bewildering thicket of names such as the Akatiri, Sorosgi, Angisciri, Barselti, Cadiseni, Sabirsi, Bayunduri, Sadagarii, Zalae, and Albani. Those spellings are my own, for the Huns of course had no written language and their tongue twists Latin and Greek.
Strapping male slaves who wore iron collars like hounds and had arms as thick as roof beams bore the night’s food to us. The vast platters of gold and silver were heaped with fowl, venison, boar, mutton, steak, fruit, roots, puddings, and stews. Women served wine and
How desperately I longed for a respite from constant male companionship, and my body seemed fit to explode. I remembered Skilla’s friendly warning.
One of the women I recognized as the dark-haired girl by the gate, whose rare beauty was magnified by her look of intelligence, fire, and longing. This evening she was so light-footed that she seemed to float as much as walk, and I could have sworn that she peeked at me occasionally as my gaze followed her around the room.
“For a man who said he didn’t want to lose his head around the Huns, Jonas, I fear it will twist off completely if you keep craning to watch that serving wench.” Senator Maximinus was looking agreeably and blankly at a Hun across the table as he gave this quiet scold in Latin.
I looked down at my plate. “I didn’t think I was that obvious.”
“You can be sure that Attila notices everything we do.”
The kagan was again dressed more simply than any man or woman in the room. He wore no mark of rank or decoration. He had no crown. While his warlords feasted from captured gold plate, he ate from a wooden bowl and drank from a wooden cup, rarely saying a word. Instead of alcohol, he drank water. He disdained what little bread there was and touched nothing sweet. He simply looked out at the company with dark, deep-set, all-consuming eyes, as if a spectator at a strange drama. A woman stood like a pillar in the shadows by the bed.
“Who’s that?” I asked Maximinus.
“Queen Hereka, foremost of his wives and mother of his princes. She has her own house and compound but attends her husband at state functions like this one.”
Attila’s sons ate woodenly, not daring to look at their father or speak to the men around them. Then a third boy came in, nodded to his mother, and went up to the king. He was younger than the other two, handsome; and for the first time Attila betrayed a slight smile and pinched him on the cheek.
“And that?”
“It must be Ernak. I’m told he’s the favored son.”
“Favorite why?”
Rusticius leaned in. “Attila’s seers have foretold his empire will falter but that Ernak will restore it.”
“Attila will falter?” Now I was curious. First Rome is prophesied doom and now Attila. Competing prophecies!
“Looking at him tonight, it seems unlikely.”
“He’s to falter only after vanquishing us.”
Music started—a mix of drum, flute, and string—and the Huns began a round of rousing song. They sang from deep within their torsos, a strange, beelike humming, but it was hypnotic in its own way. While the instruments, noise, and growing drunkenness made translation difficult, I realized that most of the music again celebrated the slaughter of their enemies. There were ballads of triumphs over Ostrogoth, Gepid, Roman, and Greek, sung with no acknowledgment that all those peoples had representatives at the feast. The Huns conquered, and our injured pride was of no consequence.
Then came lighter entertainment: dancing women and acrobatic men, jugglers and magicians, mimes and comic actors. Attila watched it all with an expression as dour and flat as if he were watching the day’s shadows move on a wall.
The entertainment climaxed when, with a somersault, a dwarf rolled from the shadows and sprang up wearing a mock crown, bringing howls of delight from all the Huns except Attila. He was a grotesque little creature with dark skin, stumpy legs, a long torso, and a flat, moonlike face, as if an exaggerated caricature of how we Romans saw the Huns. He began prancing and declaiming in a high, piping voice.
“Zerco!” they cried. “King of the tribes!” Attila’s mouth had changed to a grimace, as if the jester’s was a performance to be endured.
“Our host doesn’t like the little one,” I murmured.
“Why?”
“The dwarf was the pet of his brother Bleda, who Attila doesn’t like to be reminded of,” Bigilas explained. “The freak was never a favorite of Attila, who is too serious to appreciate mockery. After Bleda died, the king made a present of Zerco to Aetius the Roman, a general who once lived among the Huns as a hostage. But Bleda had rewarded Zerco by allowing him to marry a slave woman and the dwarf pined for his wife, who remained here. Aetius finally persuaded Attila to take the jester back, and the king has regretted it ever since. He insults and torments the jester, but the halfling endures it so he can stay with his wife.”
“Is the wife deformed as well?”
“She’s tall, fair, and has learned to love him, I’ve been told. The marriage was supposed to be a joke, but the couple has not conspired with the mockery.”
The dwarf raised his arms in mock greeting. “The king of toads welcomes Rome!” he proclaimed. “If you cannot out-fight us, at least outdrink us!” The Huns laughed. He scampered over and, without warning, leaped into my lap. It was like the bound of a large dog, and I was so surprised I tipped over my wine. “I said drink, not pour!”
“Get off me,” I whispered desperately.
“No! Every king needs a throne!” Then he leaned, impishly sniffed Maximinus, and kissed his beard. “And a consort!”
The Huns howled.
The senator flushed red, and I felt stricken with embarrassment. What was I supposed to do? The dwarf clung to me like a monkey. I glanced wildly about. The woman who had caught my eye earlier was watching me curiously, to see my response. “Why do you mock us?” I hissed.
“To warn you of danger,” the dwarf replied quietly.
“Nothing is as it seems.” Then he sprang away and, laugh-ing maniacally, ran from the hall.
What did that mean? I was bewildered.
Attila stood. “Enough of this foolishness.” They were his first words all evening. Everyone fell silent and the gaiety was replaced by tension. The king pointed. “You Romans have presents, do you not?”
Maximinus stood, somewhat shaky from his embarrassment. “We do, kagan.” He clapped his hands once. “Let them be brought in!”
Bolts of pink and yellow silk unrolled against the carpets like the flash of dawn. Small chests opened to a shoal of coins. There was a galaxy of jewels scattered by Attila’s wooden plate, engraved swords and lances leaned against his bed platform, sacred goblets arranged on a bench, and combs and mirrors set on the skin of a lion. The Huns murmured greedily.
“These are tokens of the emperor’s good faith,” Maximinus said.
“And you will take back to him tokens of mine,” Attila said. “There will be bales of sable and fox, blessing bundles from my shamans, and my pledge to honor whatever agreement we come to. This is the word of Attila.”
His men rumbled their approval.
“But Rome is rich, and Constantinople the richest of its cities,” he went on. “All men know this, and know that what you have brought us are mere tokens. Is this not true?”
“We are not as rich as you belie—”
