Sadly, he turned his horse’s head for home. He had little inclination to return, but today was his wedding-feast, the bride, the latest of many, a young girl named Ildico. She had been chosen by the Council, Attila suspected, to prove to the Huns that their King, though old, was still virile and potent. He felt a flash of resentment that it had come to this: paraded like a stud bull at a market, to gratify the expectations of his subjects who, in their ignorance, needed the myth of an all-powerful monarch to sustain them. Perhaps, he thought wryly, he was coming to resemble King Log in the fable by that Greek slave.
Arriving back at his capital late in the afternoon, Attila was greeted by a great throng of women. Forming long files, and holding aloft white veils of thin linen so as to cover the spaces between the columns, they preceded Attila to his wooden palace, while choirs of young girls marching beneath the linen canopies chanted hymns and songs. Outside the principal gate, surrounded by attendants and with the wedding guests ranged behind, waited his new bride. A slave presented Attila with a goblet of wine, raised on a small silver table to a height convenient for the King as he sat his horse. Attila touched the goblet with his lips, bowed briefly to his wife-to-be, a frightened-looking youngster scarcely visible beneath layers of bridal finery, and dismounted.
A shaman performed a brief marriage ceremony, then the couple, followed by the bride’s retinue and the guests, proceeded through the gateway and into the great hall, bright with wall-hangings and Oriental carpets, and lined with tables for the wedding guests. As at the reception for the Roman envoys five years before, the royal table, raised on a dais above the level of the rest, was laid with wooden cups and platters, in contrast to the gold and silver vessels on the other tables.
Punctuated by performances of minstrels, clowns, and jugglers, course followed course in monotonous plenty; each was a variation on mainly three ingredients, mutton, goat’s flesh, and millet. Toasts, in fermented mare’s milk, millet beer, and Roman wine — to Attila, to his bride, to each member of the bride’s family, to the prominent nobles among the guests — were proposed and returned in an interminable succession. Although, as was his wont, he ate and drank sparingly, the sheer number of toasts and courses began to tell on even Attila’s iron constitution. But, he being host and bridegroom, courtesy compelled him to sample every serving and each health drunk; nor could he decently retire before the conclusion of the feast. At last, as the first rays of dawn began to filter through the shutters of the hall, the final course was cleared away and, ill and exhausted, Attila was able to retire with his bride to the bedchamber.
With enormous thankfulness, the king lay down on the bed, indicating to Ildico that, instead of joining him, she should rest on a nearby couch. He felt a pang of compassion for the poor trembling child, waiting to be ravished by a man old enough to be her grandfather. She need have no fear. Let her choose some handsome young page to be her bedmate, and, to keep the Council and the people happy, any offspring be passed off as Attila’s. A smile played briefly round the grim old warrior’s lips as sleep claimed him.
Attila awoke, conscious of a terrible lancing pain beneath his breastbone. He tried to call out, but only a feeble croak issued from his throat. When he tried to rise, his stiffened muscles refused to obey his will. The pain increased, becoming unendurable. Suddenly, something seemed to tear inside his chest and his gullet filled with warm liquid; he tried to breathe, found himself choking. .
Later that day, concerned about his master’s non-appearance, Balamir, Attila’s loyal and devoted groom, broke into the royal bedchamber and found the King dead, lying in a great pool of blood. Ildico was crouched beside him, her head hidden by a veil. It was clear that an artery had burst, drowning Attila in his own blood.
The funeral was of a scale to reflect the King’s mighty exploits. His body was solemnly exposed beneath a silken canopy; the nomads shaved their hair and gashed their faces, while chosen squadrons wheeled round the corpse, chanting a funeral song. The corpse was enclosed within three coffins: of gold, of silver, and of iron, then placed within the dry bed of the River Tisa, which had been diverted from its course by captive Romans. The waters were then restored to their natural channel and the prisoners executed, that the spot should remain secret for ever.
As news of the King’s death spread throughout the Roman world, it was everywhere greeted by a vast collective sigh of relief — nowhere more than in the East, on which Attila had vowed to wreak terrible revenge, for its defiance in withholding tribute.
1 Lake Garda.
2 Pavia.
FIFTY-TWO
The ring came to rest on particular letters appropriate to the questions put
Anonymous in cuculli or hooded cloaks, the two figures — one stocky and muscular, the other tall and athletic — plunged ever deeper by torchlight into the squalid warren that was Rome’s Fourth District, the Subura. Walled in by towering insulae, tall, badly built blocks which were forever catching fire or falling down, the narrow streets were clogged with filth and rubbish, infrequently removed by gangs of private refuse-collectors. Gone were the old public services that until fairly recently had maintained high levels of security and hygiene throughout the city’s fourteen districts. Law and order, fighting fires, cleansing, and public health — all were now contracted out by the City Prefect to private concerns for whom profit was the priority, with corner-cutting and shoddy standards ever more widespread.
His hugely developed shoulders and forearms deterrents to any would-be mugger, the first of the pair threaded the maze of alleys with a sureness born of long familiarity, halting at last at the base of a huge tower which dwarfed all the buildings around it. This was the famous Insula of Felicula, the tallest structure in Rome, and as much a visitor attraction for Rome as the Pyramids were for Egypt.
‘Legs and lungs in good shape, Serenity?’ chuckled the man, his informal manner bordering on insolence. ‘You’ll be sorry if they’re not — we’re in for a climb of sixteen storeys.’
‘You’ve been paid to do a job, Statarius, not talk,’ snapped his companion, throwing back his hood to reveal the face of the Emperor. ‘Just lead the way.’
‘Whatever you say, Serenity,’ responded the other, unabashed. ‘Just trying to be friendly.’
Damn the fellow’s presumption, thought Valentinian as he followed the man up the steep stairwell. These swollen-headed charioteers, the darlings of the mob, considered themselves as good as anyone, even their Emperor. Still, lack of respect was a small price to pay for the assignation he was about to keep. If you wanted a nefarious deal arranged, a charioteer was always your best choice. This one, Statarius, ‘Slowcoach’ (the ironic nickname bestowed on account of his being the fastest driver in Rome), had been recommended for his network of shady contacts.