The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

by Joan Schweighardt

  I laughed. “Is my future so bleak then?”

  He shook his head. “I have had only glimpses, as I said. But there is one thing I know for certain. You will take up the war sword.”

  “Sigurd’s sword? The sword of the gods?” In my mind’s eye I saw the thing as I had seen it last, flickering maliciously from its place on the wall the night of Sigurd’s death.

  “Gunner’s now.”

  “But you cannot mean it.”

  “I pray you be still and listen. We have little time to speak of these matters. Your future and the future of the war sword are linked. Gunner had it with him when he came to bring us Sigurd’s corpse and to tell us how he had died—and I knew. You will have the opportunity to make good use of it, this I know, too. How, I cannot say. This you must discover yourself.”

  “But Gripner, this is laughable. Am I to believe that I am to cut off my hair and don the animal skins of the warrior? Look at me. I am little more than skin and bones since—”

  Gripner leaned forward so that his face was very close to mine. “I am looking at you. And I see that in your diminished form you have become twice the woman you once were. You know this, too. Still, you must be careful. The sword is cursed.”

  I reached across the table and seized his hand. “Oh, Gripner, Father, tell me everything you know. Was it the curse that brought about my dear Sigurd’s death?”

  “Child, I know so little. When I was a younger man…but I am old now, and often uncertain. My glimpses of the past and the future are entangled with my glimpses of the demons an old man is prone to see when his death is near at hand.”

  “No, Gripner. You imagine—”

  “I know what I know. But let us not speak of that now.” He glanced again at Sunhild and Chero. “See how they console each other? In a moment they will have done with their crying, and then they will rejoin us. And there are still things I would say to you about the sword and Sigurd, too.”

  “Then tell me quickly. I must know the truth.”

  Gripner dropped his eyes from mine and his bottom lip began to stretch and tremble. In a moment he gained control over his emotion and brought his gaze back up to meet mine. “He was a son to me,” he began. “I loved him dearly.”

  “I know you did.”

  “I told him not to go. I told him that the gold was cursed and that in retrieving it, he would be changed—for what man is not changed when he gives himself over to greed? I told him that under its influence, he would do things he had thought himself incapable of. I regret to tell you all this, but you must be made to understand the power of the curse.”

  “Go on then. I can bear it.”

  “I told him what I had foreseen, that his connection with the gold would bring about an early death. If Gunner had not killed him, someone else would have, for, under the influence of the curse, he betrayed everyone who crossed his path, as you well know. He was only himself again after he had buried the bulk of the gold and given the war sword away.”

  “But Gunner has had it for some seasons now, and he still lives.”

  Gripner’s eyes widened. Indeed, they seemed to glow. “Can you truly say that he lives? He has lost his wife, his brother, and, in his mind, his sister as well. When he was here for Sigurd’s funeral, he was a broken man. When I refused to take the gold, he begged me to take his life as Sigurd’s man-price. And when my messenger returned from him last, he informed me that the war sword was covered over with dust the depth of a man’s finger, as was his harp. Gunner does not live, Gudrun. His life ended along with Sigurd’s and Guthorm’s.”

  I heard Gripner’s words with one ear. My mind was still fastened on Sigurd. “So,” I said, “Sigurd had believed in the power of the curse even as he sought to persuade me otherwise. I see. Then you are saying that Sigurd chose a short life as the keeper of the hoard over a long life of love and happiness with me. But why, Gripner? Why should Sigurd have made such a choice?”

  “Regan was determined to recover the gold. He spoke of little else. He knew where it was hidden. And as often as I told Sigurd of the horrors I foresaw in connection with the gold, Regan told him otherwise. Regan told him that the getting of the gold and the killing of the dragon would make him a great man—the greatest man who had ever lived. That all men through all ages would know his name and sing his praises. In the end, Regan won his ear.”

  “Forgive me, but could you not have sent Regan away when you saw that he would corrupt your brother’s son?”

  “Sigurd’s father granted Regan his own lands north of here years ago. It was not in my power to send him from them. And besides, it was Sigmund’s wish that Sigurd’s instruction on the ways of life be by Regan. Sigurd was always so vulnerable. My brother’s hope was that some of Regan’s cunning might rub off on him.”

  I shook my head. “He chose death over me. Forgive me, Gripner, but I cannot seem to drive my mind from it.”

  “Child, he chose greatness, and death was its consequence. It was greatness he saw in his mind’s eye—glory, power, immortality—when he considered his quest. His death he refused to consider. He believed somehow that his greatness would enable him to overcome it.”

