke enough of the Empire’s mother tongue to make himself understood, replied simply. “I am Thule, a Visigoth Lord. I wish to speak with Aëtius.”

“Why would he want to talk to you? And who are you to make such a demand?”

“The son of Theodoric, King,” said Thule, bristling as the others came up and formed a semi-circle at the base of the slope, surrounding them. “Upon whose lands you stand without leave,” he went on angrily.” I will not be spoken to thus!” The man scowled and lowered his lance as if to attack.

“No,” said Krieg calmly, pointing up and behind him. The man looked up at the bluff to find a score of archers at its crest, their bows bent, arrows pointing straight at him.

And things might have turned ugly, had a less diligent and thorough General been in command. But Aëtius never took anything for granted. When he’d heard the sentries cry out, and ascertained the cause—his far-sightedness was something of a legend among his men, and he had seen them as soon as he turned—he called for one of his horses, always kept at the ready, mounted quickly and rode out to investigate himself, along with his Captains and Visigoth scouts. They approached swiftly now, the Magister Militum himself in the lead.

Krieg marked at once the absence of a personal guard. This puzzled him, but only briefly. Upon reflection, a high Roman’s guard could itself become a danger. More than one Emperor had met his death at the hands of such men. Better to have a few trusted allies. Though why he had chosen to include the Visigoths among them…..

But now his full attention was honed upon the man himself. Aëtius’ right hand, which had been raised in a similar token of peace, now pointed accusingly toward the irascible captain, who faltered under his gaze. Two things were evident from this brief and wordless exchange: Aëtius did not like the man, and his power here was absolute.

Flavius Aëtius, Magister Militum of the Western Roman Empire, was tall and straight, as he had appeared from a distance. And though the muscles of his sword arm did not bulge as Thule’s, Krieg saw that the sinews protruding from the short, bound sleeves of the white garment he wore beneath the molded and ornamented muscle cuirass, were corded and strong, the rest of his lithe figure seeming a natural extension of the shrewd, hard face.

I would not like to meet this man in combat, thought Krieg. For set among the angular lines of his countenance—sandy hair combed forward like the Caesars of old—were a pair of eyes that made no attempt to dim their hawkish luster. The man was a fighter, and no mistake.

But his attention was diverted as Thule suddenly rushed forward toward one of the Visigoth scouts. Krieg reached for his sword, as did the others, until they saw that the son of the King had tears in his eyes, and was not attacking but embracing the man, who had quickly dismounted to do the same.

“Thorismund!” he exclaimed, stepping back to look at his brother. “We thought you were dead!” And he embraced him again. “We thought you were dead.” Krieg then saw the resemblance: more to Theodoric than to Thule, yet still unmistakable.

For Thorismund, the eldest son and one-time heir apparent to the Visigoth crown, had ridden off without a word when he was sixteen, nearly twenty years before. His horse had come back riderless, and as the days turned into months, then years, it could only be assumed that he had met some tragic end.

“Forgive me,” said Thorismund, no less moved than his brother. He was not much taller than Thule, but because of his leaner build, appeared so. This, along with the deeper lines of his face, spoke of a Spartan, even ascetic existence. Not a warrior, thought Krieg, more like a prophet or. . . there was no denying it. . .a Savior. His hair was long and of the same dark brown, with a trimmed beard perfectly in keeping with his lean face. But there was no sign of the dull subservience to be found in true ascetics, nor the madness of a prophet in the wilderness. Rather there shone a piercing light in his sapphire eyes that was undeniable: wise, penetrating, messianic. “If our friends will forgive us, I will give you a brief account of my departure, all those years ago, as well as my need to have done so. The rest must wait for a more auspicious time.”

“Tell me,” said Thule, his eyes glistening with both anticipation and pain, the distant memories coming back afresh. Thorismund looked to Aëtius, who nodded, then led his brother a little apart from the others, and began his abbreviated tale.

“I had a vision one night as I slept, in the deep forest so long ago. In it I saw a headless warrior, turning left and right in bewilderment as enemy horsemen circled about, closing, closing. A shaft flew out of the dark and he fell, as the enemy rode over his body: Theodoric.

“I understood this to be the fate of the Visigoths, unless a strong leader arose to take his place. You know I love our father, but what would happen when he passed, as all men must? This told me that I must go out into the wilderness, give up everything, as Christ said, and attain the wisdom that only He could show. This that I should observe, but take no part in, the wickedness of men. One must know the enemy to defeat him. And that I should return only when my people were at their last extremity. For only then would they listen, and truly believe.”

“Now,” said Thule grimly. And though he had listened to his brother, moved as always by his words, he could not help wondering if they were but wishful fantasy.

“Yes. And so I lived off the land, and traveled the wide world, revealing myself to no one, following my dream-quest, which led me ever eastward.”

“But how do you come to be with Aëtius?” asked Thule, still unable to take it all in. “And what is he doing here?”

At this both men seemed to remember themselves, and with a mutual glance, turned and moved back toward the military leader of Rome. And as he looked down on them in stern resplendence, Thule unconsciously touched his own breastplate on the left shoulder with a closed right fist, then extended his arm, palm upward, saluting him in the Roman fashion. For such was the charisma of the man, even in silence. And at this Thule could not help thinking that whatever else the unlikely pair did or did not possess, they had the power to inspire men.

“You must be Thule,” said the General, who then dismounted, becoming human again, and strode forward with his forearm extended. The Visigoth hesitated, then took it in his own. “Would you mind calling off your archers? If I must die, then let it be in battle.”

“Of course.” Thule turned to give the order, but found his men already clambering down the hill, sending a small avalanche of earth and dry stones before them, much to the discomfiture of the men and horses below. For they had recognized in the man who stood beside their Lord, if not by sight then by the way he had stirred him, the long-lost Heir Apparent, whose return at the hour of need seemed a portent in itself. Reaching the bottom, Kudric rushed forward and embraced the uncle he had never known. For both his father and grandfather had often spoken of the beloved heir, still mourning after many years his tragic disappearance.

“Brother of my father,” said the young man, not without emotion of his own. “It is a miracle.”

Thorismund turned to Thule, uncertain.

“Kudric,” said the lord proudly. “My firstborn.”

Aëtius had by this time satisfied himself there was no danger (and much possibility) in the unexpected meeting of brothers, the royal sons of Theodoric. But he did not know what to make of the large and imposing Vandal with him. It was his people, after all, who had sided with the Huns, and encouraged them in their Gallic campaign, which threatened to destroy what remained of the Empire. For once his western flanks were secure, there was nothing to keep Attila from descending upon Rome itself, as he had often threatened, and becoming the absolute ruler of all Europe.

“Many meetings,” he said, turning toward him and extending his hand. But Krieg could see by his posture that he was equally prepared to withdraw it and, pirouetting, draw out his weapon and strike in a single motion. The position of his feet, the quick glance to left and right were unmistakable. And this struck a chord of memory inside him. For it was a move that he had seen once before: a young Roman he had cornered, during Alaric’s Italian campaign. Could it have been the same man? He’d barely had time to raise his shield, which struck him in the face from the impact of the blow, and the youth had escaped him unharmed. Glancing now at the Roman’s sword, he could not help noticing that the scabbard, and possibly the blade itself, were of Scythian make.

“I am Aëtius,” said the General calmly, watching the Vandal’s pupils for any change that would signal hostility or deceit. It was a technique he had learned from Rugilas himself, and it had served him many times in the past.

“I am Krieg,” he replied, taking the proffered forearm, which was also fitted in ornamental bronze.

“Krieg, Son of Kliegental?” asked the Roman, his own eyes widening just a fraction before he could control them. “Field Marshall of the Vandals at the battle of Volaterra?”

So it was the same man, thought Krieg, and with a mind like a steel trap. How had he remembered his name, let alone that of his father, dead these thirty years? “Yes,” he answered more slowly. “I believe we crossed swords just beneath the arch, at the shattered city gates. You performed some turn that I had never seen before….. How on earth did you escape?”

The Roman smiled sardonically, eluded the question just as easily. For frankness with strangers had never been his way. “Yes, I’m afraid you had the better of us that day.”

“Though you had the better of me,” replied Krieg, realizing only afterward that he had taken the bait. At this the General became more human, or at least appeared to do so.

“Just the once—a trick I learned in Scythia as a boy. I daresay it would not work again.”

“I hope not.” Krieg hesitated, but the question must be asked. All their futures depended on it. “May I now hope the reverse: that we may draw swords together this time?”

At that moment Thule spoke. Krieg saw that despite his joy at seeing Thorismund, he had not forgotten the reason for their parley.

“I am Thule, son of Theodoric, King of the Visigoths,” he said brusquely. “While my brother’s friendship gives you the nominal right to be here on our lands, I must know fully what you intend.”

A tough nut to crack, thought Aëtius, measuring the man with his eyes. Or you would be, if Thorismund were not already in my camp.

“Yes,” he said guardedly. Then deliberately turned back to Krieg. “Have the Vandals changed sides then? The last we heard, it was Gaiseric who convinced Attila to move west, and weaken or destroy his Visigoth enemies.” A half-truth—no one told Attila what to do—but one impossible to disprove.

“I had not heard,” replied Krieg levelly.

“You will address yourself to me when on Visigoth lands,” said Thule firmly, almost with hostility. Aëtius caught the threatening note at once, changed his stance and glanced quickly at the others. Clearly he was a man who did not trust easily, and was constantly on guard against assassins.

But then, mused Krieg, how could it be otherwise? He had been captured, along with his parents, by Alaric’s forces as a mere boy, then served as a peace hostage with the Huns. Then somehow survived the intrigues of the Roman court, the apparent hatred of Galla Placidia, and in spite of all, raised himself to this exalted position through courage in battle, shrewd diplomacy, and the sheer force of his will and persona.

He turned back to the Visigoth lord with effortless grace. “May I not, as a courtesy, finish my conversation with your friend?”

To this Thule could make no answer. And he remembered he was dealing with the military leader of Rome, backed up by over two-hundred thousand fighting men, many of whom, as if at some unseen signal, were slowly closing in around them. In the end he simply nodded.

“How came you to be with a prince of the Visigoths,” he continued, “your people’s sworn enemy? Is it possible you don’t know?” Krieg looked at him questioningly. “That the Vandals returned Theodoric’s daughter—married to Gunduric in the hope of establishing a lasting peace—with her nose and ears cut off?”

Krieg flinched at the news, as Thule grimaced at the remembrance. The Roman’s shaft had gone home.

