The central army tent.
Duncan glanced at the elite guards by the entrance. Perhaps it was his imagination, but these people seemed reluctant to be alone with him. Even during the private discussion with Prince Torismund of the Western Goths, several noble knights accompanied him to bolster their presence.
Inside the tent, candles were lit, mingling the smell of wax and spices, with an intentionally masked scent of alcohol.
Aetius must have drunk last night, and quite a lot at that.
The renowned Protector of the Realm gazed at Duncan, his expression slightly dazed, as if awed by the heroic air about Duncan, and remarked contemplatively, "When I was your age, I was a hostage under the Huns' king."
After all, he was over sixty years old now, with not much time left. The 'Twilight of the Empire' was fading, and it could be said that the last bit of the Empire's vitality was nearly exhausted.
Duncan's gaze was calm as he responded lightly, "Is that when Lord Aetius met Attila?"
