Wishing For Ages Past... - A Late Roman Story [Updated: 24/02/2014]

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part I: Blood Among The Heather

“Where are these goat rutters?” Demanded a voice as deep as the brass resonance of an old Gallic carnyx, “they should have been here hours ago, and my toes are beginning to turn to ice.”

Laughter picked up on all sides of the hulking figure, at least five others clearly visible, all around them the wild heaths of Britannia-beyond-the-wall and with it the cold, rain, and winds that moaned and whistles across the heaths and through the trees. Most of them had sought shelter, or as much as they could, cloaks pulled tightly about bodies and those with bows doing all they could to keep the precious strings dry. Against the Highland elements it was a loosing battle, and all but one was no longer as watchful or as dedicated to their charge as they should have been.

“I thought you Germani were supposed to be a tough breed, inured to the cold and born of brooding forests.”

The speaker was the aforementioned loner, a tall and wiry figure with a rough mop of almost-black hair, an aquiline nose, skin as white as fallen snow, and a soft voice accented by a dialect not of their current location. Dressed from head-to-toe in only civilian clothing, save for one long-bladed spatha at his waist, there was nonetheless something unnerving about the way the almost 'beautiful' man held himself. Perhaps it was because of his feminine features, contrasted by the constantly erect and straight back, or maybe it was the pair of blue eyes that seemed to see everything. All others knew was that something about him intimidated even the most hardened warrior.

There was a snort and a distinct hrmph and a smile creased those thin lips, slender fingers tapping out an unheard tempo against the hilt of the cheaply crafted sword. All the while rain turned those rough peasant garments into sodden rags, even the Pannonian cap nearly blown away by the incoming gale.

“Only my mother was German,” Grumbled the larger man, from the shelter of a small recess of rocks nearby, a large axe held gently in a hand the size of a Roman dining plate, “you know that as well as I do, Vibius. My father was one of your lot.”

By 'your lot' he meant Roman, of course. Yet Vibius was no more German than the tribesmen which they were supposed to be meeting, an entire wagon full of weapons and armour only feet away and guarded damned closely, his ancestry without a drop of Italic blood and none of the breeding either. Vibius Quinctilius Atellus was the eldest son of a Taifali cavalryman and a Gothic woman, a beauty in her own tribe, and it had been his fathers dying wish that had caused him to adopt a Roman name at all. So, for the last seven years or more, he had lived by that name and served many masters – but especially himself – and now was...here.

“Something...”

Vibius peered about the rugged terrain, a chill not of the heinous weather causing him to shiver inside his cloak and tunic, each of his senses heightening themselves in an attempt to find the cause of his consternation. Like many gut feelings before he could not quite put his finger on the cause, not until the cause came right out only seconds later to reveal itself.

Without warning a number of painted Britons sprung from the undergrowth, jeering and waving weapons above their heads, well-toughened muscle rippling beneath skin that had rarely if ever seen the sun. How they had gotten so close beneath the gaze of veteran soldiers was a mystery, but this was their land and they knew it better than any outsider. Several bounded across the moorland like deer toward those men guarding the weapons cart, at least a dozen more heading straight for those who had by now leapt from their shelters, numbed hands grasping for weapons kept close and wasting no time strapping on waterlogged armour that had already been removed.

“Romans, defend yourselves!” Yelled Vibius as he scraped his sword from its sheath, watching helplessly as his two guards for the wagon were massacred and he was unable to reach them, the crazed mass of long-haired barbarians separating him from the slowly disappearing mass of wood and Roman-crafted weapons, “Ellich! Stop that wagon!” He shouted to a squat bowmen as he ran at the enemy in a flurry of swishing cloak and swinging blade.

