Attila’s main force approached the walled city of Orleans only to find it held in defiance against them. For a combined force of Gallic peoples, united no less by a common Faith than a relentless fear and loathing of the truly barbaric invaders, had joined in a desperate defense of their home, their small freedoms, their very lives. And Attila soon saw that to overwhelm them and take possession of the city, so critical to his hopes of conquest, would be no easy task.

Because Orleans had been built for just such a stand, a completely

walled city, guarded from behind by the River Loire, and the famous River Wall, that Joan of Arc would one day storm and conquer. On its three landward sides as well, the walls were high and thick, punctuated by parapets and towers from which arrows could be shot, javelins launched, stones and other missiles hurled down. Only Constantinople, along with Rome itself, could boast better fortifications.

Not a place to be easily taken, mused Attila darkly, even with a quarter million men, the catapults and siege engines he had brought, and others, based on Roman design, that he proposed to build.

And something else troubled him. The religious devotion of the people must be overcome as well, along with the certain knowledge (dread fear) of what became of those who defied the great Attila. Also the lingering, often unsettling superstitions that he, and his pagan followers still held. He had not expected this sudden check to his assault on France.

But it must be done, and so he set out to do it. The city was besieged, and great battering rams brought to bear on the Gate and forward walls, as deadly missiles flew from both sides, and the courageous but desperate defense was pushed to its last extremity.

But then a remarkable thing happened, no less a (human) miracle than the unification of so many diverse peoples to resist the ungodly invasion. As the historian wrote:

“From the Rhine and the Moselle, Attila advanced into the heart of

Gaul; crossed the Seine at Auxerre; and, after a long and laborious march, fixed his camp under the walls of Orleans. He was desirous of securing his

conquests by the possession of an advantageous post, which commanded the passage of the Loire; and he depended on the secret invitation of Sangiban,

king of the Alani, who had promised to betray the city, and to revolt from the service of the Empire. But this treacherous conspiracy was detected and disappointed: Orleans had been strengthened with recent fortifications; and the assaults of the Huns were vigorously repelled by the faithful valor of the

soldiers, or citizens, who defended the place.”

And then:

“The pastoral diligence of Anianus, a bishop of primitive sanctity and consummate prudence, exhausted every art of religious policy to support their courage, till the arrival of the expected succors. After an obstinate siege, the walls were shaken by the battering rams; the Huns had already occupied the suburbs; and the people, who were incapable of bearing arms,

lay prostrate in prayer. Anianus, who anxiously counted the days and hours,

despatched a trusty messenger to observe, from the rampart, the face of the distant country. He returned twice, without any intelligence that could inspire hope or comfort; but, in his third report, he mentioned a small cloud, which he had faintly descried at the extremity of the horizon. ‘It is the aid of God!’ exclaimed the bishop, in a tone of pious confidence; and the whole multitude repeated after him, ‘It is the aid of God.’ The remote object, on which every eye was fixed, became each moment larger, and more distinct; the Roman and Gothic banners were gradually perceived; and a favorable wind blowing aside the dust, discovered, in deep array, the impatient squadrons of Ætius and Theodoric, who pressed forwards to the relief of Orleans.”

— Edward Gibbon, “The History of the Decline

and Fall of the Roman Empire.”

#

Attila saw them coming as well. The Romans and Visigoths, the banners of Aëtius and Theodoric— the friend of his youth, and the King he respected (and therefore hated)— side by side in the van. It struck him hard, seeming a kind of evil portent, this Eastern tyrant, outwardly fearless, but inwardly consumed by doubt and superstition.

But all of this combined would not have moved him to prudence, had he not seen with his own eyes that the advancing enemy, unlooked-for (at all, let alone in such strength), clearly outnumbered his own, now thrice-divided force.

So after cursing himself, his scouts, allies, and the fickle pagan gods, he sent mounted messengers to call back his attacking soldiers, poised before the ruined gates themselves. The city had been saved by the merest grain of sand in Fate’s inexorable hourglass.

Attila gave hurried instruction to all the captains present to regroup, reload the supply wagons, and retreat in the face of an army he had no chance of withstanding. Also, like any ruthless invader who rapes and murders without conscience or restraint, he had to fear the retribution of partisans. What other armies might yet come upon him, or join the alliance of Aëtius and Theodoric, he had no way of knowing.

Riders were sent north to retrieve his scattered forces, and set a rendezvous somewhere between Troyes and the Catalaunian Fields: more open ground where he could turn the full weight of his cavalry and his wrath against them. He was not shunning battle, he told himself, only preparing to meet it under more advantageous circumstances.

Yet still he was wroth, with himself and all the world. He charged his horse and cut down a Burgundian who had stopped to look out at the approaching enemy— with some thought, no doubt, of fleeing to join them. Then he ordered Onegesius— who would have to pay for not anticipating this stroke— to execute the wife who had failed to please him the night before. And so sent his infantry and wagons ahead, remaining behind to gather his riders about him: to harry the approaching enemy if need be, and savagely defend his retreating forces.

For those who dominate others, in any sense, rarely long for the tables to be turned upon them. Though no doubt they secretly fear it.

Yet Attila had not been beaten, or even much bloodied. And God help Aëtius if he was not allowed to withdraw in good order! Far from an idol threat, he was willing to die to enforce it.

And Aëtius knew it.

The cheers grew ever louder as the Magister Militum and the Gothic King approached the walls of Orleans. For to the inhabitants it truly was a miracle, a vindication of their Faith and courage, against the mindless hatred of the ravening Huns.

Only one man, standing upon the parapet that overarched the battered gateway, felt no gratitude, nor the least reason to celebrate. This was Sangiban, faithless King of the Alans, who had come to the walled city not to defend it against Attila, but to betray its people (and the sentiments of his own), by opening it to him, and being the first to plunder.

For once Sangiban had split from the Romans and set out upon the northern track, once his Alans were safely out of sight, he had sent embassies to Attila, telling him vaguely of forces mustering against him, and of the price he himself would accept for changing sides. Thus Attila— who in truth he only envied, not despised— was given the chance to improve upon Aëtius’ offer. And of course, shrewd diplomat that he was, Attila had.

But Sangiban had not told him the size of the Roman army, that it was led by Aëtius himself, or of his plans for a Visigoth alliance— one must hold some cards in reserve— or things might now be quite different.