For Krieg had not known, though the Visigoths’ lingering hostility might have warned him of some such stroke. It also explained, without excusing, Kudric’s treatment of Katera. “No,” he said ruefully, looking down.

“And knowing now, do you expect a warm welcome from her father?”

“I do not,” replied Krieg, suddenly realizing two things: that Aëtius had said this last in the rough speech of the Vandals. And second, that Theodoric might well vent his pent-up rage upon him. “I fought with Theodoric against the Huns,” he said gravely. At this Aëtius’ eyes seemed to glimmer, though briefly. “But I have not been welcomed anywhere for a long time.”

Aëtius saw from his eyes as he slowly raised them again, that the man spoke the truth. And began to understand. . .not only was there a strange tale here, but the man might be more useful than he’d hoped. If he felt he could trust him. And the last true Roman—he was aware of such monikers, and like Attila, did nothing to discourage them—did not trust easily.

“How came you to be with Thule?” he repeated bluntly.

“A long story,” said the Vandal, as all the weariness of their journey, heightened by the tension of Attila’s invasion, and finally collapsing into sorrowful exhaustion at the remembrance of what his people had become, made him feel that his head was made of stone, his body aged beyond all fighting usefulness. “May we not fetch our horses, and join you in your tents?”

“Yes,” said the Master Soldier, after considering a moment. Then turning to the Visigoth lord. “With your permission?” Thule grunted. “There is much to discuss,” said Aëtius without missing a beat. “But our meeting must not be prolonged. The Huns are on the move.”

“We know,” said Thule darkly.

So upon Aëtius’ nod, and Thule’s subsequent order, Kudric and his men clambered back up the hill to retrieve their horses, along with those of their Lord, and the strange Vandal scout, their suspicions once more aroused. As Aëtius had intended.

Then together they mounted, and rode toward the tents of the last great Roman General.

Forty

Aëtius, the last true Roman. He sat within the white tent in a carved and ornamented chair, backless, formed by a curving X of wood with a taut seat of leather, and gold-inlaid ivory armrests. He sat erect, and now, with his helmet off, a slave girl deftly placed upon his head the silver laurel wreath given him in token of his office. Unlike Attila, he found no virtue in appearing rustic. Let friend and foe alike see the power and glory that had once been Rome. And will be again, by Jupiter.

The laurel had first been presented to him by the Emperor Valentinian, upon his destruction of the rebel forces under Boniface. No matter that Placidia herself had raised them up to destroy him. Aëtius had been victorious; both mother and son knew the realities; and both his power and popularity had increased many-fold because of it. The people needed a symbol of Rome as it was, and there was none better. Thule, Thorismund and Krieg sat with him, his trusted captains outside, keeping all others at a distance which precluded eavesdropping. The same dark-haired slave girl, who showed no fear of her master, but rather a kind of filial devotion, brought them wine in an elegant gold pitcher, poured it into equally lavish goblets, then stood by the door watching him for further instructions.

“Deaf and mute,” said Aëtius matter-of-factly. Then smiled at her warmly, a thing which none save Thorismund had yet seen. An illegitimate daughter? Krieg wondered. A lover? Or merely another whom her master had charmed, and turned to his purpose. No one would ever know, and perhaps that was the point. Then, as if by tacit agreement, he turned to his Visigoth friend, who nodded his understanding, and spoke.

“There is much to tell you, brother, of the years that we have been apart, and for which I humbly ask your forgiveness. But now, as the General suggests, we must discuss the Huns, and our father’s role in repulsing them.” He remained, as always, a man of few words.

“Enough to say that I have spent time in Gaul, Rhetia, and the Italian peninsula. I have watched Attila’s rise, formed a friendship with Aëtius, and as such am not wholly surprised by the Huns’ thrust into Gaul. Attila has been growing restless, as all tyrants must, for some years now.

“He must be stopped, Thule, here and now, or he will plunge the world into anti-Christian darkness for centuries to come. If we let him conquer Gaul, his dominance over the Germanic peoples will be complete: the Visigoths become nothing more than another vanquished people, our Faith and our freedom exterminated by a man without learning, nobility, or the least respect for life—without a living soul of any kind. It is no wonder that some in Rome call him the Devil incarnate, and fearfully await the Apocalypse. But that is for God to decide, and the Visigoths will not go quietly into the night.”

“How do we stop him?” said Thule plainly. “The Roman force looks impressive, perhaps two-hundred-thousand men. But how will they fight? And while our father can easily match that number, surely the Huns’ strength is greater still.” In this he deliberately exaggerated Theodoric’s forces, which were roughly equal to those of the Magister Militum.

Krieg saw Aëtius’ subdued resentment at such a rebuke, but understood Thule’s need to assert his own authority. The Roman army was on Visigoth soil, and had not yet made its intentions clear.

“Though you come at it indirectly,” said Thule, looking hard at the man, “and through my brother, whom I love….. What you are in fact doing is asking for our help, without the courtesy of calling it that.” Aëtius nodded coolly. “You are asking, are you not, that we combine our forces to meet the common threat?”

Plainly: “Yes.”

“While Attila’s host could be larger still.”

“Half a million men at least,” confirmed Thorismund gravely. “And he has the Devil’s trick of creating more out of every army he subdues.”

“Are all his men Huns, and on horse?” These words from Krieg, the first that he had added. “For unless much has changed, Theodoric can mount three-hundred-thousand skilled riders.” Good, thought Thule, seeing that his friend understood, and was playing his part. “Clearly the greater part of your force, General, is infantry.”

“Yes,” replied Aëtius, discounting both men’s assessment of the Visigoths’ numbers, though inwardly conceding his own need for cavalry.

“Now we come to it. If Attila’s men were all mounted Huns, we would have little chance of defeating them. But, thanks to Christ, they are not.” He said this despite the fact that he secretly worshiped the old gods, particularly Jupiter, Mars and Apollo—thus the less flattering nickname, ‘Atheist’—but he knew the clay with which he must work.

“Thank the living Christ,” he repeated, “they are not. Perhaps a third are true Hun warriors, fighting, and shooting, from horseback. But most of his men are Ostrogoths, Scythians, rebel Franks and others. But if a good number of these were once cavalry, and had horses—many now do not—almost none have mastered the Hun skill of shooting from horseback, which must begin in childhood to attain anything like proficiency. And while it was in fact my scouts and skirmishers”—another lie, but necessary—“whose tracks you crossed, Krieg’s observation about a mixed force is still a valid one.”

At this both Krieg and Thule exchanged a glance. How did he know about the tracks, as they had never mentioned it?

“But before going further,” he added frankly. “I feel I must make two things very clear.” Thule met his hard gaze with one of his own. “I am here by leave of your brother—Theodoric’s Heir, if I do not mistake—and the highest ranking Visigoth accessible to me.” Thorismund nodded gently, apologetically at his brother. “May we not move beyond posturing, which only keeps us from the matter at hand?”

At this Thule grunted noncommittally. For he was still having trouble coming to grips with the idea of fighting alongside an enemy he had striven against, sometimes in desperate combat, for most of his adult life, both in Italy, and in the Roman provinces in western and north-central Gaul, from which no small part of Aëtius’ forces undoubtedly came. And he certainly had no intention, nor would Theodoric, of serving under this, or any man in his own country.

“And second,” said Aëtius firmly. “I am equally concerned about the Vandals, who have openly allied themselves with the Huns, though not yet willing to back up their ‘alliance’ with force. “Can you swear that nothing I say in front of your scout,” indicating Krieg, “will be repeated before Gunduric, or Gaiseric, his faithless brother?”

“I trust Krieg with my life,” said the Visigoth flatly. “I have known him quite long enough for that. His wife and unborn child remain with my family…..” He almost said ‘in Spain’, but caught himself in time. “He has been tortured by the bastards, as his scars plainly show, and is no longer one of them. He has been a good counselor, honest to the point of bluntness, during the most trying of times. And if we are here to question loyalty and allegiance—”

“We are not,” said Thorismund reassuringly. “I trust Aëtius just as deeply: to fight the Huns and defend his Gallic provinces, with no thought of displacing our people afterward.”

“He’d better not try,” said Thule, his voice edged in steel.

“You have fought the Huns before?” asked Aëtius, turning to Krieg and ignoring the threat.

“Yes,” he said, not without a touch of pride. “Alongside Thule and Theodoric himself, against Rugilas. Though in time their sheer numbers caused us all to migrate west, we won our share of battles, and left the ground red with their blood.” More bravado, thought Aëtius, though he understood the reason for it.

“All right then,” he said, accepting the man, for the moment at least. “Then I can tell you that their tactics have not changed much in the intervening years. Except—and it is a notable exception—that Attila has, of shrewdness and necessity both, resorted to diplomacy as often as violence. And that for a variety of reasons he has assembled a mixed force for this campaign. A good thing, too. Seven-hundred-thousand mounted Huns (I project their potential number) could sweep us away like dust in the wind. Thank God, as I said before, that is not what we now face.

“And I would rather march into battle with the Visigoths,” he continued sternly, answering the angry question in Thule’s eyes, “among whom I was raised, than with all the Ostrogoths, Scythians and Gepidae in the world. I say again, for any who did not know it, I taken prisoner by Alaric’s forces as a mere boy, and raised among you. I know your valor, and your strength at arms.”

“I hope you mean that,” said Thule.

“I do. And while I respect Attila, who was once my friend, he is not always the great general he has been painted by those whom he has conquered. They cannot acknowledge their own failures, and so attribute it to the genius of their enemy. Speed and savagery are the mark of the Huns, which require no great tactical maneuvering, and which Attila, like his uncle, will try to use to full effect. But that will not be as easy here and now, as it was in Rugilas’ time. For one thing, we won’t be surprised by it. For another, if we can bring them to a stand, and make him fight on our terms….. Well. Shall we come to real matter at hand?”

“You want my father’s help,” said Thule bluntly.

“Yes,” acknowledged Aëtius openly, thus making a virtue of necessity.

“But to answer your concern, I am here to ask for Theodoric’s help, not demand it. And I have no intention of acting as Supreme Commander.” While he would in fact have loved to do so, he knew the proud Visigoth King would never consent to it.

“That is all fine and good,” said Thule dryly. “But how do we know that if and when Attila is defeated, you won’t turn on us next, with some new ally we know nothing about? Though I love my brother, I would hear the reason for his confidence.”

“Thorismund?” said Aëtius, with an open hand toward him.

