‘Eagle sitting on his shoulder,’ joked the lieutenant. An old proverb.
‘Something like that,’ said the general, almost to himself. ‘The eagle, the storm-bringer.’ Then, more briskly, he said, ‘Anyway, I want you to look out for him. No more escape attempts, of course. But look out for him in other ways, too. We really don’t want to piss off his grandfather, Uldin, at this stage.’
The lieutenant nodded.
‘The boy longs to be home, I know, but I don’t want him running off into the streets again. Far too dangerous, especially given his appetite for a fight. But if ever things changed – circumstances – and you felt he was in more danger in Rome than running free… Do you follow my meaning?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘The Huns – the Huns are not our enemies. They are not empire builders, so they have no reason to be empire destroyers. They neither fear the destruction of their own homeland nor desire that of another, a philosopher once said of them. After all, how could their homeland be destroyed? It is not a city or a country. It is the earth itself. How can you destroy the forests and the plains of Scythia? They don’t want to capture Rome. They want freedom, the wide open plains, pastureland for their horses and their cattle, good hunting. They don’t envy what the Romans have. They don’t want to take up residence in the Palatine, or recline in the Baths of Caracalla with lots of pretty Greek bumboys around to oil them and whatnot. And they will never, ever turn Christian. They will keep to their own religion, and their own kind.’
‘And they’re pretty good warriors, too.’
‘Pretty good?’ echoed the General. ‘I saw them tear into Rhadagastus’ army – who were no school-boys – and demolish them as if they were slaughtering a flock of sheep. God help us if they should ever turn against… ’
There was a heavy silence.
‘It would be like a beast-fight in the arena,’ said the lieutenant, ‘between a bear and a buffalo.’
‘Exactly.’ The general took another glug of wine. ‘It would get messy. But, as I say, I don’t see that it’ll ever happen. As long as we keep on friendly terms with them, there’s no reason to see the Huns as a threat.’
‘I take your meaning, sir.’
‘And the hostage lad is a part of that. So guard him well, and see that no harm comes to him. I’m fond of the lad.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘You have my word.’
8
The following afternoon, when Attila had finally been released from his lessons for the day – Livy, always Livy, and the Glorious Founders of Rome – he ran to the kitchens at the rear of the palace, and took his place at the big, scruffy table where the hostage children usually had their supper. He was the first to arrive. But unusually, as soon as he had taken his seat, Bucco, the big fat Sicilian slave, brought him a bowl of soup and some bread on a wooden trencher.
Attila devoured it: Livy always made him hungry. As soon as it was gone, Bucco was back to refill his bowl. The boy was mystified as to what he might have done to be so royally treated. But when he looked up at Bucco, the slave was looking down at him sadly. Almost… with pity.
‘Bucco?’
‘Little master?’
Attila waved his hand around. ‘Where are the others? Hegemond and Beremond and the rest of them?’
Bucco shifted uneasily and let his eyes drop. At last he said, in a voice that was no more than a whisper, ‘Gone, sir.’
The boy’s blood ran cold. ‘Gone? You mean…?’
‘Released, sir, under the general amnesty with Alaric and his allies.’
Attila dropped the hunk of bread he was holding. ‘Then why wasn’t I let go, too? How were the Gothic armies beaten, if not with the help of my people? Under the command of my own grandfather?’
Bucco looked miserable.
The boy was already scrambling up from his bench and making for the door. ‘This is what we get from Rome!’ he yelled.
He snatched open the door, and stopped dead. A burly palace guard was standing immediately outside, his spear held firmly across the doorway, and a broad grin on his face.
He turned and took his place on the bench again. Something was going terribly wrong. He longed to talk to Serena and Stilicho, his only friends in Rome.
‘Eat your bread,’ said Bucco.
‘Eat it yourself, you fat Sicilian turd!’ screamed Attila, seizing the hunk of bread before him and hurling it at Bucco. It was a good shot, and hit Bucco on a pudgy jowl. But he simply stooped, a little awkwardly given his ample girth, retrieved the bread from the floor, waddled over and set it before the boy again.
‘Not your soup,’ he said. ‘Your bread. ’
Attila stared up at the slave. There was something in Bucco’s eyes
… an urgency.
He gingerly tore the bread open. There was a slip of paper inside it.
Bucco waddled round and returned, whistling with false joviality, to the cooking range.
Attila eased the paper out. It read: ‘ Wait in the kitchens until after the twelfth hour. When the guard outside the door has changed, come to my room immediately. The second guard will permit it. Do not be seen. Make haste. S.’
Attila did as he was told. For once.
After the bells had struck in the great court, he waited a few minutes and then emerged from the doorway of the kitchens. There was the new guard standing beside the door clutching his spear. He did not stir, as if the boy were invisible.
Attila ran back and found Bucco clearing his plate and bowl away. On impulse he hugged the fat slave round his huge waist. Bucco looked down in astonishment.
And then the boy was gone.
There was another guard outside the door into Serena’s chambers. He, too, behaved as if the boy were invisible.
Attila went in.
Serena was seated on a low couch with her back to him. When she heard him she turned, and he saw to his dismay that her face was streaked with tears. Serena, always so composed and dignified. Her large, liquid eyes filled with fresh tears at the sight of him.
‘Attila,’ she said, holding out her hand.
‘What is it?’ he said, hearing fear trembling in his voice.
She held him for a moment and then pushed him away. ‘There is danger,’ she said. ‘You must go. Tonight, if you can.’ She hesitated.
‘Tell me what,’ he said.
She shook her head. She looked anxious, bewildered, uncertain. She searched for the right words.
‘Where is Stilicho?’ asked the boy.
‘In Pavia.’ She spoke abruptly.
‘They said,’ he blurted, ‘they said – Eumolpus said – you’d ordered me never to speak to you again. He said that was what you wanted.’
‘He lied.’
‘I know he did. I… I bit him.’
Despite her tears, Serena smiled. ‘I know you did,’ she said. ‘The whole palace knows. And much of the palace rejoices.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Come and sit beside me. There is little time.’
He sat.
She sighed and pondered and then spoke. ‘Have you heard of the Sibylline Books?’
‘The books of prophecy?’ He nodded. ‘Among my people, prophecies and sacred verses and suchlike are never written down. They’re too precious, and they’re only ever committed to memory by the holy men.’
‘Ah,’ said Serena. ‘It is the same among the Celts, I believe. If only it were the same in Rome.’ She scrutinised his face, and then she said, ‘Among the last and greatest of the Sibylline Books is a prophecy that Rome will endure for twelve centuries. When Romulus founded the city, he looked into the sky and saw twelve vultures circling above the seven hills, and he knew they symbolised the twelve centuries during which the gods would permit Rome to reign triumphant over all the world. But the city was founded by Romulus in – you know your Livy?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy a little wearily. ‘Seven hundred and fifty-three years before the birth of Christ.’ He frowned. Then he began counting on his fingers. Then he looked up at Serena in shock.