Spurred on by this dithyramb, headlong into fight they rush.
The juncture had its terrors, yet the king’s presence overcame the fear even of the coward. It was soon a case of man to man. It was a battle, savage, tangled, widespread, dogged. Antiquity has not its parallel. Such deeds are told of, that he who has not been privileged to witness them, though witnessing much that is marvellous, yet must ever lack the marvel of this. For, to believe tradition, a brook whose feeble current rolled through the plain already spoken of, swollen by the blood of the wounded and enlarged not as usual by rains but by an all too rare flood, was converted into a torrent by this sanguine contribution. Those, moreover, parched by loss of blood, who were driven to its bank, were reduced to drinking this gruesome draught—drinking by an enforced fate the very gushings of their own wounds.
Then, too, King Theodoric, riding up and down his ranks in cheering exhortation, fell from his steed and was trampled under foot by his own soldiery, terminating his career at an advanced age. Another tale has it that he fell by the javelin of Andagis, Attila’s lieutenant. Thus was accomplished the prediction of Attila’s augurs, which Attila had set down to Aëtius.
Next the Visigoths, leaving the Alans, fell on the Hunnish bands with fury, and Attila himself were as good as dead, had not his prudence led him to take refuge with his followers within his camp and its fortification of wagons. Weak as was this shelter, yet there, for protection of their lives, trooped the warriors whom but a little previously no ordinary obstacle could withstand.
Torismond, son of Theodoric, who, with Aëtius, had seized the hill and repelled the enemy from its summit, in the belief that he was rejoining his men, and misled by the darkness of the night, stepped inside the wagon enclosure of the Huns. While fighting bravely, he fell to the ground from his wounded horse, but though rescued by his men he was persuaded to give up further fighting. Aëtius, too, during the night’s confusion, wandered amid the enemy. Dreading some disaster to the Goths, he persisted in his search for the correct way, arriving at length at the allied camp, where under the protection of shields he passed the night.
At dawn a plain is seen heaped and covered with corpses, but the Huns do not venture to issue from their retreat, and so the confederates judge the victory theirs. They judged, too, that it was no common disaster which had induced the flight of Attila from the battle-field. Yet was his action not that of one who acknowledged defeat.
He showed his usual courage, for within his camp was the clash of arms, the brattle of the trumpet, ever threatening a sortie; as a lion might, when hard beset by the hunters, ramp and rave at entrance to his den, without venturing to emerge, yet nevertheless terrifying the neighbourhood by his roaring, so did the warlike king, secure in his retreat, supply a source of fear to his conquerors. These latter resolved to wear him out by a siege, since he lacked provisions, and as he could from his archers placed inside the barrier rain down showers of missiles on them should they attempt an assault by force. It is reported, however, that the king, haughty as ever even in a situation so desperate, had formed a pyre from saddlery, having resolved to throw himself into its flames should the enemy force his camp, that none might boast of having wounded him, or that the lord of so many nations should have ever been in an enemy’s power.
Gallic Weapons
Whilst this siege bred delay, the Visigoths busied themselves in search for their king,—the father of Torismond,—wondering at his absence while success had crowned their arms. When after long search they found him, as is not infrequent among brave men, amid a dense heap of bodies, they honoured him in song, bearing away his body under the eyes of the enemy. Then it was possible to see crowds of Goths, with uncouth accent that rent the air in song, render the last and most sacred rites to the dead while all around was war. Tears there were, but such as a warrior merits. The death was ours, to be sure, but even to the Hun it was glorious, nor did Attila’s pride feel aught but humbled to see the Goths bear to burial with all its trappings the body of a mighty king. These Goths, while paying last and merited honours to Theodoric, at the same hour made over to his son the royal dignity, and amid clash of arms the brave and glorious warrior Torismond followed the funeral rites of his dear father as was fitting for a son.