“I know what you say, brother, but we need not fear Rome as an enemy, for several reasons. First and foremost, the Romans only wish to defend their Gallic Provinces, not expand them—they would just become one more frontier to defend in these dark and desperate times—and they need our help to do it. The Western Empire is ringed on all sides by enemies, with mounting pressures you can scarcely imagine. While Aëtius is a proud and noble Roman, he has no illusions of being another Tiberius.” To this Aëtius nodded in acquiescence, though he was inwardly galled, as always, by the Empire’s perilous position in the world, which he had sworn to rectify.

“Though I would not speak for him,” continued Thorismund, “or for any man….. From all I have seen—and I have known him these five years past—he only wants to preserve the Roman provinces as a bastion of Christian enlightenment, against the dark forces of pagan ignorance.”

If only you knew, thought Aëtius grimly. “Well said,” were his words, the lie coming easily to a man immersed from childhood in the cunning and manipulation needed to stay alive one more day, let alone restore an Empire to greatness. Rome: that pinnacle of strength and honor, the Sun that gave light and order to a darkened world, his very reason for being. And the truth was, he would not have shrunk from the glorious campaigns of even Julius Caesar, if such a course had presented itself. And he had every intention of placing his son on the throne, with far greater resources than himself, to accomplish what he in his lifetime could not: like Alexander the Great, son of Phillip, the Conqueror. One day he would make these barbarians choke on their words…..

“Our road seems to be the same for now,” conceded Thule. “I assume you are looking for Theodoric, to ask him in person.”

“Yes,” said Aëtius.

“Yes,” agreed his brother.

But this raised a new point. “Does he know you are coming, Thorismund? Does he even know you are alive?”

A look of remorse came into the older brother’s eyes. “Sadly, no, unless he has somehow learned it on his own. This campaign, like my own existence, have been kept in strictest confidence from the moment we left Italy, to join the Roman forces already assembled in Gaul. This was our meeting place, and we are now assembled, two-hundred-thousand strong.”

“Then my company should go first to prepare him,” said Thule, “letting Aëtius and the Romans follow after.”

Thorismund turned to the Magister Militum. “Any objection?”

“How far ahead?” asked Aëtius cautiously.

“Unless you ride with us,” replied Thule with a searching look. “We are bound to make better time on sure-footed Visigoth horses, than with infantry tagging behind. There is need of haste.”

“On that we most certainly agree.” And then, “Yes,” said Aëtius boldly. “With your permission, I will ride with you.”

“Alone?” asked Thule, incredulous.

“You have a hundred men. If I bring the same number of cavalry, we should be safe enough. The villages burning east and north...” at this Thule was unable to mask his pain “...are the southernmost thrust of the enemy. Such is the report of my Visigoth scouts, whom I trust with my life.”

“And what do they tell you of his movements?” asked Thule, needing far more information than he had.

“You should know,” agreed Aëtius, “so you will understand our need of haste. All right. I firmly believe that Attila, who crossed the Rhine far north of here, is making for the heart of Gaul, then on to Paris if he can. His men have split, for the most part, into three groups. One went east, to try and stop our Roman contingent at the border of Gaul: too late, thank God, to head us off. Another is heading northeast, to savage, plunder, and try to persuade the loyal Franks to join with those who have rebelled against their king. And the third, who made these southern forays independently, then regrouped, will be heading for Orleans, if I know anything of Attila’s mind.” In fact he had spies within the Huns’ camp who had told him this. “Still, I would estimate the destruction we have witnessed here to be the work of no more than a third of his force—less than a finger of the iron hand with which he means to crush us.”

“Sweet Savior,” said Thule in spite of himself.

“Yes. I only hope his scattered forces don’t regroup too soon, or all is lost. Until then—until they are farther from their lines of supply (damned efficient foragers in any case)—I would prefer not to engage even this part of his invasion force.”

“Why?” asked Krieg quietly. Not because he doubted the move, but because he wanted to probe the mind of this famous tactician.

“I try not to show more of my hand than I must,” replied Aëtius cautiously. “And like the Huns, I place no small value on surprise. They are, at heart, a superstitious people. They know too well how to exploit the fears of others, and I want to turn the tables suddenly if I can.”

“We should be setting out to meet Theodoric,” said Thorismund.

“Yes,” said Thule. “But first one last question of the great Aëtius.” He made no attempt to hide his sarcasm. “You warn my friend of a cold reception from my father. Aren’t you afraid of meeting him? Do you not fear the Visigoths’ wrath?”

“Though we have been foes in the past,” replied Aëtius, looking directly at him, “I know your father to be an honorable man. And I have risked my life every day for thirty years. All or nothing: that is how I do things.”

“Yes,” agreed Thorismund. “And that is what is needed from all of us now. Shall we be off?”

“Gather your escort,” said Thule to the Roman, impressed in spite of himself (or simply kept off balance) by the courage and decision of the man. Such allies were needed. “And I will gather mine. We set out in a quarter of an hour.”

Forty-One

They rode west together, awkward and uncomfortable only for a short time, as Aëtius had hoped. No matter what the circumstances, he knew it was far easier to end hostilities and form alliances when personal relationships, especially family, were involved.

For this reason he had sought Thorismund’s friendship from the day he learned of his presence in Italy. Their bond had been his wergild, if such were needed, and he sought nothing less than the restoration of Thorismund’s ascendancy, and through it, a Visigoth ruler who was a friend to Rome. And to himself. So much better now to have two sons, even one so stubborn as Thule—who had (whether he knew it or not) already done much to prepare him for the greater obstacle, the King. For Theodoric, he knew, would be the toughest nut of all.

And Kudric, the favored grandson—he had gleaned this much as well—must be played the right way, though he did not yet know what that was. Together he must lead the three of them to make his proposals for him, as he had so skillfully done with Thorismund. And so he determined to use his friend—which Thorismund truly was—to further his acquaintance with both of them, without seeming to do so.

Thule, no fool himself, except where his wife was concerned, sent Krieg and his son to scout the way ahead. His reasons were not dissimilar. For Theodoric was deeply attached to Kudric, in spite of (perhaps because of) his fiery temperament, so long as it evolved over time into a kind of hard-nosed wisdom: aggressive but cautious, cautious but aggressive.

Krieg had at first been somewhat surprised by the move, though he quickly discerned the reason for it. He could not appear before the King with a lingering hostility between Kudric and himself. There would be enmity enough without that.

Neither spoke for a time, aside from the small civilities needed to coordinate their movements and relate their findings. But after several hours, as they rested by a grassy spring where their horses could graze, then drink, Kudric at last put aside his restraint.

“I don’t hate you,” he said without preface, like his father coming straight to the point. “You have been a good friend to my father.”

“As he has been to me.”

“Yes…..” Kudric tried to gather his thoughts. The next part was not so easy. “And I don’t hate Katera, whatever you think. It is true I am sometimes rough with her—though she is not innocent, I assure you. Where she is concerned, I sometimes think with my balls instead of my brains. But if I had thought for one moment she would be attacked back in that cave, I would never have made her disrobe.”

Krieg was taken aback by a self-honesty which he would not, until that moment, have believed a part of the young man’s character. Kudric either did not note this reaction, or simply did not care.

“In my way,” he began again, “I care for her a great deal.” But here he stopped, unwilling to open his heart so far—to anyone, let alone this man he still mistrusted.

“I heard what Gaiseric did to the King’s daughter,” said Krieg, his own emotions stirring. “It is unforgivable, but…..”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“No, they don’t.”

Now the young man looked straight at him. “And are you not afraid the King will vent his wrath on you? It would not be the first time he has had to make an example of our enemies.”

“I don’t know,” answered Krieg honestly. “But in any case, it is a risk I must take.”

“Like the Roman, going to meet him with only a hundred men?”

“I would never presume to speak for him.” He had not meant to put such emphasis on the word, but apparently from Kudric’s reaction, he had.

“Why?” asked the younger man, his own suspicions unappeased. “You mistrust Aëtius, believe he offers one hand, concealing a dagger in the other?”

“I have no good answer to that. But given his childhood, and no less perilous rise to power, I daresay he chooses his moments to speak the truth.”

“Do you believe what he and Thorismund have said, that when together we defeat the Huns, he will not turn on us next.”

“If we defeat them,” said Krieg quietly.

“Yes. But will Aëtius turn on us?”

Krieg turned the question carefully in his mind, for both Kudric’s sake and his own. “While I would not put such treachery beyond a Roman general—you’ll understand my suspicion of those who dominated and oppressed our ancestors for centuries—I cannot see what he would gain by such a move. And it would cost him half his army, if not more, to attempt such a thing.”

“If he could defeat us.”

“Yes. And I think he knows in his heart he can’t crush Attila’s invasion force, only try to drive them back.”

“What makes you say so?” This the young man had not surmised. And in his way he was beginning to enjoy speaking with the older, more experienced soldier, even if he had been so foolish as to throw away his own chance for power. For that is how he saw Krieg’s life, explained to him by his father in a less turbulent moment for them both.

“From everything I’ve heard,” continued Krieg, “the Huns now control most of Europe, from Scandinavia to the Caucasus, to say nothing of their holdings in Asia. Surely Attila has not committed the whole of his strength to one campaign far from home. It might tempt his subjects, even rival Huns, to revolt while he is gone.”

“I had not thought of that,” admitted Kudric, seeing the wisdom of this. “So he has perhaps half this number again that he can draw on.”

“Yes. Aëtius cannot hope to defeat Attila’s full strength. And the Huns are not the only ones he has to worry about. Alaric and the Goths sacked Rome itself, not so very long ago. He has no wish to arouse old hostilities, and raise up yet another powerful enemy.”

“Alaric and the Visigoths,” Kudric corrected.

“There were Ostrogoths among them, along with many other tribes, including the Vandals.” He deemed it prudent to say no more of Alaric, whose hot, impetuous blood clearly flowed in the young man’s veins.

Kudric paused again, considering. “So what do we do?” he said finally.

“The Visigoths and Romans?”

“The King will decide that. I mean the two of us. Do we put aside our differences, or fight here and now?”

Krieg began to smile, until he realized that Kudric was serious. Despite his own greater size, strength and experience. . .it was an earnest question, and one he was willing to back up with his life.

“Don’t you think we should save our blows for the enemy?”

“Answer,” demanded the young man sternly, refusing to withdraw the challenge.

Krieg sighed. “I don’t believe we have to fight. Perhaps we cannot be friends—”

“We cannot. The matter of the woman lies between us.”

Krieg could hardly believe what he was hearing. After all that he had done to her, Kudric still thought of Katera as his. As with a pang, he realized his own feelings for her lingered. But no, it would never do. He must swallow his emotions, and make peace. Though it galled him, he said the words.

