HAGAN SCREAMED. IT was not from terror or pain but from pure frustration.
He was being dragged out of position and there was nothing he could do about it. He would be trailed across the dust to be finished off like a lassoed cow while other Huns punched through the gap in the shield wall he had left behind.
Then without warning the noose came free. Trailed behind a horse and rider, it shot away, leaving Hagan behind. As it flew through the air he just had time to see the two parts of the noose had come apart. Had it broken?
Without waiting to be shot or stabbed, Hagan lifted his shield again and dropped back into position.
A loud snip sounded close to his ear. Hagan turned and saw the grinning face of the warrior to his right, who had set down his spear and now brandished a set of sheep shears. The significance of the shepherd’s tools Wodnas had brought now became clear. A single blade slid across the surface of the hide the Hun’s nooses were made of, but two brought together in the shears would slice it like it was the softest of cloth.
‘Old Wodnas taught us about this,’ the warrior beside him said. ‘He fought the Huns for years and knows all their tricks.’
A torrent of arrows and spears from Romans in the rear of the Burgundars began raining down on the Huns attacking the shield wall. They continued trying to open gaps but many more nooses where cut by sheep shears wielded by the Burgundars. The wall remained intact. After a time signal horns blew and the Huns withdrew once more.
Hagan poked his head up. He looked left and right. The shield wall of the Alliance stretched in a continuous, unbroken line as far as he could see.
So far, so good.
The Huns returned to their first tactic of approaching the Burgundar shield wall, shooting arrows and then retreating. Hagan judged they had decided to spend more time wearing down their opponents through archery. They would then attack later, when they felt they had weakened the warriors of the Alliance enough.
The attacks continued and the day drew on. The blazing sun beat down and the warriors were soaked with sweat which the dust then stuck to. Their mail became hot and uncomfortable. Just when Hagan thought his thirst was getting unbearable, Roman auxiliaries arrived with water and bread. While the Huns were withdrawn the front ranks were changed and Hagan and the others took a welcome break. The second rank replaced the front one. The third replaced the second and the reserves took the rear. The men from the front rank withdrew behind the ranks of archers to drink and eat.
As they did so they passed ranks of dead warriors laid out on the ground behind the archers. They had been dragged away from the front line. Most had been killed by Hun arrows. The wounded sat beside them. Hagan was dismayed at the number of casualties – more than he had thought they would have at this stage. If wearing down the Alliance with wave after wave of archer attacks really was Attila’s strategy, it looked like it was working.
‘They’re coming back,’ someone shouted from the front lines.
Hagan looked and saw the Huns were starting to charge again. With a sigh he stood up and prepared to put his helmet back on. Then, as he watched, the Huns turned. They headed off to the left instead of straight at his part of the lines.
‘It looks like the Romans are going to get all their attention this time,’ one of the Bear Warriors said.
‘Good,’ another grunted. ‘They deserve each other.’
Hagan squinted against the heat haze on the plain. It was strange. It seemed like the Huns had galloped off but yet were also still where they had been before. Then he realised they had indeed headed off to attack the Roman lines, but this had revealed another line of horsemen behind them, perhaps just as long as the one that had been attacking them all afternoon. He felt a moment of despair at the thought of how vast Attila’s army must be.
The second line trotted forwards, crossing to the midpoint between Attila’s camp and the lines of the Alliance. Then they stopped and dismounted.
‘These aren’t Huns,’ one of the Bear Warriors said. ‘They would never dismount to fight. They must be King Valamir’s Ostrogoths.’
The enemy warriors began to march forward, forming a shield wall of their own as they came.
Hagan frowned. He wondered if his ears were playing tricks on him. He felt sure he could hear something but when he tried to listen he could not identify what it was. Then it got louder and he realised it was a low growling. It seemed to resonate through his chest and head. The Ostrogoths were starting the baritus.
In response a similar growl came from the Visigoths on their right.
‘It might get difficult to work out what side a man is on,’ one of the Bear Warriors said.
Hagan could see what he meant. The designs and emblems on the oval shields and banners of the advancing Ostrogoths portrayed different things, but they were of the same style as those of the Visigoths who formed the right wing of the Alliance army. Their conical, visored and plumed helmets were the same too.
‘There is nothing so vicious as a fight between cousins,’ Hagan said. ‘We should probably get back into the shield wall. They might need our weight now.’
Tired but refreshed by the water and bread, they laced their helmets back on, gathered their weapons and jogged back to join the lines.
