Bleda had said little to him since his return, apart from a polite and formulaic expression of happiness to see him safely returned. But Attila knew why. His brother was complaisant about surrendering the throne to him for now, because he knew that before long he himself would occupy it, with the help of Byzantine arms. Last night, while Bleda lay sozzled in his tent door, a crust of vomit down his front, his unwatched wives mysteriously absent from his tent, Orestes had stepped quietly over the blubbery prostrate form and quickly searched within. He found what he wanted in moments. A little olivewood box, of pleasing Greek craftsmanship, he noted approvingly, containing four scrolls. Letters from the court of Emperor Theodosius, in the customary flowery and flatulent Byzantine style. The first letter began: ‘To Our Beloved Brother, Bleda, son of Mundzuk, son of Uldin the Great, Our Most Favoured Confederate, Our Bulwark against the Eastern Hordes, Our Most Highly Esteemed Ally, Lord of All Scythia under Theodosius, Vice-Regent of Almighty God upon Earth, and Our Very Dear Brother in Christ. Greetings.’
So Bleda was officially a Christ-worshipper now, was he? Orestes grinned and returned the scrolls to the box. Wonders would never cease.
As the light-footed Greek stepped out of the tent-door, he had thought how easy it would be to lean down and open Bleda’s throat. It could be blamed on one of his wives, tripping gaily back from her night with her lover, only to find this pig of a husband blocking the entrance to her tent and to her life. She could be lightly whipped and then pardoned. But no. The traditional fate for Bleda: an accident while out hunting, an arrow carelessly fired.
Attila glanced at his brother and smiled benevolently. The idiot. Who had fathered this grub? What rancid womb had borne him, this retard from the farrow of a retard sow? Bleda smiled blearily back at him. When would Bleda sit upon this throne?
When mule foaled, when foal flew, when an arrow drew blood from the moon.
He turned away from Bleda and began to unfold his plan to his chieftains.
No doubt, he said, as pasture was growing scarce under the mouths of so many horses and cattle and sheep, they should be thinking of breaking camp and turning south, to the winter pastures beside the Caspian Sea.
Grizzled, bow-legged old Kouridach of the Hepthalite Huns nodded and stroked his long, narrow beard. ‘The Caspian winter pastures will be fine and green. These steppes are eaten bare. We are happy to serve, but we must soon return east, or go south for winter pastures.’
Charaton agreed. ‘The Huns are not a people to live in clotted masses, like ants.’
Attila nodded slowly. ‘Yet finer pastures by far await us to the west.’
The chieftains eyed him.
‘By the banks of the Roman Danube, in the territory they, in their arrogance, call Trans-Pannonia, beside the Tisza river. The Hungvar.’
‘Our people pastured their horses there before, in my youth,’ put in Chanat from the other side of the tent. ‘Long ago, when we were allies of Rome, in Uldin’s day. When we fought against our ancient enemies, the Germanic tribes of Rhadagastus, and cut them to pieces on the plains of Italy.’
‘That was long ago indeed,’ said Attila.
‘But since then they have driven your people back east,’ said Kouridach.
‘Driven?’ said Attila. ‘The Romans do not drive my people anywhere, like cattle.’ Only now did he turn slowly to face Kouridach’s direction, and the look in his eyes was pitiless.
Kouridach’s gaze dropped to ground. In the voice of this king, this leader of men, there was the sound of a terrible fury under iron control.
‘Under Ruga,’ Attila said, ‘as well you know, the Huns withdrew east in exchange for Roman gold, like slaves doing Rome’s bidding in all self-abasement. When Rome wanted a troublesome, rebellious boy got rid of, that detestable Ruga did their bidding for more gold.’ He glared around at them. ‘But neither decree from Rome nor chests of gold will keep us from our chosen pastures. Who owns the earth? We Huns are a free people of the steppes and we come and go as we please.’
‘And if the Romans think otherwise?’
‘Then we should bow before them, yes?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Kouridach, shifting a little in his seat, ‘perhaps this empire of Rome is appointed by a higher power. Is it not one of their myths that they are blessed by the gods?’
