Attila: The Judgement

by William Napier

  The two princes reined in, flanking Aëtius on either side, behind them the powerfully built wolf-lords Valamir and Jormunreik. No word was spoken but, as is the way of men, the meaning was plain. They rode with Aëtius: to whatever doom.

  The two Huns were not addressed again.

  We camped on a nearby hillside in the coarse tussock grass. We would rather have camped in the lush watermeadows down by the river, but the water was befouled, and there were too many bones of the slain littering the country round about.

  Over the following days we passed more ghosts of towns and cities, each as bad as or worse than the last. On the road we glimpsed trickles of frightened fugitives who fled from us into the woods before we ever reached them; and one old woman, who could not flee. It is terrible to see a mother wailing over her child, but worse still to see an old woman wailing over her aged husband, lying broken in the mud, snapped like a dry twig. He with whom she thought to live out her last quiet days.

  After the devastated cities of the plain we ascended into low foothills and then rough, barren mountains, over mighty gorges, treacherous wilds barely touched by the magisterial hand of Roman law, where men dressed in sheepskin jackets tied around the waist with twisted leather, and women were safe only beside their own hearthfire. We traversed many rivers by dugout canoe, and villagers fed us on mead rather than wine, and on millet not wheaten bread.

  Later in our journey there were no villagers left. We could only forage like beasts.

  We came to a fire-blackened valley, and among the still-smoking stubble there were other black shapes, not of sheaves but of men, women, children, infants burned in their mothers’ arms, mothers clinging to their children, mouths open, black and charcoal. From such unimaginable weathering, we can only hope their souls do well to fly. In the night there was a downpour from a summer cloudburst over the valley, and in the dawnlight the bodies were ash-grey under the rain, some of them no more than washed white bones showing like strange root-crops through the folded grey mud half covering them like sodden earthen shrouds.

  Our Hun guides remained expressionless throughout. The one called Geukchu only commented that this would be the work of their brothers the Kutrigur Huns, in their battle-madness. But he did not say it in exculpation.

  We moved on a way before we camped that night, but it was not far enough. The smoke from the campfires rose into the night air as we lay on our backs and stared into the heavens, dreaming bad dreams open-eyed. Through the drifting smoke, the starry sky, those white celestial worlds where all things are pure and good, far above this sinful sublunary world so darkened by violence and wrath, and by the furious selfhoods of ambitious men. The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the little child shall lead them, saith the Lord. And they shall not kill nor hurt in all my Holy Mountain.

  But how long, O Lord? How long?

  It seemed to us that the viper and his venom would outlast all our days; that the bloodlust of Attila might rise even to the heavens and stain the white radiance of eternity, as the heavy smoke rose from that blackened charnel field, thick and greasy from where the bodies still smouldered, a choking veil between our wondering upturned faces and those white celestial worlds now lost to our sight.

  8

  THE EMBASSY

  At last we came down onto a broad grassy plain and there we saw stretched out in encampment, as far as the eye could see, the People of Attila. A city of leather tents beside a wide lakeshore; sunlight and slow plumes of woodsmoke and children’s laughter: a tranquil scene.

  Aëtius spoke at last, addressing the Greek. ‘So you have brought down your women and children again?’

  Orestes’ eyes were very pale blue. ‘Why not? There is no danger to them now.’ He gave his almost-smile again. ‘Your army is destroyed.’

  We had begun to set up camp on a small hill when a group of Hun warriors rode out to us and, with mockery and contempt, told us to camp lower down in the damp valley so that we should not overlook the tent of the Great Tanjou. We obeyed without a word. They also demanded that the wolf-lords hand over their weapons. Prince Theodoric answered, with undiplomatic brevity, ‘No.’ After brief talk among themselves, they said no matter, the Huns had never feared any Visigoths yet, armed or unarmed. One of the hulking wolf-lords, Jormunreik, growled at this barb, but his prince silenced him. The Huns said that the Lord Attila was out hunting, but would speak to us in time and galloped away, laughing.

