The Sword of Attila by David Gibbins Page A

of Hippo Regius had released me from my obligation to Augustine, and coming to Carthage was the first leg on my trip home. I will fulfil my oath to Augustine. I will protect his work and take it to Italy, but not to Rome or Ravenna. I will take it to the monastery of Monte Cassino south of Neapolis, where I will entrust it to a monk of my own order among the brethren who will tell nobody and will keep it locked away in that mountain fastness.’
    â€˜Where it will gather dust, and not be read.’
    â€˜Where it will await a more contemplative age, an age when men can reflect on God and the path to Heaven without letting it interfere with the battle for a kingdom of men on earth.’
    â€˜And your order?’
    Arturus paused. ‘I cannot speak its name. We are outlawed in Rome. It is an order that comes from my own people and believes that men can shape their own destiny. Battles are won by soldiers, not by priests. And it is kings who conduct the affairs of men on earth, not God.’
    Macrobius came up from where he had been helping the Greek doctor and sat down heavily beside Arturus, ‘I saw you slay two of the Alans and take on the first wave of Vandals. A fighting monk,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I grant you that, though whether or not your story holds any water I cannot judge.’
    Arturus reached under his cassock and drew out his sword. Macrobius stiffened, and Arturus put his other hand on the centurion’s shoulder, smiling. ‘Fear not, my friend. It is just that I have noticed that your tribune Flavius Aetius is missing his sword. He dropped it trying to save a man, an action that in days past would have won him the
corona civilis.
Before that I saw him confront an Alan with that sword, struggling with its length. Mine will be better for him. It’s shorter, designed for thrusting. May it serve you well, Flavius, as it did my legionary ancestors in Britain.’
    He handed Flavius the
gladius,
its blade dull red with dried blood, the tip showing fresh dings and dents from the fight. Flavius turned it over in his hands, weighing it. ‘And you?’ he asked Arturus. ‘Can a heretic British monk fight with his bare hands?’
    Arturus folded back his cassock. ‘I have fulfilled my vow of
wergild
for the murder of my cousin by Gaiseric. I have taken blood from his army, and the score is settled. A new sword will be forged for me in Britain, a sword for a new era, a new kingdom. But your kingdom remains the empire of Rome, and for you the sword of the legionaries still holds power. There will be war ahead.’
    â€˜Gaiseric will cross the Mediterranean.’
    Arturus nodded. ‘When he goes north from here and takes Sicily, the last breadbasket of Rome will be gone. With no handouts of grain, the people of Rome will run riot and the slaves will rise in revolt, just as they did when the Goths ravaged the city a generation ago. The navy of Rome must be prepared to take on this new threat. But there is worse to come, something we have spoken of before. All warriors of Rome must gird themselves against a new darkness on the horizon, a darkness sweeping in from the steppe-lands beyond the Danube, a new leader who has arisen from among the Huns. I clashed with him once, when the Gothic master I served took his bodyguard with him to their wooden citadel in a fold in the steppes to the east of the Danube. We fought in their duelling arena, and I won. But he was a youth then, the birth scars on his cheeks barely calloused over. He is now a man, toughened by war, ruthless and driven by ambition, his eye set on the western empire of Rome.’
    â€˜You speak of a son of Mundiuk,’ Macrobius growled. ‘They say he is named after the ancient sword of the Hun kings. They call him Attila.’
    The galley slid silently under the city walls, the momentum from the last oar sweep still driving it forward, and then they were out in the blinding sunlight on the open