Attila: The Judgement

by William Napier

  They pulled off the other bag to reveal an old warrior with fine long grey hair and oiled moustaches, his naked torso copper in the lamplight, as lean and hard as that of a man half his age. His arm muscles bulged and strained against the whip.

  ‘You are in no position to give orders,’ said Aëtius. ‘And I have no desire to know about your carnal preferences.’

  ‘Astur curse you,’ spat the old warrior. ‘Cut my throat and have done. But know that I have no fear of you or your women, who sneak about in the night like pigeon-livered slaves.’

  Jormunreik stepped nearer to him, but Aëtius held up his hand. He was beginning to enjoy this obstreperous old warrior’s company. Then Arapovian came forward, examining the old warrior’s face more closely.

  ‘You were at Viminacium. You met us on the road.’

  The Hun glanced up at him, uninterested.

  ‘You said the next time you met us, you would kill us.’ Arapovian’s eyes glimmered with cold mirth. ‘Well, here we are.’

  The Hun bared his teeth.

  Arapovian turned to the general. ‘This one is compensation for the woman. This one you can bargain with. He is a khan.’

  ‘You, your people will bargain for,’ said Aëtius. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I am the Lord Chanat, son of the Lord Subotai. In my youth I once visited your Ravenna, doing the bidding of King Ruga. I have never forgotten your city.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed. The foul stench of it stays in my memory still - worse than the stench of these sneak-thief women standing about me now.’

  Aëtius grinned. ‘If you think Ravenna smells bad, you should try Rome.’

  Chanat scowled at his flippancy. ‘In those days, the Romans tried to kill King Ruga’s nephew, the boy Attila.’

  Aëtius nodded. ‘I knew him once. We rode together.’

  Chanat looked momentarily puzzled as he scrutinised the Roman.

  ‘From what I have heard of those days,’ said Aëtius, ‘it was not so simple. King Ruga was not averse to his troublesome nephew . . . disappearing, one way or another. And he was very fond of Roman gold.’

  ‘You lie!’ Chanat struggled against his bonds, but Arapovian snatched at his whip and tightened it.

  ‘Ancient history,’ said Aëtius, waving his hand. ‘Is King Attila with you now?’

  ‘You think I would tell you if he was?’

  ‘Not really. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  Chanat snarled. ‘Now Attila Tashur-Astur is our King, and a Great Tanjou, and you tried to kill him again, in your sneak-thief, womanly way, to cut his throat as he lay sleeping, as you visited us in pretended peace and friendship. ’ He leaned forward and spat. ‘You failed, of course. At all times, Astur watches over him. Nothing can stand against him. And now he has come to kill you.’ He looked around. ‘All of you.’

  Aëtius ignored him. ‘So. We have ourselves a Hun khan, as well as one of his captured concubines.’

  ‘I have seven wives,’ said Chanat with dignity. ‘But it is long since I have known them.’

  Aëtius considered, then ordered Chanat taken to the dungeons. To the woman he said, ‘The sisters in the convent will care for you.’

  The woman looked after Chanat with something like agony on her face. ‘My lord!’ she cried. Then she turned desperately to Aëtius. ‘I will stay with him.’

  ‘You . . . you would go to the dungeons with him?’ Aëtius frowned. ‘But you mentioned a husband?’

  She spat. ‘A pig.’

  Chanat turned in the doorway, a grin of triumph on his broad, high-cheekboned face.

  Aëtius said, ‘I’ve heard of ravished maidens in old tales falling for their divine ravishers, but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘Your women would rather go with us, eh, Roman?’ crowed Chanat.

  Aëtius waved his hand irritably. ‘Take them away.’

  At dawn, he sat his horse at the gate, with Prince Theodoric and two of the wolf-lords. Lord Ariobarzanes came down the cobbled street to wish them well. He stopped beside Aëtius. His old hand shook on his walking stick, but his voice was even and his words uncompromising.

  ‘Not one breath of surrender, now,’ he said. ‘The men of Azimuntium do not surrender. Never, ever, ever. Remember our demands. We want our flocks and our herds returned to us, every single animal they carried off, and the shepherds they have enslaved. When that is done, their captive will be returned to them, this Chanat, and then the Huns may ride back to their own land unmolested. ’

  Aëtius smiled. He liked the old man’s attitude.

  ‘All barbarians are the same,’ said Ariobarzanes, ‘They despise weakness, they admire strength.’ His voice dropped to a mutter. ‘As old Rome did once.’

  Aëtius kicked his horse forward and they rode out, unarmed, under a fluttering white flag of truce.

  A gang of Huns on motley ponies immediately rode with them, arrows to the bow, aimed at their hearts.

  ‘There is no need. We have no weapons,’ said Aëtius.

  The Huns’ faces were expressionless and the light in their eyes burned hard and their bows did not waver. They were small compared to the wolf-lords, riding half-naked, their arms and chests pure strength and sinew.

  ‘Who is the leader of your battle group?’ asked Aëtius.

  One of the warriors indicated a black tent and grunted. They dismounted and were herded in. There in the half-light of early morning, beneath the smoke-hole of the tent, on a plain wooden stool sat the Lord Attila.

