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
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