And this is what vexed him. For Sangiban was, in fact, what Theodoric had accused Aëtius of being: a man not only willing to play both sides against the middle, the consummate double dealer, but one who relished the part, was wickedly cunning in its execution, and had risen to power because of it. And a man who has enjoyed repeated success with one mindset, however despicable, sees little reason to change it.

But now it had blown up in his face, because some of his men had gotten drunk with the Franks two nights before. And these natives of Gaul served their own King, Meroveus, already encamped within the city, further complicating his schemes.

And some damn fool had talked. His plot had been sniffed out. And despite the presence of roughly seventy-five thousand men (fully a quarter of his force had deserted, or were off pillaging the landscape), he could not be at all sure of overpowering the Franks, who had hastily gathered a force of nearly sixty thousand themselves. And the people of Orleans supported them.

For this true Gallic army had been raised by the Frankish monarch himself, at the urging of Dorlas and others like him, and were reinforced within the city by the militia guard and the common people, both of whom had welcomed their King, looking on him as a kind of Saint, as they now looked on Aëtius and Theodoric as avenging angels.

For one could never have enough saviors in these dark and terrible times. Such beliefs could mean the difference between victory and defeat, hope and despair, life and death. And sage rulers, even the cynical Aëtius, knew this, and did everything in their power to play the part, and reap the rewards.

As the Roman and Visigoth armies drew nearer, the battered gates were thrown open and the makeshift barricades removed, as people of every age and description rushed out to welcome their deliverers. Young women who only hours before had feared for their virtue and their lives, now strewed the ground with flowers. As Aëtius himself dismounted he was surrounded by them, and could easily have chosen a willing companion for the night.

But the Master Soldier saw none of them, nor heard the joyful sounds of the multitude. Instead he gazed up at Sangiban, so shamelessly beaming down on him with the gratitude of a loyal servant at the return of his beloved master. His expression in return was cold and hard, forbidding the game. For he had spies among the Alani as well, who had warned him, almost too late, of Sangiban’s treachery.

When Aëtius first heard the news he had gone pale with shock, then red with fury, seeing the potential ruin of all he had worked so tenaciously to achieve. And though he too had heard of the muster of the Franks under Meroveus, he was not at all sure this would be enough to keep the Alans from taking control of Orleans, and laying it bare to the Huns.

And now he must decide what to do with the bastard, and the Alani force which could still— now more than ever— be used to goad Attila. This alone brought him comfort, and that of the very coldest.

#

Theodoric did not dismount, but rode in at the gate with Thule and Thorismund beside him. He, too, had much to consider. For at the Visigoth capitol of Toulouse, while he himself was welcomed and his army hailed, his remaining sons— he had six in all— had been considerably less pleased to see Thorismund, the brother they hardly knew, and dismayed to learn he was once again being considered as heir apparent.

For these three men, as ruthless (if not nearly so courageous) as their father, were not above intrigue. They had long discounted Thule as a rival, because he so often angered Theodoric by speaking his true mind, keeping his own counsel, and now, leading his followers into Spain— against the King’s wishes, as they wrongly supposed. Added to this, Theodoric did not approve of his wife, Joseppa, whom he had married for love— always a mistake— apparently blind to her underlying nature. And as for the younger brother who remained at the King’s summer encampment, his unofficial counselor, he could always be murdered upon their father’s death. Indeed, the brothers had all but agreed upon such a course, and proposed to divide the Visigoth Empire among them. Though despite the platitude, there is in fact no honor among thieves (or assassins), and each secretly plotted to undo the other. Such are the vicious undercurrents that swirl about every royal court.

But Thorismund….. Here was trouble, especially as Theodoric seemed to have embraced him as the Prodigal Son, giving a feast in his honor, and (most galling of all) keeping him seated at his right hand throughout. And they could see that Thule, despite the new and unexpected rivalry, seemed to actually support his older brother, with whom he had been close in childhood.

Yet (as sons so often do) they underestimated their father, who knew all of this, and had secretly arranged for their arrest. Heavy, indeed, is the head that wears the crown. And guarded, too, must be his back.

But to Krieg, as to the common people, it was a day of glad tidings and reawakened hope. For he, not unlike the more enlightened citizens, realized what this day meant. If Attila had taken the city, all Christian Gaul might well have been lost. And while the aging warrior could sometimes be cynical about its beliefs, his heart remained committed to this new, far more compassionate Faith.

And now Attila was retreating in the face of their combined strength. Though the war was far from won, this had been a crucial first step. Perhaps, as Aëtius implied, he could not yet be beaten. Still, he might now be driven from their homes, his horrors deflected, if not defeated. And who could say what the future might hold for such a Godless tyrant: rebellion, disease, even sudden death in battle.

So he rode in beside Thule largely untroubled, though subconsciously guarding his friend from hostility, even violence. Such was the mixed blessing of being among the many peoples who had come together to resist the invaders. Who could know what rivals or assassins lurked among them?

But when Dorlas rushed down the stone stairs of the adjacent parapet, all thought of personal restraint (to say nothing of self-protection) abandoned Thule in an instant. He leapt down from his horse beaming at the approach of his loyal captain. The two men embraced, Thule making no attempt to hide his relief and gratitude.

“You’ve saved us all,” he said, meaning it, not knowing how right he was.

“I played my part,” said Dorlas, with uncharacteristic humility. “I had to…..” There was no need to say more, as the grieving husband and father still showed beneath his momentary joy. “Yet if either of us had allowed ourselves to despair, or be cowed by that monster…” and at this the underlying hatred burned through “…he might be standing here, instead of us.”

Thule clasped his shoulder, knowing it.

“I see you found your father,” continued the Frank, when both had regained their composure. “And Aëtius.”

At this Thule put a finger to his lips, and Dorlas nodded imperceptibly. They would speak of this, and other sensitive matters, in private.

“And Krieg,” he added, turning toward him and extending his forearm, which the other took gladly. “I hope we can set aside any remaining mistrust.”

“Yes,” replied Krieg. “It seems I can finally put to rest the notion that I am a Vandal spy. Well,” he said, embarrassed to have given voice to the thought. Perhaps he had not realized until that moment how this suspicion grated on him. No man likes to have his honor called into question, especially one who had worked so long and tirelessly for the good of others. “Enough of that.”

“Terrible times,” agreed Dorlas. “Yet they quickly separate the worst in us…..”

“From the best,” Krieg finished for him, as Dorlas shook his head to drive away the weakening emotion. This was not a time to grieve, but to fight.

“Will you lodge with Thorismund and the King?” he asked Thule, when he again trusted his voice.

