Attila by Ross Laidlaw

outside the sleepy and terrified inhabitants; some, not having had time to fling on any clothes, tried to cover their nakedness with their hands. Totalling some three hundred, they were herded into the square, where their olive colouring contrasted with the fair skins and blue eyes of their captors. Apart from the crying of some babes-in-arms, there was silence; the silence of fear and foreboding.
    The silence stretched out as the shadow of the church began to ebb back across the square, while a detail proceeded to ransack the buildings. The looters re-entered the square and cast their findings on to a blanket spread before Gaiseric: a pitiful hoard consisting of a few rings, coins, cloak-pins, brooches, and kitchen utensils. Most articles were of bronze or iron; only a few jewellery items were of gold or silver. A Vandal emerged from the church carrying a missorium and chalice, which flashed in the morning rays. ‘Silver,’ he announced proudly, adding them to the pile.
    â€˜Poor man’s silver,’ growled Gaiseric, his eyes glinting withfury and disappointment. ‘It’s pewter, you fool.’
    He glared balefully at the assembled Hispano-Romans. ‘Which of you is the priest?’ he asked in broken Latin, speaking in a slow, measured voice which, although husky and low-pitched, carried to every corner of the square.
    Silence, punctuated by muffled sobs and wailing of children.
    Gaiseric nodded to two of his henchmen, who plucked a man at random from the crowd. In an almost casual movement, one of the Vandals drew a dagger across the man’s throat. He gave a choking gurgle then fell, blood sheeting from his severed gorge. A gasp of horror arose from the villagers.
    â€˜Which of you is the priest?’ repeated Gaiseric in the same slow monotone. This time, a tall, middle-aged man stepped forward from the crowd. Though visibly shaking, he made an effort to comport himself with dignity as he addressed the Vandal leader. ‘I am the priest, barbarian. I protest against your treatment of my flock, and the murder of this innocent man. I demand that—’ He was abruptly silenced as a spear-butt smashed against his mouth, pulping his lips.
    Gaiseric issued a few curt orders; a party of his men proceeded to drive the villagers into the church, encouraging the tardy with shouts, and blows from spear-staves. Ominously, before locking the doors they conveyed combustible materials – furniture, firewood, handcarts, oil, hangings – into the building.
    Gaiseric turned to the priest. ‘Where are your church’s treasures, jewelled reliquaries, silver ewers and the like? I know you Romans would rather beggar yourselves than see your altars go unadorned.’
    â€˜We cannot afford expensive plate,’ mumbled the priest, spitting bloodied teeth from his ruined mouth. ‘We are only poor fishermen and peasants. ‘That is all of value that our church possesses.’ And he indicated the pewter vessels.
    â€˜Then we shall be generous and return them to you. Tell me, priest, do you believe that Christ the Son is equal to God the Father?’
    â€˜He is very God of very God, of the same substance as the Father, and equal to the Father.’
    â€˜Deluded heretic,’ snarled Gaiseric. ‘How can a son be equal to his father? He is younger, therefore inferior.’ A fanatical Arian, he despised Nicene Catholicism almost as much as he hatedRomans. ‘Drink your Saviour’s blood, them. Not in wine, but in the cup itself.’
    A cauldron was produced, a fire kindled, and the missorium and chalice soon reduced to a bubbling pool of liquid. The priest’s arms were gripped, a funnel rammed between his jaws, and a stream of molten metal poured into the opening. He convulsed in silent agony; released, he writhed and flailed on the ground, then shuddered and lay still.
    â€˜The king comes!’ called a Vandal warrior, pointing to the sea. A large