Ellich, a natural horsemen from the steppes far to the east, a Hun by birth, carefully drew his bowstring back and squinted through the drizzling sheet of moisture. Whispering a small prayer to the Sky God, and inhaling deeply, he held it in place before loosing the arrow in a sharp outward breath. Although unable to trace the trajectory of the projectile with any precision he was nonetheless pleased with the results, already knocking another arrow to the string, the fiery-haired Briton holding the reigns of the wagons horses slumping forward and falling from the drivers seat and hitting the softened sodden earth.

What displeased him was that the wagon kept moving forward, the horses not so easily halted, and Ellich groaned to watch it melt away into the sheets of rain as if it had never existed at all, the ghostly echoing of neighing horses still carrying to the melee long after they had gone.

As suddenly as they had come, swinging their blades and beating their chests, the Britons north of the wall slunk back into the wasteland from whence they had come. They left four 'Romans' dead in their wake and at least twice as many of their own. Yet, for all the casualties inflicted, Vibius counted the loss of the very thing they had been sent to protect as a defeat. He would see no payment for his men, in fact he would be ordered to make reparations for the loss toward Emperor and State, the not so poor salararius even now worrying at the prospect, even when covered in the blood of your foe and shivering.

“This will not go well with the chief,” Flavas, the behemoth of a half-breed German, spoke low to his commanding officer, “that was a wagon meant for our allies.”

“Allies that never arrived,” hissed Vibius as threateningly as he could, “allies that, for all we know, were the same men that attacked us! All these Britons look alike to me.” A long sigh squeezed through his teeth, “just gather the men. We shall return south and do what needs to be done.”

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

Yeah I was doing one called "Ultimus Romanorum" but it fell through due to time. I'll have to revisit it some time, but right now I'm doing one for the Scriptorium Writing Competition.

[McScottish]

Updated!

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

A great openening! Very dramatic, and descriptive! I like how you portray their lack of understanding of the Roman province by calling it Britannia-Beyond-the-Wall rather than Caledonia.

[McScottish]

A great openening! Very dramatic, and descriptive! I like how you portray their lack of understanding of the Roman province by calling it Britannia-Beyond-the-Wall rather than Caledonia.

Coming from someone who I know is what I would call an expert on the LRE, I must say that such high praise brightens my day immensely. I'm glad you enjoyed it and hopefully will enjoy future updates as well. On a similar note, I'm very glad to see your own revamped and am eagerly awaiting more.

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

Yeah I've been working on it. I hope you'll find my description of the ambush enjoyable.

Furthermore, I must say I am no expert on LRE, but I strive to be one

Thanks Mcscottish, looking forward to this, you have quite an affinity for being both descriptive and enticing in your work!

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part II: Undermining The Foundations

Torches burned flickering in there racks and illuminated a scene of pseudo-combat not usually seen outside the walls of the amphitheatres dotted around the decaying ruins of the Roman Empire in the West, three-hundred-and-sixty-seven years after the crucifixion of the Jewish carpenter – or however his worshippers saw it. Britain, where this spectacle was to be beheld, had never been an important part of the Empire, not since the reign of Emperor Claudius really, yet those that came after had held on to it as if it were one of their own limbs. Such negligence and lack of authority lead to many things happening on that island isolated in the ocean that would not happen in more central provinces. What was currently happening, in the chambers of one Bishop Desiderius of Eboracum, was something unseen in what could be called the more 'civilised' provinces, but also something that no good Christian would ever approve of.

By the light of the torches, the night deep and dark without, two golden-haired adolescents wrestled one another this way and that. Each was completely naked, their pale bodies slick with sweat, such sights sending thrills through the body of the corpulent clergyman with every exposure to his eyes, the paunchy Romano-Briton sweating just as much as they in his thick robes and without all the strenuous effort. Oh what a good purchase they had been though! Yes they had! Two youths from a barbarian tribe known in Roman writings as the Anglii, their cost but a mere handful of coin, each as fit and healthy as any dominus could want.

