‘ARE YOU SURE about that?’ Gunfjaun said.
Hagan looked again and realised the ramparts faced away from the walls of the city, not at them. The ditches faced outwards. They were also quiet and not thronging with besieging warriors.
‘Those are defences!’ Hagan said. ‘Attila must not have made it here yet.’
He was almost right. After some wary negotiations with the defenders on the walls of Aurelianum, the gate opened and a little man with a large belly, dressed in the robes of an important Roman churchman, came out to meet them. The suspicions of the defenders were emphasised by the speed with which they slammed the gate shut as soon as the churchman was clear of it.
He introduced himself as Anianus, Bishop of Aurelianum, and he was eager to tell them of what had occurred over the last few weeks. He was particularly keen to relate his own, crucial role in keeping up the spirits of his flock within the city as they waited for the arrival of the Huns and impending fire and death. Hagan could see these events were the most exciting thing that had happened to either the city or Bishop Anianus for a very long time, and the fact that the axe had not fallen on Aurelianum made it all the more thrilling.
‘I’m sad to say our king, Sangiban of the Alans, was not in favour of holding out,’ Anianus said. ‘He wanted to surrender to Attila. But the people did not. They knew what awaited them at the merciless hands of the Huns. So it fell upon me, by the grace of God, to take on the mantle of authority.’
‘Lucky for God you happened to be here,’ Hagan said.
‘The people were at the end of their wits,’ the bishop went on, oblivious to Hagan’s sarcasm. ‘They were cowering in dread at the coming terrible chastisement. I did my best to prepare everyone. Then just a week ago we saw a great cloud of dust on the horizon. There was great lamentation among the women of the city: it seemed Attila was finally coming. I sent a messenger to see and, like the messenger of Elijah, he came back, covered head to toe in dust and told us the wondrous news that it was not Attila approaching, but the army of Rome! We were saved.’
The Roman-Visigothic army had arrived without a moment to spare. They had set to work throwing up defences, working day and night to pull down the buildings around the town and build the ditches and ramparts that now augmented the city’s walls. They were still finishing them when the horde of Attila rode over the hill.
‘You should have seen the look on his face when he saw a Roman army waiting for him!’ Anianus said, beaming with pride.
‘Attila came close enough that you could see his face from the walls?’ Hagan said, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s a pity there were no archers alongside you or they’d have shot him and we could all go home.’
The bishop gave Hagan a black look.
‘So I was told,’ he said. ‘But seeing the forces of Christ arrayed before him, Attila turned tail and retreated the way he came, back to Tricassium.’
After waiting a day or so for their final reinforcements, Aetius had taken the Roman army and set off in pursuit.
Hagan and the rest of the raven warrior scouts rode back along the Roman road until they met the main body of the Burgundar horde.
‘So Attila is on the run already?’ Gunderic said when they told him what had happened. ‘I wonder: did he hear we are coming?’
‘I very much doubt that,’ Wodnas said. ‘It is the Romans who are being forced to fight, remember. The Huns are horsemen. Sieges and attacks on a heavily defended city is not what they are good at. No, if I were Attila I would try to draw my enemy away to a place of my choosing. Somewhere where I can use my cavalry to most advantage.’
‘You think Aetius is marching into a trap?’ Hagan said.
‘Perhaps,’ Wodnas said. ‘But he must fight Attila. He has to stop him here and now. He’s pulled together a coalition of enemies that will not hold together for long. Aetius is not stupid. He must know what Attila is up to. Perhaps if you are going to march into a trap then it’s best to do it with your eyes open.’
‘Well let’s go and find out, shall we?’ Gunderic said. ‘Hagan, we miss your company. Why don’t you join the main company again?’
‘I was enjoying myself with the raven warrior scouts,’ Hagan said.
‘All the same, I’d prefer it if you were closer by,’ the king said. His tone made it clear this was not a request.
Hagan nodded and the company set off again, this time following the Roman road north-west towards Tricassium. Unlike the relaxed atmosphere among the raven warrior scouts, Hagan found the mood strained around the Burgundar leadership. Sigurd acted as if he had no time for Hagan, sometimes looking at him like he wondered why he was there. Gunderic was guarded and suspicious and tended only to speak to Gunhild. Lokke and Wodnas seemed to be in constant, private conversation. Brynhild still remained in her wagon the whole time.
At one point Gunderic sidled his horse closer to Hagan, who was riding as usual a little way away from the others.
‘What were you doing with Wodnas’ men anyway,’ Gunderic said. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to be with your old friends any more.’
‘I was bored,’ Hagan said. ‘The raven warrior scouts get to ride ahead and flout danger.’
‘Oh, really?’ Gunderic said. His tone of voice suggested he was far from convinced.
Hagan bit his lower lip. He yearned to blurt out that he knew what Gunderic had done. That he was appalled by what had happened to Geic and all the other lies, just so Gunderic could keep his greedy hands on a pile of gold.
‘The thing is, Hagan,’ Gunderic said. ‘You are part of my Royal Council. You are close to me and know some of our secrets. Because of this I need to know I trust you.’
Hagan looked his old friend straight in the eyes. Anger flared in his heart.
‘What are you trying to say?’ he said.
‘Some have pointed out to me,’ the king said, ‘that what that Roman emissary said after my wedding was very similar to what you said the night the Hun came. Very similar indeed.’
‘Who are these people?’ Hagan demanded. ‘What are they insinuating? I was open about how I met Aetius in Ravenna. What is it? You think I’m working for him?’
Hagan felt rising panic in his chest to mix with the anger. Did someone else know the truth? Had they told the king? Yet again he cursed himself for not coming clean about everything the moment he arrived in Geneva. Now it looked like he had been hiding something all along.