  He regarded them steadily. The atmosphere was very different from that of the embassy - the supposed embassy.

  No word was spoken for a time. And then another figure entered, a small, antic shaman with ribbons in his hair. His cheeks were very smooth and boyish but his eyes were old and cunning, and his hair bound up in a topknot was tatty grey.

  ‘The years roll back, Little Father,’ he murmured, coming close to Aëtius with careful steps and staring at him. ‘This fine old warhorse, I have seen him before, a young colt in the fields of the Huns.’ He glanced back at Attila. ‘He drew a sword, white boy drew a sword.’

  Attila’s glittering yellow eyes never left Aëtius’ face, but now he waved his hand and told the shaman to be silent.

  ‘Where it chatters, Little Bird, water’s but shallow.’

  The shaman disregarded him, and began to caper more and more, though slowly, an arthritic old clown on tired legs. ‘The years roll back, the years roll back. Yes, your uncle Ruga of blessed memory, uncle nuncle was he, he struck you to the ground, you were always a terror as a boy, scarce out of the womb and cut from the caul you were trouble. O Terror of the World, Great Tanjou, my Lord Widow-maker, Scourge of God and all your other magnificent titles which I forget now, he struck you, Uncle Ruga did, and white boy drew a sword in your defence. You hunted together, you frolicked, you did, on the sunny plains in your youth.’ Little Bird paused for breath. ‘I remember that big boar. Huge it was, and rancid-tasting by the time you dragged it home. What joker-gods look down! He was your friend, this one. Now look at you, like two old buffalo fighting over the herd!’

  There was a long silence, and then, as if he could not speak a word directly to Aëtius, Attila turned instead to Prince Theodoric.

  ‘So, a Visigoth prince once more in the camp of the Huns. I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance when you made your . . . embassy. I had other things on my mind, my impending assassination and so forth. Your name, boy?’

  The prince told him.

  ‘What verminous company you keep. Your men slew many of my men in the mountains.’

  ‘We were attacked.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you.’ Attila’s eyes glimmered. ‘You would make a precious hostage, would you not? Why should I release you?’

  ‘In exchange for your Lord Chanat,’ said Theodoric. Aëtius clenched his hands behind his back. Yes. The boy was doing well.

  ‘So,’ rasped Attila. ‘You ride with the Romans now?�
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  ‘My brother and I and our retinue ride as the friends of Aëtius.’

  ‘Friends and assassins?’

  ‘I knew no more of that low plot than did the master-general here.’

  ‘How many men left in your retinue?’

  Theodoric smiled. ‘Enough.’

  Attila smiled too, differently.

  ‘The Visigothic nation remains neutral,’ said the prince.

  Then Attila leaned forward, and his eyes burned, and all in the tent felt the ferocious power that was in him. His voice changed and his face darkened. He fixed the boy with his gaze. ‘You should ally with us. You should know which way the wind of history blows.’

  There was a silence and then Theodoric replied, with audible contempt, ‘My people ally with the Huns? I think not.’

  Attila sat back again. ‘Have a care, boy. I could send you back to your father as a barrel of chopped flesh.’

  ‘Then you would have the entire Visigothic nation against you, as well as the legions of Rome.’

  ‘The Huns have dealt with your nation before. Have we not harried you across all of Europe, from the shores of the Sea of Ravens westwards? You ran from us as if you were trying to catch the setting sun, wailing like women!’

  The boy’s blue eyes blazed, like fire seen through ice.

  Control yourself, lad, Aëtius willed him. He is only testing you.

  When the prince spoke again his voice remained calm. ‘You did not deal with us well in the mountains. The Visigoths will flee from you no more. The next time, like the last, we will turn and fight.’

  ‘That is not your decision, boy. Your father still rules the Visigoths, does he not? Unless you intend perhaps to usurp him?’

  Now Theodoric had the measure of Attila and his games. Calm was strength. He only replied, ‘Return the stolen flocks and herds to the people of Azimuntium, and the kidnapped shepherds, and we shall return your Lord Chanat to you. Then we shall ride away south.’

  Attila stroked his beard awhile and pondered.

  Someone else came into the tent, without requesting permission, and the little grey-haired shaman whimpered and fled out of the back. Even Aëtius blanched when he glanced at the newcomer. This was a Hun witch.

  She was very tall and thin, her chest flat and bony, her face like that of a corpse, her hair dyed an unnatural tawny red. She wore a sloughed snakeskin round her throat, and though she was very dark skinned her eyes were a pale blue. Everything about her was wrong. She strode over to Attila and spoke in his ear, her voice a strange, high insect whine. Aëtius thought he caught the name of Anashti, the moon goddess. As she spoke, she looked at Theodoric and showed her teeth. They were filed. Aëtius knew what she was saying, and hoped Theodoric didn’t. The lad was holding his nerve well so far. She was speaking of the deep, strong mana of sacrificing the first-born, especially the first-born of a king, and she held out a wooden cup.

  Attila looked at Theodoric. ‘Would you care for wine?’

  Theodoric did not hesitate. ‘I would not. It is poisoned.’