  “Then, Gripner, I know what I must do. I know what my life’s work will be. If you say I must take up the war sword, why then, so be it—though unused or not, I cannot think how I will get it away from Gunner. But I will have a second pursuit as well. I have already resolved to bequeath my tapestry to you. But I will make another, and one day, when the Burgundians are a kingdom again, it will hang in the king’s hall where all men will know that Sigurd—”

  “Aye, Gudrun, you will tell Sigurd’s story again within the context of your own, that you can be sure of.” His eyes twinkled and he smiled warmly. “But it will not be by the stitch. Nor will you be young anymore when you find yourself with the leisure for the telling of it. But our moment dims and I stray from my intent. Gudrun, my child, Sigurd’s account of his quest was not entirely true. When you tell it next, you must tell it truly. And though truly told it will diminish his greatness some, it may help your listeners to understand that it is an error to choose greatness over life. For when a man lives for greatness, he often forgets that he is still a man, and he no longer likes to abide by the laws that once governed him, that govern all—”

  “There was no dragon after all, was there? I suspected this, and I think my brothers did, too. Oh, it is too much to think that Sigurd should have lied—”

  “No dragon, Gudrun? Did I say there was no dragon? There was a dragon. I saw no image of him, but I felt Sigurd’s disdain for him, his struggle, here.” Gripner made a fist and struck his heart. “If only it had been the dragon…”

  “But what then?”

  Gripner lowered his head. I reached across the table and touched my fingertips to his crown. He straightened slowly and took my hand in his. In his soft, pale eyes I saw what pain our discussion was costing him. “In what manner was his story untrue?” I urged. “He wanted me to know. He tried to tell me once, but I would not hear him then.”

  “I believe he killed Regan.”

  “You cannot mean that!”

  “The image is clear to me. I see it over and over—when I am dreaming and when I am not.”

  “But he loved the dwarf.”

  “Aye, he loved him well. Regan must have betrayed him somehow. Perhaps Regan decided that he wanted the gold for himself after all. I do not know. No one will ever know.”

  I looked aside. “And so it was Regan’s heart…”

  “Aye. Regan’s.”

  I slipped my hand out of Gripner’s. “I can hardly believe this.”

  “Nor could I. But remember, Sigurd was not himself. He had, by then, the gold, and the gold is cursed. The gold changed Sigurd. I saw this clearly when he returned to us. And his remorse over his transformation was great. That I can tell you. He was downtrod
den, not at all what you would expect from a man who had just performed such a feat. He avoided me—I suppose because he knew I knew. He went off into the forest condemning himself for his errors. This I know. I saw images. I saw him prostrate on the forest floor, crying, beating his fists on his head.”

  “And so now the gold is in my brother’s hands—and had been before Sigurd’s death. I thank you, Gripner, for telling me all this. You have provided me with the means to forgive Gunner—a thing I thought myself unable to do in spite of my obligations.” All at once I remembered the words that Gunner had said to me in the hall after Sigurd’s death. He did not yet know, after all this time, that Brunhild had lied to him in the end, when she retracted her story about the cave. So great was my urge to tell him the truth that I began to lift from the bench on which I was seated.

  “You must get the gold away from him,” Gripner said. “Or at least the war sword. I feel the curse culminates in that one piece.”

  “Aye, Gripner, for his sake if for nothing else. And there are words I must say to him, too, words which I was obligated to tell him sooner. But what will become of me? Will I too die or kill or worse?”

  “You are stronger than the curse. But you must appear weak to Gunner and make him think that if he refuses to give you the sword that you will likely return to your stupor.”

  “But—”

  Gripner’s eyes drifted away. He held up his finger to keep me from speaking. “No more. They rise.”

  I turned to see Chero helping Sunhild to her feet. I turned back to Gripner hastily and whispered, “But how shall I use the sword? I must know.”

  “You need only to have it fall into the hands of your enemies—”

  “But how? Who?”

  “You will know when you know. No more.”

  Chero and Sunhild approached. Chero wiped her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “We have spoken,” she said to me. “We understand that you and the child will have to leave us soon. We want you to know that though our hearts are broken, we will do nothing to detain you. We will send you off with our best wishes for your peace and happiness.” Chero turned to Sunhild who was slumping beside her, pouting and staring at her feet. “We wish her peace and happiness, do we not, Sunhild?” Sunhild nodded grudgingly, without looking up.