  When we rode into the camp towards the King’s tent at its heart, I marvelled at how many races there were. The great majority were horse-bound Huns, of course, stocky and immensely strong, sparsely bearded, with long black hair and moustaches; but there were also Greeks like our guide Orestes, and renegade Teutons, Thuringian chieftains in bearskins, even Celts. There were Africans, Spaniards, Syrians, many marked with the marks of criminals. They were fugitives from Roman law, consumed with disgust at the insipid life of the tottering empire, longing once more to be on History’s winning side. There were more savage Huns who were heavily painted and tattooed and stuck with feathers, and wore their hair limed white in a stiff topknot; other people, who looked almost like Chinamen, their language unknown to us, camped a little apart. We knew what this meant well enough. All these people believed that victory over the whole Roman world lay with Attila, and their fortunes with him.

  As we came near a large, plain black tent in the heart of the camp, a woman appeared from inside. And what a woman. Perhaps fifty years old, immensely graceful, with high cheekbones, a red silk veil drawn back over her slim shoulders, and wearing a diadem of astonishing richness, of hammered sheet gold ornamented with Indian almandines. I do not think the diadem was paid for.

  We dismounted and bowed low. She was Queen Checa, Attila’s wife. His first wife, that is - he had many more, and countless concubines. All round the central circle of the camp were huge wooden wagons, those ships of the steppes, laden with decorated copper cauldrons, rolls of the finest silks and stuffs, and even occasional marble statues. A smaller, lighter wagon, guarded by two burly fellows who looked like brothers, bore Far Eastern saddle ornaments, fabulous reins decorated with gold cloisons and Indian gemstones, Pontic crowns and oval Sarmatian mirrors; tethered to the wagon was a pair of grey riding-horses branded with Turkic tangas. What a motley, magpie people, yet they had raided and looted their way across half the world.

  Then word came to us. The Great Tanjou had returned. We unbuckled our weapons and left them in a heap.

  Attila received us in his black tent supported on carved and polished wooden columns and hung with animal skins. He was seated on a barbarically carved wooden throne. The warriors about him were outlandishly accoutred in Chinese silks and fur head-dresses, their cheeks scarred with blue tattoos, but Attila himself was simply dressed, with a hatchet in his belt. A powerfully built man of medium height, with the scarred cheeks of his people, muscular forearms corded with ropy veins, and messily scarred, I noticed, from fighting in many furious battles. He had a strong and bony nose, leonine eyes glittering beneath lowered brows, face weathered and wind-furrowed, and he was leaning forwards slightly, stroking his wispy grey beard, a glimmer of something like amusement in his eyes. But none of this captures the spirit of the man. He radiated a terrifying force, the kind that turns to fury in a moment. Being close to him was like trying to find rest on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. Had he turned and looked at me, my eyes would have dropped away instantly. Few men could meet that gaze.

  Chrysaphius bowed lowest.

  ‘The Emperor of the East, the Viceroy of God, the Divine Theodosius, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and his subjects, the Senate and the people of Rome, wish upon you health, happiness and length of days.’

  Attila smiled and said, ‘I wish upon the Romans whatever they truly wish upon me.’

  Slaves came forward and presented the gifts we had brought: furs and silver goblets, dates and pepper. Attila received them without thanks.

/>   We dined on juicy steaks cut from the croups of grass-fattened horses, and freshly slaughtered sheep and cows, roasted whole. It would have been impolitic to enquire at what livestock market such excellent meat was purchased. We lay on couches, Roman style, drinking from the finest goblets. The Huns themselves sat cross-legged, or upright on benches. Attila ate only meat from a plain wooden platter. Conversation was stilted but innocuous. Attila spoke very little. Only when his young son Ellak - his favourite, so they say - was brought in to say goodnight to his father did the King show pleasure.