‘Calm down, old friend,’ Gunderic said. ‘I don’t think that. What sort of a king would I be if I had welcomed a spy into my own council? Who knows what his real purpose might be?’
Hagan’s panic deepened. Was this just suspicion or did Gunderic know the truth. If so, how?
‘A king who found that out would have to act with complete ruthlessness,’ Gunderic said. ‘And make himself rid of that spy. But I would never do that to you, Hagan. You are one of my oldest friends. And what would the people think? You are the last of the Dagelungs and son of our greatest champion from the former days. So you are special to me, and that is why I prefer you stay close instead of roaming through the forests.’
And within striking distance, Hagan thought as the king rode away from him again.
Gunderic’s tone had been so matter-of-fact it was impossible to tell his true thoughts. Had he just delivered a threat or did he mean what he said?
Either way, Hagan resolved, he needed to remain vigilant.
The journey ahead was an uncertain one. They did not know how far Attila had gone and at any moment they could stumble upon his warriors. For the first few days of the journey they travelled through close country where the horizon was never too far away. At times it was heavily forested and there were lots of low hills, ridges and valleys where a lurking enemy could await for an ambush. The raven warrior scouts were kept busy ranging ahead of the main horde to thwart any such attacks.
From the state of the countryside it was clear that not one but two great armies had passed through it in the last few days. The road itself was intact, but for at least one hundred paces on either side the grass was trampled down and the undergrowth flattened by the tramp of marching feet, the tread of horses and the wheels of rumbling wagons. They passed campsites with burned-out fires, heaps of rubbish and stinking latrine pits that had only been half covered. Fields of beans, the only crop in season in the baking early summer heat, had been stripped of their crops. Every settlement too small to have walls was burned to the ground. Those large enough to defend themselves had their gates shut and their ramparts manned.
‘Attila has not stopped to raid these towns,’ Wodnas said, stroking his beard in thought. ‘Which means he is in a hurry.’
‘I did not think Attila would be so cowardly,’ Gunderic said as they rode along.
‘I would see it differently, Lord King,’ Wodnas said. ‘The leader who chooses the ground on which a battle is fought is usually the winner. Attila has somewhere in mind that will give his warriors the most advantage over the Alliance, and he is hurrying there to make sure he gets there first. I imagine General Aetius is pursuing him just as hard to try to stop that happening.’
The next day they came across evidence of just how hard and how close that pursuit was. The smell caught Hagan’s nostrils before they arrived at the site. As the road snaked past a long ridge beside a river, the aftermath of a fight was scattered all around. There were arrows everywhere, either broken on the ground or embedded in it like hard grass. Broken weapons lay all around and there were splatters and pools of maroon in the dust and across the road: dried blood, some of which was deep and fresh enough to not yet have clotted.
There were two mounds of dead men. Stab wounds, hacks and slashes all yawned in their bodies, the red and purple gashes contrasting sharply with white skin made more pale by death. Severed limbs were piled alongside them.
One group of them had been gathered with respect and arranged in rows, lying on their backs, a throwing axe grasped in each man’s dead hands before him, in a shallow pit that was perhaps fifty paces across by fifty long. A relatively small band of slaves and warriors sat resting beside it, the shovels they had dug the pit with sitting nearby. In the hot sun that was climbing into the sky above it must have been heavy work.
The second pile of dead men were just piled in a heap. They were stripped naked and there was no sign of any grave for them. The stench of death clogged the air and the warm summer sun meant hordes of black flies now buzzed over the corpses.
‘Vae Victis,’ Wodnas said. ‘Woe to the defeated.’
From the men digging the mass grave they learned that the Alliance’s vanguard, a contingent of Franks, had run into Attila’s rearguard, a warband of Gepids. The Franks had got the better of their enemies but the skirmish managed to delay the advance of the Alliance by a day, which meant Attila had more time to make it to wherever he was heading for.
‘The Franks and the Gepids are all sons of Mannus,’ Hagan said as he surveyed the piles of corpses amid the clouds by buzzing flies. ‘Just like we Burgundars. Yet now they fight each other on the behalf of foreign masters.’
‘The bitterest fights happen within a family,’ Wodnas said. ‘The Ostrogoths and Visigoths are direct cousins, lad. But they will fight each other in the coming battle. War is war. There is no need to get sentimental about it. If you do, you are lost.’
They resumed the journey, now even more careful than before. Every rock could hide an enemy. On every rise beside the road a company of Huns could be waiting to ride down and attack.
Gradually the ground got flatter, the trees became less dense. The weather was hot and the road dusty, and the Burgundar company halted to take water at the river that the road ran alongside.
As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, a raven warrior came galloping back along the road and announced that the armies lay just up ahead. Suitably refreshed, the war horde mounted and resumed the journey.
A little further down the road the forest petered out and the countryside opened up before them. In the very far distance they could make out an encamped army. It was like a dark smear on the landscape, a huge indiscriminate mass of men, horses, tents and wagons. Grey smoke rose from countless cooking fires to collect into one giant cloud that smudged the sky above.
‘That must be Attila’s camp,’ Lokke said.
‘That looks like a huge army he has,’ the lord of the Leuhtungs said.
Nearer to where the Burgundars were was the Roman camp, immediately recognisable by its formal layout. Around and about it though were countless other tents, fires, wagons and shelters of the other allies.
On the right was a sharp ridge, but from that on there was nothing but flat open ground as far as the eye could see. It was covered in grass that was turning to yellow straw in the summer heat.
‘Perfect ground for Attila’s cavalry,’ Wodnas said.