The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

by Joan Schweighardt

  When we arrived below the nest that Hagen had singled out earlier in the day, Clumar made a bundle of the twigs, and touching his torch to it, passed it on to Hagen. Then he held the ladder steady while Hagen climbed. The bees stirred immediately, and in their great rush to flee from the smoke, many flew into the fire. We did not like to see them die. Though we had all suffered our share of their stings, their sweet gift was more than adequate compensation. They were the middlemen whose life-purpose was to bring Wodan’s honey to his people, just as we were the middlemen whose life-purpose was to generate a new kingdom of Burgundians. There was no one among us who failed to thank Wodan for sharing his honey-magic with the bees, for what is more wonderful than honey? But on this night, Hagen had no opportunity to offer his thanks. In fact, he was not even able to finish cutting into the nest. He was still up in the tree in the process when he saw the torches in the distance, far too many and too close together to be those of our fellow hive-hunters. He let out a call, like that of an owl, to alert whoever might be within earshot, and then he scrambled down the ladder, the pleasure of his task drained from his face. Unlike Gunner, who insisted that we could learn much from our alliance with the Romans, particularly their tool-skills and building-skills, Hagen despised the Romans. He argued that there was nothing to be learned from men who were content to live within walled cities. “Clumar,” he cried, “take my sister and Guthorm to your hut and keep them there until the Romans are gone.”

  Clumar stood for a moment with his mouth open, undoubtedly trying to find the words that would alert Hagen to the fact that he did not like to have Guthorm under his roof. He was a superstitious man, and I had many times seen him make the sign to ward off evil when Guthorm passed too close to him. But as there was nothing he could say that would not stir Hagen’s wrath, he sighed and turned to lead us away while Hagen took the torch and set off in the other direction to meet the Romans.

  As soon as Clumar had ushered us into his hut, he went out again into the night to tell the servants who had not gone into the forest that the Romans had arrived. The buzzing that ensued rivaled the one that the bees had made at the sight of the smoking twigs. As I expected, Clumar did not return, but as I did not like Clumar, I was glad to be left to fend for myself. I could forgive him for regarding Guthorm as an emblem of evil—he knew no better—but he seemed to regard all others likewise, though to a lesser degree. He held back from laughter and conversation, his small gray eyes always darting about so that no one could ever guess what he was thinking. I do not think I ever saw him smile. If a battle broke out, Guthorm and I would be better off without him.

  But it was unlikely that there would be a battle. After all, this was the Roman tax-collecting contingency, not the army. If Hagen had hidden me away, it was likely because of the rumors we had all heard about the Romans’ fondness for ‘barbarian’women. Before long I could see the Romans going by through a gap between the logs that made up Clumar’s wall. They were half-hidden behind the metal helmets and the metal vests—body walls, Hagen called them—which they wore over their tunics. There were perhaps fifty of them, and they rode in tight rows of five abreast, a pretty sight to see. At the rear of their assemblage was the horse-pulled wagon that would carry away our offerings, and behind the wagon Hagen appeared walking beside their leader, conversing with him in our language. When the Roman assemblage came to a halt, Hagen whistled for the servants. They came out from their huts hesitantly while the Romans dismounted. After tending to the Romans’ horses, they went off to the place where the honey and the other offerings had been stored.

  Gunner came into my field of vision, still carrying his honey vessel and dragging his ladder behind him. But he dropped these things at once so as to be able to greet the Roman leader with opened arms, as if he were a brother. I had wondered how Hagen had greeted the leader, but when I saw his eyes narrow as he watched Gunner, I knew that his own greeting had not been so affectionate. When Gunner and the Roman released each other, the Roman cried out an order to his men, and two of them struggled to lift a large wooden vessel out of the wagon. The Roman said something to Gunner which I could not hear but which made Gunner laugh abruptly. Then Gunner and the Roman began to walk in the direction of our hall while Hagen and the other Romans followed behind.

