Attila:The Scourge of God

THREE

The first the bear knew of something being wrong, was when a chamois — a creature not normally found this far down the mountain — trotted across the glade he was resting in. The wind changed; snuffing the air, he caught a whiff of the hated man-scent. Instinct prompted him to retreat downhill, but intelligence combined with experience told him that that way lay death. To survive, he must take cover and let the hunters pass him, or break through them to the safety of the higher slopes.

He was a huge animal; at twenty, past his prime, but still extremely powerful and with his cunning unimpaired. These traits he owed to his inheritance. He was perhaps the great-great-grandson of a pair whose strength and intelligence alone had ensured survival from the Roman venatores, gangs who, until a few years previously, had been employed in large numbers by contractors to capture wild beasts for the games. Their depredations over centuries had wiped out most large animals from the Baltic to the Sahara.

Moving with surprising agility, the bear began to climb, looking for a suitable spot where his great bulk could be concealed.

‘Get back, Roman dog.’

‘All right, I can hear you, Hun savage.’ Using the most insulting gesture he knew, Carpilio extended the index and little fingers of his left hand at Barsich, the beater immediately to his right. Nevertheless, he obediently backed his horse until the other’s signal told him he was once more in line with the other beaters.

He and Barsich, a Hun lad of his own age, had become firm friends during the hunt, now in its final day. Sitting among the adult hunters round the evening camp fires, the two boys had shared their food, chunks of mutton roasted on sticks over the embers, and swapped lies about boyhood exploits. During the day, when unobserved by their seniors they had shown off to each other, making their horses caracole and dance near cliff-edges, or swinging under their bellies then remounting at full gallop.

Carpilio couldn’t remember being happier. He had accompanied his father, Aetius, on a diplomatic trip beyond the Danubius river to visit the general’s friends, the Huns. He thought with quiet glee of his schoolfellows back in Ravenna, scratching away at their waxed tablets under the ever-present threat of the master’s birch. Even that snivelling little beast Valentinian would be hard at it. Everyone had heard and laughed about the Emperor’s misadventure with the chickens, and that his Greek tutor had been replaced by a stern disciplinarian imported from Rome. Meanwhile, his formal Roman dalmatic exchanged for baggy trousers and loose tunic, Carpilio was enjoying a glorious freedom, with nothing to do all day but ride, swim, wrestle, and shoot, with other boys. His greatest joy had been riding the Arab-Libyan stallion that was a gift from Attila, his father’s closest friend among the Huns, nephew of Rua, an important chieftain. The Arab showed as much endurance as the hardy though ill-conformed Hun horses, but unlike them displayed spirit and intelligence — invaluable assets in an animal with whom a rider could establish rapport.

The hunt was the climax of the visit. Five days previously, the Huns and their Roman guests had ridden out from their encampment to form a huge circle, extending for many miles, among the wooded foothills of the Carpathus mountains. The circle then began to contract, with the result that the animals within it were driven into a smaller and smaller area which eventually became the scene of mass slaughter. The secret of a successful hunt lay in ensuring that the containing cordon remained intact, with no gaps where animals could slip through. Carpilio marvelled at the skill and discipline with which the beaters — young men and boys with a stiffening of veterans — maintained the line over difficult terrain: ravines, rivers, dense scrub, and clumps of woodland.

The line was moving again. Using only the lightest knee-pressure, Carpilio guided his mount down a scree-covered incline. Away in the distance, flashing sunbursts marked the course of the Tisa. Beyond the river stretched the steppe, a sea of grass rolling to the far horizon, its wind-rippled surface creating an uncanny illusion of waves. A thousand feet below, Carpilio could see the natural amphitheatre that would form the killing-ground. Ahead, the thickets boiled with game, with here and there a deer or goat-antelope breaking cover to race across a clearing. Excitement surged through Carpilio. Like the other boys, he would not be allowed to touch large or dangerous animals such as bison, lynx, or wolf; those were reserved for adults. But there would be plenty of pickings for the youngsters: marmots, blue hares, and the smaller hoofed creatures.

