The Sword of Attila by David Gibbins

through him, and he gripped the thwarts of the ship, staring hard, thinking no longer of the events of the last hours but instead of the months and years ahead, of the shape that men like Gaiseric would give to the empire that Flavius was sworn to defend.
    â€˜Now is the time to see Carthage burn,’ the soldier muttered.
    Arturus tightened the straps of his saddlebag to keep the contents dry, the first drops of backsplash from the oars having reached them. ‘We may see fires, but they will be bonfires of victory, not fires of destruction,’ he said. ‘Just as the Christians in Rome converted basilicas to churches and the Colosseum to an altar to God, so Gaiseric and his chieftains will not destroy Carthage but will convert the palaces and villas to their own mead halls. The great monuments of Rome will survive, but you should not be deluded. They will be mere skeletons, like the bleached bones of long-dead warriors on the battlefield, unless Rome regroups and reacts to the threat with force of arms far greater than anything that has been put against the barbarians yet.’
    The captain barked an order, and the oarsmen pulled hard and then retracted their oars, holding them close to the gunwales as they slid into the gloom of the passageway. The sides were shadowy, indiscernible, the ancient blocks of masonry barely distinguishable from the living rock itself, while above them the towering form of the city walls was barely visible in the haze of sunlight. It was as if Carthage were already receding into history, ghostly, diaphanous, ready to be reclaimed by the silt and the marshland that had been there when the Phoenicians had pulled up their first galley on the shoreline, before Rome had even been born. Flavius turned to Arturus, remembering what he had just said. ‘And what is it that we soldiers of Rome must do?’
    Arturus himself seemed part of the shadowland, his beard and long hair caught in the strange semi-light of the passageway as he sat upright in the bows like some mythical king. He put his hand on his saddlebag and spoke quietly. ‘I will answer by telling you what I intend to do with these books. As a boy in Britain before the arrival of the Saxons I was educated in Greek and Latin, and after my escape the soldiers placed me in a monastery in Gaul until I was old enough to join the army. I left when I was sixteen, but from the monks I had already learned of Augustine. After my years with the
foederati
and then as a mercenary to the barbarian kings I found much in his service that suited me. I had become sickened by killing, not hardened to it. The City of God seemed a better place than any city men could create. But then I saw how the weak men who ruled Rome began to see in the City of God an excuse for turning away from crisis, from the strategy and planning that were needed to counter the barbarian threat.’
    â€˜If the City of God is all that matters, why bother with earthly affairs?’
    You have seen it for yourself, Flavius. Men – emperors – could use the teachings of Augustine as an excuse for living lives of indolence and pleasure. And then Augustine began to preach against free will, to claim that men could not influence their own destiny. The excuse was even stronger. If men’s lives are preordained, why bother debating strategy? After two years with Augustine in Hippo Regius I had begun to hear the call of my homeland, to remember the vow I had made as a boy to return to Britain and fight for my people. Word had come of a mounting resistance to the Saxon invaders in the hills and valleys of the West, of a resistance led by people and their elected captains. The teachings of Augustine no longer seemed to have a place in my vision of my destiny. I had become a secret heretic long before I left his service.’
    â€˜You determined to return to Britain.’
    â€˜That was my mission when you first saw me. The advance of the Vandals and the fall