“Yeees,” he grunted in a heavy breath, stuffing more figs into his mouth and shifting on his couch, allowing his not-all-that-prominent arousal to stop causing him so much pain, dumpy hands and digits being remarkably swift when it came to foodstuffs, “that's right...slip your legs there...”

For all his self-professed holiness and piety, there was no doubting that Desiderius Genucius Arvina was a sinner through-and-through. He may denounce such claims, stirring the hearts of many with fiery words and moving sermons, but just to look at him was to wonder how a eunuch had become a Bishop. The answer was that he was not, surprisingly, a eunuch at all. He merely looked the spitting image of one. When nearly all your days were spent in your expensive villa on the outskirts of a major Roman colonia there as little to do, Desiderius spending them eating, forcing himself on the unwilling, and, of course, plotting the downfall of his rivals and enemies.

Most recently he had hired a band of warriors, men from all the bestial and barbarian nations, as well as a couple of Romans, to take a delivery of weapons north of the wall. There they were to give the weapons to their Selgovae allies and return with a promised payment. On the surface it seemed simple enough, and in truth it was, but the Bishop knew that two things; one, that the exchange would never take place, and two, that it would work to his advantage.

One such 'accident' was commonplace, over the last few years there had been many such accidents, and many weapons and pieces of armour had been lost. Gold had also been stolen from the provincial treasury and never recovered. Fullofaudes, that Gallic blockhead who called himself Dux Britanniarum – Duke of Britain indeed! - was too busy looking toward his homeland across the channel to notice such minor things as a little coin here and a few weapons there.

If though, if that German snot had somehow survived, then he would be arriving right about...

“Vibius Quinctilius Atellus, your holiness,” announced his personal steward, an elderly Briton who spoke with a voice just made for putting people to sleep, even his clothing covered in dust and adding to that illusion, “shall I allow him in?”

“Oh yes, yes,” harrumphed the portly Bishop, looking at the two Angles who had stopped and raising his food-stained hands into the air, “well? Carry on!” Immediately the two slaves set upon each other once more, with renewed gusto, ignoring even the sound of tramping feet coming down the hall and entering the spacious room that acted as both feasting hall and place of business.

“Bishop.”

Vibius was blunt, as anyone would be if covered in stale sweat and crusted blood, fortunately washed mostly away by the constant rain that had prevailed in the lands north of the wall. His eyes did glance once or twice at the wrestling Germans, so alike it was entirely possible that they could be brothers, and for a moment only he was tempted to snap at them in their own tongue. He did not, holding his own instead, and simply waited in his dripping cloak and garments for his employer to acknowledge him.

Meanwhile, Desiderius made sure to compose his features, readying himself for yet more play-acting, something his entire career and vocation prepared him for each day he thought. Turning his face into a mask of joy as he turned, he then switched to one of shock, then of mild surprise, his eyes moving over the stiff-backed upstart and settling momentarily on the tears and patches of deep crimson. He shifted through these expressions with professional ease, and thought himself unreadable, but Vibius was a man not so easily fooled.

“Vibius! Oh, my dear Vibius!” Cried the wobbling Bishop as he rolled off the couch and onto his feet, “here you are and back at last, but so dirtied and...is this blood?” Remaining perfectly still, Vibius allowed the Bishop to thread a finger through a tear in his cloak, “it is that,” he replied stoically, “not my blood though.”

Relief was visible on Desiderius' face, a hand moving dramatically across his forehead, “thank God above. Yet wait...I see no return of coin, such as the coin I gave you. Is there no coin?”

“We were ambushed, your eminence. They came at us from the fog and made off with the wagon, all lost.”

“Fog? Made off?” Righteous fury ringed every gesture and word of that rotund man of the cloth, his jowls shaking with a life of their own, his legs half-bending as if in shock, “you mean to tell me that you – you lost my wares and then returned to me empty-handed?”

“As I said, eminence, there was nothing we could do. We were outnumbered and surprised.”

