The land rose to the central mountains of Gaul between Aetius’ horse’s nodding ears. He had always known in his heart that one day the Visigoths would ride with Rome. Those noble horsemen from the distant steppes, with their mighty ashwood spears, their Spangenhelms with nodding flaxen plumes, and their finely combed hair which shone like the burning sun. These things were written from the first dawn.
In order that they should not be outflanked or harried from behind, there was one more city Attila’s forces must take before they could ride on south: Marcus Aurelius’ city, fair Aureliana on the Loire, below the hills. For here was stationed Sangiban, the wiliest of Alan warlords, supposed Roman ally, and his force of several thousand horsemen.
The wanderings of the Alans, a people of Iranian origin, were almost as epic in nature as the wanderings of the Huns; and many times the two peoples had fought each other, as many times they had allied together, their friendship like the shifting sands of Khorasan. How an Iranian war-band came to be guarding the city of Aureliana for Rome is a story too complicated to be told here. But it is written in the chronicles.
Attila had expected the city to surrender promptly to his vastly superior numbers. The Alans were known for their taste for survival rather than for heroic death in battle. But, to his surprise, as the vanguard of the numberless Hunnish horde approached the city there came reports that the citizens of Aureliana and their Alan protectors had closed the gates of the city and were preparing for siege.
Attila cursed violently, and sent a blunt message to Sangiban and the people. ‘ Since you have decided to oppose me, I will lay the city to waste and destroy you all.’
To his surprise, the reply from Sangiban received only a few minutes later read, ‘ Your reputation rides ahead of you, Great Tanjou. You would have destroyed us anyway.’
For a moment, the old sardonic smile flitted across Attila’s face at Sangiban’s show of insolent spirit. It soon vanished. He smiled rarely these days.
‘Prepare the siege,’ he ordered.
The Bishop of Aureliana was one Ananias, an ecclesiastic of the type who was as willing to carry a sword as a crozier if the battle was on the side of right. Unknown to Attila, it was he who had pressured Sangiban into replying so impertinently.
Now he began to organise the citizens into armed bands and to fortify the city walls wherever possible. Beyond the eastern side of the city, the Hun horde, or that part of it which they could see – for it stretched for many miles, and the majority of those under Attila were in fact riding far and wide to pillage the countryside for leagues around, and would not even be required for the siege – already the Hun horde to the east of the city was busy constructing new siege-engines.
Ananias went up the tower of one of the churches with a younger priest, and they stared out.
The younger priest squinted hard, then said quietly, ‘Those building the engines, they are not easterners.’
Bishop Ananias nodded grimly. ‘I see them. They are Vandals.’
The people of Aureliana worked all night to prepare for the onslaught, but the next day broke grey and desolate indeed. Ananias came to address them. His message was short.
‘Our Alan friends,’ he said in his sonorous voice, ‘have deserted us. They crept out of the city last night.’
A low groan went up.
‘Whether they have gone to join Attila and his heathen horde, I do not know. But let us rejoice. They did not betray us into Attila’s hands, either. The gates remain barred, the city still stands. God is with us. And so: to work.’
The Huns did not trouble very long with the attack by the siege-engines and the onagers. Before an hour of the onslaught was up, the city’s east gates were smashed off their hinges and lying flat. In the exposed gateway, men of the city scrabbled to build new barriers, but Hun horsemen galloped in as close as fifty yards and shot them down. The open gateway was piled with the slain. It was a mockery of a battle. Other Huns simply sat their horses and waited, grinning and sharpening their knives. They would ride into this stiff-necked, barely defended city in an orderly column. What were the fools thinking of? Yet still they could see them rushing about on their simple walls: middle-aged men, young men and old, armed with fire-irons, butcher’s knives and pitchforks. They could even hear a deep, sonorous voice, a leader of sorts, shouting continual encouragement.
In the church tower, the young priest with the good eyesight kept continual watch on the road south.
Aetius was riding at the front of his column, having just stopped for grain. He summoned Knuckles and Arapovian alongside him. As his close guard, they too were mounted. Arapovian rode with elegance. Knuckles slumped like a sack of turnips, the fast trot jolting him terribly. He disliked horses in general, and the one beneath him in particular. The horse didn’t look too happy either.
‘Give me a donkey over a horse any day,’ he used to say. ‘Donkeys have brains. Horses just have nerves.’
Aetius wanted to know what else they had learned of the Huns in the disaster at Viminacium. Speaking as survivors.
‘They are the finest warriors in the world, man for man,’ said Arapovian bluntly.
Aetius inclined his head noncommitally.
‘They are hunters,’ explained the Armenian, ‘pure hunters. They have spent their lives hunting over the Scythian plains, creeping up unseen and unheard, even unsmelt, on creatures far more sensitive than us – wild horses, saiga antelope, deer. The children begin hunting fieldmice and marmot this way. Beware of any people who are great hunters, you city-dwellers, you townsfolk. You will be hunted next.’
Knuckles added his own more light-hearted observation, somewhat coarse in nature, expressive of his suspicion that they were also far too intimate with their horses – an observation which had Tatullus threatening to clock him for impertinence before his commanding officer.
Aetius reined in sharply and gazed along the road north, his eyes narrowing. ‘Do you see dust?’
‘I’ve been watching it grow for the last half-league or so,’ said Arapovian calmly.
Aetius rounded on him. ‘Well, why didn’t you say, you damn fool?’
Arapovian arched his fine black eyebrows at the master-general. ‘You didn’t ask.’
These two… As good a pair of soldiers as he’d ever had under his command, but they drove him to distraction.
‘Get back in line,’ he growled.
The dust-cloud rose above the horizon. Aetius sent out his fastest scouts to ride north along the hills on their right and report back with all speed. They returned within minutes.
‘Lancers, you say?’
The scouts nodded, their horses foaming with sweat.
‘Easterners?’
The scouts looked hesitant.
‘You’re scouts, damn you!’ roared Tatullus in their startled faces. ‘Didn’t you use your eyes?’
‘I think they were easterners,’ said a scout nervously. ‘They had black moustaches, a lot of them.’
‘Moustaches,’ growled Aetius. ‘We’re planning our campaign around bloody moustaches. You,’ – he glared at the scouts – ‘into line. And bring me better intelligence next time.’
‘Sir!’
Aetius regarded his colleagues.
‘It can only be one thing,’ said Germanus.
‘I agree.’ Aetius looked grim. ‘That moustachioed, yellow-bellied runaway Sangiban fleeing from Aureliana. Which means we know precisely where the enemy is now.’
‘And Aureliana is entirely undefended.’
‘The last milestone said sixteen miles. We’ll be there in two hours. Meanwhile, we must first persuade Sangiban of the error of his ways. Bring up the Moorish Horse!’
In moments the five hundred splendid African cavalrymen had appeared under their commander Victorius, a prince of Mauretania.
‘Take those hills,’ said Aetius, indicating the ridge to the north-east. ‘Don’t trouble about concealment – in fact, make sure you’re seen. There’s a column of Alan lancers coming down the road, and I don’t want them thinking they can turn tail and run. I want them to think they’re surrounded. Yes?’