Attila (49 page)

At the eighth hour, a time assigned for private prayer, Priscilla slipped into Honoria's cell. ‘It's all right – no one saw me,' she giggled shakily, her voice husky with excitement, and started tearing off her habit, an ankle-length tunic of coarse undyed linen. Within seconds the two women stood naked before each other, their eyes mirroring their mutual desire. Embracing, they locked mouths hungrily, then began to fondle each other's breasts with eager fingers, the nipples swelling erect and darkening. Leaning backwards on the bed, Honoria opened her thighs, gasped in ecstasy as Priscilla's lips found those other lips, and her flickering tongue caressed the swelling bud—

The door crashed open, revealing the skinny form of Sister Annunciata, flanked by two burly eunuchs. ‘Caught –
in flagrante delicto
!' the nun shrieked in triumphant glee. Eyes glittering fanatically, she pointed at the cowering Priscilla, then turned to the eunuchs. ‘Seize her!' she commanded.

Along with the other inmates assembled in the courtyard, Honoria was forced to watch while her lover, restrained by two eunuchs, was whipped by an enthusiastic Sister Annunciata till her back
was bloody. To Ariadne, who had reported the assignation, the victim's screams were as music. Priscilla would be packed off in disgrace, back to her family. For Honoria, there was to be no such release.

Summoned before Pulcheria, she was told in icy tones that henceforth, following a spell of solitary confinement, she would be under constant surveillance, to prevent any recurrence of the disgraceful scene just witnessed.

‘You should have shared Priscilla's punishment,' Pulcheria continued, ‘but unfortunately, as the daughter of an Emperor, you cannot be chastised. Sexual congress with one's own gender is expressly forbidden in Scripture.' Her expression softened, and a note of concern entered her voice. ‘Have you no thought for your own immortal soul, or for those of the women you have corrupted? The fires of Hell burn even more fiercely than the fires of lust.'

‘I will pray for God's forgiveness, Your Serenity,' murmured Honoria in simulated contrition. She had long ago learnt the futility of fighting her rulers. As for punishment in the hereafter, she was troubled not one whit. She had been brought up in the Latin West, where the influence of paganism lingered more strongly than in the East, encouraging a more liberal and sceptical outlook. Here, religious fervour and obsession with the afterlife often dominated people's thoughts and behaviour.

‘Within these walls, I am not “Your Serenity” but simply “Mother”' corrected the older woman mildly; since becoming Empress, she found that many in her little community were confused as to how to address her. ‘Let us hope that God will hear you. Meanwhile, I shall confer with the holy Daniel
¹
as to what penances are appropriate for you to undergo. His pillar is not yet so high that he cannot give advice to those who ask it. Now, let us pray to Christ together, that His light may show His erring child the way to true repentance and a purer life.'

Chafing against the restrictions – now even more severe – of a life she despised, tormented by desires she could no longer gratify,
Honoria grew more and more angry and desperate. Then, one day, a wild idea came to her, one which offered a chance of escape from her intolerable confinement, and a means of revenge on those who had imprisoned her. Before her resolution could waver, or common sense persuade her to desist, she penned a letter, little reckoning on the appalling consequences that would flow from its dispatch. The task completed, she gave it, together with a ring, to a faithful eunuch, charging him upon his life to deliver it in person, and to make sure that it was seen by no other eyes than those it was intended for.

 

¹
One of the astonishing ‘pillar saints' who lived on top of columns, whose height tended to increase to avoid pestering by the pilgrims who flocked to such sites. The most famous was Symeon Stylites, who occupied the summit of a column near Antioch from 420 to 459.

Honoria, the sister of Emperor Valentinian III, invited Attila into the empire

Anonymous,
Gallic Chronicle
, 452

Never had Attila felt so torn. The Council, convoked to decide what should be done in this crisis, had assembled in an atmosphere of restless anger and uncertainty. Ever since the news that the East was discontinuing tribute had landed among the Huns like a fireball hurled from a catapult, hotheads had been clamouring for action. To be met with determined resistance was a new, and disconcerting, experience for the Huns. From the time they had burst upon the European scene seventy years previously, no one had stood effectively against them. Until the Utus. Times had changed in other ways, Attila thought as he looked round the packed Council chamber. In his father's day, the Council, which was open (in theory at any rate) to all adult males, had met in the open and on horseback. Now it assembled in private, and its membership was limited to senior members of prominent families, these having founded aristocratic dynasties, somewhat on the Roman model.