“Oh? Oh you were surprised? Well, Vibius, I am surprised at you! Aghast even that you would think of returning here without coin to once again balance my purse. No, no you and yours shall get no payment from me. Leave me, damned German. Leave me and go and find someone else to employ you.”

Unlike the Bishop, Vibius never visibly shook, but inside he was like a raging inferno and soon beads of sweat formed on his forehead that were not of exertion nor heat but simply of emotions kept in check by an iron will.

“As you wish, eminence.” The last word was almost hissed, those blue eyes flashing with rage, like windows into his thoughts, “my men and I shall leave immediately and bother you nor more.”

Just as the mask of rage had placed itself over his face, on the leaving of his desired target, it was once more removed. The wrestling Angles had never once stopped, and Desiderius laughed and groped himself to see it. In the back of his mind he knew Vibius was useful as a tool, yet he also knew that he was no moron, and that worried him. He did not like to be worried.

“Come here, you two,” he tittered at the youths, their chests heaving and their bodies aching, “and we shall have some real entertainment.”

************

Huddled in the biting gales and soaking sheets of rain, cloaks wrapped as tight as a vice about them, a group of twenty or so handed around the most recently 'acquired' weapons and armour sent to them by the good graces of friends within the Empire. Swords there were of much better make than their own, shields and coats of scale and mail too, helmets and more. Yes, these would do.

In that bleak gathering sat one who had influence over the others, an average looking individual with fiery red hair and a distinctive limp. It had been with him from birth, but had never hindered his rise to power, mostly because he had killed with his own hands all those that had opposed him.

“Share them, brothers,” commanded Atrexaros, grinning widely to let them all see his teeth, teeth that had been filed into points, this man the leader of the Attacotti who were a tribe well-noted among their enemies for the eating of human flesh, “soon...soon we shall do what our people have dreamed of for centuries. Rest yourselves, grow stronger each day, soon we shall see the other side of that wall and then no God or man shall save them.”

[Robin de Bodemloze]

A thoroughly enjoyable read. Pray continue!

[McScottish]

A thoroughly enjoyable read. Pray continue!

Coming from you, sir, how can I possibly refuse?

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

Incredible! I loved the atmosphere and detail around the gluttonous, unholy bishop.

[McScottish]

Incredible! I loved the atmosphere and detail around the gluttonous, unholy bishop.

I thank you as well Glad you liked it, and I hope you'll enjoy the rest of it. Compliments and flattery will get all my readers everywhere!

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part III: A Surprise

“Well, Vibius, what are we to do? We've been sitting here for weeks and no-one will hire us. There are no wars here for us to fight.”

Nearly a two-hundred men, an entire formation of bucellarii for the picking; veterans of the regular field armies and frontier troops beside, foederati from a hundred differing tribes and nations. All were now gathered and encamped in a woodland clearing, made more spacious by the swinging of axes and toppling of trees, some miles south-west of Eboracum. There they had been for for three whole weeks, living off of the land and various vici that surrounded most of the larger settlements in the north.

Vibius made certain that each day was one of military precision, but he could also see in his men’s eyes the boredom of idleness and the resentment of dwindling pay without an employer. Now here he was, sitting on a camp-stool in his tent, the most central of them all, and scraping through scrolls of documents while his most senior officer berated him for his slothfulness.

“What would you have me do? Ey, Flavas? Go over the sea to Hibernia, perhaps, and offer our services to one of the petty kings there? There are always wars in the East...Syria maybe? Cut us up a few Persians?”

“You are insufferable when you do that,” complained the immense warrior, his head nearly touching the rather low 'roof' of the tent, one hand resting idly on the hilt of his blade and the other grasping a goblet of cheap and gut-rotting wine, “and you know it!”

“You know as well as I that I wouldn't have made it this far pleasing everyone,” he mumbled, glancing up and seeing the goblet, one of his own, in the hands of his brother-in-arms, “and pour me one of those – while you're contenting yourself to goad me into action.”

