laudatory mosaics gleaming through clouds of incense. But close up the barbarian boy, the little wolf-cub in their midst, saw with his unblinking yellow eyes the fissures in the great buildings and abandoned temples of the city, and he observed the many draughty and untenanted rooms of the palace. He saw the people beginning to starve, while still the Roman rich wore silk. Attila scorned silk robes as unfit even for women – was it not Heliogabalus, the monstrous boy-emperor Heliogabalus himself, who had been the first in Rome to wear robes of pure silk? After three terrible years, sickened by his insane cruelties, the people had risen up and killed him. But now they aped him – and not only in his dress: in his greed and his depravity, too. So it seemed to the boy. Aesthetes even told tales of Heliogabalus’ exquisite jests, and reminisced with a fond nostalgia about how he had murdered his guests at a banquet by suffocating them in falling clouds of rose-petals. The guests had gasped and expired beneath deep drifts of flowers, crying out for mercy. The emperor had looked on and laughed. The aesthetes, too, now laughed.
The boy longed instead for the banks of the wide brown Danube, and the Kharvad Mountains, and the plains beyond. He longed for simple mare’s milk and meat, loathing the rich novelties, the ridiculous, contrived delicacies that the Romans ate. He longed for the sound of the wolves in the high mountain passes, and the sight of the black felt tents of his people, and the great royal pavilion of his grandfather, Uldin, hung with animal skins and decorated with carved and painted horses’ heads.
He watched and waited. Patience was always the supreme virtue of his people. ‘Patience is a nomad,’ they said.
In time, the Huns would come.
One evening he was making his way to the kitchens for dinner when he was accosted by one of the palace chamberlains.
‘Tonight you will be dining in the private chambers of Prince Beric and Prince Genseric,’ he purred.
The boy scowled. ‘No I will not,’ he said.
‘By orders of Princess Galla Placidia,’ said the chamberlain icily, not even looking at him.
The boy considered for a moment, then his proud shoulders slumped a little, and he turned and allowed himself to be led to the private chambers of the Vandal brothers. The chamberlain knocked, and a languid voice called, ‘Enter.’
The chamberlain opened the door and pushed Attila inside.
So, thought Attila, staring around, this is what you get if you behave yourself. This is how Rome seduces its enemies.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Before him was a large chamber with a colonnade of pillars running round three sides. Although it was still broad daylight outside, the long summer evening not yet run, in here the drapes were already drawn and the only light was artificial. It also felt as if the underfloor heating was on, even at this time of year. He was suffocating already. Especially as the overheated air was perfumed with attar of roses.
The floor was elaborately decorated with mosaics and black marble, and the chamber was dimly lit with multiple candelabra – not smoky clay oil lamps such as he had in his own chamber, but the finest, most expensive, creamy-coloured beeswax candles, set in silver candelabra that towered over his head. At the back of the chamber, in the dim light, further rooms opened off, and there came the sounds of laughter, high-pitched shrieks and giggles.
In the centre of the room were three couches set round a low rectangular table piled high with elaborate dishes of the rarest fish and meat, fine wines and exotic eastern fruits. They were privileged indeed, the two Vandal princes. Such exquisite dishes must have come from the imperial kitchens themselves.
There was no sign of Genseric, but Beric sat, or rather sprawled, on one of the couches, a sozzled-looking blonde with high-piled hair leaning against him. The Vandal prince wore a white silk robe belted with a golden sash, his eyes were rimmed with kohl that had begun to blur and run, and he had gold bangles on both wrists. He rolled over on the couch and smiled blearily up at the boy, raising his goblet and burping softly at him.
‘Comrade,’ he said, ‘drinking partner, wenching fellow, I salute you.’
Through the darkened door of the further chamber came more squeals and giggles. Beric turned in the direction of the noise. Then he turned back again and beamed at the boy. He patted the couch next to him. ‘Come along, then. Tonight is your special night.’