  For the night, we were offered the choicest young female slaves for our comfort, a Scythian compliment, but one disdained by our leaders - somewhat to my chagrin, I must admit. Well into my sixth decade, the chains of lust had loosened but by no means fallen away entirely. And so after we had retired to our own tents on the hill, I wriggled my way back out again, and hurried after the retreating women in the darkness, at one point tripping in a marmot hole in my haste and very nearly doing myself quite an injury. The girls heard me and turned, and giggled.

  Though they were all lovely to look at, one drew me in particular. A Burgundian she was, flaxen-haired and as pretty as a flower. I took her by the hand and pulled her back to my modest little partition in the tent. In the dark I could barely see her features, but her hands were small and her lips were soft, and I confess I passed a happy night with her. In the morning, as she lay there only half covered by my side, she stretched sleepily and smiled and said that, although I was a very old man, I had not entirely failed to please her.

  Aëtius passed me as we ate bread in the morning sunshine outside our tents, and nodded curtly as I munched. ‘You must be hungry,’ he said.

  9

  ORESTES

  Among those I talked to in the camp was an apostate Greek picking stones out of his horse’s hooves. When I asked him why he was there, he eloquently applauded the freedom he enjoyed among the Huns, compared with the iniquitous taxes, self-serving officials and meddling laws of Rome. Once, he agreed, Rome might have represented a kind of freedom with dignity under the law, but those days were gone. Here a man could be truly free. ‘You think Attila a barbarian tyrant,’ he said sardonically. ‘But he does not oppress me daily, he does not survey my every action, he does not dictate my religion, he does not tax me to death. Indeed, he does not tax me at all. I follow him, he protects me. It is a simple and noble society; as Rome was once, perhaps, long, long ago.’

  ‘It is a society that feeds off others!’ I protested.

  ‘In that respect, at least,’ he answered, ‘it is just like Rome.’

  He was a very sardonic fellow indeed.

  Of all the people in the camp of the Huns, aside from Attila himself, it was that other renegade Greek, Orestes, who seemed to me the most compelling and enigmatic. I was astonished, then, when I approached him later and respectfully asked if I might hear his story.

  ‘My story?’ he said softly. ‘Ah. Yes.’

  Perhaps Attila himself had encouraged him to tell me, for my chronicle. I shall never know.

  We sat on stools in the shade of a long tent. No others were near. A small fire burned in a brazier. Orestes cast a handful of barley kernels across an iron tray.

  ‘I was from Thessalonika,’ he began. ‘You know the history. You have heard of the atrocity.’

  I nodded. Indeed.

  ‘My parents—’ Orestes stopped again and smiled, a bitter smile. ‘The man who died eight years before I was born, he who should have been my father.’

  The barley kernels popped in the heat.

  ‘I will start again.’ He drew breath. ‘Some twelve years before I was born, my mother was married to a man of Thessalonika. He was a ship owner, a wealthy man, also a man of taste. He had a library. He was a Christian but kept his counsel. In their villa on a hill above the great harbour, they had mosaics of Silenus, frescoes of nymphs and tritons, silverware decorated with images of Mars and Venus on a shelf beside a devotional to the Virgin. My mother described it all to me in later years. My mother was high-spirited, mercurial. She was beautiful when she was young. Their house in Thessalonika was very fine. They had two sons, and then a daughter. They were a fine family. My family. Yet not.’

  He chewed some kernels.

  ‘In the summer of 390, eight years before my birth, the great city of Thessalonika stood the mother city of all Illyria. The people of the city, we chattering Greeks, ever argumentative, volatile, full of life and bustle. And the city was well walled around, well garrisoned. The captain of the garrison was one Botheric, a German by birth. Among his slaves was a boy, a beautiful boy - you understand. One of the Circus charioteers loved this boy. He lured him home and raped him. Botheric had the charioteer thrown in prison.