‘Carpilio!’

The young Roman looked back. Above him, just beginning to descend the scree, was Aetius, mounted on Bucephalus, his favourite steed. Beside him rode Attila, a short but powerful figure, with a huge head and immensely broad shoulders.

‘Good hunting, Father,’ Carpilio called eagerly, returning the general’s wave.

‘The same to you, son.’

At the bottom of the slope, the line of beaters paused to straighten out, the delay allowing Aetius and Attila to close the gap, then it pressed on into a tract of dense-packed bush.

Suddenly, from a copse directly to Carpilio’s fore, burst an enormous brown bear, the biggest animal the boy had ever seen. With its powerful muscles bunching and sliding beneath the shaggy pelt, its little red eyes blazing with fury, its open jaws revealing its vicious fangs, the creature was terrifying. Carpilio was gripped with paralysing fright and his bowels seemed to turn to water. He felt the horse beneath him start to tremble. On either side of him, he was aware of the young beaters’ mounts beginning to rear and plunge. Knowing that a horse’s instinct is to flee when faced with danger, but aware too that attempted flight, with the bear directly in his path, was probably his worst option, he placed a reassuring hand on the stallion’s neck. Such was the empathy he had already established with the animal that it quietened immediately.

‘Hold still!’ roared a mighty voice in Hunnish — Carpilio had picked up enough of it to understand the words. Attila kneed his horse into the line of panicking beaters. ‘Present your lances; he won’t face the points.’

But the advice went unheeded. The line wavered, then broke, as first one youth then another dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and bolted. In a few moments, all the beaters in sight of the bear, except Carpilio, were galloping pell-mell for safety. Last to flee was Barsich who, turning in the saddle, presented to his friend a face contorted by terror and anguished guilt. Left to confront the enraged bear were Carpilio, his father, Attila, and an elderly foot-retainer with three hunting-dogs in leash.

The old man loosed the dogs, huge, wolf-like brutes with spiked collars. They flew at the bear, which reared up on its hind legs, displaying to the full its awesome size and menace. A forepaw armed with sickle-like claws flicked out; the foremost dog cartwheeled in the air, its back broken like a dry stick. Undeterred, the remaining pair leapt at their quarry, sinking their teeth into its flank and haunch. With an ear-shattering roar of pain and rage, the bear struck its tormentors with those terrible claws. One spun to earth, howling, the pink coils of its intestines spilling from a gashed belly; the other dropped lifeless, its skull stove in like a crushed eggshell.

‘Keep still, boy,’ Carpilio heard his father whisper as the bear turned its attention to its human adversaries.

Attila charged, his lance aimed at the bear’s chest. As the point struck home, in a blur of movement too fast for the eye to follow a paw connected with the horse’s head, hurling rider and mount to the ground. Towering above them, the lance embedded in its body, the dying monster raised its arms to smash the life from the man pinned helplessly beneath the screaming, blinded horse. But before it could deliver the death-blow, Aetius, vaulting from the saddle, ran forward to confront it. Head swinging to face this new opponent, the bear roared, blood gushing from its gaping jaws. Simultaneously, Aetius thrust upwards with his spear. Impelled with all the power of a strong and desperate man, the blade drove through the creature’s palate deep into its brain. For a moment, the stricken animal stood still. Then it swayed, and toppled with a crash that shook the earth.

Like ripples from a stone dropped in a pool, a hush spread through the assembled tribesmen. All, on horseback as tradition dictated, were from the same clan as the disgraced beaters. Headed by Rua, the venerable leader of the chief division of the Hun Confederacy, those who would decide the fate of the offenders filed in cavalcade into the central space cleared for them: Attila and his brother Bleda, Aetius, and five senior elders. The culprits, ten in number, cowered bound and terrified on the ground. Carpilio, as the one beater involved in the incident who had stayed at his post, and was therefore an important witness, was also present.

