The Eagle & the Wolf

Flavius climbed a crag, blood crashing in his ears. Attila scaled the crag opposite. All thoughts of escape were forgotten. Now there was only the night, the moon … and the wolf.

He clambered onto the summit, and froze, transfixed by the giant grey creature prowling through the valley between the two crags. He gathered a group of pebbles before him: it was his job to drive the wolf into the range of Attila’s bow.

Heart pounding, he tossed a stone. It struck the valley floor, snow puffing up. But instead of running away from the stone and towards Attila, the wolf turned to Flavius, golden eyes and fangs gleaming in the moonlight. Flavius felt his stomach flip. Could it climb the crag? He hurled another stone in a panic. It bounced and skipped, landing somewhere in the valley’s northern limits.

A high-pitched whine of distress sounded from that direction. The wolf’s ears pricked up, then it bolted away towards the noise. On the opposite crag, Attila stood tall, arms outstretched in disbelief. ‘You sent it the wrong way, Roman. I knew it was a mistake to bring you.’

Despite the cold, Flavius felt the burning heat of embarrassment. By the time the two descended to meet on the valley floor, it had morphed to anger. ’You armed me with rocks when you carry two bows. What use are two bows to you? You only have one pair of arms. Give me one. I was trained in archery at the emperor’s cadet school.’

Attila patted the case containing the second bow, hanging by his hip. ‘This is nothing like the stick you shot at some Roman archery field. You wouldn’t be able even to half draw it. They were made for my arm length, my height, and my strength. Made for me and me alone.’ He pulled the spear strapped behind his shoulder. ‘Here, have this instead. Hold it by the blunt end. Point the sharp end at the wolf.’

Flavius took the spear, whirled it deftly and bumped the haft on the ground.

They stalked deeper into the range in search of the wolf. Soon they were moving along a lofty ridge, the air perishing. They came to a sheer section, tall as a tower, smooth as glass – a climb that looked like certain death.

‘Afraid?’ Attila said.

‘No,’ Flavius lied. ‘But is there not a more certain way up?’

‘Certainty?’ Attila scoffed.

‘We should take a moment to reconnoitre and plan a safer route.’

‘Plan? You Romans are so slow and predictable.’

Flavius thought of Stilicho, that day at the dunes. Pebbles and sand. ‘Only fools neglect to plan.’

Something struck his cheek with a sudden flash of white-hot pain. He gasped. ‘You slapped me!’

‘Very perceptive. You didn’t plan for that, did you? Trouble doesn’t give a warning.’

Flavius tried to compose himself, then stabbed a finger upwards. ‘This is a cliff, a fucking cliff. It’s hardly going to slap me, is it?’

‘My point is that danger, risk – they must be our friend. Or,’ he sighed, ‘you can wait down here, while I hunt the wolf alone.’

Flavius’s nostrils flared. ‘Out of my way.’ He removed his mitts, strapped the spear across his back, then put his fingers to the rock and found a handhold, then a foothold, and he was off. Up he went, his freezing fingers feeling as fat as logs. Glancing down at the dizzying drop to the snowbound plains, his belly tightened to a knot, and he froze. He was halfway up. Committed now. Climb to the top or fall and die!