Prince Theodoric began to protest at this unchivalrous attitude, but Aetius silenced him. ‘Don’t add to your doltishness,’ he snapped. ‘It’s the Huns who don’t value women, not I. They’ll laugh in our faces if we demand favours in exchange for this one.’ He held the lamp up to the woman’s face. Dark hair, olive skin, a long, narrow face: she was no Hun. ‘My apologies for any rough handling, ’ he said more gently. ‘Where were you captured?’
‘Philippopolis,’ she said. ‘My husband-’
‘Calm yourself. You are free now.’
She tried to speak again, but another voice interrupted.
‘Leave her be,’ it growled. ‘She is a good ride.’
They pulled off the other bag to reveal an old warrior with fine long grey hair and oiled moustaches, his naked torso copper in the lamplight, as lean and hard as that of a man half his age. His arm muscles bulged and strained against the whip.
‘You are in no position to give orders,’ said Aetius. ‘And I have no desire to know about your carnal preferences.’
‘Astur curse you,’ spat the old warrior. ‘Cut my throat and have done. But know that I have no fear of you or your women, who sneak about in the night like pigeon-livered slaves.’
Jormunreik stepped nearer to him, but Aetius held up his hand. He was beginning to enjoy this obstreperous old warrior’s company. Then Arapovian came forward, examining the old warrior’s face more closely.
‘You were at Viminacium. You met us on the road.’
The Hun glanced up at him, uninterested.
‘You said the next time you met us, you would kill us.’ Arapovian’s eyes glimmered with cold mirth. ‘Well, here we are.’
The Hun bared his teeth.
Arapovian turned to the general. ‘This one is compensation for the woman. This one you can bargain with. He is a khan.’
‘You, your people will bargain for,’ said Aetius. ‘What is your name?’
‘I am the Lord Chanat, son of the Lord Subotai. In my youth I once visited your Ravenna, doing the bidding of King Ruga. I have never forgotten your city.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed. The foul stench of it stays in my memory still – worse than the stench of these sneak-thief women standing about me now.’
Aetius grinned. ‘If you think Ravenna smells bad, you should try Rome.’
Chanat scowled at his flippancy. ‘In those days, the Romans tried to kill King Ruga’s nephew, the boy Attila.’
Aetius nodded. ‘I knew him once. We rode together.’
Chanat looked momentarily puzzled as he scrutinised the Roman.
‘From what I have heard of those days,’ said Aetius, ‘it was not so simple. King Ruga was not averse to his troublesome nephew… disappearing, one way or another. And he was very fond of Roman gold.’
‘You lie!’ Chanat struggled against his bonds, but Arapovian snatched at his whip and tightened it.
‘Ancient history,’ said Aetius, waving his hand. ‘Is King Attila with you now?’
‘You think I would tell you if he was?’
‘Not really. We’ll find out soon enough.’
Chanat snarled. ‘Now Attila Tashur-Astur is our King, and a Great Tanjou, and you tried to kill him again, in your sneak-thief, womanly way, to cut his throat as he lay sleeping, as you visited us in pretended peace and friendship. ’ He leaned forward and spat. ‘You failed, of course. At all times, Astur watches over him. Nothing can stand against him. And now he has come to kill you.’ He looked around. ‘All of you.’
Aetius ignored him. ‘So. We have ourselves a Hun khan, as well as one of his captured concubines.’
‘I have seven wives,’ said Chanat with dignity. ‘But it is long since I have known them.’
Aetius considered, then ordered Chanat taken to the dungeons. To the woman he said, ‘The sisters in the convent will care for you.’
The woman looked after Chanat with something like agony on her face. ‘My lord!’ she cried. Then she turned desperately to Aetius. ‘I will stay with him.’
‘You… you would go to the dungeons with him?’ Aetius frowned. ‘But you mentioned a husband?’
She spat. ‘A pig.’
Chanat turned in the doorway, a grin of triumph on his broad, high-cheekboned face.
Aetius said, ‘I’ve heard of ravished maidens in old tales falling for their divine ravishers, but this is ridiculous.’
‘Your women would rather go with us, eh, Roman?’ crowed Chanat.
Aetius waved his hand irritably. ‘Take them away.’
At dawn, he sat his horse at the gate, with Prince Theodoric and two of the wolf-lords. Lord Ariobarzanes came down the cobbled street to wish them well. He stopped beside Aetius. His old hand shook on his walking stick, but his voice was even and his words uncompromising.
‘Not one breath of surrender, now,’ he said. ‘The men of Azimuntium do not surrender. Never, ever, ever. Remember our demands. We want our flocks and our herds returned to us, every single animal they carried off, and the shepherds they have enslaved. When that is done, their captive will be returned to them, this Chanat, and then the Huns may ride back to their own land unmolested. ’
Aetius smiled. He liked the old man’s attitude.
‘All barbarians are the same,’ said Ariobarzanes, ‘They despise weakness, they admire strength.’ His voice dropped to a mutter. ‘As old Rome did once.’
Aetius kicked his horse forward and they rode out, unarmed, under a fluttering white flag of truce.
A gang of Huns on motley ponies immediately rode with them, arrows to the bow, aimed at their hearts.
‘There is no need. We have no weapons,’ said Aetius.
The Huns’ faces were expressionless and the light in their eyes burned hard and their bows did not waver. They were small compared to the wolf-lords, riding half-naked, their arms and chests pure strength and sinew.
‘Who is the leader of your battle group?’ asked Aetius.
One of the warriors indicated a black tent and grunted. They dismounted and were herded in. There in the half-light of early morning, beneath the smoke-hole of the tent, on a plain wooden stool sat the Lord Attila.
He regarded them steadily. The atmosphere was very different from that of the embassy – the supposed embassy.
No word was spoken for a time. And then another figure entered, a small, antic shaman with ribbons in his hair. His cheeks were very smooth and boyish but his eyes were old and cunning, and his hair bound up in a topknot was tatty grey.
‘The years roll back, Little Father,’ he murmured, coming close to Aetius with careful steps and staring at him. ‘This fine old warhorse, I have seen him before, a young colt in the fields of the Huns.’ He glanced back at Attila. ‘He drew a sword, white boy drew a sword.’
Attila’s glittering yellow eyes never left Aetius’ face, but now he waved his hand and told the shaman to be silent.
‘Where it chatters, Little Bird, water’s but shallow.’
The shaman disregarded him, and began to caper more and more, though slowly, an arthritic old clown on tired legs. ‘The years roll back, the years roll back. Yes, your uncle Ruga of blessed memory, uncle nuncle was he, he struck you to the ground, you were always a terror as a boy, scarce out of the womb and cut from the caul you were trouble. O Terror of the World, Great Tanjou, my Lord Widow-maker, Scourge of God and all your other magnificent titles which I forget now, he struck you, Uncle Ruga did, and white boy drew a sword in your defence. You hunted together, you frolicked, you did, on the sunny plains in your youth.’ Little Bird paused for breath. ‘I remember that big boar. Huge it was, and rancid-tasting by the time you dragged it home. What joker-gods look down! He was your friend, this one. Now look at you, like two old buffalo fighting over the herd!’
There was a long silence, and then, as if he could not speak a word directly to Aetius, Attila turned instead to Prince Theodoric.
‘So, a Visigoth prince once more in the camp of the Huns. I did not have the pleasure of making your acquaintance when you made your. .. embassy. I had other things on my mind, my impending assassination and so
