Attila ath-1

by William Napier

  The Roman boy mounted, too, on his taller bay mare, and they sat for a while and looked across the darkening steppe.

  At last Aetius said quietly, ‘My father died the summer before last. I have never seen his grave.’

  They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Aetius wheeled his horse round alongside Attila’s and they rode back into camp side by side.

  For a week more Attila was permitted to mourn the death of his father, then it was time for the ceremony. He had known that it would come soon…

  He was grooming Chagelghan with a bristle brush when one of the warriors came cantering over. He reined in and waited for Prince Attila to speak first.

  Attila jerked his head in enquiry.

  ‘It is time,’ said the warrior. ‘Your uncle the king and the holy men have decreed it.’

  The boy nodded. He patted Chagelghan on her flanks, and whispered into her flicking ears one last time.

  It was time for the ceremony of manhood and the Kalpa Olumsuk: the Death of the Heart.

  It reminded Aetius of a Roman triumph, the way the people formed up alongside the wide ceremonial way to the Stone, while the boy processed between them. But the singing of the harsh, pentatonic songs and the wailing and keening of the women was anything but Roman. And the grim-faced priests of the tribe who followed behind, the front of their heads shaven and then pasted with blood-red paint, naked to the waist, wearing belted kilts hung with feathers and animal skulls, reminded him in no way of the well-born patricians who served as priests in the Christian churches of Rome.

  Attila led Chagelghan close behind him, and his expression betrayed nothing. Any emotion except rage was unfit for a man.

  Aetius had asked what the ceremony entailed, but none would tell him. It was his own slaveboy, the brown-eyed, soft-voiced Cadoc, who said something to him about it.

  ‘For many people, to become a man you must know your heart. But for the Huns, to become a man you must kill your heart. You must kill the one thing in the world that you love most.’

  Now Aetius pushed through the crowd of chanting and ululating tribespeople, and watched in dawning horror as Attila drew his treasured mare to a halt before the great grey Stone at the end of the processional way. For the last time he patted her smooth white flanks. The crowd fell silent. There was a terrible tension in the cool spring air, and a sombre silence as once more they witnessed this ceremony that turned a boy into a man.

  Attila kept his eyes downcast. His horse stood patiently by. At last he reached up and drew the long, curved sword from the scabbard that hung at his back. Without a moment’s hesitation, all in the same swift movement, he brought the bright clean blade down upon Chagelghan’s patiently bending neck. Her front legs gave way and she stumbled to her knees, her big velvet eyes looking stricken and pained, not understanding. The boy brought the sword down again with all his might and with a terrible cry. The deep wound he had cut into the mare’s neck went far deeper this time, and her spinal chord was severed. She sank down into the dust and oblivion. The boy cut down once more, and again, and again, crying words no one could understand, until at last the head was completely severed from the slashed and ragged neck. He tossed the bloody sword upon the Stone, and knelt before it. The crowd erupted into wild cheering and ululation.

  Two men of the tribe seized the kneeling boy and dragged him to his feet. They raised him up so that he sat on their shoulders, and half walked, half ran back down the processional way, the people strewing their path with bright spring flowers, and tossing coronets of woven grasses at the boy’s bowed head.

  Now he was again one of the tribe. Now he was truly of the People, a prince of the royal blood, and a proven man.

  2

  THE TENT OF THE WOMEN

  That night there was great feasting in the tent of the people. The men drank and roared and sank their teeth into the roasted flesh of eight different kinds of animals, horses included. The women regarded the noisy excesses of their husbands with a certain tolerance, for once. Then there was potent koumiss, fermented from sweet mare’s milk, which set them all dancing in the middle of the tent, and grabbing the captured dwarves they had enslaved and ordering them to dance. The boldest men made everyone laugh by tossing the dwarves to and fro like sacks of dried grass.

  At the king’s high table, along with other members of the royal family, sat a boy only a little older than Attila, but very different in demeanour. His name was Bleda, and he was Attila’s elder brother by two years. He sat grinning stupidly to himself for much of the time, and ate so much that at one point he had to go outside to be sick. When he came in again, he fell upon his food as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He and his younger brother seemed to have little to say to each other.

  King Ruga did not dance, but he certainly roared and guzzled and drank immense quantities of koumiss. Attila sat obediently nearby, eating and drinking little. Once he looked up because he could feel eyes upon him, and he saw that the Roman boy, picking carefully at a leg of mutton on the bone, was watching him with a certain expression on his face. Suddenly the roaring in the tent was very far away, and Aetius with his grave blue eyes was very near. Attila nodded slightly to him. Aetius put a strip of roast mutton in his mouth, and nodded back equally slightly.

  The feast went on.

  Attila’s cup was refilled from behind, and glancing back he saw that it was Orestes. The slaveboy managed a smile. Attila tore off a strip from his own haunch of venison and passed it to the boy. Feeding slaves at a feast was strictly forbidden, but Attila didn’t care. Orestes took it and guiltily popped it in his mouth. Then, trying not to look as if he was chewing, he moved on down behind the lords and warriors of the tribe, refilling their goblets as he went.