“I don’t know,” replied the Visigoth honestly. “I would like to stay with you, and our other sundered companions.”

“Then come,” said his friend, “and enjoy the famous hospitality of the Franks. You should meet our King, Meroveus, in any case.”

Thule nodded, and sent Kudric to his father with word of his plans. Then Dorlas led Thule and his riders, Krieg now undeniably one of them, to the northeastern castle in which some of the Franks, including his own men, were now quartered. Here they were heartily welcomed by the native riders of Dorlas’ company, once more their brothers-in-arms. In a way this was better, thought Thule, than remaining among the Visigoths. For he no longer had to remain aloof, projecting confidence and guarding his emotions. Even strong men sometimes need to rest, escape themselves and make merry with trusted companions.

Once he had delivered his father’s message, Kudric remained with his grandfather and the Magister Militum, who now took up quarters in the city’s primary castle— unceremoniously evicting the Alan hierarchy, and saying not a word to their king— both as a show of solidarity, and Aëtius right to command. For many lords and captains were gathered within the city, but only one could lead them into battle. And Theodoric, despite his pride, had slowly but surely yielded this honor to the Roman, who because of his tactical experience and knowledge of the enemy, was their best hope of victory.

For as both leaders knew, the startled predator forced to withdraw from a kill in the face of greater numbers is far from beaten, or in any way deterred. And when he was also the most powerful and ruthless man in Europe, an opposing force had to respond to a single, knowing and confident will. And while Theodoric, like Meroveus and Sangiban, retained command of his own forces, and would fight under no other banner, it was clear to all that Aëtius had longest planned, considered, and worked toward the coming campaign, where all his military skill, and intimate knowledge of the enemy would be called into play. And needed.

Because all knew that a horrific battle, a terrible blood-letting lay before them. Though none, not even the cold and calculating Aëtius, could know how terrible. For unlike the epic battles of mythology, Divine intervention could not be hoped for. No God would tip the scales, no hero arrive in the nick of time. This was not legend, myth or heroic fantasy, but the hardest, and most deadly kind of reality: the place where perception vanished, and life and death took over. The day would not be won by lofty kings, or the knights who followed them in a just cause, but by real, and therefore flawed human beings, bringing to bear superior violence, if possible, against an enemy who could no longer cow them.

Such is life.

Such is history.

Such is war.

The morning after.

Aëtius alone among the Commanders-in-Chief, and Thorismund among the Lords, had slept alone that night. As such they were the first to rise (the only to rise with the sun), and the first to meet in the great war room of the primary castle of Orleans. This was large and high-ceilinged, with banners, tapestries and coats of arms, along with weapons, ornamental and real, hung on the walls all about.

Aëtius noted with satisfaction that Thorismund’s eyes were not bleary, his mind was clear, and most of all, he was truly passionate about the coming campaign. Thank the gods Attila is a mongrel pagan, he thought, and this pup thinks I’m a Christian. For like others of the true Roman mindset, he believed that Jesus Christ had been the downfall of Rome, and gutted the martial heart of a people who had once allowed none but the strongest and bravest of their offspring to live: weak or malformed infants were simply left on a hillside to die of exposure, while timid youths were ostracized and cast aside, never to hold meaningful rank or position, or even to marry and pass their weakness on in children. That, to a true Roman, was the Natural Order— survival of the fittest— and the reason that a single city, a single, unyielding culture, had dominated Europe for five hundred years. Now all were permitted to live, and grow, and weaken the Empire. And the Roman army had slowly but surely disintegrated from a true soldier class— again, the way it should be— to a collection of mercenaries and social misfits….. But such were the tools he must work with.

And Thorismund. There was a time when he had thought his friend’s Faith made him weak: all hair and no face, as the Roman proverb ran. But not now. While he was not the hardened warrior or master swordsman that Thule and Theodoric were— though Thorismund was far from unskilled, or hesitant— he had something else, indefinable. He could not forget the way the common people had rejoiced and flocked to him at Toulouse, to find their legendary heir-apparent alive, and accompanied by a combined army such as they had never seen. Such was the power of myth— one of the reasons the Romans had made their Emperors into gods— and if his aura transferred itself to the battlefield as he hoped, it would be a thing beyond price.

They spread out several maps at the head of the long table. These had been obtained from the Orleans Hall of Records the day before, and together they began to lay their plans. This with the clear understanding that they must prepare for many possibilities, and that many more contingencies. They must be flexible. Aëtius had made a career of defeating two kinds of enemies: those with no battle plan, and those who stubbornly held to a flawed plan, even when it was clearly not working. But if all men were wise, he thought grimly, I would be dead.

But questions must come before answers, and so they discussed these first. How many of his scattered forces would Attila be able to recall before they could force him to turn and fight? How far, and how aggressively would they have to follow him to bring this about, without themselves committing a fatal error? What was the terrain likely to be if and when such a battle could be joined? And what military dispositions should they look for, and therefore plan against?

“Then we’re agreed we must leave the city at once and pursue him?” asked Thorismund, wondering at his own eagerness for combat.

“Yes. I had half a mind to force an engagement yesterday. But our troops were weary from the long march, and any such spur-of-the-moment battle would quickly have dissolved into chaos, which is Attila’s strength, not ours. Also, we have not yet drilled with Meroveus’ Franks, or addressed Sangiban’s treachery.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

“I ought to fry his balls for breakfast,” replied Aëtius bitterly. “He could have been the ruin of us all.” Then he remembered himself, and to whom he spoke. “Forgive my Roman anger, and coarse way of speaking. Though I was born to a noble family, I was raised among warriors— yours, Rugilas’— and now must command my own, not always the best and brightest of men. One falls into old habits of speech…..”

“Of course,” said Thorismund. “That I have given my life to God does not make me squeamish or naïve.”

At that moment Theodoric entered. He himself had not overindulged at the great feast of thanksgiving held for them by the rulers of the city (aside from taking his pleasure afterward, with a woman a third his age). For he had known Aëtius and Thorismund would meet early. And aside from his eldest son whom he, like the Roman, had begun to trust and rely on more and more, he refused to allow any other to precede him in seeking out the Magister Militum, their Supreme Commander in all but name. Nor had he any intention of being outwardly subordinate, to anyone. So he exchanged greetings with Aëtius, formally though without reservation, then turned to his son.

“Recap what you have already discussed,” he commanded. Thorismund looked quickly to Aëtius, which fortunately the King did not see, intent on the maps before him. The Roman nodded imperceptibly.

