inveterate delight in war, greed for gold and longing for plunder from that great, fabled, tottering empire to the west that was called Rome, as well as by the gentler powers of courtship and marriage, the Black and the Kutrigur Huns were hammered into a unity.
There would be jewels heaped up in gleaming piles, and dark-eyed slavegirls, and horses, the finest horses, from Araby, from the Barbary Coast, the equal of the Horses of Heaven.
At this, even Sky-in-Tatters objected. ‘There are no horses like the Horses of Heaven,’ he said. ‘Even the Emperor of China longs to be the owner of the Horses of Heaven.’
‘The horses of Araby are their equal,’ said Attila.
‘You lie.’
‘I do not lie.’
Again Sky-in-Tatters saw the lantern-light of truth in those unflinching yellow eyes, and was forced to admit grudging defeat. ‘I should like to see these horses of Araby.’
To his own men, Attila said that they might take widows for wives, or any old women – that is to say, any women older than thirty summers. He had done as much himself. The woman he had taken was a widow, and at twenty-eight certainly approaching old age. But they were to take or pursue no virgins. His men looked disgruntled, but did as he commanded.
‘My lord,’ said old Chanat afterwards in private. ‘The women of the Kutrigurs. If we must take them to wife, as you command…’
Attila turned and regarded him quizzically.
‘First impressions are not good.’ Chanat whittled a stick.
‘Not so good,’ agreed his king.
‘It is long since I have looked on a woman. Usually such length of time alone in one’s tent is enough to lower one’s standards.’
‘Broaden one’s interests,’ said Attila.
‘You speak like a Persian.’
A woman passed among the tents some way off, carrying water.
‘Look at that one,’ said Attila, nodding. ‘What about her?’
Chanat screwed up his eyes, and then his whole face, as if he was sucking a lemon. ‘She must be nearly forty summers.’
‘Older women,’ said Attila, ‘have more experience, more appetite, and much more gratitude.’
Chanat grunted.
The next day Chanat came to his king again.
‘The breasts are not good,’ he said, ‘a pair of horsechestnut leaves in autumn. But the other things you said are compensation.’
‘My heart soars like a hawk for you, Chanat,’ said Attila.
He was sitting crosslegged at the fireside with Orestes in companionable silence when he heard a familiar tread behind him. He held up his hand.
‘Chanat, if it is to tell me more about your marital problems, I’m not interested.’
‘On the contrary, my lord.’
Attila twisted round and saw that the old warrior was grinning from ear to ear.
‘And I have no greater wish to hear about your marital triumphs, either.’
‘I have discovered,’ went on Chanat unabashed, ‘that my new woman’s husband was the man we killed on the first day, on the rise, when Yesukai, rest him, set the partridges off into the air.’
‘I remember. So why are you grinning like a monkey? You have to tie her hand and foot before you can sleep at night, in case she cuts your throat while you snore?’
‘On the contrary,’ cried Chanat, laughing. ‘She detested him with all her ferocious heart!’ He came over and stood near, talking as rapidly and excitedly as a young man bragging to his fellows. ‘She hated him. It was good that this man died. He was a brute to her, he beat her for pleasure. He had a long seasoned cane that he kept specially for the purpose. He laughed. It amused him to count her bruises each morning, to set her foolish tasks, only to see her drudge and droil. We should have killed him with sticks.’
Attila grunted.
‘And you know why he was so angry a man?’ Chanat put his hand to his groin, crooked his little finger and waggled it absurdly. ‘Like a marmot!’ he cried. ‘Like a gnat!’ Attila regarded him with curiosity. Chanat was almost choking with laughter. He recovered himself a little and wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘You know, of course, that all men so cursed by the ill-humour of the gods are petty-minded and irritable, bad-tempered, spiteful and vain.’
‘And naturally, none of these qualities applies to you, friend Chanat.’
‘Of course not!’ he roared, holding his sinewy forearm bolt upright before his face by way of illustration. ‘And as for my woman, not only does her new man not beat her for amusement, but she is only too happy to see his long seasoned cane, I can tell you! She is a very happy woman! There is nothing she will not do for me!’ With another roar of laughter he turned and strode out of the tent.
They looked after him.
‘This new wife,’ murmured Orestes. ‘She may be old, but her attentions are making him like a young man again.’
‘It is what the Chinese call the mixing of yin and yang,’ said Attila. ‘Remember our conversations with our captive monk beside the Yellow River? Chanat’s ch’i is again in full flow.’
Orestes shuddered. Attila grinned.
Orestes reached into his robe and pulled out a small carved ornament. ‘Talking of the Chinese,’ he said, and handed it to Attila.
The king examined it closely. It was a bronze clasp for a nobleman’s robe. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Not I,’ said Orestes. ‘Geukchu – eyes like a hawk. Out on the plains, in the grass. Not far from the Dzungarian gap.’
‘So far north,’ Attila mused. ‘Plunder?’
‘It’s possible. But it’s also possible the armies of the Northern Wei are on the march.’
It was midwinter, and the steppes stretched away on every side boundless and bare, dusted white with snow. Three months ago they had said goodbye to their women and to their tiny, wide-eyed children and set out from their camp. It seemed to some of the men that it was many years ago. It had been late autumn then, and their going at that drear time of year had astonished many of the elders. Since then it had grown much colder. But Attila said the shortest day of the year was now past. Soon it would be Tsagaan Sar, the new year, and soon after that spring. They laughed bitterly. Spring came slowly up this way, and never soon enough.
Sometimes the north wind blew out of the heart of Scythia, and then even the strongest men sat in the tents with the women and jostled for a place by the fireside. In the corrals, horses died on their feet, fell to the hard ground in a cloud of ice. But sometimes a southerly breeze blew, and then it was almost warm enough for the snow to melt, and for the great slow-moving ice floes coming downriver from the north to thaw and melt in midstream. Then the men strolled around bare-armed and basked in the thin sunshine, the younger naked to the waist, grinning and joking how balmy it was, their coppery skin showing a distinct and curious blue-grey undertone.
Attila went to Sky-in-Tatters on such a balmy day. ‘It is time we broke camp and went east.’
The chief looked at him in astonishment. ‘It is midwinter,’ he said.
‘Time does not stand still,’ said Attila. ‘Nor should we.’
‘What is your hurry?’
Attila grimaced. ‘There is the whole world left to conquer.’
‘You want to ride against this empire of Rome? In winter?’
He shook his head. ‘It will take more than our two thousand to ride against Rome, however drilled they are. We ride east. There are more allies there who will join us. And among the mountains of the Altun Shan, there is a remote kingdom, ruled by a syphilitic god-king. His people are numerous, his warriors are idle but strong. There are still others. Many will join us. We must not linger.’
Sky-in-Tatters folded his thick arms across his chest and stuck out his jaw. ‘It is not possible,’ he said, ‘to ride into the mountains in winter.’
‘What does not kill us makes us stronger.’