A snort of laughter that made his entire beard move came from the half-Goth, large hands working with well-trained ease to fill up another goblet - a rather modest affair of wood and bronze gilt – and then place it on the desk before him.

“The men grumble, Vibius. They want their money, they want their food, but above all they would like some action! Can't have hundreds of bloodthirsty barbarians sitting about for too long, we both know that.”

The tribunus knew it well enough, and said as much in agreement, taking a swig of uncut wine and thinking momentously back to his father and through him his people. They were horsemen, that strange Gothic tribe, though not Goths at all, as used to the saddle and bow as any Hun yet never quite as proficient in either. For years they had raided the borders of the Empire, along with others of course, and were much sought after as horsemen for the armies of the West, as his father had been. It was to transpire, however, that Valentinianus Augustus, Emperor in the West, was not too keen on seeing his land turned into farms by brutish and dense primitives and, in time, revoked their ownership of all their lands back to the Roman state. This was when his father and mother had come to Britannia, the furthest outpost of the Empire, isolated and off the beaten track, and began their life once more. It was during that time that Antgar of the Taifali had become Vibius of Durobrivae and from then become a leader of men.

With the goblet half way to his mouth, a freshly opened scroll in his hand, Vibius froze. His eyes scanned over the hastily written script again and again...and again. Flavas noticed the change and strode to his side. Both men read the lettering, exchanged glances, and read it a final time.

“No, that can't be right.”

“Tribunus, I think our period of idling will very soon be at an end.”

Winter was drawing close in Britannia, and with the coming cold came the tramping of thousands of feet, events that had been set in motion many years ago were now on there way to a final climatic ending. Soon the snows would carpet the land, the wolves would circle the bloated corpse of faded Roman glory, and treachery in all his guises would soon break wood, bodies, and stone.

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

Ooh... suspenseful. I like your choice of time too: the Reign of Valentinianus III. Tell me, will we see Germanus of Auxerre, the bishop who won the Battle of Mold in 429/430 AD?

One quick remark: Bucellarius is a funny term: when talking about a number of soldiers each classified as a bucellarius, they are called bucellarii. When talking about the unit, it can becalled a bucellarius or bucellarii.

E.g.

"Aetius had a large Bucellarius."
"Aetius had a personal following of Bucellarii."
"The personal retainers hired by Roman Generals were called Bucellarii."
"The soldiers were classified as Bucellarii."
"Flavius was a Bucellarius."

The Grammar and usage of the term is really wierd, I know. In your case it should be:

Nearly a two-hundred men, an entire formation of bucellarii for the picking;

Sorry for being a grammar Nazi

[McScottish]

Ooh... suspenseful. I like your choice of time too: the Reign of Valentinianus III. Tell me, will we see Germanus of Auxerre, the bishop who won the Battle of Mold in 429/430 AD?

One quick remark: Bucellarius is a funny term: when talking about a number of soldiers each classified as a bucellarius, they are called bucellarii. When talking about the unit, it can becalled a bucellarius or bucellarii.

E.g.

"Aetius had a large Bucellarius."
"Aetius had a personal following of Bucellarii."
"The personal retainers hired by Roman Generals were called Bucellarii."
"The soldiers were classified as Bucellarii."
"Flavius was a Bucellarius."

The Grammar and usage of the term is really wierd, I know. In your case it should be:

Nearly a two-hundred men, an entire formation of bucellarii for the picking;

Sorry for being a grammar Nazi

Perfectly fine, and edited.

As for the dating, it's time for me to correct you! We're still in the 300's and the reign of Flavius Valentinianus Augustus (the First) and coming up toward just one of the bloody events of that time. The barbarica conspiratio.

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

Ah, really? A little strange to find a Hun in Britain then, as they had only reached the Maetois (Bosporan Kingdom) at this point. A Hun hired in Scythia Minor and who found himself in Britain would have an interesting tale to tell indeed!

