The Death of Attila, page 15
“Where would you suggest we put the Romans?”
Constantius stood. “In the empty house behind the Court of Women, my Kagan. Also, that will give them less honor than installing them within the palace itself. I shall have slaves make it ready.” He started briskly away.
“Constantius,” Attila said.
Halfway to the door, Constantius turned, his face wrapped in smiles.
“Put the lumber in the empty building behind the Court of Women. Put the Romans in the four rooms in the back of the palace.”
Constantius’ smile stiffened. “My Kagan.” He walked rapidly out the door; Edeco came in.
Attila drank his milk. His mood had soured. He cold trust nobody. The Romans might have been eager to get the empty building behind the Court of Women so that they could sneak in and out unobserved. That could have really been Constantius’ idea, but Attila thought not: the request came too soon after Ardaric visited the Romans.
“Attila,” Edeco said.
“Stop nudging me, Edeco. I might nudge you back. Shut the door and come here.”
Edeco pushed the door shut and walked around in front of the throne. Attila finished his milk and set the cup down. “Is Tacs still so much in the company of Ardaric’s son?”
“Yes, every day.”
“Send him to me. Tell Ardaric that I will not see him today, he is to go back to his house and wait until I call for him. Is Tacs inside the stockade?”
“Yes, my Kagan—he is standing gate watch.”
“Get him.”
“Yes, Attila.”
Edeco went out. The Kagan swung his feet up onto the table in front of him. His curiosity piqued him: he wanted to hear Ardaric’s plan, and even if the Gepid King had been giving the Romans his ear, he could be brought back in hand with no trouble. But it was an entertainment to devise a way to frighten him. It would be interesting to see how frightened Ardaric would be. Attila picked up his cup and took it across the room for more milk, pleased with himself.
DIETRIC SAID, “TACS WAS ORDERED to tell me to tell you that the Kagan knows of your visit to the Romans last night and will know if you go there again.”
Ardaric started. To hide his dismay he turned his face toward the map spread out on the table before him. His knees were quivering, and he sat down heavily.
“Papa,” Dietric said. He touched Ardaric’s arm; his voice was much younger than before. “Is there something wrong?”
“Yes,” Ardaric said. “Did you tell him anything—anything at all? Did you know that I had gone down there—”
“No! Papa, I didn’t tell anybody anything, I would have said nothing that might be wrong.”
By his voice Ardaric knew he was lying. Furious, he lashed out at Dietric, open-handed. “Leave me. Don’t let me see you the rest of this day.”
“Please, Father.”
Dietric was frightened, too. Ardaric felt a twinge of satisfaction. “Now you see what your friendship with that dirty Hun has brought on us. Get away! Go!”
Dietric ran out of the room. Ardaric, breathing hard, stared at the door. For a moment his rage at Dietric sustained him. He turned his eyes back to the map. His fear rose again like a tide. He marshaled all his defenses—he had told the Romans very little, listened without comment to most of their talk—he had known their flattery for bait, and he had not fallen. Not really.
Gradually, the distant sounds of his household pierced through to his whirling mind. He raised his head and looked around the little room. They had built it only that spring; long flat slivers of wood hung from the fresh planks, and it smelled of sap. He should have known that morning, when the Kagan abruptly sent him away, that something bad had happened. He got up from his chair, but there was nowhere to go, and he finally sat down again.
Outside, someone was chopping wood. People walked past his window, talking; a knock sounded on his door and when he did not answer footsteps hurried away. Geese cackled. Inside the room it was quiet. He stared at the edge of the map, pegged down to the table. All that hard loving work for nothing. The careful making up of plans, the assembling of information, the weighing of choices—he wondered what the Kagan would do to him.
Yet he had done no harm. He had taken their gifts and given so little in return—the description of the stockade and its buildings they could have got from anyone, a merchant, another visitor, anyone. They had asked other things, mostly concerning the Kagan’s relationships with other German kings, about which Ardaric actually knew almost nothing. Edeco had accepted a bribe to do far more, and there Edeco was now, standing guard over the Kagan again, commanding the antechamber of the throneroom. It was unfair, it was cruel. If he had been a Hun they would have treated him better.
