Attila:The Scourge of God

FIFTY-ONE

Fear gripped Attila as he awoke. He could not move. Every muscle was immobile, as though his whole body were clamped by bands of iron. He willed his flesh to respond; slowly, slowly, beginning with his hands and feet, the power of movement returned until he was able, painfully and stiffly, to rise from his couch. The condition, brought on by over-taxed muscles reacting after a long and punishing lifetime in the saddle, had begun some years ago and had gradually worsened, until now he dreaded retiring each night in case the morning found him alive but paralysed. He could imagine no greater horror. It would be like being buried alive. No, worse; because then the agony would swiftly pass, whereas this would be a living death.

Calling for his horse, he rode out from his palace far into the steppe, not drawing rein until he reached the foothills of the Carpathus, his refuge when he wished to be alone to commune with himself. In a mood of quiet desperation, he reviewed the happenings of recent months, and the likely shape of events to come. After the defeat by Aetius, he would have desired nothing better than to make peace with the Romans and spend the remainder of his days consolidating his great empire, and perhaps trying to salvage something of his abandoned plans for a Greater Scythia. But that path was closed to him for ever. Fate had decreed that, however much he might wish it otherwise, he must always lead his people in never-ending wars of conquest. So, tired and dispirited, he had last year invaded Italia. Aetius’ federate allies refused to serve outwith Gaul; with a limited number of Roman troops he could only harass, not seriously impede, the Hunnish horde. Worldly arms proving ineffective, the Romans had resorted to spiritual weapons; the fierce old pope (aptly named Leo, Attila thought), had met him at Lacus Benacus,¹ urging him to withdraw forthwith, or risk incurring divine punishment. Rather than God’s wrath, however, it was the destruction of Aquileia, the sacking of Mediolanum and Ticinum,² and the partial payment of Honoria’s dowry, commuted to gold, that had encouraged Attila to return home, without loss of face. But that was not enough. Even now, the Council was pressing for a fresh assault on Italia, should the Senate not deliver up Honoria herself.

He was, he thought with weary resignation, like the sharks that swim in Ocean, the mighty sea encompassing the earth: doomed to keep moving or sink into the vast depths and die, crushed by the unimaginable weight of water above. What had it all been for? he wondered. He was the oldest man he knew, yet his long life had accomplished nothing of lasting value. He had fame; the name of Attila would echo down the ages. But it was a fame based on the butchering of tens of thousands, of countless cities razed and lands laid waste. Was that a fame worth striving for? His was a barren legacy. Those closest to him he had lost: his brother Bleda, whose life he had been forced to take; Aetius, his one true friend, now become his deadliest foe. The vast empire he had forged, by leadership and ruthless will alone — could that survive his death? Or would his sons quarrel over their inheritance and, weakened and divided, fail to stop the subject nations breaking free and tearing it apart? Ellac and Dengish, his ablest sons, were brave and resolute, but in truth probably lacked the force of character to unite their siblings and hold the huge fabric together.

Sadly, he turned his horse’s head for home. He had little inclination to return, but today was his wedding-feast, the bride, the latest of many, a young girl named Ildico. She had been chosen by the Council, Attila suspected, to prove to the Huns that their King, though old, was still virile and potent. He felt a flash of resentment that it had come to this: paraded like a stud bull at a market, to gratify the expectations of his subjects who, in their ignorance, needed the myth of an all-powerful monarch to sustain them. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he was coming to resemble King Log in the fable by that Greek slave.

Arriving back at his capital late in the afternoon, Attila was greeted by a great throng of women. Forming long files, and holding aloft white veils of thin linen so as to cover the spaces between the columns, they preceded Attila to his wooden palace, while choirs of young girls marching beneath the linen canopies chanted hymns and songs. Outside the principal gate, surrounded by attendants and with the wedding guests ranged behind, waited his new bride. A slave presented Attila with a goblet of wine, raised on a small silver table to a height convenient for the King as he sat his horse. Attila touched the goblet with his lips, bowed briefly to his wife-to-be, a frightened-looking youngster scarcely visible beneath layers of bridal finery, and dismounted.

A shaman performed a brief marriage ceremony, then the couple, followed by the bride’s retinue and the guests, proceeded through the gateway and into the great hall, bright with wall-hangings and Oriental carpets, and lined with tables for the wedding guests. As at the reception for the Roman envoys five years before, the royal table, raised on a dais above the level of the rest, was laid with wooden cups and platters, in contrast to the gold and silver vessels on the other tables.

Punctuated by performances of minstrels, clowns, and jugglers, course followed course in monotonous plenty; each was a variation on mainly three ingredients, mutton, goat’s flesh, and millet. Toasts, in fermented mare’s milk, millet beer, and Roman wine — to Attila, to his bride, to each member of the bride’s family, to the prominent nobles among the guests — were proposed and returned in an interminable succession. Although, as was his wont, he ate and drank sparingly, the sheer number of toasts and courses began to tell on even Attila’s iron constitution. But, he being host and bridegroom, courtesy compelled him to sample every serving and each health drunk; nor could he decently retire before the conclusion of the feast. At last, as the first rays of dawn began to filter through the shutters of the hall, the final course was cleared away and, ill and exhausted, Attila was able to retire with his bride to the bedchamber.

With enormous thankfulness, the king lay down on the bed, indicating to Ildico that, instead of joining him, she should rest on a nearby couch. He felt a pang of compassion for the poor trembling child, waiting to be ravished by a man old enough to be her grandfather. She need have no fear. Let her choose some handsome young page to be her bedmate, and, to keep the Council and the people happy, any offspring be passed off as Attila’s. A smile played briefly round the grim old warrior’s lips as sleep claimed him.

Attila awoke, conscious of a terrible lancing pain beneath his breastbone. He tried to call out, but only a feeble croak issued from his throat. When he tried to rise, his stiffened muscles refused to obey his will. The pain increased, becoming unendurable. Suddenly, something seemed to tear inside his chest and his gullet filled with warm liquid; he tried to breathe, found himself choking. .

Later that day, concerned about his master’s non-appearance, Balamir, Attila’s loyal and devoted groom, broke into the royal bedchamber and found the King dead, lying in a great pool of blood. Ildico was crouched beside him, her head hidden by a veil. It was clear that an artery had burst, drowning Attila in his own blood.

The funeral was of a scale to reflect the King’s mighty exploits. His body was solemnly exposed beneath a silken canopy; the nomads shaved their hair and gashed their faces, while chosen squadrons wheeled round the corpse, chanting a funeral song. The corpse was enclosed within three coffins: of gold, of silver, and of iron, then placed within the dry bed of the River Tisa, which had been diverted from its course by captive Romans. The waters were then restored to their natural channel and the prisoners executed, that the spot should remain secret for ever.

As news of the King’s death spread throughout the Roman world, it was everywhere greeted by a vast collective sigh of relief — nowhere more than in the East, on which Attila had vowed to wreak terrible revenge, for its defiance in withholding tribute.

¹ Lake Garda.

² Pavia.