Charaton concurred. ‘Surely so great an empire, which has lasted so long, and seen so many generations of men arise and pass – surely it must have the favour of the gods? Is it right to ride against it? Are their gods not powerful? Perhaps it would be wrong to ride against it. Perhaps the bounds of this empire are set for eternity.’
No one dared look at Attila. Not Chanat, not Orestes, no one.
His voice could have scoured the skin off a man. ‘Then let us bow before Rome! Let us content ourselves with our permitted Caspian pastures. Perhaps in spring, we might make one or two little mouse-like raids upon the northern borders of Sassanid Persia, to remind ourselves that once we were warriors. Those Sassanid kings who mount to their thrones on golden footstools, and sit there dangling their divine feet in silver bowls filled with rosewater, chilled with handfuls of snow brought down by their numberless slaves from the Zagros mountains. How terrible they are, those Sassanid kings, and how right we are to fear them!
‘And after our little mouse-like raids we should disband again. For this many nomads to flock together is bad wisdom. The wandering Huns were meant for the lonely tents and the wide spaces, but not for high ambitions or mighty conquests of nations! When the Huns flock together it is like the gathering of ravens by the winter sea. A storm is presaged. Is it not so?’
They hardly knew how to respond. One or two nodded in cautious and kingly agreement. Others murmured among themselves, putting careful points, attending politely to the elders, nodding in agreement, and many began to concur that perhaps there really was nothing to be done for now but go their separate ways, with hearts rejoicing inwardly at the marvellous discovery of the Sword of Savash, and at this newfound unity among all the tribes and kindred of the Huns.
Suddenly Attila was on his feet, the Sword of Savash in his powerful fist. He drove it daggerlike into the dusty ground. ‘That is what I think of your wisdom!’ he roared.
Not a few of his listeners pressed back on their stools in fear. The crowd beyond stirred. The sky above seemed to grow darker.
‘I tell you, a storm is presaged! A storm such as the world has never seen. A storm from the east.’ He flung his arms wide. ‘We fellow Huns and brothers-in-arms, we are that storm. You say we are too many. I say no, we are enough. You say we ride south. I say no, we ride west, to settle back upon the Hungvar, where we pastured our horses in the proud days of King Uldin. But not as allies of Rome. Not this time. As enemies.’
He rounded on Chanat. ‘You were within the empire once. You went there, to the emperor’s court in Ravenna.’
Chanat cast his mind back to that long ride to Ravenna. He grimaced. ‘I remember Ravenna. It smelt bad, like a camp ditch after a month without rain.’
‘And are you telling me now that this rotten stinking cadaver of an empire still has jurisdiction over the Hungvar? You, old Kouridach, whom I took for a wise man: that Rome has jurisdiction over the whole earth? Who gave it jurisdiction? Who permitted it suzerainty?’ His fury grew, and those closest to him felt it, like the dark, bruised sky overhead, waiting to burst.
‘Who set the bounds to this vaunted empire that you hold in such craven dread? Him who laid the foundations of the earth? Did he set the bounds, as the Romans in their arrogance and impiety proclaim? No!’ His great fist crashed down upon the lid of the chest with such violence that they thought it might splinter beneath that hammerblow. His voice roared out, and the very walls of the tents around the council ring seemed to bat in the wind of his passion. Their ears were seared. His voice was the voice of thunder and darkness. They listened in awe, pressed back into their seats. The people beyond were spellbound. He paced among them, his eyes burning into their quavering souls, his rage and power like that of an un-caged lion. It was as if someone had put a torch to a huge bonfire in the centre of the circle, and it now blazed up and threatened to scorch and then engulf them all.
‘Who decreed that the Hun people should not wander the earth as they will? Who forbade their wanderings? Who set the bounds on where they might pasture their horses? Who set the fences? Him who made the earth? No!’ Again that mighty fist crashed down. ‘Astur the All-Father, who made the earth, gave it to us and to all men, equal and without distinction under the right and God-made Sun, as he gave us souls, as he gave us life and breath and freedom to ride the livelong day over the unbounded plains. He set no fences. He made no petty laws. He built no
