BETWEEN 433 and 441 BC, ENDLESS HORDES OF HUNS LED BY ATTILA, CALLED THE SCOURGE OF GOD, PLUNDERED AND RAVAGED THE ROMAN EMPIRE.

 I stand in the back row of warriors, here on the Catalan fields in the heart of Gaul. Everything quieted down. Spears in the right and shields in the left hand. In a few minutes, the battle will begin. My sandal straps are tight, my palms are wet, and I feel beads of sweat dripping down my face. The silence before the battle is unbearable. They put me in the back row because I’m a young warrior. The last three rows are made up of infantry, they say that an inexperienced warrior’s horse is just a nuisance. I try to see the Romans in the distance between the lines in front of me. I do this at times when a horse moves a little and that’s when I see their red tunics.
Aetius on his horse, in front of a mighty army, with all the insignia of a Roman warlord, seems astonishing. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s a determined, sophisticated patrician face. Attila’s on his white horse and his back is turned and I can’t see his face, but I know him well. I watched him secretly because to look into his eyes, I never dared. The others dare not do it either, except for those who considered themselves his close friends. Oh, how they were mistaken. He did not consider anyone a friend, he did not trust anyone. I do not see his face, but I know that his eyes are fierce and that his blood is boiling in his veins. The battle, it’s his life! Killing and desolation, are what give him strength, what makes him powerful. And why do we follow him? We fear him, admire him, hate and adore him We follow him blindly, unaware of where he is leading us and what battles we are winning. The only thing we know for sure is that we must not turn our backs on him.
The year is 451. It is said that the end of the Roman Empire is approaching. We ravaged the Balkans and headed west. Aquitaine is what our king- Scourge of God –  wants right now. He didn’t expect Aetius to gather so many allies, but does it matter?! He, as always, is sure of victory. I wish that at this moment while waiting for Attila to raise his spear, my brain was empty. But the memories flood me.

I was born in 430. My father was Attila’s military leader, one of the people closest to him. An ill-tempered and insensitive man, the exact opposite of my mother. Our women are wild, they ride, hunt, and pillage like men, but my mother is different. A gentle and fragile creature that my father “picked up “somewhere near the walls of Constantinople. She did not get out of the way in time, he grabbed her around the waist, threw her on his horse, and took her, a woman who, inside the city walls lived the life of a civilized woman, taken to live among the wild Huns. The women did not like her, the men looked at her with ridicule, and she silently suffered her fate waiting for my father to return from the battle and caring for me, her only son. I was not like the other children either. My gentle and mild face was not to my father’s liking. No, he didn’t want a boy like that. He named me Attila and tried to make me into a wild, insensitive child in various cruel ways, a future warrior of Attila.

In vain, I always returned crying into my mother’s warm arms. He walked away in despair, jumping on his horse to take out his anger in some new crusade. I watched them from the tent as they left. Hunching, with broad shoulders and long hair, they looked like animals, almost coalesced with horses from which they did not come down, not even when they ate.
“Mother, tell me about Constantinople”, I begged, and she told me beautiful and exciting stories about another, distant world. I wanted the moment of my father’s return to be postponed as much as possible. However, he showed up one night, suddenly, and found me sleeping on my mother’s lap. I was sixteen, and that’s the age when boys are starting to be considered men. At that age, the boys were branded with hot iron against their chin to stop the hair from growing. The wounds lasted for weeks, but the purpose was to exclude shaving, as a boring task, from the life of a warrior. I had a face like a little girl and my mother waited for that day with pain in her heart.
So, the sight that my father witnessed at that moment enraged him. He snatched me from my mother, lifted me high, and slammed me to the ground with all his might.
“If only you had given me more children, “, he shouted at my mother,” not just this drooling creature I don’t even know is a man! You don’t deserve to bear his name. ” His anger did not subside, he lunged at my mother like a beast. Something inside me snapped. I got up, ran to him, and hit him in the stomach with my head. We both fell and I continued to hit him hard. He waited for my anger to pass, and then he stood up and said with satisfaction, “Finally! You’re coming with me tomorrow!”
That’s how I became a warrior, at least that’s what my father thought. I only killed when I defended myself, and at night in a tent, I prayed the prayers that my mother taught me. She believed in the one God and his son Jesus Christ. She was baptized and blessed me before every visit. Here and now, in the moment Attila raises his spear, I feel her gentle hand on my forehead. It has begun!
I woke up wet with sweat in a luxurious Roman villa. The owners fled from the onslaught of our hordes and now we waited for winter in a solid building.
“Mother, will it ever stop?”I asked her as she approached my bed.
“Just until spring, son, make peace with it. Wars have existed for as long as man himself. If you are not at war with others, you are at war with yourself. That is man’s destiny. “
Yesterday, the messenger brought the news that Aetius had been killed. A great soldier fell at the hands of the worthless Valentinian III. I almost cried. My father used to say that I should learn to appreciate my enemies, too, if they were worthy of it. And I really appreciated him.
Last year, Attila also died. I mourned him as well. For a long time. He passed away suddenly in the bed of a Germanic woman. A sad death for a great fighter. I always thought that two military geniuses would lose their lives on the battlefield, in some great battle. I even imagined them dying at the same time, plunging spears into each other’s chests. Fate decreed a different death for them. I wait for spring and new battles in a warm Roman villa. Mother started a new story. About a prophet, who led a mighty people across a great body of water. Speak, Mother, and bless me and let me sleep on your lap one more time, even though my name is ATTILA!