  The King laughed a harsh laugh. ‘You are not the greatest fool I have ever met. Yes, it is poisoned. You would have died in agony.’ He waved the witch away. ‘She is a jester, is she not? But she has no notion of politics and power. She thinks it can all be done by spells.’

  They remained silent. Then Attila stood.

  ‘Lord Chanat is worth many sheep. And I like men brave unto folly. Sometimes.’ With those words he turned at last to Aëtius, and handed him a note. ‘Take this to your pig of an emperor. You and I, we will meet again.’

  ‘On a battlefield?’ replied Aëtius quietly. ‘After a battle’s end? After the deaths of countless thousands of men?’

  ‘Life is sacrifice,’ said Attila. ‘The world is an altar of sacrifice.’

  Attila kept them waiting all day and on into dusk.

  Aëtius stood tirelessly on the battlements, waiting. The moon was not yet up, but he could imagine it glimmering across the Euxine Sea to the east, and shining blue-white on the snowy flanks of the Caucasus, and silvering the Danube delta, and that haunted White Island there where Achilles and Helen lived. Sailors said that they heard the sounds of their lovemaking as they sailed past, and saw Achilles’ sword play like a ghostly flame high in the rigging.

  Then Gamaliel came to him. The empress grew neither stronger nor weaker.

  Aëtius said nothing.

  ‘And Attila? Do you trust him?’

  ‘Not one inch,’ said Aëtius. ‘I know him of old. But horses can’t gallop up walls like these, and I saw no siege-engines. Even this little town would be hard to take without siege-engines.’

  ‘You observed well.’

  ‘One of the reasons I went to parley: to check out the camp.’

  Gamaliel was amused. ‘But this is only one battle group.’

  ‘One of many. The others will have the engines.’

  ‘And where are they?’

  Aëtius looked bitter. ‘Ask the citizens of Sardica, of Adrianople, perhaps even of Thessalonika. They will be fully experienced in the Huns’ use of siege-engines by now, and there is nothing we can do to help. The East has no army to speak of, only the last of the Imperial Guard, and any odd Isaurian auxiliaries we can round up to resist the attack on Constantinople itself.’

  ‘That is coming?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That is coming.’

  After a pause to digest this black news, Gamaliel said, ‘I used to pray that men would love God more than power.’ He paused. ‘I am still praying.’

  Aëtius only grunted.

  Gamaliel said, ‘Do you remember the other boy with you in the camp of the Huns?’

  ‘The Greek slave Orestes.’ He nodded. ‘He is still there. Older and balder.’

  ‘No, the Celtic boy, Cadoc, the son of that good officer Lucius.’

  ‘My God,’ said Aëtius softly, sad and still with memories. Never look back, they said, Not if you want to stay strong. But now . . . ‘I remember him, just.’ It seemed so long ago. Such length of time, and all so greatly changed. He ached with unaccountable longing. What is that longing? For another world.

  Then he straightened his shoulders. No. There was more to be done.

  As if reading his thoughts, Gamaliel said, ‘Things are coming to a great conclusion. An age of the world is ending, another is being born, and we are its unlikely midwives.’

  There was a stirring out in the dusk. The Huns were mounting up.

  ‘Riddle me no riddles, please,’ snapped Aëtius. ‘I’ve enough to think about.’

  ‘Do you remember the Last of the Sibylline Leaves? They are important. That boy, Cadoc, and his father Lucius before him, they are the last who remember them. The parchments were all destroyed, all but one, saved by General Stilicho himself. Lucius and Cadoc, in far and forgotten Britain, they are the living Last Sibylline Leaves.’

  Aëtius was tiring of the old man. ‘I don’t believe in sibyls and prophecies and spells. They are the things of childhood. I believe in a line of good infantry - or a column of Gothic wolf-lords, if it comes to it.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Gamaliel, ‘the Son of God was born under a star descried by eastern Magi, was he not? And of a virgin? According to the ancient Jewish prophecy?’

  ‘There’s religion and there’s superstition. Don’t confuse the two, old man. “By their fruits ye shall know them”.’

  Gamaliel raised his bushy eyebrows. Then he changed tack. ‘This Attila, he is a superstitious man, is he not?’

  Aëtius hesitated. ‘He has shamans and witches about him, yes, though he pretends to scorn them.’

  ‘You know he believes. His people believe in him, too, for now, and that he is the son of Astur, the All-Father, and possessed by the bloody spirit of Savash, their god of war. This is a struggle not just between armies, but between what people believe.’

  Torchlights were moving over the plain. Aëtius strode to the edge of the battlements to order the wolf-lords to
stand ready.

  ‘Remember the verse,’ urged Gamaliel after him. ‘“Four will fight for the end of the world, One with an Empire, One with a Sword, Two will be saved and one will be heard, One with a Son and One with a Word.” And also the verses about a King of Terror from the East—’

  ‘Baulk the main gates!’ roared Aëtius.

  ‘Sir!’ replied one of the men down below. It was the centurion, Tatullus. ‘Listen to that!’

  There was a kind of muffled movement, a tramping, and then he could hear it: the baaing of sheep.