Read The Sword of Attila for Free Online Page B

they will get us all in the end. As for Bishop Augustine, I can only fear the worst.’
    â€˜We hear he is dead.’
    Arturus bowed his head. ‘I confirmed the rumour among the refugees that he had died in Hippo Regius. It is as Augustine himself would have willed it.’
    Flavius eyed the man, trying to weigh him up. ‘What of the Vandal army?’
    â€˜You will know that they are led by King Gaiseric. You will also know that Bonifatius,
magister
of the African field army and
comes Africae,
has gone over to the enemy, so that almost all of Roman Africa is already in Gaiseric’s hands except for here at Carthage. Gaiseric went back on his word and slaughtered most of the
comitatenses
who gave themselves up to him, so there is no augmentation of his force as a result of Bonifatius’ treachery, but it makes little odds as Gaiseric has more than twenty thousand Vandal warriors at his disposal, all of them drunk on blood. He also has almost a thousand Alans.’
    â€˜
Alans
?’ one of the men said, his tone hushed. ‘Out here?’
    Arturus nodded, his face set grimly. ‘Gaiseric now styles himself
Dux Vandales et Alanes.
The tribal chieftains of the Alans are subordinate to him. He uses them to spearpoint his attacks. They stand feet taller than the rest – blond, blue-eyed giants. Everything and everyone has fallen before their onslaught.’ He paused again, squinting at the Roman soldiers. ‘But if you’re interested, I know a way to kill them. If you’ve got the guts for it.’
    â€˜That’s a bold assertion for a monk,’ Flavius said. ‘And also a pretty astute tactical assessment. Are you one of Augustine’s converts? A soldier-turned-monk?’
    A gust of wind, hot and dry, lifted Arturus’ cassock, and Flavius saw a glint of metal beneath, the sheath of a sword that looked like an old-fashioned
gladius.
He narrowed his eyes at the man and jerked his head towards the sword. ‘You monks engage in close-quarter fighting, then?’
    Arturus stared back, his eyes cold and hard, and then swept open his cassock so that the hilt was there for all to see. ‘You weren’t at Hippo Regius,’ he said quietly. He pulled out the sword and placed the flat of the blade on the palm of his hand. It was an old sword, its edge irregular where dents and dings had been ground out, but the clean parts were gleaming and sharp. A smear of dried blood covered the blade near the hilt, where it had coagulated in a thick layer. ‘I haven’t had a chance to clean and oil it properly,’ he said. ‘We’ve been on the move continuously since I left Augustine, and I’ve had a few encounters with Vandal marauders.’
    The Sarmatian Apsachos standing behind Flavius unsheathed his own blade, a much longer sword, and held it so it glinted in the haze. ‘Thrust the blade into the sand,’ he said. ‘That’s how we used to clean ours when we were based in the desert. It does the trick in seconds, and polishes them as well.’
    Arturus jerked his head back to indicate his two companions. ‘The Nubian warriors believe that to thrust your blade into the sand is bad luck. They believe that to do so would be to pierce the skin of Mother Earth, that the wells would dry up and your enemy would be upon you. They wipe down their blades and clean them with olive oil. They may be heathen and superstitious, but out here I’m inclined to go along with them.’
    Apsachos looked at his sword blade, grunted and then resheathed it. ‘Well, that’s just great,’ he muttered. ‘As if things aren’t bad enough out here without an ill omen.’
    The shadow of a smile passed across the monk’s lips and he turned to Flavius. ‘In answer to your question, I’ve always favoured close-quarter fighting over the arm’s-length tactics taught to Roman infantrymen these days. Using those long