this?”
“The place of chariot races and games,” Bigilas replied.
“When they compete there are eighty thousand people here.
Have you seen the scarves and ribbons? Those are our factions, the Greens the common folk and the Blues the nobles. There’s a great rivalry, betting, and sometimes riots and fights.”
“For what?”
“For who wins the game.”
So they spent their energies on pretend war instead of the real thing.
And with that they came to the palace of Chrysaphius.
The chief minister of the Eastern Roman Empire lived, in the manner of all beings in such exalted positions, on his wits, watchfulness, and ruthless calculation. Like so many in this new era of Roman government, Chrysaphius was a eunuch. It was his early service to, and access to, the emperor’s beautiful wife, Aelia—made possible because of his castra-tion—that had started his own precipitous rise. He was now, by some accounts, more powerful than the emperor himself.
And why not? Having observed the cunning of women his entire life, the minister had long concluded that the absence of balls did nothing to subtract from courage and everything to improve clarity of mind. The emperor Theodosius was normally equipped but was a hapless general and clumsy negotiator who had been dominated his entire life by his older sister, a woman so aware of the proper ranking of things that she had foresworn sex and devoted her life to religious chastity. Such purity made her as formidable and revered as it made her prickly and vindictive. What a contrast the dangerous Pulcheria was to the dim and lustful sister of the emperor of the West, a girl named Honoria, reportedly so stupid that she had been caught in bed with her palace steward! If only Pulcheria would exhibit such weakness. But, no, she seemed as immune to such feelings as Chrysaphius himself, which made her dangerous.
Pulcheria had first gotten rid of lovely Aelia by accusing her brother’s wife of adultery, driving her in humiliation to Judea. Chrysaphius had barely escaped being caught up in that scandal himself, since Aelia had been his patroness. Yet his skill at negotiation had made him so indispensable, and his emasculation had made him so immune to sexual chicanery, that even Pulcheria could not dislodge him. Nor could the minister, in turn, persuade the emperor that his sister’s public holiness was only a mask for private spiteful-ness. Now she was Chrysaphius’s most implacable enemy.
The minister’s own greed and treacheries had made him many foes, and he knew his unsexing added to his unpopularity. He needed a dramatic achievement to fortify himself against Pulcheria.
This was why the oafish barbarian Edeco was now rudely stuffing himself at Chrysaphius’s table.
So far, the political seduction had gone as planned. Bigilas had met the Hun outside the city walls and had escorted him through Constantinople, the translator confirming that he had dazzled the tribesman with the glories of Roman architecture, the richness of Byzantine markets, and the density and vigor of the population. The futility of assaulting Nova Roma should be evident by now. Edeco had then come into Chrysaphius’s palace, gaping like a peasant at its marbles, brocades, tapestries, carpets, pools, fountains, and carved cedar doors. Sunlit courtyards were filled like a meadow with flowers; bedchambers were seas of silks and linens; and side tables groaned under mountains of fruit, bread, honey, meat, and gleaming olives.
The Hun had grazed like a bull from room to room.
Chrysaphius had tried to get two of his tittering slave girls to coax the barbarian into one of his baths, a diver-tissement that would have made the creature more bearable at close range, but the Hun had suspiciously refused.
“They fear water spirits,” the translator had whispered in explanation.
Chrysaphius groaned. “How can they stand to reproduce themselves?”
Bigilas had finally persuaded Edeco to shed his furs and armor for a robe of Egyptian cotton that was laced with golden thread, edged with ermine, and spotted with precious gems, a freshening that was like throwing silk on a musty bear. The Hun’s hands were still as rough as a carpenter’s and his hair suited to a witch, but the unfamiliar and perfumed clothes made him fit a little more naturally into the
The Huns were dangerous but greedy, Chrysaphius believed. They were little more than horse-borne pirates, who had no use for cities and yet had an insatiable hunger for their products. They hated the Romans because they envied them, and they were as corruptible as children lured by a bowl of sweets. For more than a decade the chief minister had avoided a final showdown with Attila by buying the madman off, wincing as the demand for annual tribute had risen from the three hundred and fifty pounds of gold demanded by Attila’s father to the seven hundred insisted on by Attila’s brother to the more than two thousand demanded by Attila himself. It was more than one hundred and fifty thousand solidi per year! To pay the six thousand pounds demanded to end the war of 447, the city’s merchants and senators had had to melt their wives’ jewelry. There had been suicides amid the despair. More important, there was barely enough money left to pay for Chrysaphius’s luxuries!
It was Attila who had turned the Huns from a confederation of annoying raiders to a rapacious empire, and it was Attila who had changed reasonable tribute to outrageous extortion.
Eliminate Attila, and their cohesion would collapse. A single knife thrust or draft of poison, and the Eastern Empire’s most intractable problem would be solved.
The eunuch smiled benevolently at the Hun and spoke, using Bigilas to translate. “Do you enjoy our epicurean del-icacies, Edeco?”
“The what?” The man’s mouth was disgustingly full.
“The food, my friend.”
“It’s good.” He took another handful.
“The finest cooks in the world come to Constantinople.
They compete with one another in the inventiveness of their recipes. They continuously astonish the palate.”
“You are a good host, Chrysaphius,” the Hun said agreeably. “I will tell this to Attila.”
“How flattering.” The minister sipped from his cup. “Do you know, Edeco, that a man of your standing and talents could eat like this every day?”
Here the barbarian finally paused. “Every day?”
“If you lived here with us.”
“But I live with Attila.”
“Yes, I know, but have you ever thought of living in Constantinople?”
The Hun snorted. “Where would I keep my horses?”
Chrysaphius smiled. “What need have we of horses? We have nowhere we need to go. The entire world comes to us, and brings the best of its goods with it. The brightest wits and best artists and the holiest priests all come to Nova Roma. The Empire’s most beautiful women are here, as you can see from my own slaves and bath girls. Why do you need a horse?”
Edeco, realizing that some kind of offer was being prepared, shifted more upright on his dining couch as if to focus his half-drunken attention. “I’m not a Roman.”
“But you could be.”
The barbarian glanced around warily, as if everything might be taken away from him in an instant. “I have no house here.”
“But you could have, general. A man of your military experience would be invaluable to our armies. A man of your station could have a palace exactly like this one. A man like you who gave his services to the emperor could be first among our nobles. Our palaces, our games, our goods, and our women could all be yours.”
The Hun’s eyes narrowed. “You mean if I leave my people and join you.”
“I mean if you are willing to save
“My place is by Attila.”
“So far. But must we next meet across the battlefield? We both know that is what Attila wants. Your ruler is insatiable.
