BISHOP ULFIUS HAD often preached in the great church in the middle of Vorbetomagus about Armageddon and the last days, when Satan’s legions would lay waste to the world. The scene that greeted Hagan inside the walls of the city reminded him of the horrors that Ulfius had warned them to expect on that final day.
Vorbetomagus had been built many years ago by the Romans, long before his people had settled there. It had lasted and grown over many centuries. Now within a morning it was being destroyed. Buildings blazed, sending black smoke into the sky or drifting through the streets to sting tears from the eyes. Market stalls and carts were overturned and smashed. There were dead bodies everywhere – men, women and children, either shot by arrows or hacked to pieces. The drains, rivulets that ran along the sides of the stone-paved streets, were red with blood.
Those already dead were the lucky ones. Without shame, Huns were raping women and girls on the paving stones of the streets. Other survivors ran this way and that, desperate to flee the relentless horsemen who rode up and down the streets, shooting without mercy or riding down running Burgundars, crushing them to pulp under the hooves of their steeds. Many of the Huns laughed with clear delight at the carnage they created. Their horses and armour were spattered with the blood of their victims. The noise of it all rose into the air, a cacophony of screams of terror and howls of agony.
At first Hagan just stared, his heart paralysed by despair and his mind frozen by horror. Then he saw there was something going on at the far end of the street. The main street that came through the gate led to a large space, the public market square outside the hall of the king and the great church and Roman basilica where the Council of Wise Men met. Through the smoke and the running people, he could make out a crowd of warriors gathered together. There were not many of them, but even at this distance he could see from their helmets and shields that they were Burgundars. If there were warriors left, then Hagan’s place was to be with them. He had to get to the square.
There was little point running straight down the main street. The Huns would kill him before he got far. Instead, he ducked into a narrow gap that ran between two buildings and hurried along it until he reached the back. There was a narrow alley that ran along behind the buildings that fronted onto the main street, parallel to it. It was not obvious to anyone who had not grown up in the city, and the Huns had not yet discovered these back streets.
Smoke drifted into the alley but it was quieter than the main street. Hagan ran along it, passing several small groups of Burgundars – women, children, old men and merchants – who were cowering there, hiding from the massacre that was taking place a few bare paces away.
The sight gave him hope. Perhaps not all of his folk were being slaughtered. Perhaps there were many more hiding like these people or fled into the forests who could keep their tribe alive. They looked at him as he passed with wide, terrified eyes and faces smeared with soot from the fires. He nodded to them, hoping that the sight of a Burgundar warrior still alive and in battle gear would perhaps give them as much encouragement as they had given him.
The back alley ended in a wall. On the other side of it Hagan could hear the clatter of hooves on the paving stones and heard the defiant shouts of war cries and screams of the dying.
He paused for a moment. If he stayed here in the back alley it was relatively safe. Perhaps he should hide there, wait for the storm to pass and then sneak out of the city after darkness fell?
Sneak out like a rat, a voice within his heart said. It sounded like his father’s. Another of Godegisil’s sayings surfaced in his mind:
Will you run today, just to die another day?
Hagan took a deep breath. Like his father and the other Burgundar champions facing the Hun cavalry and certain death, he would not run.
But Godegisil was not your father, the dark, cynical voice within his heart that had tested his courage all day, reminded him.
‘It is of no consequence,’ Hagan spoke aloud, even though he was talking to himself. ‘He was a brave man. I shall try to follow his lead.’
Another alley led off at a right-angle to one he was in, towards the bottom of the main street. Hagan jogged along it, approaching the chaos and slaughter. He emerged at the edge of the square, heat from a nearby burning building making his eyes water while the tremendous noise once again battered his ears.
The Burgundar warriors in the square stood in a larger version of the square formation Childeric had pulled him into earlier. There were perhaps thirty of them, standing shoulder to shoulder. Most had shields which they linked together to form a wall, their spears poking out between and over them. The shields were battered and peppered with arrows. Some of the warriors were wounded.
The Huns in the square rode back and forth, shooting the occasional arrow, the Burgundar spears proving a sharp deterrent to any horsemen who thought of riding too close.
In the midst of the beleaguered Burgundar group Hagan spotted a familiar face. Childeric was there, shouting defiance at the enemy and shaking his spear at everyone who rode past.
Hagan had to cross about thirty paces of open square to get to the others, a space that was roamed by Huns on horseback. He would have to run as fast as he could if he was to make it.
He remembered the Roman helmet he wore and how it had briefly fooled the Huns by the riverside. Perhaps this ruse would work again. Hagan reached up and pulled the bird wings off the helmet so as to make it as Roman-looking as possible. He also unlatched the strap beneath his chin to make it easy to remove. Then he began to jog forward.
