By William Napier
AD 449: the way forward for the area hangs within the stability. The as soon as strong Roman Empire lies open and susceptible to assault from an incredible Hunnish military that has accumulated at the banks of the Danube and is poised and able to strike - yet just one guy has visible the danger.
Master-General Aetius is familiar with Attila nonetheless thirsts for blood and destruction, yet he's helpless to forestall the the pending onslaught. For Atilla plans to march at the amazing urban of Rome, the very center of the empire. yet is the danger too excessive, even for the main battle-hardened of warlords? Attila's offerings play out at the plains Europe the place he needs to eventually face his destiny.
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Extra resources for Attila: The Judgment
Who could blame them? There wasn’t much to do back in the fort but drill and wait, under the stern eyes of the legionary legate. Otherwise they drank, they diced, gambling with the meagre pay too rarely received on time. But a legion was still a legion, or a rump of it, with a legion’s proud memories. And the legate of the VIIth, that big-bellied Gallus Sabinus, was no fool. Pamphilus set up his men in ranks across the narrow bridge. ’ Pamphilus was talking to his optio again, knowing he was only trying to reassure himself.
He smiled grimly to himself. Some tatterdemalion column of looters and plunderers, eaters of raw meat, some vainglorious gang of slavers, rapists and arsonists who fancied themselves great warriors. Rome had encountered such before. Filling the vacuum left by the retreating Huns, he presumed, after the Western Emperor sent out that order to the VIIth for a punitive expedition over the river. Not in His Divine Majesty’s jurisdiction, of course, but the prefect of Pannonia agreed to his request. Ill-advisedly, in Pamphilus’ humble opinion; but it wasn’t for a junior centurion like him to decide on foreign policy, thank the Crucified Christ.
Another refugee arrived, a rat-faced little man with his hair plastered across his narrow skull, and water still squelching from his sodden leather sandals. He wore the dull brown uniform of the exploratores. A scout. ’ demanded Sabinus. ‘Sir,’ gasped the half-drowned man, ‘river was the only refuge from the barbarians. ’ The little man stared up at the legate. ’ He didn’t look much consoled. ‘Well, their horses don’t take kindly to water. ’ Sabinus made a mental note. ’ ‘I’ve heard a thousand.