“There is no reason for us to be enemies. Many such grievances must be put aside if we are to drive away the Beast that threatens us all. I bear you no grudge, and make no claim of any kind upon the girl. Instead I offer my hand, if you will take it.”

Kudric hesitated, then clasped the proffered forearm almost hostilely. Krieg returned the grasp with less pressure, wondering if Kudric were not still trying to provoke him, and calmly met his searching eye. But to his surprise he found the young man’s face was open: no lingering aggression. How fleeting (and in one such as this, how dangerous) the moods and fancies of the young.

“All right,” said Kudric, rising. “We should be moving on.”

“Do you know where the King is encamped?” asked Krieg simply. He said it not for information’s sake—to unearth some well kept secret—but only to know where they must now proceed. And though he sensed the other knew this—

“Ask my father. He may be naïve enough to trust you. I am not.”

So much for a son’s gratitude, thought Krieg, though he remained silent. For he had seen the cycle repeated enough times not to be surprised by it: one generation raising the next, only to have that gift regarded as nothing more than their due, or thrown away as a thing of no value. Then to be questioned by those who knew and had survived so little, as to why they themselves were so foolish.

In the end, “All right,” was all he could say.

For he was now committed to going to war with these people, and there was no turning back.

The two men mounted. And agreeing to separate to north and south, though never losing sight of one another, they continued on their way.

Forty-Two

Theodoric’s camp, late Spring. Any resentment Krieg might have stirred among the Visigoths for the mutilation of the King’s daughter, was quite overwhelmed by the return of Thorismund and the presence of the famous Roman general, quickly followed by the news that over 200,000 men marched behind him. Word of the savage invasion of the Huns had already reached them through Theodoric’s scouts, and by a handful of terrified survivors.

Theodoric himself was so overcome by the return of the son he thought dead, that for several hours he remained shut up with Thorismund and Thule alone, allowing no other audience. Far from discussing Attila, and whether or not to join forces with Aëtius, only questions and tears would come to the aging monarch, only strong and contradictory emotions to Thule, until so recently his heir. As Thorismund told his own tale simply, warmly, so grateful to be home at last.

“When I reached the Alps, it was like stepping through a portal in time. I met those mighty mountains a boy, and emerged from them a man, but with a child’s awe and wonder as the world unfolds before him. Their majestic peaks had washed my soul clean, and brought me so close to God that I felt I could reach up and touch his face, and understand all things. And now, as I looked down into the lush valleys not yet our own, I felt no bitterness, no regret. This had been a magnificent country once, and would be again. Because surely, though the bloody follies of men had washed back and forth across it for centuries, this remained a Holy place, the bastion of Christian civilization, the very crown of Creation.

“This was a land made for learning and enlightenment, Faith and good works—corrupted by the early Romans, to be sure—but even they had been aware of their great gift; and in younger days art and meaning flowed from them as never before.

“My plan, my inspiration, was simple. Dressed as a monk—nay, a true servant of God, because I had come to him alone, without defenses—I would wander this fabled peninsula, revealing my identity, my birthright to no one. Instead I would devote myself to watching and learning, thinking, feeling and meditating, until I had absorbed the whole of the blessed communion that once existed between man and God, that was still possible, and would lead us out of this age of Darkness and Evil.”

“Forgive me, brother,” said Thule gently. “Surely this is the stuff of long tales and epic poems. But for now, war and death lurk all around us. If we are to live to see the light that you describe, first we must defeat Attila, the Beast, and drive him from our lands.”

“Truly spoken,” said Thorismund humbly. “Will you allow me to speak of this at greater length, Father, when the inevitable victory is ours?” And while Thule might have added that ‘inevitable’ was hardly the word he would have chosen, he held his peace, gazing instead at the two men he loved and tried to understand, and wondering at the strange and powerful portents all around.

With this Theodoric seemed to come back to himself as well. “Yes,” he said solemnly, and with the natural authority which he had always possessed. “Now to the business at hand.” And he gave both his sons the searching look that Thule knew so well.

“What do we do about Aëtius? I have no love for the Romans, and am doubtful of any they profess to feel for us: the ‘barbarians’ who finally defeated them, and laid their precious city bare. And I certainly do not trust this man, with his dreams of past glory, and an army at his back.”

“Trust him this far,” said Thorismund, “that he harbors no secret hostility toward the Visigoths. For I am not blind to his shortcomings. All I ask is that you speak with him, and believe that whatever his further ambitions, he must return to Rome upon the conclusion of this campaign, not only to protect the Empire, which is far from strong, but to retain his own place within it, which is by no means as secure as he would have us believe.”

“What do you mean?” asked Theodoric. “Is he not Magister Militum, with full authority over all the armed forces of Rome?”

“In the field, yes. But though his soldiers love him, and the common people as well, seeing in him the spirit of the great warriors of old, this very popularity makes him envied and mistrusted at Court, where he is constantly and shamelessly schemed against.”

“Fools,” muttered Theodoric. “The one chance they have to survive a little longer, and they can’t wait to get rid of him.”

“Yes. Galla Placidia never wanted him to be Magister, but raised up Boniface, of Imperial Africa, to unseat him. And while Aëtius soundly defeated this rival—being a master tactician in battle, and a true leader of men—this reversal, and subsequent loss of face for Placidia, has only stoked the fires of her enmity. She is the true power in Rome, not the weakling Valentinian, though no doubt she still uses him, and continues to poison his mind against Aëtius. Whatever happens in Gaul, he must return quickly: to face her intrigues or lose his position, and possibly his life. Also,” he said significantly, “though he knows he will never be Emperor himself, he is all the more determined to place his son upon the throne—not if, but when Valentinian falters.”

“But could he not do great harm to our people?” asked the King. “When the bulk of his forces arrive tomorrow, we will be evenly matched at best. And I do not discount his prowess in combat, or the cruel efficiency of his Legions.”

“He could not hurt us like the Huns,” replied Thorismund gravely, “even if he was of such a mind. Attila’s threat is open, and immediate. He would destroy us all to satisfy his twisted lust for power, his desire to obliterate the True Faith, which is a hindrance to his brutality. And you, Father, as your words plainly show, would never be fooled by Aëtius.”

Theodoric—powerfully built like his sons, though taller, with longer hair and beard, once sable, now silvered—breathed deeply, then released the troubled air. “For you I will meet with Aëtius, and hear what he has to say. Perhaps for a time we must be allies. But I will never trust him.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Thorismund. “He has waited patiently. May I bring him to you?”

The King nodded, and his firstborn left the room. But as soon as he had gone, Theodoric turned to Thule. “Watch him closely,” he whispered harshly. And for a terrible moment Thule did not know if he meant the Roman, or his own son and heir. In fact, he meant both. “And bring Kudric to me. I would have him here to witness the exchange.”

“Yes, Father.” And he began to leave to fetch his son. But he stopped in the doorway of rough-hewn stone room, the fortified castle that was the King’s summer residence. He hesitated to ask, but felt himself in deep water among powerful currents which he could not read alone. “May I bring my scout as well? He is a Vandal, it is true, but sundered from his people, and completely unlike them….. I value his counsel,” he ended apologetically.

“A Vandal?” demanded the King sharply.

“Yes. Surely you remember him. He is Krieg, once Fighting Marshall, who led the combined Charge from Tooth Hills….. You saved his life,” he added quickly, knowing his father’s pride in the Visigoths, above whose prowess he would have no other raised.

At this Theodoric’s eyes narrowed not in hostility, but surprise. “Krieg is here? Is it truly him?”

“Yes, Father. May I bring him to you?”

Theodoric paused, then nodded gravely. But as his son left the room, he pondered the presence of this man who had so daunted the Huns, and whose life he had in fact saved—though Thule had subsequently saved them both, leading a party of men to break the ring of riders which had so suddenly converged upon them. Though not much given to superstition (and not at all to religion, though he used the Christian faith to motivate his men), surely it was a portent of some kind, though for good or ill the King could not say.

And then there was the dream, always the same, of his sturdy mount crumbling beneath him…..

The two leaders and their escort met in the same upper chamber where outsiders could be wholly excluded, and Theodoric carefully study the faces of each. For his own part, the King had allowed six men to form his retinue. There were his two eldest sons, accompanied now by their brother Hagel—his long-time counselor, and tentative choice to succeed him if Thule proved unworthy—Kudric, the grandson he most favored, and the Vandal, Krieg. This last addition surprised Aëtius, who came alone, but he quickly perceived the reason for it: place the suspicion in his mind of a powerful new alliance, even with a bitter rival, and Theodoric’s hand was strengthened.

The King sat upon a throne on a dais, seeming to take no notice of the slight to the Roman, who stood on the stone floor below him. Let him know whose lands these are, thought the monarch coldly, whose kingdom he trespasses upon.

Yet Aëtius refused to be ruffled, or even to acknowledge the move. He had come without retainers, his manner calm and his mind prepared. In this way he must demonstrate that he was not afraid.

But when Theodoric gestured them all to sit on stout chairs to either side of him, placing Thorismund at his knee—a gesture not without significance—Aëtius boldly played his own cards.

“I would rather stand,” he said, not defiantly, but in a tone which brooked no argument. “For that is how I speak to both Emperors: Valentinian of Rome, and Theodosius the Great, of Constantinople.” In fact Theodosius had just died, much to the discomfiture of the Eastern Empire. But he doubted the news would have reached so far west. And he had just been told through a sealed dispatch (though he scrupulously kept the knowledge from Thorismund), that Galla Placidia was dying as well—possibly poisoned by her son, who’d had enough of her meddling. Knowledge was power, and he gave none of it away.

“For we remain a united people,” he continued shamelessly, “under the banner of the Two-headed Eagle, one facing East, and the other West, which yet clutches a single sword, whatever Attila may say.”

Theodoric gave half a nod only. If he had suspected it before, he was certain now. The man was dangerous. While he sensed that Aëtius was lying, or had, at the least, twisted the truth to his own advantage, he had nonetheless managed to turn a deliberate slight into a declaration of his own power.

“We retain our ties with the Ostrogoths as well,” said the King coldly.

“It is well that you do,” replied Aëtius, not missing a beat. “For you may have to face them on the battlefield. They march now with Attila.”

Though he could not let it show, Theodoric was appalled by the news.

“I come to ask your help,” continued the Roman, in his frank and relentless way, “in defeating a common enemy, perhaps the greatest threat to both our peoples since the world began.”

