Now Rusticius fell to his knees, gasping for breath like a landed fish. “But I have done nothing!”
“You joined with evil men you didn’t care to know well enough to discover their betrayal. You failed to warn me. By these omissions you doomed yourself, and your blood will be on your friends’ hands, not mine.”
I was dizzy with horror. “This makes no sense,” I tried, heedless of violating protocol. The simplest man of our party was the one who was being sacrificed! “Why him and not me?”
“Because he is of the West, and we are curious how such men die.” Attila shrugged. “I may decide to have you switch places. But for now,” he said, “you will remain as my hostage against the promise of the return of Senator Maximinus.” He turned to my superior. “For every pound of gold Chrysaphius was willing to spend to have me struck down, I want one hundred pounds in penance.”
“But, kagan,” gasped the senator, “that means—”
“It means I want five thousand pounds by autumn, senator, and only then will we talk peace. If you don’t bring it, there will be war and your scribe will have done to him exactly what I promised the young boy there, but done infinitely more slowly and painfully.”
The room was a blur, the earth seeming to have dropped from under me. I was to be left alone with the Huns, to watch Rusticius die? And then be tortured if Maximinus did not return with an impossible ransom? The treasury could not afford five thousand pounds of gold! We had all been betrayed by the fools Bigilas and Chrysaphius!
Attila nodded at me with grim satisfaction. “Until then, you are our hostage but a hostage who must begin earning his keep. And if you dare try escape, Jonas of Constantinople, this too means war.”
XIII
I
THE HOSTAGE
Something had gone horribly wrong.
Ilana had been so confident of rescue that she had actually packed and hidden a bag of clothes, biscuit, and dried venison to take with her when she left with the Romans.
Surely it had been a sign when the embassy rode into camp and she’d caught the eye of Jonas. God meant for her to be free and to return to civilization. Yet Guernna had run to her, smirking. “Come see your fine friends now, Roman!” Ilana had emerged into a sea of hooting and jostling Huns, some of them flinging vegetables and clods of earth at the three departing Romans. The old man was mounted backward on a donkey, his feet dangling and his fine gray hair and beard dirty and matted. His eyes looked hollow with defeat. Following on foot was the translator who had come back from Constantinople, staggering with a heavy sack around his neck that bent him like a reed. Roped behind was a boy who must be the translator’s son, looking frightened and ashamed. A dozen Hun warriors surrounded them as escort, including, she saw to her relief, Skilla. He must be leaving, too. But the Roman tents and baggage and slaves were all remaining behind, the latter conscripted into Attila’s army.
Where was Jonas?
“I heard they put one of them on the cross,” Guernna said gleefully, enjoying Ilana’s dismay. Guernna thought the Roman girl vain, aloof, and useless. “I heard he screamed more than a Hun or a German ever would and begged like a slave.”
Crucifixions took place on a low hill a half mile from the river, far enough so that the stench was not overpowering but near enough so that the cost of defiance was always apparent. One or two happened per week, as well as periodic im-palings. Ilana ran there, praying. Indeed, there was a new victim, whipped, bound, spiked, and so masked with blood and dirt that at first she had no idea who it was. Only after studying him anxiously did she discern that it was Rusticius, his eyes half hooded, his lips cracked like dried mud.
She was ashamed at her relief.
“Kill me . . .” He was rasping for breath, his own weight compressing his lungs. Rivulets of blood had dried brown on skin blistered from exposure.
“Where is Jonas?”
There was no answer. She doubted he could still hear.
She dared not grant Rusticius’s wish, or she would find herself hung beside him. Sickened by her own helplessness, she ran back to the camp, the crowd dissipated now that the humiliated Romans had left. Their tents had already been shared out as if the Romans had never existed. She came to Attila’s compound, breathless and tear-stained. “The young Roman,” she gasped to a guard. “Please . . .”
“Back like a pup, tied to his father.” The man sneered.
“Not the boy, the scribe! His name is Jonas Alabanda.”
“Oh, the lucky one. Hostage for more gold. Attila has given him to Hereka until we kill him. Your lover has become a slave, woman.”
She struggled to remain expressionless, her emotions a tumult of relief and despair. “He’s not my lover —”
“And when Skilla returns, you will be his.” He grinned. It was the rare tryst, feud, love affair, or rivalry that did not become gossip in the camp.
Hereka, Attila’s first and primary wife, lived in her own compound adjacent to Attila’s. Several dozen slaves and servants lived with her; and now Jonas had become one, forced to earn his keep by hewing wood, hauling water, tending Hereka’s herds, and entertaining the Hun’s primary wife with stories of Constantinople and the Bible.
Ilana tried to get in to see him, but Hereka’s gigantic Ostrogoth guards shooed her away. Her rescuer had become a prisoner and hope had evaporated, its memory like a kiss that could never be repeated.
It was two long weeks later that she spied him from a distance driving a Hun cart from the poplar and willow copses where the camp collected its firewood. The sun was low in the west, the sky pinking, when she took a water jar to once more give herself an excuse to walk to the track by the river to intercept him. The day had the warm sultriness of late summer, clouds of gnats orbiting each other. The Tisza River was low and brown.
Jonas reined the oxen when he recognized her, but he looked reluctant. She was surprised by how he’d changed.
His hair was matted with sweat from a day of chopping and gathering wood, and his skin had become deeply tanned.
Beyond that, he had visibly aged. His face was harder, his jaw stronger, and his eyes deeper and more worried. He had learned in an instant the cruelty of life, and it showed. He’d become a man. She found herself strangely heartened by his grim maturity.
His first words were not encouraging. “Go home, Ilana. I can do nothing for you now.”
“If Maximinus returns—”
“You know he won’t.” He shaded his eyes against the setting sun, looking away from the slight, pretty, helpless woman.
“Won’t your own father try to ransom you?”
“What little he could afford would mean nothing compared to the pleasure and object lesson Attila derives from making an example of me. And Rusticius died in innocence, while the creature that created this disaster goes home to Constantinople, a bag around his neck.” His tone was bitter.
“Bigilas’s master will punish him for failure.”
“While I eventually hang on a cross and you become bed slave to Skilla.”
Not slave, but wife, she wanted to correct. Was that her fate? Should she accede to it? She took a deep breath. “We can’t live expecting the worst, Jonas. The Empire won’t forget you. It was a crime to execute Rusticius, and Attila will sooner or later want to make amends. If we’re patient—”
“I can chop a lot of wood and you can haul a lot of water.”
There was a long dispirited pause, neither seeing an alternative, and then she laughed, the absurdity making her feel she was going insane. “How gloomy you’ve become!”
Her laughter startled him. He looked confused, then sheepish. “You’re right.” He sighed. “I’ve had another long day feeling sorry for myself.”
“It gets tiresome after a while.” Her grin was wry.
He straightened. Meek submission to barbarian will was not what Romans were taught. She watched him