‘We’re not here to discover the guilt or innocence of these boys,’ announced Rua, speaking in a surprisingly loud, clear voice for one so old. ‘Everyone knows they ran away, thus putting at risk the lives of our Roman guests, as well as that of my nephew Attila. It was a shameful thing to do, bringing dishonour not only on themselves but on their families, their clan, and indeed their whole tribe. All that remains is to decide their punishment.’ He turned to face Aetius. ‘General, as our guest, whose hosts betrayed your trust, it is for you to recommend an appropriate penalty.’

‘Friends and fellow Huns,’ said Aetius, speaking in their language. ‘I feel that I may address you thus, having lived among you as a hostage when a boy. What are we to do with these young men? We could, I suppose, be merciful; many among you may think that their lapse was not so very terrible. Faced suddenly with appalling danger, is it not understandable that untried boys should flee? And should we not on that account forgive them? I say we should do both. Not to understand, not to forgive — that would call for hearts of stone indeed. But’ — Aetius’ gaze moved round his audience, holding it — ‘I say we should also punish. I say this not from any petty personal desire for revenge because their cowardice put my son’s life in danger, but because not to punish them would weaken your clan, and in the end destroy the guilty ones themselves. If out of misguided pity we were to spare them, think of the consequences. Next time a wolverine attacked the goats in his charge, the herd-boy, fearing to face such a terrible animal, might also flee, knowing that he could expect to be excused. The rot would spread like a grassland fire. Courage and hardihood — these are the twin thongs that bind your clan together. Loosen them, and the clan falls apart. Understand that mercy can have cruel consequences.’

‘And what punishment would you suggest as fitting?’ asked Rua.

‘To remove the cancer that, left untreated, would grow and spread throughout the clan, there can be only one penalty.’

Mingled with whickers and neighing from horses, a stir and murmur swept round the assembly, then gradually subsided. Rua looked round enquiringly at the members of the tribunal. ‘If any other would speak, let him do so now.’

‘Flavius, old friend,’ said Attila in a deep rumble, addressing Aetius rather than the audience, ‘you and I go back a while. We have both seen and done things which at the time seemed past mending, but which in the end came right. Surely, in this special case, mercy could be shown. These lads have learnt their lesson. I would be willing to swear, by my honour and the Sacred Scimitar, that they will never re-offend.’ His broad Mongol features puckered in a frown. ‘When all’s said and done,’ he went on, a hint of appeal creeping into his voice, ‘they’re only boys.’

Aetius, sitting upright in the saddle, shrugged impassively and remained silent.

‘Must all be put to death?’ remonstrated Attila, leaning forward over his horse’s neck. ‘Would it not suffice if lots were drawn?’ The note of entreaty was now unmistakeable. ‘Yesterday, Flavius, you saved my life. Do not make that debt harder to bear by forcing me to plead.’

Aetius conceded, and so it was decided that lots be drawn. The prisoners’ hands were unbound and a jar containing pebbles — seven black, three white — was passed around them. White meant death. When Barsich’s turn came, his eyes sought Carpilio’s. The boy withdrew his clenched fist from the jar. For a long, agonizing moment the friends’ eyes locked.

Barsich opened his hand. The stone was white.

The tribesmen assembled near the top of the cliff to witness the sentence, watched in silence as the three condemned were led towards the five-hundred-foot drop. Two began struggling and crying for their mothers as they were dragged to the edge before being hurled over. Bodies twisting and flailing, they screamed all the way down. Pleading with his guards, Barsich prevailed on them to release him, so that he could die with honour. Freed from their grip, he walked calmly to the lip of the precipice and stepped into the abyss. .

‘Did he really have to die, Father?’ Carpilio fought to keep his voice from breaking.

The general placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, which was shaking with the boy’s suppressed sobs. ‘Some day you’ll understand,’ he said gently. ‘As long as it stays strong and brave, a people will survive. Just so long — no longer. We Romans should remember that.’

The love and admiration Carpilio felt for his father were joined by a disturbing intruder. Fear.