  I had assumed that the wooden vessel contained Roman wine, and I knew I was right when I heard the sound of laughter and shouting wafting down to me from the hall. In Worms, the Romans had never been so amiable, and we had never been so hospitable. Since it seemed the chances were good that the Romans would be spending the night, I began to look about for bedding for the drowsy Guthorm. I found only a cloak, a coarse, foul-smelling thing, and I spread it out on the earthen floor and made Guthorm lie down on it. Then I sang him Hagen’s hive-hunting song until he fell asleep.

  It was late and growing cold. Clumar’s fire needed replenishing. Since there was no wood stacked beside his hearth, I went outdoors. But there was no wood by the door either, and I did not like to rob the other servants of their night’s supply. I stood for a time in the darkness, until I had gathered enough courage to go up to where our own wood was stacked close to the hall door. I was so intent on not being seen through the lifted door that at first I did not notice the figure seated on a rock to the left of me. I gasped and dropped the logs I had already gathered, and they went rolling toward the black silhouette. “Sister?” it asked.

  I ran to Hagen’s side. He looked about, and seeing that no one was watching us, slid over and made room for me on the rock. Then he handed me his drinking horn. I took a sip, and realizing what it was, I spit it out immediately. Hagen laughed at me. “Do you not like the Roman wine?”

  “I like nothing about the Romans.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Then why must you drink their wine?”

  Hagen ran his fingers over my cheek. The wine made him smell bad. I could hear Gunner’s laughter distinctly above the din coming from the hall. “I like nothing about the Romans except their wine,” he said. “Their wine is good. Very, very good.” And he drained the rest from his horn.

  “And our brother?” I asked. “It seems to me that there is much he likes about the Romans.”

  Hagen looked at me. In the moonlight I could see the scar that divided his face in two, running down his forehead at an angle, across his nose, and down one cheek. He had received it long ago at Gunner’s hand, an accident which occurred when they were sparring. It made him look fierce, and it kept the women away from him. I did not usually notice it myself, for his face was otherwise handsome. He had a straight, strong nose and a prominent jaw. His lips were generous, and his eyes were very blue and large. On this night, however, the moonlight seemed to crawl into the hollows of his scar and settle there. “Do not underestimate Gunner,” he warned me. “He remembers all too well what the Romans did to us in the past. You can find uses for the skin and the teeth of the wolf and still hate the wolf, Gudrun.”

  “Aye, but to embrace the wolf?”

  Hagen glanced at the hall door. “Hush. You will be heard. Go away now. You should not even be here.”

  “I do not care if I am heard,” I said, but softly, for in part I did. And I would have said more had not Hagen clapped his hand over my mouth just then. Together we watched a young Roman come stumbling out of the hall with his drinking horn in his hand. He looked up at the stars for a moment and then made a sign with his free hand which I had never seen before. Then he staggered over to the oaks. We could hear him urinating behind one of them.

  “What sign was that that he made?” I asked when the Roman had gone back into the hall.

  “He was praying to one of his gods, I suppose.” Hagen began to laugh. “The Romans cannot hold their wine, you know. I hear they put their hands down their throats to make themselves vomit when they have drunk too much. Then they sleep, and when they awaken, they begin drinking all over again.”

  He went o
n laughing, so that I knew he’d had a bit too much of the Roman wine himself. When he was quiet again, I asked, “What do you mean, his gods?”

  “Did you think only Thuet peoples had gods?” he asked.

  “Do you mean to say the Romans pray to Wodan and Thunor and—”

  “Foolish girl, no. They have gods of their own.”

  “But how is that possible when our gods created the world and man to live in it?”

  Hagen slapped his knee and howled with laughter. “I had no idea my sister was so ignorant,” he cried merrily. “Go back to Clumar’s hut now and pray to Wodan for wisdom.”

  I got up briskly. “I will pray to Balder that my brothers will one day learn kindness,” I retorted, and I went off scowling, but full of love for Hagen. The thought of the Roman gods looking down from Valhalla, mingling with our own gods, or perhaps warring with them, began to frighten me when I could no longer hear Hagen’s laughter behind me, and I began to run.