[McScottish]

Ah, really? A little strange to find a Hun in Britain then, as they had only reached the Maetois (Bosporan Kingdom) at this point. A Hun hired in Scythia Minor and who found himself in Britain would have an interesting tale to tell indeed!

Yes, indeed.

Apparently you're already ahead of me with my own plot-line, but I won't begrudge you that. It is odd, and that is how I wanted it, hence the reason why there is only one of him and not an entire cavalry wing. The Taifali themselves weren't properly settled into the empire either in any great numbers until almost a decade later from the time this is taking place.

I enjoy out-of-place characters, what can I say?

[McScottish]

Chapter I, Part IIII: Origin Stories

Those Christ worshippers were so fond of reminding those that decried their faith that laxity and even a moment of incautious behaviour or observance could lead to an eternity of damnation and woes beyond measure. While that did not transfer exactly to the situation of, for all he knew, the only Hun in Britannia a moment of unobservant behaviour had certainly cost him more than he wanted to remember. Now, at least when he slept, he paid for it and suffered.

It had been such a beautiful day, the bright sunlight glittering from the stream and the endless grasslands flowing beneath the hooves of his mount like the oceans of the world. Away to his rear were his family, his brother talking to his father as men do with men, his mother and sister preparing a warming meal consisting of many things but including fat and goats testicles. They were one of many such groups moving westward and onto greener pastures, entire families such as their own each following a chieftain or a noble into places they had never been before. Truly it had been a time of much wonderment and new challenges, a time when all Huns looked to a brighter future and more comfortable existence.

Ellich had never seen the Alani riders approaching, too busy as he was staring out at the barely perceptible horizon, nearly two dozen men on horseback dragging others behind them. These others were bound, unarmed, but rode their own horses and dared not try to escape. Some were Goths and Bosporans, others were Huns like himself, all taken by this raiding party of Alans and all beaten and bloodied in one way or another. For years there had been a war waged among these peoples, the Huns driving all others before them in their eagerness for the lands of others, and for years the Alani had taken the brunt of it. From time-to-time these slowly yielding nomads would send out some of their own to gather slaves and sow discord, it appeared that that moment was one such happening.

Shouts and the twang of a bowstring were all he heard before glancing back, his eyes opening wide and his mouth becoming suddenly dry, two Alans laying dead with feathered shafts jutting from their bodies and the rest circling like vultures.

What was he supposed to do?!

Moments later and he remained immobile where he was, stuck between the urge to help and the stronger urge to flee out into the steppes and take his chances with the wilds. In the time it took his thoughts to form the decision was made for him, his father was pierced himself, his mother and sister gripped by rough hands and prepared for rape and his younger brother swiftly subdued and bound for slavery. No, there was no choice to be made. He would ride and he would ride far, to the very ends of the earth if he had to.

Already a shout was raised – they had seen him!

A simple tap from his heels sent his horse crashing through the stream, letting the animal loose to ride where he would, the Alans horses weary from numerous chases already and their riders hurling insults as he lost sight of them and they became mere specks in the distance.

As it happened there was no need for Ellich to ride quite as far as he intended, but only into Skythia Minor and the company of a Roman merchant in need of some protection. For months he had ridden, numerous horses dying beneath him, and that is not to mention the bands of Germanic peoples and tribes-on-the-move which needed to be avoided. Rarely did he hunt or build a fire, yet even rarer was it for him to encounter another living soul.

Gaius Pullus, himself of Gothic extraction, had been the trader of 'exotic wares' with which Ellich had struck a bargain. Along with his wagons and hired protection he had been making his way back into the Empire when they had come across Ellich sitting by himself with only his horse at that point for companionship. This had amused the merchant, a well known name in the commercial and military hub of Noviodunum ad Istrum, and, with the help of a rather nervous Sarmatian who knew some of the Hunnic tongue, Gaius made it understood that no harm would come to him and that he would in actuality wish to employ him.