“A greater threat to Rome than the Visigoths who defeated you?” replied the King, in a tone equally devoid of subtlety.

“The same Visigoths who turned on Rome because they could not defeat Rugilas, and so fled before him?”

“We flee from no one!” cried the King defiantly. “And if you want to pit your ‘Imperial’ forces against mine, say the word!”

At this Thorismund put a hand to his father’s knee. “We each know what the other is capable of,” he said gently. “But the laughter of Attila will be our only reward if we fight among ourselves. Please, Aëtius. As you asked of my brother Thule, can we not stop posturing, and come to the matter at hand?”

The two leaders, each in their own way supreme commander of a vast and deadly force, broke off the gaze that had become locked and volatile.

“Your son is wise,” said Aëtius, in a tone as close to conciliation as he was willing to make. “Can we not put aside past grievances, and turn to face the common threat?”

Theodoric grunted.

“Thank you,” said Aëtius, knowing he would get no better answer.

“For I tell you, having known Attila in youth, you must understand how the Huns see themselves, and how little it troubles them to wage total war on their enemies. The vicious slaughter you have so recently experienced is in no way unique, and will continue unabated unless he is stopped.”

“I have fought them before,” said the King doggedly.

“I know you have,” replied Aëtius. “And I have heard the same of your son, Thule, and of his friend, the Vandal. All our combined experience—and willingness to fight—will be needed, to drive Attila and his pagan thralls from our home.”

“What makes it yours?” demanded the King.

“I refer to our Gallic provinces only. I assure you, Theodoric, we have no wish to supplant you here. If I have anything to say about it—and I will—before we leave Gaul you will count Rome your most valuable ally, as I now wish to count you.” He paced to calm his emotions, and order his thoughts.

“I was raised among the Visigoths, as you know, and I hold the highest respect for you. Were it not for a cruel twist of Fate—the sudden onslaught of the Huns under Rugilas, which none could withstand—we would never have been enemies. Is it not true that if they had not driven you west, there would have been no need for the Gothic invasion of Italy? We are made enemies only by the mindless aggression of others, a situation I would remedy now: the arrogance of a people who in their ignorance, lust and greed, would lay waste the whole Christian world, and plunge us all into Darkness.”

Theodoric sighed. There was a grim truth in what Aëtius said, however manipulated to fit his own purpose. “What did you mean about the way the Huns see themselves? And how would you know?”

“I lived among them, as a peace hostage, for several years.” He did not add that Theodoric must surely have known this. In fact he did, but wanted his counterpart to admit it, and therefore validate his own caution. For whatever this meeting meant to the others, a terrible chess game was being played between these two, which was no game at all, but deadly earnest, and might well decide the life or death of two proud and ancient cultures.

“Tell me then,” said the King levelly, knowing he had made his point. “What does Attila hope to gain by this invasion? Why not go after Rome, as he has so often threatened, or even your precious Byzantine Empire, which he and Rugilas have so consistently blackmailed, cowed and humiliated.”

“Only Attila knows that,” replied Aëtius, bridling at the insult, though knowing he could not allow the Visigoth to see that this shaft (or any other) had gone home. For Rome had been humiliated just as badly. “He makes the pretext of being betrothed to Honoria, Valentinian’s sister—who actually sought him out as her protector—and claims the western half of our Empire as her rightful dowry.” He debated with himself for a moment whether he should have revealed this, but it was now too late to withdraw it.

God damn you, Theodoric, he thought angrily. Stop stalling and make a decision. His words: “In truth Attila is a mystery, even to his friends.” He let the veiled threat hang in the air for a moment. “Enough that he is here, and may well destroy us all.”

“That is no answer.”

“It is the only answer I have, King.”

“Barbarian King, you mean.”

“Do not put words in my mouth, or thoughts in my head. No, I repeat: I was all but raised by the Visigoths: taken captive by Ataulf as a child, yet treated more like a guest than a prisoner, for which I will always be grateful. I know your people at least as well as I know the Huns.” Another threat, observed Theodoric, who had made several of his own.

“You are the pinnacle of the Nordic peoples,” insisted Aëtius, “and I do not flatter.” Like Hell you don’t, thought Theodoric. “You are as unlike the truly barbaric Huns, as any people could well be.”

Again Aëtius began to pace, to master his growing impatience. Like trying to seduce a eunuch. Damn the stiff-necked old bastard! “You have fought the Huns, it is true. But that was Rugilas, whose ambition pales beside Attila’s. He wants nothing less than to rule the known world, and believes that Gaul is the first step in dividing, and therefore weakening his two most powerful enemies: Aëtius and Theodoric.”

“Ironic choice of words,” replied the King with a sour expression. “I always thought ‘divide and conquer’ was a Roman trick.”

“He has lived among us,” countered Aëtius, not bothering to deny the accusation. “That only makes him more dangerous still.”

“It’s true, father,” said Thorismund, who had watched the duel with growing apprehension, knowing what was at stake. “While Attila’s genius on the battlefield may be exaggerated—or it may not, if you look at his fighting record—his greater cunning is in the field of diplomacy. He took half the lands he now possesses by fear alone. He would like nothing more than to see his two enemies—or simply obstacles, as he seems to give no thought whatever to our humanity—destroy each other, so he can come in and pick the bones clean. He’s done it before.”

As Theodoric began to object, Thorismund rose and put a hand on his taut shoulder, and looked directly at him. He spoke in deepest earnest. “I do not say this to weaken your position, Father, or strengthen that of Aëtius. The Visigoths have always been first in my heart, and ever will be. My pilgrimage to Italy does nothing to change that. It is simply and unalterably God’s own truth that we must stand together. I understand, and in some measure share your hesitation to join forces with the Romans, our ancient oppressors. But surely you see that, here and now, we must do it to overcome the greater Evil.”

“Thule?” asked the King, turning toward him. This to gain time, master his emotions, and test the loyalty of the son he had never truly understood.

“I am no great statesman,” replied Thule, “but a simple fighting man.” Though in truth he had a better understanding of the subtext than his father might have guessed: nothing less than a King’s choice of Heir, which would be finalized, he now knew, in combat. And he realized that even Kudric was being considered, or he would not be here—though it was significant that Theodoric had not yet addressed him, or asked his opinion.

“I do not know this Aëtius,” continued Thule, “as my brother seems to. And so I share my father’s caution in treating with him.” A hit, thought Theodoric approvingly. “Yet when all is said and done, I would not have the pagan hordes who left their bloody swath—and I assure you, it is worse than anything I have ever seen—within a thousand miles of my family, or yours.”

A shrewder observation in many ways, noted Theodoric, than I would have given him credit for. For his son had just told him not only what he thought of the proposed alliance, but exactly what he would, and would not do to ascend the throne himself: his family first, the glory of the Visigoths second. Which, of course, ruled him out. And he wondered if his other sons, or even Aëtius, knew that this choice of successor was not least among the hard decisions now confronting him.

Because one way or another they were going into deadly peril, from which he, as a fighting King, had never hung back. Or he would never have been ruler of the proud and warlike Visigoths. Again he played for time.

“Kudric?” he queried, confirming Thule’s suspicions, and turning his own answer against him.

The young man was at first taken aback by the inquiry, not knowing what was meant by it, but clearly sensing the underlying test. Yet he quickly recovered, and told his grandfather (whose affections were not unknown to him) exactly what he thought.

“I do not have my father’s experience,” he said plainly, “let alone that of my King. But if the butchery we just passed through is indeed the work of Attila…” Good, thought his grandfather grimly. Had no one else thought of accusing Aëtius? “…I would kill the bastard myself.”

And while this last was pure bravado, Kudric’s fierce courage was what had drawn the King’s attention in the first place. He looked significantly at Thule: an unspoken challenge to be more like his son.

“And you, Krieg?” The Vandal too seemed surprised, both at the use of his name, and at being asked to contribute something to a purely Visigoth, even a family matter. You I know are not a fool, thought the King gravely, though what the Devil you’re doing here….. “Of course I remember you,” he went on, “though it has been half a lifetime. What does the legendary Fighting Marshall of the Vandals have to say?” This a last thrust at Aëtius. For while the Roman may know something of the hostility between their peoples, surely he would not know all.

But then, almost against his will, the emotions of an outraged father took over, and he glared at the Vandal with open hatred. “Surely you must know how I feel about you now.” There was no need to clarify ‘now’.

“The Vandals are my enemy as well,” said Krieg firmly, and with something of the old fire in his eyes. As in his first meeting with Thule, he would not be slighted, or have his character called into question.

For as the King suspected, Krieg was fully aware of the many undercurrents swirling about the room. And he marveled that Theodoric sought to sift them all at once. Yet herein lay his strength (and possibly his weakness): that he never backed down from anything. Krieg knew only that he would not to be swept away by them, and that the only way to defend himself was by courage and truth.

“They are my enemy as well,” he repeated. “And I will never go back to them, unless it be with an avenging army behind me. I utterly renounce their heinous crimes, their pointless violence and lust for earthly treasure, no matter the cost in humanity. I am here for myself, my wife and unborn child, to fight the common foe.”

Theodoric absorbed the moral outrage hurled back at him, not unmoved by Krieg’s passion—a counterbalance to his own— but unswayed.

“That is all very noble. But assuming, as my son insists, that you are in fact a loyal ally, what would you do, in my place?”

Krieg was fully aware of two things as Theodoric said this: the underlying resentment, even hatred of a man whose precious daughter had been abused and mutilated, and a carefully constructed trap, into which he had no intention of falling. He chose his words carefully.

“I would never put myself in your place. I am not a king, and never wanted to be.”

“No?” said Theodoric mockingly.

“No. That was my wife’s ambition, as you well know. I never shared it. And I understand your rage, at what was done to a beloved daughter.” For a moment he thought he had pushed the man too far, but there was no turning back. “Can you understand mine, at what was done to my whole family, and then to me? Gunduric destroyed my firstborn, my brave son, through his cowardice—sending me to fight beside Alaric, instead of going himself.” The realization galled him. “Then had my Elise raped to death, and turned my second son against me. “He destroyed all that I loved, then tried to break my mind.”

Instead of tearing open his tunic, as he had done with Thule, he chose to make the gesture colder, and more forceful. He slowly unfastened it instead, then took it off slowly to reveal the terrible scars he bore. “Yours is the hatred of a man unforgivably wronged, by a people with whom you tried to forge a lasting bond, not sparing your nearest and dearest.” But his anger rose in spite of him. “My hatred is for the sons of men I led into battle, and for whom I shed blood, not sparing my own beloved son. And who know nothing of the battles we fought, you and I, together! and the sacrifices we both made, to give them any life at all…..” He stopped, the emotions becoming too powerful for them both.