He crossed ten paces before the Huns had even noticed him, intent as they were on the group of Burgundar warriors in the middle of the square. Then one of the horsemen spotted him. He swung his horse around and levelled his bow.
‘Pax! Pax! Amica!’ Hagan shouted. He knew some of the Roman tongue and hoped the Huns knew so little of it they would mistake him for a Roman.
It was enough to make the Hun pause at least. He lowered his bow and turned his horse away. Then a frown creased his face and he turned back, once more raising his bow at Hagan.
Hagan threw the francisca. It smashed through the Hun’s bow and hit him in the face, knocking him backwards off his horse. As his body struck the ground Hagan rushed past it towards the Burgundar shield wall.
Seeing the Hun fall from his horse, the Burgundars also turned their attention to the warrior now running at them. Hagan ripped the Roman helmet off his head lest his own fellows mistake him for the enemy too.
‘Hagan! Get over here, lad!’ Childeric cried out.
Hagan sprinted the last few steps. The Burgundars opened their shield wall and he dashed through, collapsing onto the paving stones of the square as the shields clapped together behind him again.
‘You made it, lad,’ Childeric said, grinning, as Hagan lay, panting on the ground. ‘Good to see you again. You came looking for your family?’
Hagan nodded. ‘They’re dead.’
Even though the words came from his own mouth it still seemed unreal, as if this were all a bad dream and his father would wake him soon to join the other young lads for morning weapons training.
‘Same for all of us,’ Childeric said. ‘Our loved ones are either dead or they’ve got away. I pray to the Lord Tiwass that my own family have escaped. We’ve lost today, boys, but we can still give these Hun bastards a pain in the arse. We can do something we’ll be remembered for!’
‘It looks like you’ve made it just in time for the finish,’ another of the warriors said as Hagan clambered to his feet.
The sound of many horses’ hooves clattering on paving stones filled the air. Gasping for breath, Hagan struggled to his feet with a helping hand from Childeric. They saw the square around them was filling with more and more Huns.
‘We must be the last ones holding out,’ Childeric said. ‘They’ve brought all their friends to finish us off.’
Hagan realised the only weapon he had left was the short knife at his belt.
‘So be it,’ he said through gritted teeth as he drew the blade.
Before long the edges of the square were all thronged with horsemen. They blocked all the streets leading away from the square as well. It looked like there were hundreds of them. With impressive discipline they filed in then stood their horses, watching the beleaguered group of Burgundars they now surrounded with their narrow eyes, their faces impassive.
‘We’re stuck here,’ a Burgundar said. ‘There’s no way out now.’
‘What are they waiting for?’ Hagan said.
As if in response, two more horsemen came riding into the square. Hagan saw the bridles and strappings of their horses were adorned with gold and silver bracteates, flat, thin medals that showed their wealth. They wore much the same armour as the others but around their throats were thick gold necklaces, and rings of similar precious metals bedecked their forearms.
‘We are honoured with a visit from their leaders,’ Hagan said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
A hush fell on the square as the Hun leaders rode into it. In moments the only sound was the hoofbeats of the two men’s horses, the crackle of flames from blazing buildings and the distant screams of those being murdered in other parts of the city.
Just beyond throwing distance of the Burgundars, the two men stopped and dismounted. Both of them were stocky; short in stature with broad chests. They had flat noses and black beards and both walked with an arrogant swagger that came from the confidence of power. They surveyed the square with small, dark eyes that took everything in. Strange as their countenances were to Hagan, there was a resemblance between the two men that suggested they were related, possibly brothers. They looked to be in the prime of their lives. One was a little older and bigger than the other.
Then they took off their helmets. Hagan saw both had the same strange, elongated heads he had seen before. He wondered yet again if these men were not from another world.
‘Are they demons?’ The strange quiet made him speak in a hushed tone himself.
‘No, lad,’ Childeric said. ‘They are all too human.’
‘Why are their heads like that?’
‘Some say it is because a Hun wears a helmet from the day he is born,’ Childeric said. ‘But the women look that way too. I’ve been told that the rich Huns bind their babies’ heads with planks and bandages so they grow that way. It’s a sign of superior status. These two must be important.’
With his thumbs hooked in his belt, the taller of the Hun leaders cocked his head towards the Burgundar shield wall. He barked something in his own tongue. It sounded harsh and growling. The rest of the Huns all laughed. As their laughter died away he shouted another order. This time the Huns all raised and drew their bows, aiming them at Childeric, Hagan and the others in the middle of the square.
