In the shadows at the far end of the room, on an elevated platform, was a single man, sitting in a plain wooden chair, without weapon, crown, or decoration. A curtain of tapestries hung behind him. This was the king of the Huns? The most powerful man in the world seemed a disappointment.
Attila was more plainly dressed than anyone, his torso erect and his feet firmly planted. Like all Huns he was short legged and long waisted, his head unusually large for the length of his body, and so motionless that he might have been carved from wood. He was, as reputation suggested, a somewhat ugly man: flat nose, eyes so deep set that they seemed to peer from caves, and the ritual cheek scarring that marked so many Huns. Had Attila cut himself after murder-ing his brother?
The king’s wispy mustache drooped in what I had come to think of as the Hunnish frown, and his beard was scrag-gly and flecked with gray. Yet his gaze was focused and penetrating; his brow large; and his cheekbones and chin hard and pronounced, resulting in a visage that was undeniably commanding. His physique added to his presence. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, making him—at forty-four years—as fit as a soldier of twenty. His hands were large and looked as brown and gnarled as exposed roots, the fingers gripping the arms of his chair as if to prevent himself from levitating. There was nothing on his person to give any mark of authority, and yet without saying a word or moving a muscle he commanded the room as naturally as a matriarch dominates a chamber of children. Attila has slain a hundred men and ordered the slaying of a hundred thousand more, and all that blood had given him presence and power.
There was a gigantic iron sword behind him, resting horizontally on two golden pegs. It was rusty and dark, as if of great antiquity, its edge jagged. It was so enormous—it would reach from my feet to my cheek—that it seemed made more for a giant than a man.
Maximinus noticed it, too. “Is that the sword of Mars?”
he murmured to Bigilas. “It would be like trying to swing a roof beam.”
“The story is that it was found near the banks of the Tisza when a cow cut her hoof on something sharp in the grass,”
Bigilas answered quietly. “The herdsman alerted Attila, who had it dug out and shrewdly pronounced it a sign of favor from the gods. His men are superstitious enough to believe it.”
We were waiting for a sign of what to do, and suddenly Attila spoke without preamble—not to us but to his lieutenant. “I sent you to get a treaty and treasure, Edeco, and you have brought me only men.” His voice was low but not unpleasant, a quiet strength to his tone, but his displeasure was obvious. He wanted gold, not an embassy.
“The Romans insisted on addressing you directly, my kagan,” the warlord answered. “Apparently they found my conversation lacking, or felt they had to explain their recal-citrance in person. At any rate, they’ve brought you presents.”
“As well as our emperor’s wish for peace and understanding,” Maximinus added hastily as this was translated.
“For too long we’ve been at odds with the king of the Huns.”
Attila studied us like a lion stalking a herd. “We are not at odds,” he finally said. “We have an understanding, ratified by treaty, that I have beaten you as I have beaten every army I’ve encountered, and that you are to pay tribute to me. Yet always the tribute is late or too small or in base coins when what I demanded was gold. Is this not true, ambassador? Do I have to come myself to Constantinople to get what is rightfully mine? If so, it will be with more warriors than there are blades of grass on the steppe.” His tone was a growl of warning, and the warlords who were watching buzzed like the warning hum of the hive.
“All respect the power of Attila,” the senator placated him, obviously flustered by this rude and quick beginning.
“We bring not only a share of the annual tribute but also additional presents. Our Empire wishes peace.”
“Then abide by your agreements.”
“But your thirst for the yellow metal is destroying our commerce, and if you don’t relent we will soon be too poor to pay anything. You rule a great empire, kagan. I come from a great one as well. Why aren’t we better friends? Can we not join together as partners? Our rivalry will exhaust both our nations and spill the blood of our children.”
“Rome is my partner—when she pays her tribute. And returns my soldiers.”
“We have brought five fugitives back to you—”
“And shielded five thousand.” The Hun turned to Edeco.
“Tell me, general, is Constantinople too poor to give me what was promised?”
“It is rich and noisy and crammed with people like caged birds.” Edeco pointed to Bigilas. “He showed me.”
“Ah, yes. The man who thinks his emperor a god, and me a mere man.”
I was startled. How had Attila learned this already? We’d just arrived and already the negotiations seemed to be slew-ing out of control.
Attila stood, his legs bowed, his torso like a wedge. “I am a man, translator. But the gods work through me, as you’ll learn. Look.” He pointed to the great sword displayed behind him, pitted and dull. “In a dream Zolbon, the one you Romans call Mars, came to me and revealed his sword. He showed me where to find it on the trackless plain. With this weapon, he told me, the Huns will become invincible. With the sword of Mars, the People of the Dawn will conquer the world!”
He lifted his arms and his warlords sprang to their feet, roaring in agreement. Our little embassy shrank, and we clustered together, fearing slaughter. And yet as abruptly as he had stood, Attila dropped his arms, the noise ceased, and he and his chiefs promptly sat again. It had all been an act.
He pointed. “Listen to me, Romans. It is the People of the Dawn who are your god now. It is our choice who lives and who dies, which city rises and which is burned, who marches and who retreats. It is we who have the sword of Mars.” He nodded, as if confirming this arrogance to himself. “But I am a good host, as you were a host to Edeco.
Tonight we feast and begin to know each other. Your visit is just beginning. It is over time that we will decide what kind of partners to become.”
Rattled by this reception, our embassy retreated to our tents by the river to rest and confer. Bigilas and Rusticius, with the most knowledge of the Huns, were the least disconcerted. They said Attila’s aggressive opening was simply a tactic.
“He uses his moods to intimidate and rule,” Bigilas said.
“I’ve seen him so infuriated that he writhed on the ground until blood spurted from his nose. I’ve seen him tear an enemy apart with his bare hands, clawing the man’s eyes out and breaking his arms, while the victim waited so frozen in fear that he was incapable of defending himself. But I’ve also seen him hold a baby and kiss a child, or weep like a woman when a favorite warrior was borne back dead.”
“I was expecting patient diplomacy,” Maximinus confessed.
“Attila will be more hospitable and less demanding at the banquet,” Bigilas said. “He’s made his point, just as we’ve made ours by showing Edeco the strength of Constantinople. It’s obvious that word of all that transpired on our journey was sent ahead. The Huns are not stupid. Now, having blustered, Attila will try to forge a relationship.”
“You seem very certain.”
“I mean no presumption, ambassador. I simply believe that, in the end, things are going to go our way.” He smiled, but it was a secret smile that seemed to conceal more than it revealed.
We bathed with water from the river warm in its summer flow, dressed in finer clothes, and returned that night to the same great hall for Attila’s welcoming banquet. This time the room had been expanded. The tapestries and partitions that had backed Attila’s chair had disappeared, revealing a platform that bore the king’s bed, canopied with linens. It seemed odd to me to display one’s bedroom, given that Roman chambers were small and secretive, but Rusticius said this intimacy was taken by the Huns as a sign of hospitality. Our host was welcoming us to the center of his life.