  Attila took another sip of koumiss and his hunched shoulders relaxed a little. Not everything he loved was destroyed.

  And then it was the moment that he dreaded almost as much as the Death of the Heart.

  Ruga stood up and held his goblet aloft. He staggered a little into the man next to him, and was helpfully pushed upright again, and then he roared, ‘Today, my nephew Attila has become a man!’

  Everyone cheered and shouted and some threw chunks of food by way of celebration. Bleda threw a gnawed deerbone along the high table, which would have struck Attila in the face if he hadn’t ducked. His brother hooted with mirth.

  ‘Today he has bloodied his sword at the Sacrificial Stone,’ cried Ruga. ‘Today he has shown himself a warrior who scorns even his own heart.’

  There was more, still louder acclamation.

  ‘And tonight… ’ said Ruga, allowing for a dramatic pause, ‘tonight… he goes for the first time to the Tent of the Women.’

  At which the entire tent erupted into deafening applause.

  Attila bent his head and took another, longer sip of koumiss. He could feel it warm in his throat and in his belly. It felt good. He took another. He felt he was going to need it.

  There tumbled into the middle of the tent an extraordinary figure in a motley of fur and feathers, bright ribbons wound round his top-knot and with a manic grin on his face. It was Little Bird, the mad, all-licensed shaman of the People. He whooped with laughter and clapped his hands, and sang a song about how the noble Prince Attila must go and swive in the tent of the women, for now he was a man.

  ‘And you must get many sons, for there are not enough to go round,’ cried Little Bird.

  Ruga glared and shifted in his seat, but the shaman went on.

  ‘And there must be more babies born, for you know that there are many graves yet to fill, and we wouldn’t want the earth growing hungry.’

  People laughed uncertainly at Little Bird’s jokes, for they were always strange and disturbing. But then they drank more koumiss, and solaced themelves with drunkenness, and laughed more and more at the cruel jokes and songs. Little Bird laughed, too, though he never ate or drank a single drop.

  The Tent of the Women was a great white circular yurt, with
a central pole made from an entire fir tree. It stood at the centre of the Compound of the Women, which was where the female captives and slaves were kept, jealously guarded. Hun wives, of course, lived with their husbands in their own tents, often having to share space with concubines and slavegirls picked up in the wars. But the Compound of the Women belonged to the king alone, and it was in his gift to permit his family or guests to enjoy its pleasures.

  Aside from the Tent of the Women, there lived Ruga’s own personal concubines, whom none might touch or even look upon, jealously guarded day and night by castrated slaves. But so far, since the accession of the king, nearly a year ago, not a single one of his concubines, or his wives, had yet become pregnant. But it was not considered too wise to raise the matter.

  The cool night cleared Attila’s head a little, and he sucked air deep into his lungs. He could feel the meat and koumiss sitting heavily in his belly, but his blood coursed hotly around his body, and he felt that, though he would not go quite fearlessly into the Tent of the Women, nevertheless he would go in not visibly trembling.

  The two huge, armed eunuchs who guarded the yurt grinned and made ribald comments as they unlaced the tent flaps and let him step inside.

  It was dimly lit within, and a fire burnt near the middle, the smoke stealing out through a hole in the roof. Round the central tentpole were spread huge mounds of animal furs, and on them lay some of the women. Others lay further off round the sides of the tent, dozing or gossiping in low voices, filing their nails with sandstones, or combing and braiding each other’s hair by lamplight. The air was dreamy with woodsmoke and hair oil and the light, soft aroma of women.

  Two women arose and came over, both some years older than him. They smiled and held out their hands. One was a Circassian, perhaps, with pale blue eyes and very fair hair and complexion. The other was darker, surely from the empire, perhaps from the east. She wore heavy gold earrings and she touched him brazenly, her painted fingernails bright in the lamplight, her hands running down over his chest.

  But most of the women were not like that. The Tent of the Women was no Roman bordello, and the air was heavy also with sadness and captivity. Many of the women lay and dreamt of their lost husbands and children, their vanished villages and their homelands far away. Many had come here by way of war and atrocity, and few came to caress their new master with brightly painted fingernails.

  The boy moved away from the painted eastern girl and the Circassian, whose faces fell in dismay and scorn as he turned aside. He went round the tent in the shadows, and some of the women stirred and looked at him, and his confusion pulled inside him; his body hotly flushing at the thought that any – that all these women could be his for the taking. That was why so many men strove to be kings. But he knew none of them was here for any reason but by the sword.

  At last his eyes settled upon a girl huddled in the corner, buried in woollen wraps drawn up round her shoulders and even over her mouth. Her long hair spread out over them and her eyes were lowered. Then she looked up, and he saw her large, haunted eyes in the gloom, her narrow face, and he thought back to another girl, many months ago. He reached out and touched her, and slowly she let the woollen wraps fall and got up from her couch.

  Some of the other women had gathered round, cooing and giggling, and the eastern woman with the painted nails was already beckoning them towards a fur-covered couch. As if it was the custom for a man to take his pleasure here with any woman he chose, while the other women gathered round and praised him, their eyes shining with fake lasciviousness, driven only by their desperate desire to be moved from one tent to another: from the herdlike Tent of the Women to one of the private tents of the wives and concubines.