Hagan pushed his way back to the front. He did not have to but somehow he felt it was his duty. The welcome looks the Bear Warriors to his left and right gave him when he took his place in the shield wall made him feel glad he had. They locked their shields together and faced the oncoming Ostrogoths.
The roar of the baritus from the enemy got ever louder and it was matched by the warriors in the Visigoth shield wall. Those around Hagan began battering spears and sword hilts against their shields to add to the racket until it all became almost overwhelming.
The Ostrogoths got closer and closer. They did not run but marched in step, keeping their shield wall aligned. When they came into range the Roman archers loosed a hail of arrows. The Ostrogoths paused, holding their shields up to protect themselves from the hail of barbs from above. Then they recommenced their advance.
Next the Visigoths launched a tide of spears at the advancing enemy. The weapons took their toll, bringing some of the advancing warriors down. The Ostrogoths closed the gaps they left, stepped over the fallen bodies and kept on coming.
Hagan could see the flaring nostrils and screaming mouths of the men coming towards him. Their eyes were wide with hate but he did not feel intimidated. Instead he felt a fierce joy as he roared his defiance back at them.
These men would not be like the Huns, who shot arrows and rode away again. The time had come to fight man to man; toe to toe and face to face.
When they were twenty paces away the Ostrogoths suddenly changed pace and charged, closing the gap in moments. Javelins and light spears flew overhead. Hagan gripped the shaft of his spear and braced himself.
Then with a deafening crash the two shield walls met.
Hagan felt the impact as it rattled along the shield wall of the Alliance. His left shoulder bucked under the concussion. His back foot skidded backwards a little but the formation held.
In a moment Hagan found himself in the midst of a crush of men. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Burgundars on his left and right. Behind him the other ranks shoved the front rank forward. On the opposite side of the locked shields was a crushing mass of the enemy. An Ostrogoth with a grizzled face and iron helmet pressed his shield directly against Hagan’s, his mouth wide open in a scream.
The Ostrogoth jabbed a spear over the top of Hagan’s shield, probing to find a target. Hagan struck back with his own spear, holding it overhand, trying to hit his opponent in the face. The spear blade skidded across the man’s helmet instead. Hagan pulled his spear back and jabbed again. This time the point went through the right eye hole of the Ostrogoth’s helmet. Blood gushed from beneath his visor and the man collapsed like a rag doll.
Hagan could not see where the body fell but for a moment there was no pressure on his shield. Then another Ostrogoth moved in to fill the gap. He had less distance to charge so this time the impact was not as great. The Ostrogoth shoved his spear over the tops of the shields, its shaft grating over the rims. Hagan saw it coming and ducked his head sideways. The blade punched through nothing but air mere finger breadths from Hagan’s right eye.
For a moment Hagan thought about trying to strike his opponent under the shield but realised he was jammed between the men on his right and left and there was no room to move his arm down.
The enemy struck again. This time his spear point hit Hagan on the brow of his helmet. Hagan’s head bucked backwards under the blow and he felt a rush of fear mixed with anger. He stabbed back blind with his spear. The blade checked as it drove into the man’s outstretched forearm. There was a rattle of metal as the blade parted the rings of his mail shirt and tore the leather jerkin under it. The man cried out as Hagan’s spear sliced into the skin and muscle beneath.
With a curse the Ostrogoth dropped his spear. He wrenched his injured arm back and tried to push himself away. The press of his own men coming behind meant he could go nowhere. Hagan struck at him again and this time caught him on the chin. The spear opened up a red streak but the man jerked his head away before serious damage could be done.
The Ostrogoth then bent over to try to retrieve the spear he had dropped. The press of his own men behind him pushed him over. Hagan felt him crash against his shield then disappear under the crushing, tramping feet of the men behind him pushing forwards. Whether he screamed or not Hagan could not tell.
The noise was unbelievable. All around men screamed in rage, pain or terror. The clang of blades rang out as they clashed against shield rims, mail and other blades. Shields clattered as they battered off each other in a constant, rolling thunder. Through it all, from close inside his helmet, Hagar could hear his own breathing, loud and rasping under his visor. Sweat ran down his cheeks, neck and back. The air was filled with the stench of bad breath and sweat from the men fighting around him. It mixed with the metallic tang of blood and the odour of shit from spilled entrails and the emptied bowels of the dying, the dead and the terrified.
