Attila:The Scourge of God

THIRTY-FIVE

Following the return of the envoys from Constantinople, ensconced in his wife’s village near the Hun capital Bleda daily awaited news that his brother had been slain; whereupon he would proclaim himself sole ruler of the Huns. He had received confirmation from Chrysaphius that Constantius was both suitable and willing to carry out the deed. So when he received a summons from Attila to attend him in the palace, he was filled at first with trepidation: the plot had been discovered or miscarried, and his part in it exposed. Then, on reflection, he told himself that such a reaction was premature, that in all probability Constantius was simply biding his time, not yet having found a suitable opportunity. If Attila really suspected his brother of being involved in a plot to kill him, instead of a courteous messenger he would surely have sent armed guards with instructions for Bleda’s arrest. No, he was behaving as the guilty always tended to do: seeing in every trivial occurrence, proof that their crime had been discovered. In any event, he had no choice but to comply with his brother’s request. To ignore it would only be to invite suspicion — most likely needless.

Bleda’s fears were further dissipated by his brother’s cordial reception in his private chamber within the palace. Attila pressed him to partake of Roman wine and fine peaches from the orchards of Colchis¹, while soliciting his views on the deliberations of the Council, the pasturing of the royal flocks and herds, and the implementing of the Peace of Anatolius. At last, reassured that nothing of the plot had come to light, Bleda felt secure enough to risk a casual enquiry about Constantius. ‘Your young Roman envoy; as I recall, Brother, you entertained great hopes regarding his negotiations with Chrysaphius?’

‘Constantius, you mean? Yes, he performed most ably. By the way,’ Attila continued, as if recalling something that had slipped his mind, ‘I have arranged for you to meet him.’

Bleda was confused. All his assignations with the Roman had been, so far as he knew, outwith Attila’s ken. Why should his brother now be setting up a formal concourse? ‘For what reason should I wish to see Constantius — or he me, for that matter?’ he queried.

‘Why indeed?’ replied Attila enigmatically, throwing open the shutters of a window. ‘Unfortunately, he cannot come to you, but from where I stand he will be able to hear any words you wish to address to him.’

Suddenly afraid, Bleda hastened to the window and looked out. Before him was a grassy enclosure normally used for exercising horses. In the middle of the space had been erected a tall cross, on which a figure writhed and moaned feebly — Constantius.

‘Why are you showing me this?’ exclaimed Bleda in horror.

‘I think you know the answer, Brother. You didn’t really expect that Constantius, when confronted with proof of his treachery, would not seek to implicate you?’

‘Implicate me in what, Brother?’ blustered Bleda, trying to master the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I do not know what he has said about me. But whatever it is, he lies.’

‘Spare me your excuses,’ said Attila wearily. ‘Your plotting with Chrysaphius is known. During the envoys’ visit to the East, my spy overheard him discuss with Constantius a conspiracy to have me murdered. Your involvement in the plot was very clear. Also, a recent letter from the eunuch to yourself, establishing your guilt beyond doubt, was intercepted before you received it.’ He took from a chest a flask and a strangely shaped vessel, a drinking-horn made of glass. He emptied the flask’s contents into the horn, which he placed on a table. ‘I give you a choice, Brother. You can die with dignity, in the knowledge that your treachery will remain undisclosed. Or you can face a charge of treason and defend your actions before the Council. I need hardly point out that they will certainly find you guilty, or what the penalty will be.’

Bleda shuddered as the memory of a scene he had once witnessed rose in his mind: a condemned felon running between two lines of warriors armed with clubs, and gradually being beaten to a shrieking pulp.

‘The choice is yours, Brother,’ said Attila quietly, moving to the door.

‘What is it?’ whispered Bleda, pointing to the horn, with its semi-translucent, almost milky contents.

‘Hemlock. Compared to crucifixion or the gauntlet, it brings a merciful and, save at the end, painless death. First, you will become weak, so that if you attempt to walk, you will stagger. Then your hands and feet will begin to feel numb, and paralysis spread up your limbs to your body. Finally, your lungs will cease to work and you will die in asphyxial convulsions. A Greek called Socrates was condemned to die by this method. His crime was corrupting youth. An appropriate death for you to share considering your subverting of Constantius. When I return tomorrow, it will be to find you dead or dying, or to have you brought before the Council. It would be pointless for you to try to escape; the room is closely watched. May your last night on earth bring peace, Brother.’

After Attila had gone, Bleda sat staring at the horn in horrified fascination. Several times in the hours that followed, while sunlight slowly bled from the chamber to be replaced by the faint illumination of the stars, and the moans of Constantius came thinly to his ears, he approached the thing with hand extended, only to shrink away in terror at the last moment. Eventually, exhausted by fear and tension, he fell into a fitful sleep, waking as the first grey light of dawn filtered through the windows. Constantius’ cries had at last fallen silent. Presumably, he was dead and so at peace. Peace. Even if that was the blackness of eternal night, surely it must be preferable to prolonging his life for a few more wretched hours, which was all he could look forward to if he refused the hemlock. Before his resolution could falter, Bleda grasped the horn and drained it in a single draught. Soon, a not unpleasant tingling began in his toes and fingers, to be succeeded by a creeping numbness. .

Bleda’s death went unlamented. His contribution to the achievements of the dual monarchy had been negligible, eclipsed by the mighty exploits of his brother. Nevertheless, whatever his deficiencies as a ruler might have been in life, in death he was accorded a funeral befitting a King of the Huns. If anyone suspected that Attila had played a part in his brother’s death, they remained silent — less, perhaps, from any fear of retribution, than from indifference. Bleda had been neither loved nor respected, and, besides, possession of the Sacred Scimitar conferred on Attila an authority believed to be divine.

Attila was now sole monarch of the Huns, the undisputed ruler of a realm stretching from the Visurgis² in the west to the Oxus in the east; between Scandia in the north and Persia in the south. It should have been a moment to savour. But the knowledge brought him no satisfaction, was as gall and wormwood on the tongue. For his dream of greatness for his people lay in ruins, past any hope of restoration.

¹ Trans-Caucasia. Colchis, the legendary location of the Golden Fleece, was famous for its fruit.

² The Weser.