All afternoon he sat in the room and stared at the map; at supper he could hardly choke down a mouthful. He went to bed at once but could not sleep, so that when the dawn came and everyone else spilled out of bed and hurried off to work, he lay groaning under the covers and pretended to be sick, up there in the dark where no one would see how frightened he was.
In the midmorning, a messenger came from the Kagan, and he had to pull on his clothes and climb down the ladder to hear him. The Kagan wished to see him at once. The messenger would ride back with him. The messenger was one of the guards, a tall, round-cheeked Hun whom Ardaric had seen in Tacs’ company. Ardaric ordered beer brought to him and went into the new room to gather up his maps and his pieces of chalk and charcoal.
For a while, taking down the maps on the walls, he thought of refusing to go—of ordering his people to pack their belongings and leave Hungvar. Even rolling the maps up and tying them, he savored that—the Kagan’s certain shock, his rage at Ardaric’s defiance, and of course his secret admiration. Ardaric knew that he would not do it, it was too dangerous; Attila had hundreds of warriors idle and aching for blood. The whole people would suffer. He took the maps under his arm and went out into the hall.
Dietric was there, talking to the messenger. When he came near enough to overhear, Ardaric realized that his son was speaking Hunnish, halting now and again, but actually conversing with a Hun in his own tongue. Seeing Ardaric, Dietric stepped back, and the messenger stood up, a pleasant smile on his face.
“Your beer is very excellent, King Ardaric. Is there anything I am to help you carry?”
“No,” Ardaric said, “thank you.”
Dietric said, “Father, may I come?”
“No.” Ardaric would not look at him; he followed the messenger through the door.
His white stallion was waiting for him, saddled and bridled in the red leather he had gotten in the Italian campaign the year before. The Hun messenger’s horse stood a few strides beyond the stallion, but the messenger went to the stallion’s head and held his bridle while Ardaric mounted. Dietric had come out with them; Ardaric gave him the maps to hold, while he climbed into his saddle.
The Hun went to his horse. Dietric handed up the maps. “Monidiak is always full of courtesy,” he said.
Ardaric tucked the maps under his arm. “You speak Hunnish now.”
“A little.” Dietric stood back. Lifting his reins, Ardaric rode toward the gate.
Monidiak said nothing to him all the way to the Kagan’s stockade. Ardaric was arranging his arguments in his mind. There was no sense in denying that he had gone to visit the Romans. If the Kagan searched his house he would find the gold and the cloth, the Roman jewelry, the beautiful little silver crucifix. He would say that he had done what Edeco had done—or claimed to have done: listened and accepted the bribes so that he could find out what was in the minds of the Romans for the Kagan’s use. But his hands were cold, his cheeks felt cold, and he knew that they would not believe him.
In the stockade yard, Monidiak held his horse again. The sentries at the door stepped back and let him enter without a word from him. He walked down the corridor to the stairway, shifted the maps to the other arm so that he could hold onto the railing, and climbed up to the second floor of the palace.
Edeco sat in the antechamber with his feet braced up against the wall, throwing date stones out the window and arguing with Constantius in Latin. Ardaric shut the door behind him and Edeco came lazily to his feet. For the moment, Ardaric’s hatred of Edeco armored him against his fear. He looked the Hun hard in the eye and bit his words off crisply.
“The Kagan sent for me.”
“Yes. You seem to be a busy man, now, traveling here and there.” Edeco’s wide nostrils flared. “What is that? What are you carrying?”
“That is not for your knowing. Tell the Kagan I am here.”
Edeco drew a deep breath. Turning his head, he spat a date stone out the window, clapped his hands together, and went through the door behind him. Ardaric heard him speak to the Kagan in Hunnish; for the first time he longed to know that language. He heard Attila’s deep, pleasant voice in answer. Edeco returned.
“Go in.”
Ardaric reached to one side and took a date from the bowl on the table. Popping it into his mouth, he went through the door of the throneroom.
When the door shut behind him, all his pride vanished. He could not meet the Kagan’s eyes. A shameful, rabbit cowardice possessed him. He saw only Attila’s boots, the fur matted by the leather laces, propped up against the edge of the table. Unrolling his maps, he spread out the first one on the table; he knew he would have no use for it, but it was his.