  ‘The common people of Thessalonika, who like the common people of any city love their sport before all else, and will forgive their sportsmen any crime, corruption or rapine so long as they perform well and give them pleasure - the common people were furious at being deprived of their favourite charioteer, the boy-rapist. They rioted. Botheric and one of his most senior officers were spat on, dragged through the streets, butchered. You know what the mob is like when their moral indignation is up: all on behalf of a boy-rapist. Emperor Theodosius the First - the Great, grandfather to both today’s emperors - residing in Milan, heard news of the uprising, and in his fury ordered a punitive massacre. We know all about the Roman urge to commit punitive massacres of civilian populations, do we not? It is an old habit.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Only after the order was sent did the Christian bishops manage to persuade Theodosius to remit his bloody sentence, so against the teaching of Christ. He despatched a second message but it was too late. The garrison at Thessalonika, already enraged at the murder of Botheric, took their revenge with alacrity. In the name of their emperor, the games-mad people were invited to more games - a little joke. Once in the circus, the gates were barred and they were slaughtered, all of them, without distinction of age or sex. The carnage continued for three hours. Some say seven thousand were slaughtered that day, some say more than fifteen thousand, “sacrificed to the manes of Botheric.” After the massacre in the circus, the troops spilled out onto the streets and continued their work.

  ‘Among their victims was a father who pleaded with them, offering his own life for that of his wife and two young sons and his daughter. You have guessed it. My family. The troops were unimpressed. They killed the father, the two sons, the infant daughter, and the howling mother all together. Except the mother survived, wounded and bleeding, beneath the bloody corpses of her family.’

  He paused for a while, mastering himself.

  ‘My mother survived. That is the correct word. She endured. She drank. She sold herself. When pregnant she administered her own abortions. Later she failed and bore another son. Miraculously, he was a healthy infant, grew to healthy adulthood. Later there was a daughter, Pelagia, always thin and weak. Her brother loved her deeply.’

  Again he stopped. I waited. He swallowed and started again.

  ‘She, the mother, died when her children were still very young. She was no longer drinking, no longer selling herself. She was trying to care for her two children by unknown fathers. But she was so broken that not even her children could heal her. Of course not. There is no healing for what she experienced. The two children, then aged no more than six and four years old or so - they remembered their birthdays, but not the year of their birth - had no choice. The boy took his sister’s hand and walked out of the wooden shack where their dead mother lay, and went down to the port, and sold himself and his sister into slavery. They were taken to Italy. Their owners maltreated them. They ran away. On a road going north out of Italy, they met up with a runaway Hun boy, a savage. A little while later, Pelagia died and they buried her in the mountains.’

  Another silence. I dared to look at him and his face was streaked with tears. But, when he resumed, by supreme effort of will his voice re
mained low and steady.

  ‘As for the slaveboy and the savage, they stayed together through many adventures. The rest . . . The rest you know.’

  ‘Great God.’

  ‘As for Theodosius the Great, Archbishop Ambrose was so disgusted with the massacre that he refused to give the emperor communion, refused even to admit him into his cathedral. A brave act. Eventually Theodosius got down on his knees, and begged for forgiveness. The Christian Church had conquered the Emperor.

  ‘But you see why my feelings about Rome must needs be . . . qualified.’

  Yes. I saw.

  10

  THE VIPER

  In my last encounter, I was summoned to speak with Attila himself. This came as a great shock to me. But he had heard I was the official Byzantine recorder, and so, as he said dryly, ‘History is in your hands.’ He wanted me to know some things - many things. We met after breakfast, and he was still talking, I was still writing, trembling less than at first, when the sun went down. Many of the things in this chronicle came from his lips: his boyhood, his struggles, his uniting of the Scythian tribes. It was a grand and terrible story, and the hours passed without my noticing. He expressed few opinions, and he asked no questions; but he answered mine willingly enough. One thing I wanted to know was his date of birth. I was there to assist the recording of the truth, as he saw it, and so he told me. At the end, he said I was free to talk to anyone in the camp, for he trusted his people’s discretion; then he gave me a small gold coin and dismissed me. He never even asked my name. The coin was beaded round the rim, and bore a crudely stamped eagle. It was an authentic and very rare Hunnic solidus.