The Tent of the Women was a great white circular yurt, with a central pole made from an entire fir tree. It stood at the centre of the Compound of the Women, which was where the female captives and slaves were kept, jealously guarded. Hun wives, of course, lived with their husbands in their own tents, often having to share space with concubines and slavegirls picked up in the wars. But the Compound of the Women belonged to the king alone, and it was in his gift to permit his family or guests to enjoy its pleasures.
Aside from the Tent of the Women, there lived Ruga’s own personal concubines, whom none might touch or even look upon, jealously guarded day and night by castrated slaves. But so far, since the accession of the king, nearly a year ago, not a single one of his concubines, or his wives, had yet become pregnant. But it was not considered too wise to raise the matter.
The cool night cleared Attila’s head a little, and he sucked air deep into his lungs. He could feel the meat and koumiss sitting heavily in his belly, but his blood coursed hotly around his body, and he felt that, though he would not go quite fearlessly into the Tent of the Women, nevertheless he would go in not visibly trembling.
The two huge, armed eunuchs who guarded the yurt grinned and made ribald comments as they unlaced the tent flaps and let him step inside.
It was dimly lit within, and a fire burnt near the middle, the smoke stealing out through a hole in the roof. Round the central tentpole were spread huge mounds of animal furs, and on them lay some of the women. Others lay further off round the sides of the tent, dozing or gossiping in low voices, filing their nails with sandstones, or combing and braiding each other’s hair by lamplight. The air was dreamy with woodsmoke and hair oil and the light, soft aroma of women.
Two women arose and came over, both some years older than him. They smiled and held out their hands. One was a Circassian, perhaps, with pale blue eyes and very fair hair and complexion. The other was darker, surely from the empire, perhaps from the east. She wore heavy gold earrings and she touched him brazenly, her painted fingernails bright in the lamplight, her hands running down over his chest.
But most of the women were not like that. The Tent of the Women was no Roman bordello, and the air was heavy also with sadness and captivity. Many of the women lay and dreamt of their lost husbands and children, their vanished villages and their homelands far away. Many had come here by way of war and atrocity, and few came to caress their new master with brightly painted fingernails.
The boy moved away from the painted eastern girl and the Circassian, whose faces fell in dismay and scorn as he turned aside. He went round the tent in the shadows, and some of the women stirred and looked at him, and his confusion pulled inside him; his body hotly flushing at the thought that any – that all these women could be his for the taking. That was why so many men strove to be kings. But he knew none of them was here for any reason but by the sword.
At last his eyes settled upon a girl huddled in the corner, buried in woollen wraps drawn up round her shoulders and even over her mouth. Her long hair spread out over them and her eyes were lowered. Then she looked up, and he saw her large, haunted eyes in the gloom, her narrow face, and he thought back to another girl, many months ago. He reached out and touched her, and slowly she let the woollen wraps fall and got up from her couch.
Some of the other women had gathered round, cooing and giggling, and the eastern woman with the painted nails was already beckoning them towards a fur-covered couch. As if it was the custom for a man to take his pleasure here with any woman he chose, while the other women gathered round and praised him, their eyes shining with fake lasciviousness, driven only by their desperate desire to be moved from one tent to another: from the herdlike Tent of the Women to one of the private tents of the wives and concubines.
Attila, flushed though he was with koumiss, balked at the idea of such openness. He shook his head at the other women, took the girl’s pale hand, led her away behind one of the hangings where they slept, and drew it across behind them.
The other women returned to their couches and waited. They would spend their whole lives waiting, until they were too old, when they would be sold as household slaves for less than the price of a horse’s corpse.
Attila drew the girl’s shift up over her head and looked at her for a long time. She looked steadily, silently back. At last he pushed her down onto the couch and began to kiss her. He paused for a moment, raising his head and looking down at her. Still a little overawed by the entire experience of the Tent of the Women, he began to mumble something about they didn’t have to… everything, if she, and he was sorry…
She reached up and pulled him down again. He was surprised and thrilled to feel her kissing him back with ardour. Then she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him aside hard.
‘What?’ he said bewildered, sitting up.
She laughed softly. ‘We don’t have to… everything…I’m sorry… ’ she mimicked cruelly.
She leant over him and pulled at the lacing on the front of his shirt. ‘How do you know I don’t want to as well?’ she said, arching her eyebrows. Then she ripped his shirt off over his head, rolled on top of him and straddled his bare chest with her naked thighs. ‘I might enjoy it sometimes, too,’ she said.
The boy stared up at her open-mouthed. Then her mouth closed on his, and he could think no more.
Attila had his own tent, and the girl to warm his couch for him from then on.
‘It’ll soon be the raiding season again,’ said Ruga, slapping him violently on the back. ‘I expect you to ride out and bring me back ten more whores to replace her. She was a nice bit of flesh.’
The boy smiled politely.
3
Nearly a month later, a single rider, naked to the waist, with his hair worn long and oiled and his moustache luxuriant, rode into the city of Ravenna. The guards blocked his path at first, but when he said who he was from they reluctantly allowed him to pass, albeit accompanied by an armed escort.
At last, deprived of his horse, thoroughly searched for weapons – he carried none – and obliged to don a white cloak over his sinewy shoulders for the sake of decency, he was allowed into the presence of the Emperor of Rome.
The emperor’s sister was also present. A woman – seated on her own throne, as if the equal of a man! These Romans, thought the warrior with distaste.
He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, and instead of keeping his eyes respectfully bowed to the elaborate mosaic floor he dared to look the Divine Emperor Honorius in the face.
These barbarians, thought the emperor with distaste.
‘ Asla konusma Khlatina,’ said the warrior. ‘ Sizmeli konusmat Ioung.’
There was some uncourtly confusion while the palace chamberlains scuttled about looking for an interpreter who could understand the ugly language of the Huns. An awkward silence reigned meanwhile in the vast, dimly glittering Chamber of the Imperial Audience. The messenger’s eyes never left the face of the emperor. It was intolerable. Honorius looked down into his lap. His sister stared coldly back at the Hun messenger. His bold, slanted eyes reminded her unpleasantly of the eyes of another, younger visitor from the steppes.
At last an interpreter was found, and arrived in the Chamber looking frankly terrified. He stood trembling, some steps behind the Hun warrior, and waited for him to speak again. When the warrior repeated his words, the poor man looked even more stricken at the unenviable prospect of having to translate such impertinent words to the frosty Imperial Throne.
‘ Asla konusma Khlatina,’ repeated the warrior. ‘ Sizmeli konusmat Ioung.’