“All we’ve decided so far, with your approval, is that we must follow Attila due north as soon as may be, and engage him before he is able to gather his full strength.”

“He’s heading more east than north, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” affirmed Aëtius. “But we’re both concerned that he could turn toward Paris, or even set it as a rendezvous point for his scattered forces. If we allow him to do that, he will have successfully turned the tables on us. He will have possession of a fortified city, a place to rally his troops, and can therefore dictate the terms of battle to us.”

“How do you propose to stop it?”

“Take the Paris road ourselves, head him off.”

“But we must keep contact with him,” insisted Theodoric, “and harry his rear to keep them from getting too comfortable, or making the retreat in good order.”

“Exactly,” agreed Aëtius, glad they were thinking along the same lines. “We must not only send out our scouts to do so, but skirmishers as well— enough to harass him, but not yet draw him into full-scale battle.”

“Why not?” demanded the King. “Surely the longer we delay, the stronger he becomes.”

“Yes, but there is another side to it. I’ll agree to engage him soon, but not too soon. We have not yet drilled, or even marched with the other allied forces. I would have a few days at least to do so, lest we go into combat a disorderly mob. As I told your son, Attila is a master of the quick read, and

sudden movements in the midst of chaos. With all due respect to your cavalry and mine, his riders are still quicker and more. . .adaptable to circumstance.”

“They wear no protective gear, and their swords are not as stout,” said the King defensively, hoping (though not believing) that Aëtius gave them too much credit.

“Precisely. We have to beat him through direct confrontation and hand-to-hand fighting: strength, strategy and discipline.”

As Thorismund watched the dialogue unfold, he became aware of two things, the first with satisfaction, the second with a pang of envy. For he saw that the two powerful rulers were working together smoothly— with little jostling for power, or contending each point as rivals. Yet the second was that while Aëtius clearly valued himself as a friend and ally, he was not yet willing to treat with him as an equal, as he did Theodoric. For his father was a King, an experienced warrior, and he was not.

And though he rebuked himself for it, loving his father dearly, and not consciously wishing to take his place….. To be so near the fulfillment of his own high Destiny— to become the truly Christian King of the Visigoths— was not without temptation. He caught himself almost wishing that his father would die in the coming engagement. But no, to think that way was cruel and unforgivable.

Yet Aëtius must want him to consider the possibility, for he had all but come out and say it: one day he would be King, sooner rather than later if his father faltered. One day at a time, he reminded himself, and we are all in God’s hands. He returned his full attention to the counsel.

Theodoric had paused, looking at Aëtius if not quite in disbelief— for he knew the man did nothing in haste, or without reason— then certainly in wonder and incredulity. “You still mean to include Sangiban in our plans? After what he tried to do? Would have done, if not for the arrival of Meroveus and the Franks.”

“The Alans are still a considerable force, nearly half of what you and I possess individually (an exaggeration), and roughly equal to what the Franks have been able to gather so far.”

“But how can you possibly trust him now?”

“I don’t. The truth is I never have, though I have cursed myself a thousand times for letting him march on Orleans alone. I just couldn’t believe he would run straight to his bitterest enemy.”

“When it comes to the Alans,” said the King dryly, “believe anything.”

“So I have learned.” This was the closest thing to an apology he could allow himself. “Yet still, if we don’t bring him with us, who knows what devilry he may yet engage in? He could still join Attila by some circuitous route, or simply plunder the countryside all around in our absence.”

“He has already done so,” said Theodoric bitterly, “on his march here. He calls it ‘forage’, but we both know better. The girl I slept with last night (he made no apologies to Thorismund for his bawdy nature, and was secretly concerned about his son’s manhood) saw it firsthand. She was taken by his men during a raid on her village— fortunately they had not yet had time to ravish all the women they abducted— and only released yesterday, when our forces appeared.”

“Yes. But if Sangiban does so much when we are on his heels, what will he not do when we have gone?”

“So kill him,” said the King.

“There is no such thing as a headless beast, or a leaderless army. Someone just as bad would take his place, and perhaps be more cunning still.”

“So kill them all.”

“I’d like to, but that weakens us doubly— the Alan warriors we lose, and the casualties we suffer in destroying them.” He almost allowed himself to add: Don’t worry. If Attila doesn’t kill him, my assassins will. But there must be no suspicion of treachery among the allies. And he would soon be grateful that he held his peace.

Theodoric grunted. “You still plan to place him in the center?”

“Yes, but with the Franks behind him, you and I on either side. That way we can watch him like a hawk, and cut him down if he tries anything foolish. Meroveus will keep him from retreating, you and I from trying to join the Huns, though I think he’d eat fire first, now.”

“Why?” asked the King doubtfully. “He planned to do it once.”

“Yes, but then failed to make good his promise. Attila does not forgive failure. He will be even more vengeful toward Sangiban now, thinking, as a tyrant must, that he has betrayed him.”

“And of course,” mused the King, again following the course of Aëtius’ thoughts. “He will absorb the brunt of Attila’s charge, take the greatest losses, and allow us to reinforce our center with the Franks.”

“Yes, and they will give us fresh sword-arms in the course of what will surely be a long and bloody fight.”

“I hope I never meet you on the battlefield,” said Theodoric with a shake of his head. “You use the Alans as a human shied, and the Franks as a coin to your ambition.” It was hard to tell if he meant this as an insult or a compliment. Probably both.

“I do what I must,” replied Aëtius gravely. “As you yourself have done, and will have to do again before the end, if Attila is to be driven from these lands….. If we can hand him one serious defeat in the field, it may open other ways to destroy him.”

“What do you mean?” asked the King. And in his sudden suspicion the Roman found his caution justified. “What are you planning? Assassination?”

“Not in so many words,” said Aëtius, lowering his voice and leaning toward them both as if the walls had ears. Because sometimes they did. “Theodosius tried that once. Not only did he fail, but may, in time, have brought a similar fate upon himself.”

Again, a part of him wanted to tell Theodoric of the Eastern Emperor’s death. But the greater part, raised among the insidious courts of Ataulf, Rugilas and Placidia, had no intention of doing so. Never volunteer information, the great Julius had written, and never let anyone, even your closest ally, know what you are thinking. So true….. At that moment Thule entered, accompanied by Krieg, and a third man he did not know.

Aëtius studied the newcomer carefully as he approached. For he could not initially identify him as either Visigoth or Frank, his dress and accouterments seeming a fell combination of both: Frank throwing knife, Visigoth sword, and a shield with a vicious point such as he had rarely seen, for blocking and thrusting both.

