“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 as well, 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-gloved 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. The 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. There was lurking death in those eyes, no question.

But as Onegesius, his Scythian second-in-command knew, this was not out of any particular 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. And when he was younger, this— along with his conquests as far north as Scandinavia, west throughout Germania (to say nothing of his holdings in Asia)— 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, did not dare to 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 rarely chose to wear them on the march. No rings or bracelets, no jewelry of any kind but for a large, carefully worked medallion— a ‘second head’, representing Nimrod, and ringed by hair of living snakes— worn about his neck and set with a single, enormous ruby. ‘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 nearly 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 had 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 sons with her. 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 protector and savior— they had met many years ago, though 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, as part of a plot to ascend the throne herself, he knew. She had been disgraced, and thrown into prison by her mother, Galla Placidia: a true scheming slut, if ever there was one. But 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 own towards 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 to him by the God of War, or to be the God itself, 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 had left in its escape. The (greatly embellished) legend was that this ‘glittering sword’ had been found standing upright, as if dropped from the Heavens, and bathed in rays of sunlight which had 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. This had been ordered and 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. For this, truly, was the weapon of a living God. He stopped just short of calling himself such. 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 protective 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 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 advancing 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 (so he told himself) 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 a slave girl and, tearing open the front of her dress, bit into her breast till 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 a million 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 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 take nothing 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 (or 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 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 upon 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 hand at the 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, and at a court feast. 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 desired 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 bowels of Gaul to terrify and extort greater sums from the Rome, for the provinces that yet remained?

Ironic as it was, since the Visigoths now kept only a loose association with the Romans, and had been but a short time before, under Alaric, their most dire enemy, 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, 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.

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, Dorlas, 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 who first conquered these lands have ourselves been conquered. Though many therefore have no 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 Empire 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 crisis.

“We are of one mind, I take it, 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 tactical 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 that he was not so foolish. But Ataulf saw, at least when his head was still clear, 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 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 mind of a spider, and a heart 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, 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 therefore ruthless commander we could not hope for, or dread. In addition, 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 therefore 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 boys, 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 therefore 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 heard 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 in two, 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— his manhood, 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 yet again. The terror of his youth, 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?

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 therefore 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 make love (if those words 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. 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 onto 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 and 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 without 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 towards her new alcove calmly, 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 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 it 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 even death.

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. His love for her had always overpowered any moral consideration. For conscience must be nurtured, and though his father (whom he feared) had 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.

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, his right to wear the crown when he himself was dead?

“Kings,” he muttered to himself, as various pieces of the puzzle came together in his mind.

As previously, he and the younger man had been sent ahead to scout their 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 well-disguised by chopping them at an angle, not all the way through, then twisting the ends to make the break appear natural, his conscience forced him to forget Elise— the past— 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 Elise’s 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 hills 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 is 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. And 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 t