At last Theodoric was moved, as his son had been before him, by the power of the man’s emotions, and his ability to stir the hearts of others. You should have been their King, he thought coldly, but you lacked the ruthlessness to seize power. More fool you, and you see what it has cost.

“You have earned my trust many times over,” said Thule, unexpectedly coming to the aid of his friend. “Father,” he said simply, turning toward him. “He is not to blame for what was done to your daughter, my sister, whom I too dearly love. But among the shifting treacheries of the world we must choose our friends carefully, our enemies even more so, as you yourself taught me….. I go the wall with this man,” he said defiantly, “as you yourself have done before now.”

Theodoric subdued his cold fury, brought up short by the hard truth of Thule’s words—this stubborn, ungrateful son, who nonetheless had never lied to him. But his anger was not so easily pacified. He turned back toward the Vandal.

“Yes, I once knew and trusted you, but that was many years ago. I ask you again, and for the last time. What would you do in my place!”

Krieg, who had gathered himself and refitted his tunic, looked straight and unafraid at the powerful and dangerous King. For he knew that no other course would serve him. “I would fight Attila, the animal: drive him from your lands, and let all else come after.”

Theodoric grunted again. But he had no other option, and he knew it. The choice, the war, was thrust upon him.

“And how do you propose we combine our forces?” he said to Aëtius, coming to it at last. “For I have no intention of placing myself beneath you, or any man.”

At this the Master Soldier smiled inwardly, though careful to keep his face grave. For he knew that he had won the throw. Yet with the ice-cold reason that had kept him alive through a brutal and treacherous youth, then brought him to the pinnacle of power, he refused to gloat. For he shared the belief of his Roman ancestors: that arrogance was not only the greatest sin (short of cowardice), but could at any time be his undoing.

“I would not ask you, your sons, or any Visigoth to serve under me,” he said, forgetting for a moment his own ambition in the face of what was, in fact, history in the making. “So long as we go into battle together, our forces should remain separate, but united,” he said, clenching his fist. There was no overstating the point, just as there could be no hesitation on the field of battle. “Are we agreed?”

Theodoric paused, again realizing the power of the man. In but a short time he had convinced (if not seduced) his two eldest sons, and included them all in a desperate defense of the failing Roman Empire. But there was no denying the mortal threat to his own people that Attila now posed.

“I will give you my answer tomorrow,” he said, refusing to concede too quickly. “But know this, Roman. The first time I suspect you of using me—at the first hint that you intend to remain in Gaul when the Huns are gone—I will have your head on a pike.”

Aëtius carefully (though not easily) subdued his rage. That this barbarian, barely more than an animal, should dare to think himself the equal of a true Roman, the living legacy of the immortal and god-like Caesars…..

But he needed this man. And so, like the youthful Julius when captured by corsairs, he yielded to the inevitable, and planned his revenge.

He bowed silently, and left the room.

Lana survived the miscarriage, though all her love and joy of living seemed to die along with the baby. For five days she lay alone in her bed, weeping. Their servants and slaves had by this time built permanent walls and furnishings, thus the alcove that was hers alone. But she found to her dismay that the isolation was worse, as the hormones which had so agitated her now crashed completely, and she was thrown into the blackest depression of her life. She thought of suicide many times—she still had her sister’s knife—but each time she brought the rusted blade to her throat, or to the unprotected flesh below the joining of her ribs, and from which but a little pressure would send her life’s blood spilling. . .a terror so stark overwhelmed her that she found herself sweating and trembling, barely able to keep from screaming.

No. She could not do that.

Only one thing was certain. Krieg would never understand. He would at first be devastated by the loss of their child. Then, if he ever found out it was intentional—she shuddered at the thought—he would become vengeful and violent. He might well kill her. Her own fear and guilt were too much to bear; she could not even think of his feelings. And she was only grateful that he was so far away.

In truth she was emotionally disturbed, the result of the cruel abuses of her life, and the confusing and incestuous relation with her father. Only a taut self-discipline and the calming presence of her husband had kept in check until now. And he knew none of it, only seeing the good in her, a trap into which she fell because it was expected of her.

Her mind raced on. Perhaps he would be killed in battle….. But this thought, more than any other, burned her heart black with self-loathing and despair. And so she shunned it, shunned him, living in utter denial of the one person who had ever truly (and cleanly) loved her.

Sometimes her remorse would turn to anger, even hatred. Why should she weep for him? It was a man’s world in every way that mattered. The bastards! They used women for their pleasure, as Joseppa said, then left them to face the agony of childbirth alone. To say nothing of the endless care of the child—nothing short of slavery—until it was old enough to fend for itself. Then, if it was a boy, the father took it away from its mother, until there was nothing left….. My baby. She groaned aloud, not caring who heard.

Then one day Katera returned to the household—like an ill omen, Lana could not help thinking. Joseppa told her it was nothing to trouble herself about, just a trusted slave returning to help with household duties, until she was on her feet again. But Lana had lost all illusions about the twisted, spider’s heart of her matron. She knew she cared nothing for her, was jealous, and incestuously drawn to her sons, though she dare not act upon it, and vented her rage against the domination of men by bullying and manipulating those who could not fight back: subordinates and slaves, whether she called them that or not.

Was that what she herself had become? A slave? Was that what she was to Krieg? Damn him! Why had he left her here to go off and save the world again?

That first day Katera said almost nothing, only made up Lana’s bed as she went out for a breath of the mountain air she had known since childhood, but which now, like the very sighing of the wind in the trees, seemed to accuse her of the deed, and to make her feel so alone in the vastness of the uncaring world….. And when she returned, Katera asked if there was anything she needed.

But women read each other much better than men. Was she wrong, or had the girl said this with open mockery? Clearly she, too, had her game to play; and someone within the camp had started the rumor that she and Krieg were lovers, and were planning to run off together when he returned. At the mere thought she wanted to throw the bitch down, tear open her dress, and claw the beauty right out of her. Or did she want to kiss and touch her, and be her only friend?

For one thing had not changed since her pregnancy, and needed no crashing of hormones to incite. She had been physically and emotionally battered, with contradictory emotions she could not begin to understand, let alone control. And but with her husband, her personal and sexual relations had never been normal. Of course she was confused.

Without either of them knowing it, she had played a part for Krieg, become what he wanted her to be, thinking this would still the anguish of her soul. But there had always been the other side of her, which he had never seen.

But that night her feelings took a very different turn. As they ate together in the common room, Thengol, no longer impotent, and therefor no longer threatened by Katera’s cat-like sensuality, had begun to look at her. Short, furtive glances to be sure, but undeniable. As Joseppa alternately treated her returning slave with disdain, or patted and caressed her like a long-lost daughter, always looking at Lana as she did so.

Thengol had not been insensible of her post-partem depression. On the contrary, he had looked on like a hurt child as she lost the baby, then tried to offer her comfort, night after night. But every time he stood at the foot of her bed she would turn away angrily, as if blaming him somehow.

But not on this night. As he once again peered in at the opening of her sleeping quarters, forlornly checking to see if she was all right, she sat up in the bed, holding the fur coverlet to only partly conceal her nudity. She whispered his name: once, twice. Then turned and patted the pillow, inviting him to come and lie beside her. For while her heart was in turmoil, her life among them the height of uncertainty, Thengol, at least, she was not afraid of. Him she could control. And the truth was, she had begun to miss their nights together, his soulful caresses, and the feeling that he belonged to her.

The young man hesitated only briefly, looking back to see if there was anyone to witness the act. Though he had his mother’s tacit approval, still he felt a lingering shyness where his sexuality, and the lack of a consummating act, were concerned.

But by now her ascendancy over him was complete, and he could not have resisted her if he tried. So he moved toward his Lana, tentatively removing his own garments, looking at her to see if it was all right. Then heart pounding and emotions overflowing, he got into the bed and nestled against her. And after a moment of pent-up tension his limbs relaxed against the familiar form, drinking in her smell and touch. He put his arm across her shoulder and said her name in an ecstasy of love and release. Then stroked her bare breasts with his forearm, and whispered her name passionately. He caressed and tried to comfort her with heart-breaking gentleness, his eyes filling, so grateful to be close to her once more. Lana was truly touched, and knew only that she wanted him there. Like a little boy.

They lay thus for a time, kissing and touching, their bodies instinctively seeking each other out…..

And then it happened. Slowly at first, then with a growing urgency, he became harder than she had ever known him to be. And this time nothing stood between them. He gently spread her legs, trembling in anticipation. She took hold of the firm young phallus, guided it slowly and gently into her moist opening…..

And he was free. In love and longing, relief and ecstasy, and finally, a true manly passion, he made love to her. This body that was so dear, now warm and inviting, the heart within so loved and trusted.

But he had never known her body (or his own) like this. To kiss and touch her now, to cup her soft breast as he suckled, his tongue seeming to move across her of its own accord, then needing to kiss her again, as he raised himself up and whispered, I love you. Then his cheek was beside hers, his body on her full, his manhood gently and lovingly caressed by her vagina….. Every touch was magic, and his mind drifted far away. If she had stopped him in that moment—she had no wish to do so, the pleasure forbidden, and therefor irresistible—he would not have known where he was. Only that he was a man at last, in ecstasy, in Paradise.

And when the climax came it took hold of him so completely that he was not even aware of Lana breathing hard to encourage him, only that he said her name with all his soul as his penis throbbed, and a boulder seemed to pass from his body into hers, and then another. And it was sweet, and sad, and painful.

“Oh God. Oh God.”

He lay on top of her, inside her still, his demons gone, his yearning and youthful heart overflowing. “I love you, Lana,” he said again, stroking her face with both hands, then putting his arms about her as he rolled with her onto his side, feeling secure and fulfilled as he had never been, protected and possessive all at once….. In time he breathed more naturally, cuddled against her like a child, and drifted slowly into sleep.

Lana was not immune to a kindred sensation, nor could she fail to realize what this meant. If she truly was Thengol’s woman, became his wife, she would never again have to live in fear and doubt. She would be protected by the entire tribe, and provided for the rest of her life. She only wondered why, in that moment, she should think of Krieg, and wish it were he lying there beside her, and telling her in his paternal way that everything would be all right.