  I lay for a long time shivering. I had left the logs behind, and now I could not muster the courage to go back for them. To keep from thinking of the Roman gods, I thought of Gunner and wondered whether he would seek to advance his alliance with the Romans. It seemed to me that this was his objective, and I realized all at once that he would think nothing of marrying me off to one of them if he thought a more fruitful alliance could thus be attained. This notion frightened me even more than that of Roman gods in Valhalla, and I snuggled up as close to Guthorm as I could on Clumar’s stinking cloak. In spite of my efforts to fall asleep, I found myself trying to imagine what it would be like to be married to a Roman. I knew little more about them than that they were ruthless and greedy and their women loved honey. I saw myself, in my mind’s eye, rubbing honey on my skin and praying to gods whose names and deeds were unfamiliar to me. In the background of my musings, I heard horses galloping through the pastures; the servants of our freemen were riding up on their masters’ horses to be taken back to the Western Empire along with our other offerings. I pitied the servants who would be leaving, and I prayed to Wodan that they would be well treated.

  I awoke before dawn, still upset and too cold to move a muscle. I realized that I had spent the entire night shivering. I could not remember my dreams, but I was certain that Gunner had been present in them and had married me off to a Roman after all. Again I heard horses, and I assumed that this was the Romans preparing for their departure. Since I was reluctant to leave Clumar’s hut until I was certain that the Romans had gone, I tried to go back to sleep. I closed my eyes and thought of Mother and wondered whether she too had been made to spend the night in one of the servants’ huts. I imagined that she was with Marta, safe and warm by the old woman’s hearth-fire. Thinking of the fire, I fell asleep again, but immediately I found myself lying in snow, surrounded by Romans, who, though I did not dare to look up at them, I recognized by their well-made boots. They were standing over me, talking about me in their language. I narrowed my eyes to slits so that they would not realize I was awake. And I prayed that they would soon tire of inspecting me and go away. And then, all at once, I was elsewhere, still lying on the cold ground, but this time in the high grasses at the moor. The Romans were gone, and instead I was surrounded by geese. Like the Romans, the geese were talking about me, but their language I could make some sense of. They were commenting on the fact that I was shivering and trying to determine what could be done about it. Then the leader among them suggested that they gather together and press themselves against me. This they did, and all at once I was warm and at peace. But then one of the geese bent his head over mine and kissed me gently on my cheek. Even in my dream state I recognized the kiss as a genuine one, and I floated up out of my dream. “Mother?” I mumbled, my eyes still closed because the dream seemed yet within my reach. I heard Guthorm’s deep-sleep breathing, but nothing else. I could feel the weight of the covering which had been placed over me, which I had mistaken for the gathering of geese. “Hagen?”

  Still there was no answer. Surely none of the Romans would have covered me and kissed me so gently. It was as quiet without as it was within, and I could feel daylight pouring in through the gaps in Clumar’s wall. I felt certain that the Romans had gone. I opened my eyes and studied the back of Guthorm’s head. His pale hair was matted; already he needed another bath. “Gunner?” I asked more loudly. But I knew it was not Gunner; Gunner seldom kissed me. Then it occurred to me that it must be Clumar, for who else would enter Clumar’s hut unannounced but Clumar himself? Outraged, I sat up at once and turned to confront him. And there, looking amused, was Sigurd.

  Now I believed myself still dreaming. But as I would not put the sight of such a phantom to waste, I threw myself into Sigurd’s arms, and there I learned that I was indeed awake. How we clung to each other, laughing like two children while we watched Guthorm come awake. To our further amusement, Guthorm at first merely stared at Sigurd, his eyes wide and his tongue making circles around the edges of the dark gap that was his mouth. Then he crawled out from under Sigurd’s cloak and into our embrace. I would have been happy to stay thus entangled forever, but after a moment Sigurd got to his feet, dragging Guthorm and me up with him. “Let us go quickly,” he said. “For all that I am worthy of you now, I would not want your brothers to find me here with you. I spent a part of the night watching from the edge of the forest. The Romans left shortly before dawn. Then I saw Clumar coming out from a hut which I did not recall to be his. I went to him, and he told me that you and Guthorm spent the night here.”

