Attila Read Online Free

passage past his cheek as he drove his sword-point into the exposed armpit. A jarring shock travelled up his arm as steel struck bone; then the blade slid deep into yielding flesh. Wrenching his
spatha
free, Titus wheeled, preparing for another clash. No need. Blood spurting from a severed artery,his adversary swayed in the saddle and slid to the ground. His legs kicked spasmodically, then he lay still.
    Turning towards Aetius, Titus saw with dismay that the general was hard pressed. He had dispatched one of his opponents, and was engaged in a sword duel with the other, the closeness of the combat precluding a javelin-throw. The pressing danger came from the fourth cavalryman the armoured
catafractarius
, who was galloping to his comrade’s assistance.
    With no time to think, scarcely enough to react, Titus spurred towards the monstrous figure bearing down on his commander. The
catafractarius
presented an appalling sight. Every part of his body was covered in metal: limbs encased in laminated bands; hands, feet, and body protected by articulated plates reinforced with chain mail; the spherical helmet completely concealed the face and head, giving the wearer an inhuman appearance. The horse, too, was armoured, its head and chest covered by moulded plates, its body by a housing of metal scales. Couched in the attack position the
catafractarius
held a heavy
kontos
, the deadly twelve-foot spear which could transfix a man like a rabbit on a spit.
    Converging on this apparently unstoppable killing-machine, Titus saw that the
catafractarius
was vulnerable in only one place: the narrow gap between helmet and body armour. Knowing that he would have only one chance, he slashed at the gap with all his might. The other’s impetus prevented him from swerving to avoid the blow, which landed true. The
spatha
was nearly torn from Titus’ grip as the
catafractarius
thundered past, blood jetting from his neck in a crimson spray.
    Abandoning valour in favour of discretion, the surviving trooper broke off his fight with Aetius and fled. Meanwhile, the
catafractarius’
horse charged on, then slowed and finally came to a halt, its lifeless rider still upright in the saddle.
    â€˜I owe you my life.’ The general grasped Titus by the arm. ‘This I will not forget.’
    Titus’s mind flashed back eighteen months to when it had all begun . . .
    Â 
    1 The ninth hour was mid-afternoon. The Roman day – from sunrise to sunset – was divided into twelve hours, which varied in length according to the season. Midday corresponded to the sixth hour.

ONE
    Ill-smelling seven-foot giants with tow hair
    Sidonius Apollinaris,
Letters
,
c
. 460
    Although it was only October, the wind from the Alpine passes that ruffled the leaden surface of Lacus Brigantinus 1 and roared around the barrack blocks of Spolicinum was bitterly cold and held a hint of snow. The Roman sentries pacing the walkway of the fort’s crumbling walls shivered beneath their cloaks and blew on reddened hands gripping spear-shafts. Unlike the tough German mercenaries whose cantonment lay a few hundred yards off beside the lake, not all these men would survive the coming winter. For the Roman element in the increasingly Germanized army tended these days to be drawn from the sweepings of the great estates:
coloni
too puny or infirm to work their farms profitably, and so handed over by their landlords for arrears of rent.
    In his tiny office, Titus Valerius Rufinus, the fort’s senior clerk, made a swift calculation on his abacus and entered the latest consignment, a cartload of iron pigs and mouflon horn for bow laths, in the codex tagged ‘
Supply
’. Before replacing the bulky record, he removed from its hiding-place at the back of the shelf a scroll bearing the label ‘
Liber Rufinorum
’. He unrolled a foot or two of blank papyrus, weighting it down on his desk with a bronze inkwell and an oil lamp. Then, after checking through