The Hun leader raised his arm in the air. It was clear that when he dropped it they would all shoot at once.
Hagan looked around. There were hundreds of them. Even behind their meagre shield wall the arrow storm that would come their way would be impossible to stop. If any of the Burgundars managed to survive that, the Huns were bound to just unleash more and more until they were all dead.
This was the end.
‘Let’s show them how Burgundars can die, lads,’ Childeric said.
Hagan marvelled at the strength of the older man’s voice. There was no quiver, nor a crack, nothing to show he had any fear for the certain death they were facing.
‘Let this, the last stand of the Burgundars, echo in eternity,’ Childeric said. ‘Folk will tell their children and their children’s children how we few stood against so many. We did not surrender. We fought on to the end.’
Hagan’s heart swelled at the words and he felt a strange calm settle over him. Then he looked at the ranks of Huns levelling their arrows in his direction and realised they were the only ones to witness what was about to happen. There would be no one of their own people to tell their story.
Childeric’s words were empty. No one would ever hear if they faced death without fear or if they wet themselves and cried for mercy. None of it mattered.
The sound of more horses approaching, accompanied by the sound of a Roman buccina blaring broke the silence. The Hun leader, his arm still raised in the air, frowned and looked around.
Eight riders on white horses charged down the main street. They were Romans. One of them bore the great curved brass trumpet that they could hear over everything else. Another bore one of the long, flowing dragon standards. In the lead was General Aetius. Behind him, to Hagan’s surprise, rode his old friend Gunderic, son of the Burgundar king.
Riding at a frantic pace, Aetius just managed to stop before running into the two Hun leaders, his steed’s hooves skidding to a stop across the paving slabs mere paces from where they stood.
The Roman general’s face was a deep crimson. When he opened his mouth it became clear this was not just from the exertion of riding down the street. A tirade of shouted words tumbled from him, accompanied by much finger-pointing. Hagan could not understand the words the general spoke but it was clear he was very angry with the Hun leaders.
The older Hun leader lowered his arm in a slow, deliberate manner, ensuring that his men did not interpret the gesture as the signal to shoot. They lowered their bows.
‘What’s he saying?’ Hagan said to Childeric, assuming someone who had spent ten years in the Roman Army would have a command of their tongue. Hagan himself knew little beyond what they had to recite in church.
‘I don’t know, lad,’ the older warrior said. ‘He’s speaking in their tongue – the language of the Huns. Whatever he’s saying though, he’s not happy about something, that’s for sure.’
The elder of the two Hun leaders responded with something and his younger brother – if that was what he was – smirked. This seemed to send Aetius almost apoplectic with rage.
The Roman swung out of his saddle and stomped over to the Huns. He began yelling at them again, this time in Latin. This time the Huns just shook their heads and looked disappointed.
‘Ah!’ Childeric said. ‘It seems our Hun friends here are mercenaries in the pay of the Romans. They have been a bit overzealous. Aetius is shouting that they were paid to defeat our warriors, not kill everyone and destroy everything.’
Hagan looked at the devastation around him and his jaw dropped open slightly.
A look of annoyance crossed the face of the older Hun leader. He raised his hand in the air again. The Huns raised their bows once more.
Shouting and holding his own hands up, the Roman ran out in front of the raised bows, putting himself between them and the Burgundars in the square. If the Huns shot their bows, they would hit him as well.
The Huns hesitated, looking to their leader as to what they should do.
Aetius turned to the Burgundars and shouted something.
‘He wants us to raise our right hands,’ Childeric said. The others all looked at each other, puzzled.
‘Do it, lads!’ Gunderic called from across the square. ‘It’s the only way to save yourselves. For my sake – do this.’
With a shrug, Hagan set his knife down and raised his right hand. The other Burgundars did the same.
Aetius said something else.
‘He wants us to repeat what he says,’ Childeric said, translating for his fellow Burgundars.
The general began pronouncing strings of words in a very deliberate manner. Whenever he paused he nodded to the Burgundars and they did their best to repeat what he had said. After several of these he nodded and dropped his hand.
‘What just happened?’ Hagan said. ‘What did we all just say?’
Everything had taken such a strange turn he wondered if this really was a dream, or if perhaps those three mighty, uncanny women who governed the fates of all people might be perhaps drunk.
‘The Huns can’t shoot us now,’ Childeric said.
‘Why not?’ Hagan said.
‘Because we’re now on the same side, lad,’ Childeric said. ‘We just swore the sacramentum militare, the Oath of Allegiance to the Emperor. We’ve all just joined the Roman Army.’