Another Ostrogoth slammed into Hagan and he found himself shield-to-shield with the enemy once more. The press of men became thick as both sides shoved against each other, each one trying to push their opponents backwards. Hagan could feel men behind him driving him forwards and for a moment he thought he was going to lose his footing and go down. Panic surged into his heart. To fall under all those trampling feet, where men did not heed what they stamped on as they battled for their own survival, would be certain death.
Hagan gritted his teeth, set his feet as best he could, and drove his shoulder into his shield with all his might. The pressure around him was enormous and the front ranks were unable to strike effective blows. With no room to swing, the two sides just prodded and stabbed at each other. Their main efforts now went into pushing as each tried to drive the other back.
Hagan kept his head ducked behind his shield and concentrated on trying to shove his enemy backwards. The press became so great Hagan started finding it hard to breathe.
A great whooshing sound swept overhead, followed by the cries of injured men. Arrows began to rain down just beyond the front rank of the Alliance where Hagan stood. They landed on the heads and shoulders of the men in the second and third ranks of the Ostrogoths, causing many to fall. The Roman archers had begun shooting again. It was a risky tactic. With the shield walls locked so tightly together they were in danger of striking their own men as much as the enemy. Though perhaps that did not matter to the Romans, Hagan thought.
The shower of arrows moved on down the line and it had some effect. With the sudden disappearance of men behind them shoving them forward, many Ostrogoths in the front rank were thrown off balance and staggered backwards.
The consequent removal of pressure on his own shield made Hagan stagger forwards. For a moment he thought he might fall but just managed to steady himself in time.
Hagan braced himself for another attack but it did not come straight away. Dead men now lay heaped before him. It caused a gap that meant the attacking Ostrogoths now had to reach forward to strike him.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. Hagan looked to the left and saw a Bear Warrior standing behind him.
‘Take a break,’ the man screamed into his ear.
Hagan nodded. He pulled back and the other man went straight into his place. Along the line others were doing the same wherever the chance occurred.
Hagan went to the back rank. Now out of immediate danger, tiredness hit him like a hammer. The heat, exertion and constant peril had his muscles aching and nerves feeling like someone had scrubbed them with a wire brush.
Hagan heard another voice, calling from the rear. He looked and saw King Theodoric, riding his horse along behind the Visigoth ranks, shouting encouragement to his men. The old man’s voice sounded reedy and high-pitched compared to the throaty roaring of the fighting men but that somehow made it carry over the din of the rest.
Hagan’s throat was so dry it felt like it was lined with sand. The awful-tasting drink Wodnas had given him would do nothing to slake his thirst. He looked around but there was no sign of any Roman auxiliaries with their welcoming amphorae of water. There was however a little stream running along the base of a slope that rose behind the Visigoth lines at the edge of the plain.
Hagan hurried over to it as best he could. He was tired but anxious to not be away from the fighting too long in case he was needed. When he reached the stream he went down on all fours and dipped his cupped hands into the water. He was raising it to his lips when the colour caught his eye.
With a grimace Hagan opened his hands, letting the cool liquid fall back into the stream without tasting any of it. His tongue and throat burned for water but the water of the stream was red, tainted by the blood of who knew how many men whose corpses lay bleeding into it upstream.
With a sigh he stood up again.
‘What’s the matter?’ a voice made him turn around. ‘Don’t like the taste?’
Hagan turned and saw Wodnas mounted on his horse not far off. He walked over to meet him.
‘I came down from the hill to get a closer look at how the battle is going,’ the old man said. ‘Aetius wants reports. It was lucky I did. Someone needed to tell those archers to get to work.’
‘So how is the battle going?’ Hagan said.
‘Good so far,’ Wodnas said. ‘The line holds. The Huns are pressing the Romans and the other Germanic tribes hard but the shield wall has not broken. If that continues they can shoot all the arrows they want and ride away again but they’ll never be able to win.’
‘The Ostrogoths are pushing us hard here,’ Hagan said. ‘But we’re holding them. For now anyway.’
At just that moment a new shout came from their left. It was different from the war cries of the Goths hacking away at each other not far away and seemed as if many men all let out a great groan of dismay all at once. A moment later this was drowned out by cries of bloodthirsty triumph that sent a chill down Hagan’s spine.
Wodnas stood up in his saddle, using the height of the horse to let him see over the heads of the fighting warriors before him. A look of concern fell across his face.
‘What’s happening?’ Hagan said.
‘I spoke too soon,’ Wodnas said. ‘The Alans have broken. They’re fleeing the battlefield. They’ve left a hole in our line. The Ostrogoths are pouring into the gap. If we don’t stop them the Alliance army will be split in two!’