“This is Dorlas,” said Thule, in answer to his unspoken question. “He was born a Frank, faithfully led my cavalry for years, and has now returned to the service of Meroveus. He has my full confidence.”

“The King will attend presently,” said Dorlas simply, meeting the Roman’s hard gaze with one of his own. There’s a fire in your heart, thought Aëtius grimly, and deaths to avenge. This could be both useful and dangerous. Such obsessed fighters were needed. Such rivals were not. “He wants to meet first with his counselors, and set a watch upon Sangiban. He sends me in his place.”

“I see,” said Aëtius neutrally. For he wanted to be every bit as cautious with the Franks now, as he had initially been with the Visigoths. As ever, he chose his words and his ground carefully. “And are you given authority to speak for him?”

“Yes,” said Dorlas firmly, never one to hesitate in the face of danger (or power).

“And Krieg,” he added, turning toward the Vandal so as not to exclude him. “While your people and mine are now opposed, may I speak to you with some hope of a better future, as a voice of the more enlightened among you?” As a matter of course he must keep the Franks uncertain of his own potential allies.

“I can only speak for myself,” answered Krieg, though in truth he had not surrendered all hope of overthrowing Gunduric in Spain. For almost in spite of himself, he too was caught up in the jostling for power all around him, and not immune to the old dreams: bringing his people back to a better path, and saving them from themselves.

“Understood,” said Aëtius. And again he asked Thorismund, whose feelings of envy and exclusion he had begun to sense, to make the newcomers aware of his plans, hoping the intelligent but naïve heir would say nothing of Sangiban. For these were counselors only, not Kings, and he had not yet taken the measure of Meroveus— though to send someone else in his place did not speak highly of him.

Yet he got his chance to study him firsthand but ten minutes later, as the ‘Golden One’ swept into the room with his retinue. And ten minutes after that, he wished he never had.

For Meroveus Merovee, King of the Salian Franks— whose family claimed direct descent from Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene— was, with his waving golden hair, rich robes and aristocratic airs, one of the greatest fools that he had ever met. No wonder his brother was trying to unseat him. He had no grasp whatever of the importance of the coming battle, the deadly foe with which they must grapple, or even the very real threat to his crown posed by the rebel Franks. His ‘counselors’ obviously humored, and secretly controlled him. Dorlas, who seemed to have taken military affairs on himself— and, Aëtius could not help thinking, aroused a homosexual interest in the King— was the one man he felt he could work with, fiery and irascible though he was. Fortunately (and confirming his surmises) Meroveus seemed to dote on him, and the other sycophants to fear him, both for himself, and his influence over their king.

So after receiving a brief, and very much abridged account of their plans, all save Dorlas strode out again with a rustle of robes, and the lingering smell of the pederast’s perfume. While Dorlas glared at him, daring the Roman to say one disparaging word.

What a collection, thought Aëtius with disgust, trying to keep the sentiment from his face. More than a thousand years later, Napoleon would remark of such men: “From the magnificent to the absurd is but a single step.” Aëtius’ one consolation was that those steps were now heading in the opposite direction. If he reigns for ten years, he thought dryly, then I know nothing.

But now there was work to be done. Sangiban was sent for, and shortly afterward brought in by Aëtius’ Visigoths. Such was the Alan’s trepidation at the thought of his wrath that, having tried unsuccessfully to smile at him placatingly, he dared not look him in the eye. Aëtius wasted little time on him.

“Once I offered you the center as an honor. Now I’m ordering you there, and placing the Franks behind you, so together we can watch you like the willful child you are.” And he turned toward the passionate Dorlas. “Will you assume command of the Frankish forces here mustered? The fiery Captain nodded sternly. “And do you accept this charge? For you will be our primary reinforcement, and must exercise discretion as to when to join the fray.” He saw (and had anticipated) the man’s reluctance. “You will see plenty of fighting, I assure you. You and your soldiers, the cavalry in particular, could well turn the tide of what promises to be a long and bloody battle. We will need fresh troops as the others begin to waver.”

At this Dorlas, who had begun to bridle, relented. For Aëtius had read him correctly. Only two things could sustain his wounded heart: a crushing victory to vindicate his loss, or to die in battle trying to avenge it. And Aëtius knew this would be the very Devil to his enemies, when all had begun to tire, and the issue was in doubt. Good. He turned back to Sangiban.

“You cannot run, and if you try to join Attila we will all, with swiftest vengeance, destroy you. Now get out of here and prepare your men to march. We set out at noon.”

So the council dispersed, and the great army, now numbering more than half a million men, with more Franks and native warriors sure to join along the way, prepared to set out. All talk was at an end. There was an enemy to pursue, and a dread battle to fight. All else was meaningless.

The scouts and skirmishers were sent out first, to harry Attila’s withdrawing forces, and keep in constant contact with them. It would be a difficult and dangerous assignment, walking a fine line between harassing the vast, superior force, and provoking an outright engagement. It called for courage and caution, two things not easily found in the same man. And when the others had left the council of war, Aëtius, Theodoric and Thorismund thought long and hard on who to send.

In the end Thule was sent for, and given command of a mixed company of riders, ten thousand strong, consisting of Frank, Visigoth and Roman cavalry, along with Aëtius’ and Theodoric’s best scouts. For these would not merely accompany the host, but set off in all directions to mark the return of Attila’s scattered forces.

Thule made only two demands before accepting, but would brook no refusal. Krieg would take command of the scouts, Dorlas of the Frankish riders, and both would report directly to him. While Aëtius hesitated to send Dorlas, both Thule and Theodoric, who had known him longer, assured him that he would wait until full battle was joined to vent his rage against Attila. For while passionate, as all had seen, he could also be cold in his fury. Ruthless, thought the Magister Militum, who respected this above all other virtues.

Though he was surprised to receive Thule’s order, Krieg did not shrink from what he perceived to be his duty. He knew the danger of the assignment as well as its importance, but could think of no better way to serve his young family, his Faith and his friends. The Pyrenees had not stopped the Vandals or the Visigoths; they would not stop the Huns. It must be done.

So as the others continued to prepare within the walls of the city for the long march to come, Thule’s cavalry, carefully chosen by himself, Dorlas, Aëtius and Theodoric, assembled on the plains beyond. The Master Soldier sent nine of his eighteen centuriae, consisting of a hundred men each. Dorlas organized a force of a thousand more according to clan, and with the clan leaders as head of their own. As Thule mounted two thousand Visigoths, all volunteers, and similarly led. The importance of kin could not be overstated in a war of this kind, or any other.