Attila went and sat down. His throat felt parched and dry but he wanted to drink nothing. He imagined cool mountain streams that caught the sunlight in droplets as they fell. And the slow-moving rivers of the steppes, the herons in the reeds, waiting with their endless ancestral patience for their prey…
A plump slave-girl appeared with downcast eyes, carrying a big jug of wine. Beric held his goblet out towards her. She stopped and poured the wine, but her hand was shaking so much that she spilt a little over his hand.
Beric stared up at her. ‘You stupid fucking bitch,’ he slurred very softly.
The blonde beside him giggled at this witticism.
Beric continued, ‘And so ugly too. Christ, you’re never going to get so much as a poke with a face like that, let alone a husband.’
The blonde positively squawked with laughter.
Beric turned and added, to Attila, ‘Even with my standards lowered by wine as they are, there’s no way I could give her one, could you?’ He looked back at the trembling slave-girl, as if in wonder. ‘Not for all the wheat in Africa.’
The girl kept her face lowered. She didn’t look ugly to Attila. She had a round, gentle face and scared eyes.
‘Why are you still standing there?’ said Beric, suddenly raising his voice. ‘ Go away! ’
She started with fear, but Attila interrupted and said, ‘I… Could I have a bit of wine, too?’ He reached out and took a goblet from the table and held it out towards her. She came over to him, her hands shaking badly, and poured the wine as carefully as she could. She had poured only a little when Attila nodded and said, ‘That’s enough. Thank you.’
He looked up to smile at her but she was already scuttling away like a frightened animal.
‘You don’t say thank you to slaves, you twat,’ said Beric. ‘Sound like a peasant. Christ.’ He gave another tremendous belch. ‘Been drinking since noon.’ His mouth turned sourly down. ‘Think I’m gonna puke.’ He hawked, leant forward and spat on the floor in front of him, then settled back and grimaced. ‘Ugh,’ he said. ‘I need a bath.’
‘Have a bath with me, baby,’ said the blonde girl beside him.
Beric grinned at her and, slipping one hand inside her tunic, began to gently palpate her breast. She crooned at him.
Attila looked down in shame.
Beric held his bulbous goblet aloft, and cried, ‘ Usque ad mortem bibendum! Let us drink until death!’ looking very pleased with himself that he knew this Latin tag. Then he took a huge mouthful of red wine. Still holding it in his mouth, he lowered his lips to the girl’s now exposed breast, and dribbled it over her smooth white flesh. The blonde gasped as if in ecstasy.
Attila kept his eyes on the floor and took a sip of wine. He had never liked the taste and he didn’t like it any more now. The food did nothing for him, either, hungry though he was. In the centre of the table was a roast swan, stuffed with a roast peacock, stuffed with a roast pheasant, stuffed with a roast partridge, stuffed with three or four tiny roast larks, laid out in the very heart of the dish as if they were in a little nest. The whole elaborate creation appeared to have been hacked into pieces with knives by the brothers, and then left uneaten.
Why had he been commanded to dine here? He didn’t understand. Was he supposed to be seduced or something? He glanced over the big silver knives that still lay in the remains of the dish of roast swan, considering. Then he looked away.
‘You should eat something as well,’ said Beric. ‘You won’t get pissed so quickly then. And you’ve got something to throw up, too, if you need to – which you will soon enough, the way this party’s going to go. The two buggering Burgundian brothers are supposed to be joining us soon, and you know how they knock it back. Nothing worse than retching up a bellyful of nothing but wine. Christ.’ He ran his hand across his heavily sweating forehead. ‘I feel unusual,’ he said.
‘Well, hello, dear boy,’ drawled another voice from across the room. It was the older brother, Genseric.
He was wearing a dark red robe elaborately embroidered with hunting scenes in finest gold thread, and belted so that it hung far too high on his thighs. He wore a big silver cross on a chain around his neck – the Vandals