  I looked into his eyes and marveled that I could have ever imagined that he would fail at anything he attempted to do.

  We walked together, hand in hand, Sigurd and Guthorm and me, rounding the row of huts and heading up the hill to the hall. The sky was overcast now, and the air was cool and full of moisture. Hagen and Gunner and Mother were sitting outside the hall door, beneath the oaks, probably discussing the meeting with the Romans. Gunner was the first to look up. When he saw Sigurd, his mouth dropped open. Hagen, looking to see what had startled our brother, jumped to his feet and came running. Mother sat motionlessly, her mouth still set to form whatever word she had been about to say. I covered my own mouth with my free hand to conceal my pleasure.

  “Brother,” Hagen shouted. “You are back! You are alive!”

  “I have the dragon’s gold,” Sigurd declared.

  By this time Gunner, too, had found his feet. He reached Sigurd and embraced him heartily. “Let us go at once and offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving for your return before we hear another word,” he cried.

  “That would please me,” Sigurd said. He stepped forward and bowed before Mother.

  She lifted her chin and smiled, but I saw in her eyes that she had not counted on Sigurd’s return. “This is good news,” she said flatly. “I will see to the sacrifice.” She got up at once and started down the hill, calling for the servants as she went.

  Soon after, Mother and the servants emerged from the pastures with a good fat lamb, and we started down the hill to meet them. Then we all went together to the sacred grove not far from Father’s grave at the edge of the forest. Sigurd and Mother and my brothers and I entered the grove while the servants stood at its entrance, stretching their necks and pushing against one another. Since there had been no time to fashion a proper garland for the lamb, Mother called to one of the servants to pick her some flowers from outside the grove. She twined them together deftly and stuck them beneath the rope that had been knotted around the lamb’s neck. Then Gunner took the end of the rope and led the lamb to the stone altar at the far end of the grove. There he bowed before turning back to lead the lamb to the grove entrance. Three times he led the lamb to the altar and three times he led him away. The forth time, he lifted the lamb and held him up for all to see. The servants began to sing. Guthorm hummed and swayed happily at my side. Gunner placed the bleating, kicking lamb on the altar, and Hagen drew his sword, saying, as
he looked from one sacred tree to the next, “We thank you, Wodan, for the return of our brother and for the good deeds which he has done in your name. Accept this fat lamb as a gesture of our gratitude.” As he drove his blade into the lamb’s heart, the voices of our servants swelled. We lifted our own voices then, and together we sang Wodan’s praises while the lamb’s life-spirit rose, almost visibly, and his life-blood ran bright and red over the sides of the altar and onto the earth. Hagen withdrew his bloodied sword and held it up, and our hearts were glad together.

  When the last of its life-spirit had been absorbed by the spirits that inhabited the grove, the lamb stilled. Hagen cut into it and pulled out its heart and liver and lungs and entrails, the parts that Wodan loves best, and placed them in a heap on the altar. Then he smeared the blood from his hands onto each of the sacred trees while Gunner drew his sword and severed the head of the lamb, and, forcing the blade through the lamb’s skull, pinned it to the largest oak.

  Gunner called for fire, and one of the servants pushed through the mouth of the grove with an armful of twigs and logs. Another came forward with a torch, and the fire was ignited before the altar. And all the while we sang, lifting our voices to Valhalla. When the fire was hot enough, the lamb, which Hagen had flayed by then, was placed on the logs and roasted. We sang while it cooked and we sang while it cooled. Hagen ripped it into portions and passed one to each of us within the grove and then without to the servants. Our voices, harsh now from so much singing, quieted, and when every man and woman and child had received his share, they ceased altogether. Then, silent but much elated by the connection that we had made with the gods, we ate the flesh of the lamb in the cool dark womb of the grove.