When the combined host was gathered before him, all swore their loyalty to Thule. Though no great orator, he addressed them himself from horseback, with Krieg and Dorlas on one side, Titus Maximus, the Roman cavalry Captain on the other. Dorlas translated for the Franks, Titus for the Romans, with the Visigoth pausing after each phrase to allow it.

“Riders of Rome and Gaul,” he began, “our mission is clear. We are to keep contact with Attila’s main force at all times, to harry stragglers and the rearguard when we may, but not yet force him to turn and face us in open battle.

“I will not lie to you. We go into great danger, with little chance of reward. But the safety, the very lives our nations, our peoples and our families, depend on us alone, until the greater battle can be fought. No one is to attack without the direct order of Titus, Dorlas, Krieg or myself. We are the eyes and ears of Aëtius, Theodoric and Meroveus. We will not fail them, nor will we fail ourselves.”

He took a deep breath, rose in the stirrups and cried:

Even before translation was possible the host cried out their assent, rising like an all-consuming wave. For all understood the sentiments, if not the words of their new leader, whose fighting spirit they so clearly perceived. They beat their shields with sword and spear, the earth below with the butt of pikes and lances. Then turned to face the grim task ahead, and advanced in loose formation.

Several hours later, the remainder of the Allied Army, close on 600,000 strong, began to march out of the great gate, to the cheers and thrown flowers of the gathered people of the City. At first their mood was festive, even jubilant.

Yet as the procession wound on, hour after hour, it slowly came to them that these men— husbands, fathers, sons and brothers, fighting on their behalf— went to make war against a deadly foe at least as great in number, and with far less respect for human life. This knowledge, as it must, had its slow but inexorable effect upon them. The cheers slowly faded, and the faces became grave.

For on some primal level they knew that this was not a grand parade, not a thing of the mind, but real and frightened soldiers marching off to war, many to their death, and all to the possible ending of the life, the Faith, the world that they had known. On and on they marched, passing through the gateway as through a portal in time: out of the past, into the present, and on to a future that was the height of uncertainty.

As all the people’s hopes, dreams and prayers, went with them.

Somehow Thule’s cavalry accomplished their mission. They kept the main body of Attila’s forces in sight, picked off the stragglers and harassed the rearguard when they could, ascertained the strength and location of the scattered forces returning to him, and passed the information on to Aëtius’ and Theodoric. Perhaps a score of men died, mostly scouts who were spied and run down by the fell Hun riders. Krieg mourned each loss, but managed to protect himself and keep in contact with all who survived. Not a glorious task, but an important one, as all leaders knew.

So far Attila had not detached a major force to oppose the followers, or turned upon them himself. And Dorlas, despite Aëtius’ misgivings, had not lost his head, and charged into an understandable but futile attempt at revenge. As Thule expected, his fey mood had passed, or merely deepened into cold-blooded hatred.

The bad news, as Krieg faithfully reported, was that Attila’s forces were not as scattered or disorganized as Aëtius might have wished. Apparently their own messengers had succeeded in finding most of them, and more force of riders returned to join him every day, with their infantry surely not far behind. Then Attila would turn, and vent his frustrated rage on all of them.

Once it became clear that his enemy was not making for Paris, Aëtius turned more to the east, due east when he reached the river Seine (a not inconsiderable barrier to both forces) and after three days’ further march, rejoined his expeditionary force somewhere to the west of Troyes.

He called Thule to him, expressing his thanks for a job well done. But this was no time to celebrate, and both knew it. For Attila, his force once again nearly equal to their own, had slowed in his retreat. He no longer seemed to be seeking escape, perhaps never had been, but instead to be choosing the best ground to turn, and give them the battle they sought.

There is some dispute among historians as to where the Battle of Châlons actually occurred. Was it fought on the plains surrounding Troyes,

or was it further north and west near Châlons, among the vast Catalaunian Fields? Some theories point to the former, while the ruins of ancient earthworks and fortifications would seem to indicate the latter. But on several points at least there is consensus. The land was fairly flat, accentuated at one point by a strategic hill, at another by Attila’s entrenchments, which were not insubstantial. The ground, therefore, seems to have been chosen primarily by the Hun. But if it was everything he wished, and not at all to the liking of the Magister Militum and his allies, it is unlikely that the shrewd Aëtius and the experienced Theodoric, whose forces still formed the bulk of their army, would have agreed to give battle there. The kind of colossal, head-on collision it became, between two of the greatest hosts ever assembled, could simply not have occurred without the consent of both sides.

It can also be debated how much of the Roman force actually set out from Italy with Aëtius (and how much was collected on the way), what tribes were where, when and why, and even whether the battle, or series of battles, were the decisive stroke in the long struggle between Western civilization, such as it was, and Eastern brutality, Asia of course having its own

enlightenments, and the Huns hardly being its best representatives.

The salient point is that hundreds of thousands of men fought, and any number of them died, in one of the bloodiest and most fiercely contested battles in all of history, easily rivaling Waterloo, Gettysburg, and the Normandy invasion, a massive clash of dawning Christianity and old world paganism, of western military discipline and a ruthless storm of primordial rage from the steppes of central Asia.

All historians, philosophers and clerics have their own opinion, and unless and until further proofs are unearthed, are entitled to it. But anyone who thinks for one moment that the two sides did not meet in deadly earnest, not in theory but face-to-face, able to look into the eyes and smell the blood of those they killed (and were killed by) is dreaming. Or that they, like the grim soldiers of every era, were not torn between courage and fear, hope and despair, right and wrong. Yet still they plunged, with malice and terror, willingly or otherwise, into the abyss of violence and destruction where all theory fails, and raw life and death are master.

Here, then, the Battle of Châlons.

Attila had stopped retreating. Instead he ordered trenches to be dug and ramparts to be built. While the work was being done he ordered his dispositions, and called his soothsayers to him. For victims had been sacrificed to the God of War, their entrails read and their bones scraped for portents.

Yet this time the prophecies, for the first time since his reign began, were not auspicious. Though Zylraen quailed to say it, his longtime priest and prophet told him that the coming battle. . .would be lost.

“What!” he cried, outraged.

While his first impulse (as always) was to kill the man, Zylraen had never misled him in the past, and he could see how deeply troubled the old man was. So he asked instead what other signs were found.