The only conditions were a basic learning of Latin – in both written and spoken forms – and a willingness to throw yourself in harms way if our employer or his merchandise, in this case furs and horses, were threatened. Both were conditions that Ellich readily could, and did, accept without much thought or hesitation. It would provide him with shelter, food, companionship and entry into a world that in all honesty he had never even known existed – the Roman Empire.

How this lone figure arrived in Britannia, as far removed from anything he had known as could be, is a much easier tale to tell. He simply followed where his employer went! From Skythia Minor Pullus travelled south-west and turned westward at Serdica and into the diocese of Dacia and then Italia. Sights, sounds and smells were presented to Hun, still young, that caused no end of astonishment or awe...until they reached the shores of Britain.

Until then he had believed that the Roman Empire was all-powerful, that it could not be taken by any force outside its boundaries, guarded by legions of soldiers and ships who patrolled rivers and fortified borders night and day. When he reached exposed Britannia these illusions slid from his eyes one after another; the Romano-British lived in poverty when compared to their continental counterparts, the forces amassed to defend Britannia seeming rather lacking to him and the food, customs and language wholly unpleasant.

Pullus was aged by then, one-by-one his bodyguards dropping away due to death, the ending of a contract, or because they no longer wished to follow him like Ellich did. The Hun followed so closely that he earned among them the moniker of 'the dog'. Coming to Britain would be the last pathway along which this dog would follow his master, for Pullus was to die not soon after and leave his distant family somewhere in Dacia to retain his business and wealth. Ellich was now stranded in a land where everyone stared and pointed, and where he could see no opportunity for his skills to be used or his life to find meaning again.

This wretched condition is how Vibius found him, an enigma in Britannia with rumours circulating about Ellich and his origins and purpose in Britain, sitting silently beside the grave of his erstwhile employer. The man, an outsider like himself, offered him another chance that he accepted without hesitation.

Some details have been lessened, of course, and there is far more to this rider and his 'adventures' within the Empire than are written in these pages. Why they could fill a book all of there own!

No, those events presented here take place in the company of his chosen leader, a man that he calls 'chieftain', much to Vibius' annoyance.

In his company – and those of his rather varied band - we now head northward and into the unknown...

[McScottish]

Not amazing, but for ten minutes of thinking and writing it could have been worse.

[Magister Militum Flavius Aetius]

Better than what I could come up with, frankly. I have to spread it around before I can rep you again.

Should be noted that the word "Hun" probably is only what the Romans and Germanics called them (The name was originally a Sarmato-Dacian tribe in the 2nd century AD). The Huns called themselves by whatever Turkish name their cuneus - a half-military unit half-clan of several families - bore. E.g. Alpilcur (the second known group of Huns and the ones from c.a. 350-370 near the Bosporans) or Ultinzur (A group that followed the Akatir and Tongurs, who had followed the Alpilcurs, and possibly the origin of Uldin and Charaton. Less likely but also possibly the cuneus of Attila and Rugila and Bleda.)

The Huns had moved West for seemingly two reasons: 1. The El Nino cycle caused a severe drought in Central Asia right before 376 (And again in 460 when the Sabir Huns pushed the Saragur Huns west into the Akatir Huns) and 2. The Avars, who were pushed North towards the Aral sea by the Chionites and displaced the Huns, and again pushed further North towards the tip of the Caspian sea by the Hepthaltites around 450/460.

Their unusual tactics and powerful 7-lathe bow (rather than the Sarmatian 4-lathe asymmetric bow) is what made them so lethal in combat - they could punch through Alan cataphract armor at a much longer range, preventing the Alans from being able to close and plough through the Hun light cavalry. If the rider wore chainmail, they were screwed though ( Historically accurate Chainmail is almost impenetrable).

[McScottish]

Well, thank you for the history lesson. I shall note it all down. Nae bother about the rep really. I'm still (impatiently) waiting for your own update...