“Ardaric,” the Kagan said easily. “What have you for me today? Let me see.”
The boots came down, and Attila swung himself onto his feet and walked around to Ardaric’s side of the table. “Ah. You made use of the Roman map. Very good. Explain the notation to me.”
Ardaric raised his eyes to meet the Kagan’s. With their faces only a few feet apart Attila smiled at him. Ardaric’s mouth was gummed with the date he had eaten; when he began to speak, his lips would hardly move. He translated the symbols he had used on the map, pointing out each one.
Attila made only a few comments. Every time Ardaric looked at him, he was smiling. They bent over the maps together and Ardaric began to sketch out his plan for the assault. The Kagan was in a superlative humor, his face vivid with good nature. Once he made a small joke. Slowly Ardaric understood that the Kagan would not mention his visit to the Romans. But even the rush of relief, he was angry, even disappointed, that the Kagan did not think him important enough to punish.
THIRTEEN
AFTER EVERYONE HAD eaten and the plates were taken away, they brought in the dwarf. Even among Huns he was tiny and misshapen, and he danced and spoke gibberish and made such faces that everyone laughed, even the Romans, sprawling elegantly in chairs to the Kagan’s right. The Kagan alone did not laugh. Dietric watched him through the tail of his eye while the dwarf did somersaults and pulled his face into a grotesque; the Roman Maximinus laughed and leaned over toward his colleague to share his laughter, but the Kagan watched the dwarf almost with distaste.
Dietric had heard—they had all heard—that in spite of the Romans’ presence in the palace and at this great feast, the Kagan had refused to talk over the matters that the Romans had come to Hungvar to discuss. Dietric was pleased at that: it would show the Romans that Attila could not be toyed with. Looking across the hall—he was standing behind his father, as Ardaric’s cupbearer—he could see Attila full-face, and he began to see how such a man could be more noble than the Romans who believed their Emperor a god.
Every man of importance within two or three days’ ride of Hungvar had come to this banquet. The wide hall was packed with tables and benches; the men sitting on them were crowded shoulder to shoulder even in so great a space. On the wooden plank walls hung rugs and tapestries from all over the world. The floor was covered with mats woven of rushes—Ardaric had said that the Kagan preferred not to have his carpets ruined by people walking on them.
The ceiling beams were black with soot from the torches, and the roar of conversation sounded like a waterfall. All the men sitting at the tables were of high birth, each dressed to his own standard of elegance—the three kings of the Ostrogoths had come, wearing Greek and Egyptian cloth, and Ardaric himself wore woven cloth trimmed with fur, but Edeco and Scottas and the other Huns, who took precedence over the Germans, wore fur and leather studded with jewels, feathers and rocks in their hair, and symbols painted on their faces. When Edeco had come in, Constantius, serving the Kagan as herald, had announced him as Master of Horse. Dietric was pleased with himself for knowing that was a jab at the Romans.
The dwarf danced clumsily down the middle table toward the Kagan, while the men seated near him tried to trip him and catch his feet; a few slashed at his legs with their knives. Artlessly the dwarf eluded them, his stubby arms raised above his head and his ridiculous short robe flapping around his thighs. One of the men lunged forward with a knife and the dwarf dodged nimbly to one side and somehow a tall pitcher of beer overturned and drenched the knife-bearer. A roar of laughter went up. At the head of the hall, the Kagan frowned. He wore the blue silk tunic he always wore on such occasions; his huge round head was sunk down between his shoulders. His arms lay on the arms of his chair, his hands fisted. Beside him, the Romans in their embroidered gowns, with their fine-boned faces and pale, soft skin, seemed womanish and frail.
“Dietric,” Ardaric said quietly. “Fill my cup.”
Dietric backed up two steps, turned, and jogged down the hall toward the tables where the serving vessels stood. Along the walls the Hun guard was stationed, Tacs among them, and when Dietric passed Tacs he smiled and lifted his hand to him.
“I told you it would be well,” Tacs called after him.