The initial hubbub took rather longer to subside than usual, Attila noted as he seated himself in the middle of the circular chamber. Could it be that some of them, like pack animals challenging a leader grown old, felt that his powers were beginning to wane? Best then, right at the start, to steer the meeting in the direction he wanted it to go. He nodded towards Onegesius, he of Roman bath-house fame, a man of moderate views and accommodating personality, as well as a personal friend. ‘Speak, Ungas,' he invited, using the Hun form of the name which the other, an admirer of things Roman, had Latinized.

‘Sire, as Marcian is refusing us tribute,' replied Onegesius in reasonable tones, ‘perhaps the time has come for the Huns to change their ways. To rely on plunder as a way of life is surely
not a policy that can be sustained indefinitely. We were foolish not to realize that, sooner or later, the Romans would find the courage and the will to resist us. The Utus should have taught us that.'

An angry outburst, in which shouts of ‘Coward!' and ‘Traitor!' could be distinguished, followed his speech.

‘Silence,' rumbled Attila. His basilisk gaze, moving round the chamber, instantly quelled the tumult. ‘In Council any man may speak his mind freely, without fear. It should not be for Attila to remind you of this. Eudoxius, I heard your voice above the others. What is your complaint?'

The fugitive leader of the Bagaudae, a thin, intense man with burning eyes, declared, ‘Since it is permissible to speak with frankness, Your Majesty, I shall not blunt my words. The shameful advice of Onegesius is not even to be thought of. You have a simple choice. Resume the campaign against the East, or – if the King of the Huns has no stomach for that course – attack the West. It has never been more vulnerable. Half the Frankish nation supports the claim of Merovech's brother, and would join you. The Huns have but to cross the Rhenus and Aremorica would rise. Gaiseric urges you to sound the war-horns, and would back you to the hilt. Unpaid, half-starved, the Roman army in Gaul grows weaker by the day. But if Attila prefers to stay at home and count his flocks . . .' Leaving the sentence hanging in the air, Eudoxius shrugged, and smiled offensively.

‘Guard your tongue, Roman dog,' growled Attila. ‘You are fortunate indeed to be a guest of the Huns and not the Vandals, or it would not long remain tenant of your mouth. Do not presume too far upon the laws of hospitality. There is another side to what you say. Half the Franks may support Merovech's brother, but the other half would certainly stay loyal to their King, who, by all accounts, rules his people justly and well. Gaiseric wants us to invade the West because he fears the Visigoths will join with the Romans to drive him from Africa. As for the Roman army in Gaul, I grant its circumstances may be straitened, but it can still win battles. Or have you forgotten Narbo and Vicus Helena?'

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,' retorted Eudoxius with false humility. ‘You are right to remind me of those victories. One was achieved only with Hun help, the other was a glorious triumph against unarmed civilians. But no matter; the Romans indeed are
doughty fighters. Attila shows wisdom in advising caution before engaging them.' Again the provocative smile.

‘I will not stoop to answer that,' responded Attila with weary contempt, rueing the day he ever gave refuge to this agitator. ‘You say we have but two alternatives. There is in fact a third choice.' And he went on to expound Aetius' offer made through his emissary Titus Valerius Rufinus: military service to keep the German federates in check; a share of the West's revenues; the possibility of future union with the West.

The response was not encouraging. Onegesius, with a few of the older and more experienced nobles, nodded and murmured in agreement. The remainder kept silent, apart from Eudoxius and a group of younger Huns clustered round him. They seemed to have formed a distinct faction, with the one-time doctor at their head. They shook their heads vigorously and muttered noisily in protest. Attila had an unfamiliar and disturbing feeling – that events, which he could no longer fully control, were moving ahead of him. He seemed to be witnessing the scene from the viewpoint of a detached observer. It was the first time since his clash with Bleda, before the Treaty of Margus, that his authority had been challenged. There was only one way to deal with the potential crisis: attack the ringleader and defeat him.

‘Speak up, Eudoxius,' he challenged. ‘We cannot hear you if you mumble like a toothless graybeard.' To his relief, a ripple of chuckles greeted this sally.

But Eudoxius could sting in return. ‘Very well, Your Majesty,' he snapped, his face flushing with anger. ‘Your fine suggestion amounts to this: the Huns to become the paid lackeys of a Roman general, one who by his folly cost the lives of sixty thousand Huns. We all know he was long your friend. It seems you place a higher value upon propping up that broken reed than on the welfare of your people. Otherwise, why has Attila withheld the contents of a certain letter from the Council?'

It was a shrewd and telling blow, Attila conceded silently, one he had not foreseen. He had assumed that only he was privy to Honoria's missive. How had Eudoxius found out about it, and how much did he know? The bearer, a Persian eunuch, had seemed trustworthy enough. Presumably, Eudoxius had noticed the man's arrival and had waylaid him on his departure. This was a supremely dangerous moment; unlike a Roman Emperor, a
barbarian leader ruled ultimately by consent. Once perceived to be weak or unsuccessful, he was finished. Attila dared not call Eudoxius' bluff. Though it was unlikely that Honoria had confided in the bearer, Eudoxius might have forced him to reveal that the letter was from the disgraced sister of the Western Emperor, and that it came with a ring enclosed – a symbol which could have but one meaning. If Eudoxius' suggestion that important information was being kept from the Council, Attila's position would be severely compromised. There was only one way to draw the serpent's fangs before they could inflict a deadly bite: by forestalling him. But that would force Attila to follow the course he was least willing to adopt. However, there was now no help for it. The wily renegade had won.

‘Ungrateful wretch, is this how you repay our hospitality?' he said icily, his words all the more menacing for being uttered softly. ‘Suborning a king's messenger: in a Hun that would be treason. In a guest it is an inexcusable breach of trust which places you beyond the protection of immunity. Have you forgotten what happened to Constantius? Perhaps I should ask the Council to pronounce a fitting sentence.'

Eudoxius, realizing he had over-reached himself, and in so doing both forfeited his influence with the assembly and put his life in danger, turned ashen-faced. ‘I . . . I beg your forgiveness, Sire,' he croaked, all his truculence deserting him. ‘I but saw the messenger arrive. I know nothing of what it is he brought.'

‘As well for you,' responded Attila sternly. ‘On this occasion I will spare your worthless life. From now, keep silence. Break it, and I may not be merciful a second time.' Turning from the trembling Roman, he addressed the assembly, now become quiet and receptive. ‘This poor apology for a man' – he nodded at Eudoxius – ‘has presumed to anticipate the purpose of this meeting. Which was to inform you of the contents of the letter he dared to speak of. But before I told you of it, you first had to know all other options, that together we may choose the best path for our nation to follow. The letter is from the Augusta Honoria, wrongfully imprisoned these fourteen years in Constantinople by her jealous brother Valentinian, the puppet who disgraces the throne of Ravenna. In it, she entreats me to release her from a cruel bondage, offering in return her hand in marriage. And as a pledge of her affection and good faith, she included with her letter a ring.' Attila
looked round the faces of his audience, now hanging on his every word. ‘Should we decide to follow up the lady's offer,' he said with a judicious smile, ‘I think we could reasonably insist on a substantial dowry – say, half the Western Empire. Shall we accept?'

The roar of acclamation that followed answered the King's question. He had survived, his leadership unscathed – indeed, strengthened. But at a bitter personal price.

That evening, sitting his horse by the banks of the Tisa, Attila withdrew from a bag suspended from his saddle-bow the silver dish that was the gift of Aetius. He retraced in his mind the scenes depicted on it, each representing a stage in a long and eventful friendship. Now circumstances had decreed that it was impossible for him to keep it. Instead, it would become a worthy votive offering to Murduk, the great God of War. ‘Goodbye, Aetius, old friend,' he murmured in sorrow. ‘This is the hardest day of Attila's life, for from this moment we two are enemies.' He flung the dish high in the air above the water. It spun in a glittering arc, then plunged with a splash into the river. For a moment, he glimpsed its fading sheen beneath the surface, then it vanished from his sight.