  Attila, flushed though he was with koumiss, balked at the idea of such openness. He shook his head at the other women, took the girl’s pale hand, led her away behind one of the hangings where they slept, and drew it across behind them.

  The other women returned to their couches and waited. They would spend their whole lives waiting, until they were too old, when they would be sold as household slaves for less than the price of a horse’s corpse.

  Attila drew the girl’s shift up over her head and looked at her for a long time. She looked steadily, silently back. At last he pushed her down onto the couch and began to kiss her. He paused for a moment, raising his head and looking down at her. Still a little overawed by the entire experience of the Tent of the Women, he began to mumble something about they didn’t have to… everything, if she, and he was sorry…

  She reached up and pulled him down again. He was surprised and thrilled to feel her kissing him back with ardour. Then she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him aside hard.

  ‘What?’ he said bewildered, sitting up.

  She laughed softly. ‘We don’t have to… everything…I’m sorry… ’ she mimicked cruelly.

  She leant over him and pulled at the lacing on the front of his shirt. ‘How do you know I don’t want to as well?’ she said, arching her eyebrows. Then she ripped his shirt off over his head, rolled on top of him and straddled his bare chest with her naked thighs. ‘I might enjoy it sometimes, too,’ she said.

  The boy stared up at her open-mouthed. Then her mouth closed on his, and he could think no more.

  Attila had his own tent, and the girl to warm his couch for him from then on.

  ‘It’ll soon be the raiding season again,’ said Ruga, slapping him violently on the back. ‘I expect you to ride out and bring me back ten more whores to replace her. She was a nice bit of flesh.’

  The boy smiled politely.

  3

  CHANAT

  Nearly a month later, a single rider, naked to the waist, with his hair worn long and oiled and his moustache luxuriant, rode into the city of Ravenna. The guards blocked his path at first, but when he said who he was from they reluctantly allowed him to pass, albeit accompanied by an armed escort.

  At last, deprived of his horse, thoroughly searched for weapons – he carried none – and obliged to don a white cloak over his sinewy shoulders for the sake of decency, he was allowed into the presence of the Emperor of Rome.

  The emperor’s sister was also present. A woman – seated on her own throne, as if the equal of a man! These Romans, thought the warrior with distaste.

  He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, and instead of keeping his eyes respectfully bowed to the elaborate mosaic floor he dared to look the Divine Emperor Honorius in the face.

  These barbarians, thought the emperor with distaste.

  ‘ Asla konusma Khlatina,’ said the warrior. ‘ Sizmeli konusmat Ioung.’

  There was some uncourtly confusion while the palace chamberlains scuttled about looking for an interpreter who could understand the ugly language of the Huns. An awkward silence reigned meanwhile in the vast, dimly glittering Chamber of the Imperial Audience. The messenger’s eyes never left the face of the emperor. It was intolerable. Honorius looked down into his lap. His sister stared coldly back at the Hun messenger. His bold, slanted eyes reminded her unpleasantly of the eyes of another, younger visitor from the steppes.

  At last an interpreter was found, and arrived in the Chamber looking frankly terrified. He stood trembling, some steps behind the Hun warrior, and waited for him to speak again. When the warrior repeated his words, the poor man looked even more stricken at the unenviable prospect of having to translate such impertinent words to the frosty Imperial Throne.

  ‘ Asla konusma Khlatina,’ repeated the warrior. ‘ Sizmeli konusmat Ioung.’

  The translator stammered, ‘He says, “I do not speak Latin. You must speak Hun.”’

  ‘We had already surmised his ignorance of the learned tongues,’ cut in Galla Placidia.

  The emperor glanced nervously at his sister, and then turned to the messenger and, via the interpreter, offered his greetings.

  ‘Likewise,’ said his sister, ‘our greetings to your king, the noble Ruga.’

  The warrior did not off
er greetings in return. There was a further silence, further moments of excruciating embarrasment, for all, it seemed, except the warrior himself.

  At last Princess Galla said to the interpreter, ‘Do you think you could trouble him to inform us why we are so blessed with his gracious presence, on this particular day? I can’t imagine that he has ridden all this way from God knows what lawless outer darkness, just to tell us that he knows no Latin.’

  Looking shakier than ever, the interpreter prompted the Hun.

  The warrior remained inscrutable. At last he said, ‘My name is Chanat, the son of Subotai.’

  Galla arched her eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of your father’s acquaintance.’

  Chanat ignored her sarcasm. ‘I come with a message from my king.’

  The emperor quivered a little. His sister’s lips tightened, becoming more bloodless than ever, but she said nothing.

  ‘One moon since,’ said Chanat, ‘the king’s nephew, Attila, son of Mundzuk, returned home to the camp of the Huns, beyond the Kharvad Mountains.’

  There was silence.

  ‘He told us that he had escaped from being a hostage in this land, that you Romans had plotted to kill him.’

  ‘He lies!’ cried Galla Placidia.

  Reluctantly, Chanat supposed that, if the woman addressed him, he must address her. These Romans… ‘He is a prince of the royal blood,’ he said calmly. ‘He does not lie.’