She turned her head away, cried a little. Then arranged the youth and the covers more comfortably, and herself drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Joseppa, who had heard her son’s joyous climax, cried a little herself. For he was a man now, his deep and soulful emotions transferred to another: this woman she had given to him, sometimes caring for her like a daughter, sometimes hating her as the usurper of his love. And yet she could not despise her now. No. It was not all as she had planned, but still her son was healed, and made a man at last. She felt real, unguarded emotion for the first time in what seemed an eternity. Her son had grown, and left her.

After a time she rose and went to the door. And looking about carefully to be sure she was not seen, moved stealthily to Thalic’s hut, as she had done long ago, in unmarried youth.

For she, too, needed to feel safe and warm, and young again. And though Thalic was at first surprised, even fearful of her presence. . .in the end, he too surrendered to that last human shield against Death and the Void. Alone.

So alone. And so lost.

Forty-Four

In the morning Theodoric finally gave his consent, much easier to do when he saw the full strength of the Roman army encamped on the eastern side of the stream, at least the equal of his own, now mustering on the west.

When he and Aëtius met again, he said simply. “Shall we fight the Huns together? There seems no other way.”

“Yes,” said Aëtius, nodding gravely. And when the King extended his forearm, the Roman clasped it firmly. For he was master of his own destiny once more.

Yet almost in spite of himself he was grateful that Theodoric had finally abandoned his game of cat-and-mouse, and committed himself to their joint defense. For the memory of his days among the Visigoths were not all dark and harrowing. For like Attila, the friend of his adolescence, now his most deadly enemy, there had been a youthful infatuation for him as well: a sweet, dark-haired girl his ambition had forced him to leave behind. He felt, as ever when he thought of her, a pang of regret. Yet it must be done. And if the Visigoths fought as well as he hoped, Attila might yet be broken, and the Empire restored to something like a firm foundation.

And while he was of course anxious to be moving, he had no wish to set out before they were ready, thus risking separation, and subsequent dissent. For he had divided his force once, of necessity, and had no intention of doing so again. Let Attila fan out for greater terror and plunder; he must drive into the flanks of the mongrel horde like the spear-and-shield phalanxes of old.

Because the combined Roman and Visigoth force, while it now numbered something more than four-hundred-thousand men (not counting the dubious ally, the double-edged sword he had not yet revealed to the King), was still smaller than the seven-hundred-thousand that Attila was said to possess. And if his own, allied troops were to accomplish this miracle, this second Marathon, they must be molded into a single fighting unit before joining battle, and hope the assimilated forces of their enemy were not.

Yet he soon discovered his impatience was unfounded: that the Visigoth force, encamped for miles along the western shore of the river hollow, had not been caught unprepared, but were in fact completely mobilized and provisioned. Theodoric had not been idle, or waited for the war to come to him. Once the order was given, they were able to muster warriors and baggage trains in something less than four hours.

And so with the sun at its zenith—an auspicious sign, he hoped—both armies began to march, not yet literally on the same side, but with a feeling of shared strength and purpose that continued to grow as the day wore on.

Naturally both sides studied the other as they went. But to the satisfaction of Aëtius’ (and Theodoric), both forces seemed well equipped and disciplined, and roughly the same strength as the other. And while the Visigoths possessed the greater cavalry, Aëtius had brought several legions of infantry bearing long, iron-tipped lances, with no other purpose than to deter and unhorse the dreaded Hun riders.

And of course his many legions included javelin throwers, archers, the fearsome spear-and-shield maniples, along with those which employed multiple weapons. Also the fast, mobile cavalry introduced by the Emperor Gallienus, which had continued to grow in skill and stature ever since. And last, but far from least, the legendary Roman short swordsmen.

If Attila had seen them coming—still fewer in number than his own mixed horde, but consisting of two well-disciplined halves, highly skilled and motivated horsemen on the part of the Visigoths (there is no substitute for vengeance, and defending one’s own), proud and determined on the part of the hastily assembled, yet well equipped and repeatedly drilled Roman force— he would never have divided his own.

But he did not know, had heard only vague rumors of Rome’s preparations in Italy and Gaul. And though he had not wholly discounted them as too little too late, knowing Aëtius’ thoroughness and determination, he did not believe that any army, past or present, could stand in the face of his proud descendents of the Mongol Horde, the most mobile and deadly force the world had ever seen. And he had always underestimated the strength of the Visigoths, whom he so soundly routed on the Hungarian plains as a younger man.

And so as this new threat moved toward him, he did as so many overconfident leaders have done throughout history. He allowed the vast landscape to divide, and ultimately dissipate his forces.

He himself would make for Orleans, the key to Gaul, from which he could strike in any direction, and soon reach his ultimate goal, the Frank capitol at Paris. This main force, consisting primarily of Huns and Scythians, would be moving first through the northern edge of the Visigoth provinces, where he hoped to find his new Gudhrun, perhaps even her literal reincarnation. As such he had given strict orders that all beautiful young women, especially those fourteen years old—the number of years she had been dead—be spared, and brought to him unharmed.

And with this northern thrust he sent his ambassadors, not ruling out a Frank alliance of his own. For he knew that whatever else they did, this proud and passionate people would never remain neutral. They must either be seduced or subdued, and he was only grateful that they were neither so numerous (nor so troublesome in their virtue) as the Visigoths.

But there were two things he could not know: that Frank reinforcements, stirred by the entreaties of Dorlas and others like him, were already mustered, and marching upon Orleans, and that the still greater alliance of Romans and Visigoths had been formed, their stout host assembled, and was now moving swiftly and steadily toward the same objective, with the Alans (Aëtius’ wildcard) two days ahead of them. And all converging upon the great fortified city, where critical battles had been fought in the past, and would be for centuries to come.

For Aëtius had correctly anticipated Attila’s primary goal, partly through his intimate knowledge of the man, partly through the warnings of his intelligence networks (which were at least the equal of Onegesius’), and most of all through common sense. For so many reasons—geographical, political and logistical—Orleans was the key.

Thus Aëtius knew that if he could reach it first, and defend it, he could be reinforced and re-supplied from the Roman provinces along the River Loire, as well as the Roman fleet that yet remained in safe harbors along the Atlantic. Attila too would be aware of this, could not allow it, and Aëtius might be able to initiate battle on something like his own terms.

For what Thorismund had said was true. He did not have the luxury of a long, drawn-out campaign, but must return to Rome as soon as he was able. Because despite the near death of Galla Placidia, his lifelong nemesis, there were many others who would try to turn Valentinian against him. And the situation in Byzantium, now that Theodosius was dead, was not one that he could read, and therefore anticipate, from two thousand miles away.

Conversely, if Attila was not stopped at Orleans, Gaul, and perhaps the whole of the western Empire, were lost. The Huns could strike out in any direction, with the walls of that fortified city to fall back to, and form a rallying point for the overpowering forces their tyrant King could yet muster.

As the stream widened, soon to be joined by other tributaries to form the River Garonne, Theodoric at last ordered his host to cross over to its southeastern banks to join Aëtius, and become a single fighting unit. From here they would follow the bend of the river toward Toulouse, and depending on what they found there—both leaders had sent scouts far and wide—make their plans for the combined reinforcement, or, if necessary, the relief of Orleans.

As Aëtius hoped, three significant things began to happen as the dual host followed the river east, and then gradually north. First, Theodoric and his party rode in the vanguard along with his own escort, allowing greater discourse, even a grudging and mutual respect. Second, the King saw for himself the brutal devastation of his lands and people, so that all thought of enmity toward Rome was lost in the bitter determination to avenge their deaths, and drive the vicious horde, the human plague, forever from their Gallic home. And third, Aëtius was at last able to tell him of the additional force in which he placed such hope, not indeed as a reliable ally, but as an irresistible goad to lure Attila into a fatal mistake.

This last occurred when together they crossed the northward tracks that Thule’s company had previously noted (and Krieg puzzled over, without being able to draw any firm conclusion). As the King himself dismounted to inspect the trampled swath they made, though already growing difficult to read, he looked up at Aëtius in surprise, even alarm.

“These are not the tracks of Huns, or of Roman scouts as you told my son.” Krieg too had dismounted, and was worriedly considering the broader, yet still masterfully disguised track.

“A cunning people, whoever they are,” he said. “And one accustomed to baffling pursuers in open ground. I would almost say—”

“Krieg,” said Aëtius, raising a finger to his lips. “Wait.” Then turned to the Visigoth. “Theodoric. Will you ride a short way ahead with me?”

The King looked puzzled, suspecting some trap. But the fading nature of the tracks had not eluded him. They were at least two days old: it was unlikely that unseen assassins waited on the far side of the hills. And so he remounted, summoning Thule—of his sons the most skilled at arms—to his side. Aëtius beckoned Krieg to follow—lest he give voice to his supposition after they had gone—and the four men rode forward.

They stopped after perhaps a quarter of a mile, beneath the eastering shade of a line of poplars growing at the river’s edge. But the more Theodoric puzzled over the mystery of the tracks, and thought about the Roman’s deception, the angrier he became.

“What devilry is this?” he demanded. “Who else have you brought to plunder our lands?”

“I would never do that,” answered Aëtius levelly. “And I apologize for not being more open with your son. I was not certain you would join forces with me, and so must have a fallback.”

“I would certainly not have joined you,” said Theodoric, “if I knew you were going to lie to us, and play both sides against the middle.”

“No,” insisted Aëtius. “That is not what I have done. And now that you have joined me, combined with this first ally, our army is nearly the equal of Attila’s.”

“Who!” shouted Theodoric, not caring that the sound carried.

“A powerful force, but not too powerful. And an unparalleled goad to Attila.”

“If you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll—”

“The Alans—led by Sangiban, their King.”

“The Alans?” cried Theodoric, dismayed and disbelieving. “Why? You know they cannot be trusted. They are half wild themselves, and from the treacherous lands of the Caucasus.”

“Yes, but an old and bitter foe of the Huns. For it was Rugilas who split them in two: defeating them utterly, sending the survivors fleeing far to the north and south, never to be reunited. It is the Huns who raped and murdered their women, made slaves of their children, and forced all captured men to join in the same Hellish army that had done all this to them. Thus they were driven even farther west, never again to see the land of their birth. A large score to settle.”

“The Alans did much the same to them,” said Theodoric, beginning to understand. “Until they realized they could not defeat them, or drive them back.”

“Exactly. Though many of their sundered peoples were assimilated under Attila—indeed, they may be among his forces now—the free Alans despise them for it, and loathe the Huns with a savage, tribal hatred that should not be undervalued. And of course the Huns hate them just as much.”