Here the news was better. Attila himself would not be killed or captured, while the Visigoth King would die an ignominious death. But what of Aëtius, his one-time friend, now bitterest foe, their passions enflamed, their fates so intertwined? In this regard the priest had seen nothing.

An unsettling prophecy, and one which could be interpreted a thousand ways. And when he looked to him for further portents, Zylraen grew strangely reticent. What could it mean?

When night came at last he found he could not sleep, but tossed and turned for hours. He ordered out the three Visigoth maidens he had plundered, none of whom could hold a candle to Gudhrun, and paced the ground restlessly, his shrewd but disordered mind searching for answers.

This much at least was clear: he had displeased the gods in some way. For he had been caught unaware both by Aëtius’ sudden appearance at Orleans, and by the strength of arms he had been able to muster. And the alliance with Theodoric— impossible! He knew that his friend (a part of him still thought of Aëtius this way) was wise, cunning and ruthless. He had always admired him for it. But to join forces with the Visigoth King, whose own father had so shamelessly sacked Rome, then justly been punished by the Sea Witch for it…..

How could Aëtius have twisted his heart into doing such a thing? And more importantly, how could the God of War, whom both men secretly worshipped, allow such a perverse alliance? And why hadn’t he, the Great Attila, been given some sign?

#

Alone in his tent less than five miles away, Aëtius too slept little. For while he was not gnawed by the same superstitious doubts and fears as his atavistic counterpart, ambition, too, can be a ruthless taskmaster.

He had worked so long and hard to obtain this chance for glory, overcoming obstacles that would have killed most men. Clearly the coming battle was the defining moment of his military career, which was his life. If he could defeat Attila and drive him from Gaul, his name would be remembered alongside the greatest generals in history: Alexander the Great,

Hannibal, and Julius Caesar. Would he not then be made a god himself, to stand beside them? Surely he would become such a champion of the people that Valentinian dare refuse him nothing, even….. The dream so dear to his heart, in some ways deeper than his own ambition, because it was based on unselfish love: to place his son on the throne as Emperor, who would reign over a rebuilt Empire, the glory of the world!

That day, like Attila, he had done everything that intelligence and will could do to achieve victory on the morrow. He had drilled his troops, ordered his dispositions, and scouted the ground himself with Theodoric, Thule, Dorlas and Krieg beside him. Together they had found the one strategic point that Attila seemed to have overlooked, and which might well hold the key to success.

For while his great enemy’s preparations had been sound enough— the phalanx of ramparts at the head of his armies, open in the middle for his cavalry to pour through— was brilliant. He could get at the allies directly, while to take the position from him, defended as it was by his present strength of infantry, would be almost impossible. And he had obviously chosen the ground to make the best use of his primary weapon, the fearsome Hun riders who still formed the bulk of his army.

For Aëtius (and the others) feared their ability to shoot from horseback more than any other weapon that Attila possessed. But he still had the Hill, if only he could take it. How could his old friend and rival have failed to see its importance? And while he himself could not send forces to occupy it that night— it was too close to the Ostrogoth and Scythian positions on Attila’s left, and defended by a nominal force— in the morning he must make it his first priority. This would provide him with a commanding height from which the Visigoth cavalry could charge down to the discomfiture, if not the ruin, of Attila’s own.

Yet still he paced, thinking and debating with himself. Would Sangiban’s Alans— clearly (even to themselves) nothing more than a human shield to absorb the center charge that was now so obvious— hold long enough? Would the bastards turn and run, despite the Franks he had stationed behind them? Or would Sangiban order them forward to join the enemy? This last was what he feared most, as they would then become an impediment to his archers, his own charge upon Attila’s flanks.

For he had stationed the Visigoths on his right, a powerful force on whose courage and competence he relied so heavily. His Roman forces were gathered on the left, and with these he would be more cautious. Not that he doubted their ability to fight. He had drilled them constantly all along the various marches. And if Attila sent Ardaric and his Gepidae against them (as it seemed he would by their disposition directly opposite), he knew them to be but a mixed horde of undisciplined riders and infantry. He had little doubt that he could first hold, then drive them back, reinforcing his allies as needed with the largely intact legions, cavalry, archers and javelin throwers he retained. That, at least, was his plan.

Similarly, he believed the Visigoths could hold off the Ostrogoths and Scythians stationed on Attila’s left. While he respected both, being originally from Scythia himself, and having seen first-hand what ravaging Goths could do, they fought for a conquering tyrant, while the Visigoths fought for Faith, home and family. Theodoric, Thorismund and Thule would know how to deal with their sundered kinsmen. But if Attila broke through the Alans too soon, and wheeled upon one flank or the other…..

It was the hill they needed. The Hill.

The rim of the sun broke upon the eastern horizon like a piercing ray of golden fire. The two armies, fully mustered and positioned, now faced off against each other at a distance of roughly a mile. Attila’s barbarians were stationed before the V-shaped ramparts, which clearly now were defensive only. The raging Hun meant to attack, hard and fast, and overwhelm his impudent enemies.

Aëtius and his allies were dispersed in a long line a mile wide. Half a million men stared across at half a million more. And somewhere between, the invisible line from which there was no returning. If able to consider anything in that moment but their own life or death, none could doubt this would be the greatest killing ground the world had ever seen. Aëtius knew it, though his face showed nothing but an eagle’s sharp attention and implacable ferocity. Attila knew it, and was uncowed.

Yet for some reason the man who had overrun a continent, the fabled Scourge of God, poised at the very fore of his cavalry, hesitated. While every instinct told him to charge, some strange reluctance stayed his hand. Instead he studied his opponent, trying to understand…..

Aëtius did not hesitate, but gave the order to move his powerful flanks into their true formation. The great Roman battle horns sounded. The two vast wings of his line, Roman and Visigoth, began to advance, the Alans and Franks in his center moving more slowly— not to the attack, but to bend into the open letter U intended to be a giant man-trap for the unsuspecting Huns.

Still Attila watched, unwilling yet to release his great center charge. What was Aëtius up to? Was he going to attack his flanks, from which his barbarians could so easily take cover behind the ramparts. It seemed unlikely…..

Then all at once the horns sounded again. The Visigoth cavalry on Aëtius’ extreme right, already moving faster to keep its place in the curving line, broke into a sudden charge, making for the hill directly in front of them. In what seemed no time they were at its base, and in among the Scythian infantry that loosely defended it.