Dietric signed to him to wait and stopped at the table. The ewer with the wine Ardaric was drinking had been taken away, and he leaned up against the table to wait for it. Tacs walked up to him. “Did he tell you what happened? I was—”
Edeco shouted at him from across the hall, and Tacs looked around. Dietric drew back out of range. Edeco with a torrent of Hunnish insults ordered Tacs back to his place and not to leave it again. Tacs gave a look around, surprised at such unexpected discipline, and returned to the wall. Laughter spread around the room, and now even the Kagan laughed. The blond boy who had taken the ewer away brought it back—a cupbearer to one of the Alan chiefs who sat at the far side of the room. Dietric picked up the ewer to carry it to his father’s place.
The dwarf had reached the dais. He went down on his knees before the Kagan and touched his forehead to the table. On either side of him, the sons of Attila were sitting; among them Dengazich smiled and smiled and his eyes never stopped moving. Ellac sat like a lump, shoveling food into his mouth. The dwarf babbled something in gibberish, bowing and knocking his head against the table, and yet there was little humility in it, only insolence. Attila never smiled. After a little, he spoke to Constantius, sitting on a stool at his knee, and Constantius took a purse from his robes, opened it, and laid a gold coin on the table before the dwarf.
The dwarf snatched it up and whirling raced down the table toward the door, whooping and leaping into the air, kicking dishes and cups of wine into men’s laps. The Roman Maximinus, shaking with laughter, reached out and laid his hand on the arm of the other Roman. The door slammed behind the dwarf and the Romans both leaned back, smiling, all at ease. A moment later a monk appeared before the dais.
Ardaric was turned away, explaining to his Burgundian neighbor that the Kagan would not laugh at the dwarf because the little man had once belonged to the Kagan’s brother Bleda. Dietric poured wine into Ardaric’s cup. Reaching for it, Ardaric saw the monk and spilled wine over his hand.
Dietric took a napkin from his shirt and gave it to his father. The monk was speaking Latin, facing the Kagan, his arms raised. “What is he saying?” Dietric asked.
Ardaric’s lips were pressed hard together. He listened to the monk a little while longer and said, harsh-voiced, “He is reminding the Romans of a promise that he could preach here for the conversion of the Huns. He is a fool. You see that he has only angered the Kagan.”
Dietric took the ewer back to the serving table, all but running in his haste, because the table was close to the dais. The monk talked on, but the Romans were fidgeting, and as Ardaric had said, the Kagan was angry. He spoke sharply to Constantius, who rose, but before Constantius could speak Edeco was on his feet and calling Hunnish names.
Three of the guards jumped forward from the wall and climbed across an intervening table to reach the monk. Yaya was among them. Dietric clenched his teeth. He set the ewer down and turned to watch. The three Huns picked the monk up and carried him roughly away. The monk gave one shout; afterward, the whole length of the hall, he fought silently, but he might as well never have moved at all. The Huns ignored it. Yaya was twisting the monk’s arm. The man’s black hood fell off his head and dragged along the floor. The Hun standing guard on the door opened it and let them out and shut the door again.
Maximinus was talking to the Kagan, smiling, but over his cheekbones the skin showed white with strain. He leaned forward, giving emphasis to what he said by tapping his forefinger on his knee. The Goth Vigilas, interpreting, came up between them, but before he could finish translating the Kagan said, “No. Just tell him that when he comes to my palace, I shall provide the entertainment.” With his hand he cut them off, both Maximinus and the interpreter, and turned forward again. Maximinus lowered his eyes and sat back.
When Dietric got back to Ardaric’s place, his father was laughing. “You see how he punishes them,” he was saying to the Burgundian. “They are terrified that he will use the least excuse to turn on them and destroy them for their plot against him. He is a subtle man, the Kagan.”
Dietric licked his lips. The memory of the monk struggling voicelessly in the grip of the three Huns stayed with him and made him uncomfortable. Looking around, he saw that no one else seemed to be bothered, yet most of the men in the hall were Christians. An instant later he realized that the monk was probably a Catholic. All the Germans followed the doctrine of Arius. He himself was Arian. But he knew that he should have gone to help the monk, somehow—they were both Christians, after all, and the Huns were pagan.
