Summer, 451 AD
Gaul (modern France)
Blood ran in a river underfoot, with hardly an inch of ground not covered with the dead and injured. Human carnage spread for as far as the eye could see. The armies of the known world were locked in combat that would determine the outcome of history.
At the moment, no one cared about history. It was all about survival, about victory, about the elimination of the enemy.
By 5th century terms, the numbers were staggering. Estimates placed the number of the Mongolian invaders between 300,000 and 700,000. Roman general Aëtius shaded his eyes, wondering again if even the combined armies of Rome, Gaul, and the Gothic tribes were enough to halt the marauders.
Aëtius had taken a huge risk, allying Rome with their mortal enemies. The Visigoths were long-time enemies of the Empire, in two centuries of battles that had cumulatively weakened both sides. Now, faced with a common enemy of unparalleled ferocity, the border skirmishes had been relegated to the background. Only by uniting could anyone hope to overcome the Barbarian hoards led by Attila the Hun.
Meticulous planning preceded the fight: planning by Aëtius, at least. The Mongol raiders attacked with the same disorganized brutality that was their trademark, the seemingly unstoppable power that had decimated most of Europe and prompted the construction of the Great Wall of China. Here, though, in the shadow of Châlon, the tide was turning. As the sun descended in the west, Attila’s mighty army was actually losing ground, a fact that served to bolster the morale of the European allies.
How ironic and tragic that in this, the enemy looked like brothers.
Over the decades, the Roman army had absorbed members from the Germanic Goths and hired mercenaries from the Huns; while the Huns conscripted members from their conquered territory, including Italy and the Visigoth homeland. Only a few members of the enormous Hunnic army retained the racial characteristics of their Mongolian origins, including the now legendary King, Attila.
When darkness arrived on this decisive day, Aëtius was faced with a choice. He could put an end to Attilla and his marauders once and for all, or he could grant the invaders an egress to escape. If he permitted escape, Attila would live to wreak more destruction. But spelling an end to the Hunnic raids could open the door for the Visigoths to sweep into Gaul, further deteriorating the Roman Empire.
In a decision with consequences that would span the centuries, Aëtius chose to permit the flight of the Huns.
What history didn’t record, except in fragmented legend, is that the Roman General let Attilla go at a price to the powerful chieftan.
Attila had dug up a rusted sword years earlier, proclaiming the ancient weapon to be the Sword of Mars. Armed with the belief that the God of War backed them, the mass invaders were ruthless, uncaring that they sacrificed their own lives. While most of the world attributed the Huns with atheism, Aëtius knew better.
As the crippled Hunnic army retreated, Aëtius holstered the blade that had signified power for the most cruel of conquerors.
Attila’s reign of terror wasn’t over, but it would never again be the same.
Go to Part Two.