“Can Sangiban be trusted?” asked Theodoric dubiously.

“As a loyal and unquestioning ally, no. It is only because our forces, together,” he added with emphasis, “outnumber them nearly four to one, that I have dared to enlist their aid.”

“And how do you know they will fight with us when the time comes? They have no love for either of our peoples. How did you ‘enlist’ them?”

“With money,” said Aëtius frankly, “and the chance for revenge.”

“You didn’t promise them lands in Gaul?” demanded the King.

“No,” Aëtius lied. Though if his plans came to fruition, he would not have to honor that agreement, either.

“Still,” said Theodoric, shaking his head in wonder. “The Alans? What can you be thinking?”

“Thule,” said the Roman, turning toward him. “Would you allow your father and I to speak alone? I ask your pardon, both for withholding this knowledge from you, and for the discretion I must now exercise. This stratagem must remain secret, or we throw away all chance of victory.”

“Father?” asked Thule.

“Two hundred yards to the north, no farther. And Krieg,” he added, turning toward him. “Watch the east, and be sure we are not ambushed.”

Thule nodded, then rode away to the north. Krieg rode east, grateful at least for this small show of confidence.

“No more games,” said Theodoric, when the two had taken up their vantage points atop the long, curving hill. “How do you intend to use the Alans?”

“Attila hates Sangiban, as you know. They have their own score to settle.”

“How!”

Aëtius hesitated. For herein lay his one real hope.

“If we can hold Orleans—which is where the Alans are heading.” Theodoric began to interrupt, but Aëtius would not let him. “And force Attila to give battle in some place favorable to us. . .I intend to put the Alans in our center, with your army and mine on either wing.”

“But what if they break and run!” cried Theodoric. “Or fall into the old Hunnish trap of pursuing a feigned retreat?”

“If they do break, and Attila charges to cut them down, then we attack his flanks,” said the General, as calmly as he could. For now they had come to iron nails.

“But if Sangiban falls into the trap, and charges first when the Huns feign retreat— ”

“That is the one thing he will not do,” insisted Aëtius.

“How can you know that?”

“Because the Alans have seen that ploy far too often. When I tried to caution their King against such a blunder, he became truly angry, as you are now. For while his loyalty is questionable, as you suggest, there are two things we can count on—must count on, if we’re going to defeat Attila in open battle.”

“What?” asked the King coldly, barely able to contain himself.

“That Attila will attack first, enraged by the sight of his sworn enemy. And that if, on the unlikely chance the Huns do feign retreat, Sangiban will not allow a fool’s charge that could lead us all to ruin.”

“Risk your own life on that if you like, not those of myself and my men. I’ve half a mind to turn and leave you here. I don’t trust the Alans for a moment!”

“Please don’t,” said Aëtius humbly. And there was no feigning the entreaty in his eyes. The King studied him closely, unnerved by his sudden sincerity.

“What are you planning?” he asked cautiously.

At this Aëtius, who had quickly composed himself, dismounted deliberately, and went down on one knee by a clear space in the sandy bank. Then beckoned the Visigoth to come and join him there. After a moment’s hesitation, Theodoric dismounted and moved to stand beside him. Aëtius picked up a stick and smoothed the dark and pebbly sand, making a space to illustrate his remarks. “I’ve anticipated, and fully share your concern. But look.” And taking up a smaller stick, he began to sketch a rough outline of his battle plan.

“The great Aëtius,” said Theodoric mockingly, “willing to share a Roman General’s underhanded tricks?”

The words stung, but Aëtius mastered his emotions. “Yes, Theodoric. And if that doesn’t tell you how committed I am, nothing will.”

But in truth, the King was curious. He had seen the shrewdness of Roman tactics firsthand, in Italy, where smaller armies had nonetheless forced several surprising reversals on the undisciplined hordes of Alaric. And he wanted to know if this man was all that reputation proclaimed him. “Go on,” he said mildly, and without animosity. For this man risked nothing less than himself. Their two Kingdoms, the freedom of both their peoples, would stand or fall together. He went down on one knee beside him.

“I do not yet know our ground,” said Aëtius, “which will no doubt affect our plans.”

“Our plans?”

“I cannot do this without you, Theodoric, and you know it. I thought for a moment you were going to drop all pretense, and we could speak man to man.” The King grunted, but nonetheless gave him his full attention.

Aëtius drew a long, curving line, separating its outer sections with two quick strokes. “Our two forces will form the flanks, here and here.” Then indicated its middle portion. “The Alans will form our center, as Sangiban has already agreed.”

“No doubt you offered it to him as an honor,” said Theodoric dryly, “a greater chance for glory and revenge.”

“Yes,” replied Aëtius simply, “along with other incentives. The relevant point is that he agreed.”

“And so you hope to goad Attila, with the best of his Hun riders, into a full frontal attack. And then we close on either side, like the jaws of a wolf?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a sly one,” said the King, with grudging admiration. “Go on.”

“All right. Attila will not be such a fool as to send his entire force against the center, and therefore allow us to outflank him so easily.”

“But you believe he will send the Huns to strike there first, even come himself?”

“Yes.”

“And what if he doesn’t? What if he attacks my wing, or yours?”

“Then we must each trust the other to come to our aid, attacking his rear instead. So you see, my friend, whatever the Alans do—hold firm, fall back, or even (God help us) attack—our two armies, our very lives, are held in each other’s hands. We must each protect the other, or all is lost. I do not enter into this lightly.”

“No,” said Theodoric, releasing a troubled breath. For the truth of this assertion was self-evident. “Though I would like to discuss all possibilities at greater length, when we may.”

“Thoroughly,” agreed Aëtius, who never assumed anything. For therein lay his strength, both as a general and a diplomat. “But if we can lure the Huns into attacking our center, you and I will face his lesser forces—the assimilated armies. Lesser if not in number, then certainly in skill and fanatical devotion: not the deadly mounted archers of Attila.”

Theodoric held out his hand for the stick, which Aëtius gave him, both men now intent upon the rough battle-plan. “So whether Sangiban stands firm or falls back…..” began Theodoric, drawing a deeper curve behind the Alan position. “How many men does he have?” he interjected.

“Roughly one-hundred-thousand,” replied Aëtius truthfully, somewhat to his own surprise. For both men had begun to realize that what was happening between them was greater than either man, either people alone.

Theodoric sighed. “Good,” he admitted reluctantly. “Enough to resist a center thrust, but not likely to defeat it.” And he drew short stabs backward from the initial line of the Alans, showing their possible fall-back, and/or retreat. “Sangiban is forced back, in good order or in bad, after roughly an hour’s fighting, give or take.”

“Yes,” agreed Aëtius, knowing he had made his point.

“Meanwhile our two forces, the flanks, have overcome Attila’s lesser armies, and can begin to close on his rear.” And he drew the appropriate curvature from the Roman and Visigoth lines, cutting off all retreat.

But at this Aëtius shook his head, holding out his hand, and receiving the crude instrument that represented the life and death of hundreds of thousands of men, quite possibly the fate of Europe as well. “You’re a shrewd tactician yourself,” he said, to soften the coming blow. “But to my mind, that is too lofty a goal. I would have us close upon his flanks only, leaving him an avenue of retreat.”

“Why?” demanded Theodoric. But as his mind began to calm under Aëtius steady gaze, he slowly realized the reason for it.

“They still outnumber us, my friend, and the cornered animal is by far the most dangerous. My goal is not to crush Attila’s entire force, which may be beyond our power, but only to defeat them in battle, and thus drive him from Gaul. As such, we must not force him into a desperate fight to the death.” And he drew not encircling lines, as Theodoric had, but taking up a second stick, laid one atop each flank, and began to close them in a narrowing grip, like the jaws of a vice.

Theodoric nodded, understanding. In the heat of the moment he had allowed himself to dream of total victory—a mistake, he now realized—the Huns panicking (which they were not likely to do), allowing the Roman and Visigoth pincers to crush them completely. Aëtius watched his face, gratefully reading its slow acquiescence, so paramount to success.

At last Theodoric rose. “I understand,” he said gravely. “And I agree. If such a battle can be fought, I will fight it with you.”

“Good,” said Aëtius, with more emotion than he might have wished. “Good.”

Theodoric nodded. “A brilliant plan,” he was forced to admit. “Let us hope we have the chance to use it.”

“Yes,” said the Roman seriously, “though it will not come about by chance. But if we can force Attila to withdraw from Orleans, there is good ground in the lands thereabout: open enough to draw his riders into battle, but with hills and forest enough to give him no decided advantage. Well. One thing at a time.”

“Yes,” agreed Theodoric.

“And now that you know my mind…..” Aëtius hesitated, but knew this last step must be taken. “Let us agree to take all further counsel together. No more secrets, for either of us.”

Theodoric raised his eyebrows at this. “Do you think we can?” he asked. “A throwback Roman, and a cynical old Visigoth King?”

“We must,” replied the Master Soldier. “And I mean what I say. We are so much stronger together, united, than either force alone. We must be like the two hands of a skilled warrior, working with one mind to the undoing of a deadly foe. It is the only way.”

“I agree,” said the King gravely, knowing it was true.

There was nothing more to say. Both men took up their horses’ reins. The King mounted first, as was the custom in his own lands, then waved Thule and Krieg back to him as Aëtius stepped lightly into the saddle.

And so the four horsemen rejoined, and rode back to their army, which through its unity had grown so much stronger. Together, and with the aid of the unwitting Alans, there was a fighting chance: a chance to hand Attila the Great his first real defeat. A chance in what would in fact be an epic battle, one of the most important struggles in human history, and the defining moment of an era. Could Western civilization—the enlightenment of the Greeks, their philosophy, art, science and politics, along with the law, administration, architecture and public works of the Romans—survive? Or would they be destroyed by a savage, atavistic horde which represented not the best of Asia but the worst, thus plunging an entire continent into a Darkness which might last for centuries?

For nothing less was at stake. Could the last dying throes of the once proud Roman Empire, preserve and pass on to the Nordic peoples the invaluable remnants of their culture? Or would the Dark Ages become darker still, with little chance for more enlightened days to come?

It could still be done: if only their best representatives could overcome their prejudices, work together, and fight the battle of a lifetime in the face of true Evil, and a devastating foe.

Nor would this be the last time such a choice would face the free peoples of the world. Far from it. For the difference between good and evil will always exist, however tyrants may try to obscure it; and the good among us must work together to achieve a better destiny, or surrender the world to greed, lust, hate and death and fear—to the aggressive, the ignorant and the violent.

If only…..

The story continues: