The Scourge of God (11 page)

“You fool,” Maximinus hissed.

“I only said the truth,” he mumbled truculently.

“A truth that could get us stabbed or crucified.”

“When Attila speaks, the earth trembles,” Edeco growled ominously. “Perhaps it is time you trembled yourselves, Romans, and joined your brethren on the riverbank there.” Any pretense of genial debate was gone. I realized that our complaints about the slaughter on the riverbank had gnawed at the Huns. Was there guilt there after all? Now the tension had become manifest.

Bigilas looked uncertain whether to beg or flee. His mouth opened and shut uselessly.

Rusticius decided to come to the defense of his fellow translator, even though I knew he could hardly stand the man’s pretensions. “No true Roman trembles, any more than any true Hun,” Rusticius tried. “You are brave, Edeco, with your head full of drink and your sword at hand, while Bigi-las and the rest of us are defenseless.”

The Hun grinned evilly. “Then fill your hands.”

“I’ll fill them when we have a chance, not to give you another excuse for slaughter like your massacre on the river-bank.” Rusticius looked stubborn, and I was taken aback by his courage. I hadn’t seen this side of him before.

“Don’t test me, boy.”

“I’m no boy, and no true man threatens murder and pretends it is combat.”

“For God’s sake,” Maximinus groaned, fearful his mission was about to end before it had properly started. Edeco’s knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword. Something had to be done.

“You misunderstood our companions.” I spoke up, my voice sounding even to my own ears as barely more than a pathetic squeak. As the youngest and least-threatening traveler, perhaps I could smooth things over. Gulping, I found my normal voice. “Our translator Bigilas doesn’t assemble his words well when he’s had too much to drink, as all know. He meant to honor Attila, because your king has achieved as much as a mortal as our emperor has with divine powers. He meant a compliment, not an insult, Edeco.”

“Nonsense. The young Roman is trying to save himself,” sneered Skilla.

“I am trying to save this embassy.”

There was a long silence as the Huns weighed whether to accept this dubious excuse. If they slew us, both Attila and Chrysaphius would want to know why. “Is this so?” Edeco asked Bigilas.

He looked confused and nervous, glancing from me to the chieftain.

“Answer him, you idiot,” Maximinus muttered.

“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, please, I meant no harm. All know how powerful Attila is.”

“And no Roman could detract from that,” Maximinus added. “Your lord is the most powerful monarch in Europe, Edeco. Come, come, Onegesh, Skilla. Sheathe your weapons and sit. I apologize for the confusion. We have more presents for you, pearls from India and silks from China. I was going to wait until we reached Hunuguri, but perhaps I will fetch them now. As a sign of our good faith.” 

“You will drink to Attila first.” Edeco pointed. “Him.” 

Bigilas nodded and hastily hoisted his cup, gulping. Then he lowered it and wiped his mouth. “To Attila,” he croaked.

“And you,” he said, pointing to Rusticius. He sheathed his sword and stood with his hands open, ready at his side. “You think I am afraid to deal with you like this?”

Rusticius’s voice came from a mouth that was a line. “I think all of us should treat each other like men, not animals.” It was not the abject apology the Hun was looking for, and from that moment he would react to Rusticius with a coldness he never showed the foolish Bigilas: Rusticius’s courage had made him an enemy. But the Hun provided an exit.

“Then drink to my king.”

Rusticius shrugged. “Indeed.”

So the rest of us drank as well. “To Attila!”

With that we all finally sat again, and slaves fetched the gifts Maximinus directed. The senator tried to pretend that nothing had happened, but the tension of this night lingered. As soon as was seemly, our gathering broke up.

“Your quickness may have saved our lives, Alabanda,” Maximinus murmured to me as we groped in the dark for our tents. “Just as that fool Bigilas might have ended them. You may have the wit to be an ambassador yourself someday.”

I was still shaken, believing I had seen the true nature of our barbarian companions for the first time. When crossed, they turned into vipers. “I think I’ll be happy just to keep my head attached. I hope Rusticius can keep his. I’ve not seen him with his back up.”

“Yes, he has a stubborn bravery, but it’s risky to insult a Hun. You are wise enough to listen before you speak, I sense. Never assume barbarians are the same, young man. The Franks and Burgundians, once arrogant, are now our allies in the Western Empire. The fearsome Celts have become the peaceful citizens of Gaul. Huns have proved courageous mercenaries as well as implacable enemies. The secret is not to antagonize potential enemies but to court potential friends. The Empire can win only by using barbarian against barbarian. Do you understand what I’m saying, my scribe?” Yes, I understood. We were trying to placate jackals.

VIII

THE HOSPITALITY 

OF THE HUNS

T
he next morning, as we proceeded down the Margus valley, Skilla rode his pony next to mine. There was no challenge this time. Everyone’s head was fogged from the evening’s drinking and quarreling, and conversation had been quiet. Now the Hun warrior simply had a question. “Tell me, Roman, what god do
you
believe in?”

I shook my head to clear it, thinking it entirely too early for theological discussion. “The Christ, of course. You’ve heard of Jesus? He’s the God of the Roman world.”

“But before him the Romans had other gods.”

“True. And some Romans are still pagans, passionately so. There is always great debate about religion. If you ask three Constantinople shopkeepers you will get eight opinions. Put a priest in the mix and the arguments are endless.”

“So Bigilas is a pagan?”

“I don’t think so. He wears a crucifix.”

“Yes, I have seen his tree that your god was killed on. Attila learned to use the cross from Romans. But this Christ allows no other gods—is this not true?”

I saw where this was headed. “Yes.”

“Yet Bigilas calls his emperor a god—is this not true?” 

“Yes. It’s . . . complicated.”

“It’s not complicated at all. He claims to believe first one thing, then another.”

“No . . .” How to explain? “Many Christians consider our emperor divine. It is a tradition of many centuries: believing gods are manifest on earth. But not in the way that Jesus is divine. The emperor is . . . well, simply more than a mere man. He represents the divine nature of life. That’s all Bigilas meant. He didn’t mean to insult Attila.”

“Attila has no need to claim to be a god. Men fear and respect him without it.”

“He’s lucky, then.”

“Rome’s emperors must be little gods, if they fear a mere man like Attila.”

“Rome’s emperors aren’t just soldiers, Skilla. They symbolize civilization itself. Law and order, prosperity, morality, marriage, service, sanctity, continuity . . . all are bound up in them. That’s why they represent the divine.”

“Attila is no different.”

“But your empire doesn’t build, it destroys. It doesn’t give order, it takes it away. It
is
different.”

“In my empire, the word of Attila is law for a thousand miles. He has given order to a hundred different tribes. It
is
the same, whatever you say.”

I sighed. How to reason with a man who hadn’t even entered Constantinople, instead sleeping outside like an animal? “What gods do Huns worship, then?”

“We have nature gods, and shamans and soothsayers, and know good signs from bad ones. But we’re not obsessed with gods like Romans. We’ve overrun hundreds of gods and none helped their believers prevail against us. So what good are gods?”

“Three generations ago, the armies of the Christian Romans and the pagan Romans fought a battle on the Frigidus River that the whole world saw as a contest of faith. The Christians won.”

“They have not won against us.” Skilla galloped ahead.

It was later that day that we encountered a task even more disagreeable than camping near a boneyard. Maximinus had sent word of our progress ahead to what shaky Roman authority survived here, and we were duly met by Agintheus, commander of the Illyrian soldiers who had tentatively reoccupied the ravaged valley. While not pretending to be able to stand before another Hun invasion, this rough militia kept the region from anarchy. Now we carried embarrassing orders from the emperor that Agintheus was to give up five of the men who had joined him after deserting Attila. We were to take them back to the Hun king for judgment.

The five had been prepared for this. They rode without weapons, their hands tied to their saddles, and had the look of the doomed. Agintheus looked ashamed. By their appearance the five seemed to be Germans, tall and fair-haired. The smaller, darker Huns mocked them, galloping around like circling dogs. “Now you must explain yourselves to Attila!” Edeco cried in triumph.

“At your command, I return these men,” Agintheus announced. “The other twelve you wrote about are nowhere to be found.”

“Their good luck, I suppose,” muttered Maximinus.

“Or wisdom.” Agintheus sighed. “These soldiers deserve better, senator.”

“It is necessary to conform to the treaty.”

“It is an evil treaty.”

“Imposed by the Huns. Someday . . .”

“See that it doesn’t go badly for them, ambassador.”

“Attila needs men, not corpses. They’ll survive.”

As our expanded party rode away toward Hunuguri the five prisoners called back to their general. “Good-bye, Agintheus. God be with you! You have treated us well! Look after our families!” Their new wives ran after them, wailing, but the Hun rode among the deserters and lashed them into silence. At length, their homes were left behind.

“Why are we giving the Huns those men?” I asked Maximinus. “This is wrong.”

“It’s at the insistence of Attila.”

“And they have to leave their families behind?”

“Attila would say they should never have started families.” 

“But why give back recruits to a despot we’ve been fighting?”

Maximinus frowned. “Because he is more desperate for men than for gold. Many German allies flee his armies. The Huns are great warriors, but they aren’t numerous.”

“What will happen when we turn them over?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they will be whipped. It’s possible they will be crucified. But most likely they will just be pressed back into his armies. The lesson here, Alabanda, is that sometimes you have to do bad things to do good: in this case, peace.”

I rode in silence for a while. “There is another lesson as well, senator.”

“What, my youthful friend?”

“That Attila has a weakness, and that is manpower. If the provinces of Rome and their barbarian allies could ever unite and field a truly great army, and make him pay a heavy price on the battlefield, then his power to frighten us would be at an end.”

Maximinus laughed. “The dreams of youth!”

I resented the condescension. It was not a dream. If Attila took the time to care about five fugitives, it was reality.

Although the province of Moesia that we traveled through had been Roman territory for hundreds of years, civilization had been abandoned. Hun and Goth had crisscrossed this land for nearly three-quarters of a century; and each invasion had further crippled the economy, stolen tax collections, and beggared repairs. As a result, mills had long since stopped turning, their waterwheels rotted away. Bridges had collapsed, forcing our embassy to detour upstream to fords. Fields were being reclaimed by oak and scrub pine. Granaries had been looted, and broken wagons lay rotting in high grass. Mountains that had not seen a bear for generations now were the home of sow and cubs. At Horreum we passed a cracked aqueduct spilling water uselessly into a new erosive channel.

Most haunting of all were the cities, empty save a few priests, wild refugees, and the dogs that went with them. Frost and rain had cracked the walls, stucco had peeled like tired paper, and roof tiles had cascaded off abandoned houses to heap in piles of red dust.

There were inhabitants still, but they were a peculiarly hard and skittish lot. Shepherds stayed cautiously on slopes high above the road, allowing plenty of time to flee. Surviving farms were tucked into side valleys where they were less visible to roving armies. Groups of armed Roman bandits scavenged like animals. Accordingly, several old Roman villas had been turned into small castles with new walls and towers, their determined owners clinging to ancestral lands. Where peacocks once strutted, now chickens ran.

The road began to drop in elevation, the pines giving way to forests of oak, beech, elm, and alder; and the mountains were left behind for terrain that was flatter, wetter, and more confusing. Roads in the Danube valley wound around marshes like snarled thread: One morning we woke to see our path leading briefly east, not west! Finally we came to the banks of the broad Danube itself, its powerful current opaque and green. This river, once patrolled by the Roman navy, now was bare of ships. The paths on which slaves or oxen had towed the craft upstream were overgrown.