Too late Attila realized his mistake. They meant to take the hill, which could then form a rallying point, and from which their cavalry could descend with terrible force upon the battle as a whole. He felt an uncharacteristic surge of fear. Too late to send his cavalry that way. But for the van they were obstructed by his own earthworks, and the Ostrogoth infantry.

But his fear quickly turned to rage, and all hesitation left him. He ordered his own forces to attack: the Ostrogoths to rush up the opposite side of the hill, the Gepidae to meet the advancing Romans. . .and his own fearless Huns! in a vast center charge to split their enemies in two, then surround them and cut them to pieces! His own hellish horns and drums rang out, a cruel and menacing din, as he himself stood up in the stirrups. He raised the mythical Sword of Mars, then pointed it directly at the treacherous Alans. By God he would make them pay for their betrayal!

They charged.

No words can adequately describe the chaos of carnage that followed. Except for the Visigoths and Scythians, already exchanging deadly blows for possession of the Hill, both sides unleashed a fusillade of arrows that darkened the sky. Only Aëtius’ Romans had an adequate strategy for deflecting them. His spear and shield legions already in position, fell into great double lines, the first row on its knees with their curving, rectangular shields held before them, the row of shields behind overlapping at an angle toward the sky like a massive, clay-tiled roof. As his own archers, behind them, sent forth their stationary, and therefore more accurate volley.

The raptor-clawed clouds descended swiftly. Men fell, crying, cursing and bleeding, from horseback, and from the ranks of infantry, Attila’s riders still charging with a mad cry, while those of Aëtius waited with disciplined fire for them to draw closer. Horses screamed and fell, pitching their riders, while other were thrown backward off their mounts by the savage sting of multiple strikes. Feathered shafts protruded from faces, chests, arms and legs, anywhere the darting needles could find an opening. Unwilling to stand and be cut to pieces by such volleys, the Alans charged, without any order from their treacherous King. They cared nothing for his machinations now that their own lives were in jeopardy. Infantry and horse ran forward confusedly, colliding like stampeding cattle against the more disciplined Huns. If Attila had feigned retreat in that moment, and drawn them off….. But he did not, as primordial rage blinded him to all but the lust for violence and bloodshed.

On the allied left, the Romans remained in their tight formations and allowed the Gepidae to come to them. While on their right the charging horsemen, with Thorismund’s company at their head, Krieg’s and Thule’s to either side of them, broke the ranks of the panicking and unprepared Scythian defenders, scattering the survivors in all directions. The Ostrogoth cavalry, itself led by three fierce brothers, had now reached the opposite foot of the Hill.

But too late. Thorismund was already at its crown, and now spurred down at them with a fearless cry that surprised even himself. He had not known such martial lust existed in him. But a single generation of Christian piety could not diminish a thousand years of instinctive war and barbarism. And with the harsh wisdom of the moment, he set the fighting animal free. Not only had they retained an aggressor’s momentum up the hill, but the horses themselves had been infected by the thrill of the charge, and now followed their fiery leaders— the brilliant white stallion that Theodoric had given his son, the rock-hard roan of Thule and the proud grey of the Vandal, Krieg— like the sweeping charge of their wild ancestors claiming richer grasslands, or driving away an enemy to the thunder of crashing hooves. They had reached the summit first, and began to pour down the other side in an irresistible wave of destruction.

Yet the Ostrogoth cavalry met them with cries of defiance as the great cymbals crashed. Pikes and lances dug into men’s breastplates and horses’ chests. Swords rang on swords, or crashed like hammers into shield and helm. The lines of the two antagonists, which but a moment before had been roughly parallel, broke into piercing spearheads and following bodies, digging deep into their enemy’s ranks, on both sides. Thorismund’s men seemed mad with vengeance, rivaling the fury of their berserker ancestors, while the more controlled companies of Krieg and Thule— those who had listened to their leaders’ instructions— fought with equal ardor, but greater skill.

Still, there is no substitute for fighting angry, and believing that a God of righteous rage fights beside you, or simply burns within. Thorismund clove his way forward, undaunted by fear, fatigue, or the minor wounds he hardly noticed. He reached the open lands at the far side of the hill first, and there, despite his hot passion, paused to reassemble his men.

For the infantry forces of both Gothic armies had followed behind their cavalries. Theodoric’s right wing advanced up the hill, while his left and center remained in their angled line facing the Huns. Thorismund at the furthest flank, Thule and Krieg still upon the hill or near its base, saw that the Ostrogoths, thralls though they were to Attila’s will, had nonetheless assembled a formidable force, with the full weight of their infantry marching steadily toward them.

But now the Allies had the Hill, and the Scythian/Ostrogoth cavalry had been broken. Some retreated through the gap in the Visigoths’ line to join in Attila’s frontal assault, some to their left to regroup beyond the hill. And while a fair number of the Ostrogoths had simply deserted (or soon would), still others, cut off from all retreat, stood their ground and fought to the death in small clusters, knowing they would be given no quarter. For this was not an age of genteel warfare (as if such a thing could ever be). There would be no prisoners, only a primal struggle to the death among maddened and terrified men, fighting for their lives and those of their people, and at the closest possible range. And so the battle raged, hour after hour.

Slowly but inexorably the Hun charge beat down on the desperate Alans and forced them back. But Aëtius, who had momentarily lost heart when they so foolishly charged, now saw that it fitted well into his overall plans. For though the Alans were being pushed back, Dorlas’ Franks were faithfully reinforcing them from behind, even moving around them to attack the legendary Hun horsemen, and not entirely without success. For vengeance, too, has its undeniable impetus. These men had lost families, lands— and in Dorlas’ case, everything— to the merciless invaders, and would overcome or die. There was no third option.

And Aëtius knew that no battle ever proceeded entirely as planned— An arrow stuck in the side of his plumed helmet, lacerating his scalp, and forcing him back to the conflict close at hand.

For he had not made these observations from some calm and protected vantage point, as would later become the way of generals, but from the very center of his actively engaged troops. The Gepidae (and other assorted mercenaries) on his left wing had made their own reckless charge, and for a time the issue was hotly contested.

But barbarian chaos had rarely been a match for Roman strategy and discipline, so long as equal numbers supported it. Aëtius had given his orders calmly and without haste, employing the skills acquired of a lifetime, and the proud military history of the greatest and most thorough conquerors the world had ever known. His spear-and-shield phalanxes had advanced like mechanized death, a protective wall of steel from which their long spears dug deep into enemy flesh. And when one of them fell, another took his place, and the irresistible ph