The well-fed city face of a Greek merchant. He almost yelped when, only feet away, he saw a mounted barbarian with knotted hair, wearing only breeches of cross-gartered deerskin, his silhouette in the darkness spiky with weapons.
The barbarian addressed him: ‘Linguam loquerisne latinam?’
The merchant, Zosimus by name, stammered that of course he spoke Latin. But he was surprised that…?
The merchant could hardly believe his ears. A polyglot barbarian, a savage bare to the waist but for his gold earrings and his horrible tattoos of midnight blue, his silver armlets banded tight around biceps as hard as stone. This fierce-eyed creature without knowledge of the law, of letters or any of the other appurtenances of civilised life, addressing him out of the Scythian darkness first in the language of Cicero, then in that of Demosthenes – for all the world as if he had been raised by the finest grammarians and rhetors in the empire, rather than by some bejewelled barbarian woman in a felt tent stinking of leather and sweat and horse-dung fires!
The lieutenant came alongside the barbarian and shook him roughly by the shoulder.
‘Back off, Top-Knot,’ he growled. ‘This column is on imperial business, and it’ll be the worse for you if-’ repeated the barbarian, neither raising his voice nor shifting his gaze from the astonished merchant.
‘And Greek, too, naturally,’ blurted Zosimus. ‘But I fail to see why I should bandy words with a malodorous painted savage such as yourself. Now do as this good man suggests and-’
Attila glanced back over his shoulder at his four companions, now only some twenty or thirty yards away in the dusk. Now he used the language of his people.
‘Kill the soldiers,’ he called.
And they came galloping over the rise.
He himself did not stir as the arrows flew around him. His horse whinnied and stepped delicately backwards as one of the humming arrows grazed just over its nose, but its rider sat as comfortably as if he were watching a mere game. It was all over in a matter of seconds. One trooper rested gently in his saddle with an arrow through his heart, his head drooping forwards like a flower in autumn. The others toppled sideways or lay dead in the dust beside their horses’ hooves. Attila walked his horse among the dead and counted. Then he turned to his men, milling around close by.
‘Six men with sixteen arrows,’ he said. ‘A reasonable performance. ’
Then he saw a horse standing trembling with an arrow buried deep in its withers. Its forelegs seemed about to buckle but it gave a great heave of its ribcage, blood frothing from its nostrils, and remained standing.
‘Which one of you shot the horse?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Yesukai raised his fist.
Attila rode over to the young warrior and put his face very close to his.
‘Don’t – do – that – again,’ he said, his eyes burning.
Yesukai could not speak.
Attila rode back and pulled up before the wounded horse and drew his chekan, his short spike-hatchet. He pushed himself forward on his saddle, swung hard, and buried the long iron spike deep in the horse’s forehead, just above the eyes. As the priests would sacrifice the finest horses for a royal burial. He pulled the hatchet free and the horse collapsed and lay dead in the dust.
He gave orders for the other five cavalry horses to be taken, then rode back to the carriage and looked in at the cowering merchant. There were two other men in there with him.
One of them, with a petrified, thin-lipped smile, quavered, ‘My lord, I… I… These two, they are merchants, but I am a lawyer.’
‘A lawyer?’ said Attila, staring at him.
‘Indeed, yes.’ The smile grew sickly. ‘With connections in the highest courts in the empire.’
‘I hate lawyers.’
A knife appeared in his hand, and he reached from his horse and drew the blade across the lawyer’s long, lean throat. The man’s head fell forwards instantly upon his sodden chest.
The two merchants were dragged shrieking from the carriage and gagged and trussed up and sat on two of the captured horses, and they turned away westwards for home as the darkness deepened around them. At the last moment, Attila turned back and eyed the dozen or so silent, horror-struck men and women and children in their chains behind the carriage. None of them had moved amid the carnage.
Attila said to them, ‘I once knew a boy and a girl who were runaway slaves.’ He looked down at each of them in turn. ‘The girl was not seven summers, and she died. Her name was Pelagia. A Greek girl. But even she had more fight in her than you.’ His horse tossed its head, teeth bared, as if in contemptuous agreement. ‘Free yourselves,’ he said to them.
And he left them there, their armed guards slain but themselves still manacled, standing with mouths agape on the darkening road.
As they rode west, Aladar came alongside him and said, ‘My lord, the lawyer – he was a shaman? One Who Knows?’
‘No,’ said Attila with a shake of his head. ‘Not a lawgiver, a dispenser of wisdom. A law-maker: a petty haggler in courts full of like hagglers. A man who lays chains on other men’s souls, who harvests souls for gold. In the Empire of Rome such men are highly regarded, and become orators, senators, politicians.’
‘Politicians? Politicians are like kings.’
‘No.’ He grinned sardonically. ‘Politicians are nothing like kings.’
They rode on.
After a while he said, ‘In Rome they have laws that forbid the people to ride in a carriage though the town after dark. Any who do so are punished.’
‘But surely such contemptible laws are ignored?’
‘No, they are obeyed.’
Aladar tried to comprehend this lunacy, then roared with laughter at his failure. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ said Attila, ‘they believe themselves to be free men under the law.’
‘The lawyer, he bullied the people that way?’
‘No doubt.’
Aladar scowled. ‘I would have cut his throat myself.’
After midnight they slept for four hours, and in the cold before dawn they rode on beside the Maeotic Lake.
The soldiers from the garrison at Tanais came after them as the sun rose behind them over the dark lake and the sky glimmered low and white and silver. Attila halted them and swung them round to face east, a tiny skein of wild geese on the wide sands. They watched silently for a while as the brightly armoured troop of imperial cavalrymen galloped towards them. They would be upon them soon.
They beat the two trussed merchants unconscious and hobbled their horses, then kicked their own horses into a gallop. Csaba and Aladar veered left of the oncoming horsemen, while Attila led Yesukai and Orestes right into the shallows, all four keeping moving as they nocked, aimed and loosed their arrows from a distance already lethal.
Attila roared instructions as they rode: ‘Hit the front horses!’
Arrows hummed in the bright air and two horses stumbled, one going down in an explosion of sand. Over that sprawl of horse and man, another two troopers tripped and fell. The others came on, twenty or more of them. Two troops from a cavalry ala of eighty or so, in light armour, with long, deadly lances held low. The un-armoured and outnumbered Huns eluded engagement, constantly reforming and then melting aside, galloping furiously beyond the Romans’ flanks and firing arrows behind them as they fled, or seemed to flee, then taking the higher ground the troopers had just abandoned. Ceaselessly the thin arrows hissed in the fiery dawnlight and slipped through thin chainmail hauberks and cuirasses and burrowed into chests and stomachs, and burst through again, men toppling ungainly to the ground.
The troopers milled in confusion, most of them stuck with arrows in shoulders or thighs, blood trickling thin and watery over bright steel. Their lieutenant yelled to them to form up and close in with swords drawn, but they had lost all hope of closing with so ghostly a target. Again the barbarian horsemen wheeled down off the ridge into the burning early sun and then back, whooping with joy, turning on the spot almost at full gallop in a slew of sand and stone. Their brute-headed horses were driven back upon their squat, powerful haunches as they turned at a