  I got up from the bench and went to stand before them. “You have given me my life back,” I began. “There are no words—”

  “No words are necessary,” Sunhild mumbled ceremoniously.

  I turned to look at Gripner. He nodded encouragingly so that I knew that he knew what I would say next. “Chero, Sunhild, after all that you have done for me, I have no right to ask for more, but there is one favor I would have you grant me.”

  “Anything,” Sunhild mumbled. I could see that she was close to fresh tears.

  “You are right to think that I must leave soon. In fact, I should like to do so as early as tomorrow, if that is possible.”

  Sunhild let out a cry, but Chero struck her lightly with the back of her hand and nodded for me to go on.

  “But the work I must do will be complicated, for my first task is to make peace with my brothers. The child’s presence will only complicate matters more. I wish to leave her here. When I come back for her, I will have made my peace, and I will be able to stay with you again for a time.”

  Sunhild lifted her head. Her astonished smile came slowly. Then she grabbed her mother and sobbed against her bosom.

  I glanced at Gripner. He was smiling at me as if to confirm that my decision had been the correct one. For me, it was the only one. Although the idea of leaving my child behind was appalling, I would no sooner have her come in contact with the gold—the war sword—than I would abandon her in some strange forest. Sunhild, who had known her longer, loved her longer, would make a fitting mother. And when the time came for me to take her away, I would take Sunhild too. We three would have two homes—and my child, two mothers.

  A wave of exhaustion came over me. Thinking that I must lie down and rethink Gripner’s words, I looked toward the bower.

  But Chero noticed and cried, “Wait. You still have not given the child a name. Should we take it upon ourselves then…?”

  “Forgive me,” I said. “I have known for sometime what she is to be called, but until tonight, I had no tongue to say it.”

  “Say it now,” Chero urged.

  “She shall be called after my sister. Her name is Sunhilda.”

  Sunhild gasped and stepped forward to throw her heavy arms around my neck.

  Safe in her embrace, I felt small and weak and full of fear for what would come. How much easier, I thought, to stay with my Frankish family, Sigurd’s family, and watch my daughter grow. I freed myself gently from Sunhild’s grip. “I must lie down now,” I said. “I have many things to think about tonight.”

  Gripner said, “Go, child. I will send one of the servants tonight to round up your escorts for your journey. I will have them here before dawn if you like.”

  “How well you know my mind, Gripner, Father,” I answered. And I ran off without looking at their faces again.

  The City of Attila

  17

  PERHAPS THE HEADS of his victims only served to remind Attila of his defeat. Or perhaps the flies that swarmed around them unsettled him. In any event, the heads were gone when I next went to the hall. And in the days that followed, I found myself hoping to encounter Edeco in the courtyard so that I could ask him what had become of them. The matter was all important to me. But as I had no opportunity to speak to Edeco alone, I went on dreaming of my brothers’ heads night after night—sometimes out on the plain beyond the City of Attila with maggots groveling across their cheeks and vultures working at their eyes, and sometimes floating in the dark of my hut with their swollen black tongues flickering and their protruding dead eyes full of grief and accusation.

  There was only one other matter on my mind. Once I saw Eara walking ahead of me in the courtyard and I ran to catch up with her before she entered the hall. “I envy you now that you have been given the privilege of serving Attila each night,” I said to the old woman. “I wonder did I do something to upset him.”

  Eara looked at me with penetrating eyes. “I asked to be permitted to serve,” she answered curtly. “I fancied you were under some strain, and I feared that you might err in some way.”

  “Did you say that to Attila?” I asked, amazed that Eara had seen through me.

  “No,” she answered, and she hurried away before I could find the words to convince her that I must be the one to serve Attila, for I had set my mind so rigidly on emptying the contents of Sagaria’s gem into his wine cup that sometimes I awoke wondering whether the deed had already been accomplished.

  I had only one small pleasure to counterbalance my grief, and that was the privilege of witnessing Attila’s decline. He spoke to no one now; even his speeches, which had been a prelude to every meal, were abandoned. And where he had always appeared to be indifferent to his surroundings, now he seemed to be in a kind of stupor from which he could not awaken. His fingers took an eternity to get from his bowl to his mouth, and more often than not, half his meat remained when the meal was over. And all the time his eyes were hard and unfocused, so that I thought he must yet reside out in the field—in that moment when the sun’s first rays betrayed that his enemies had withdrawn and made a fool of him. His officers and his sons, noting his disposition, spoke in whispers, if they dared to speak at all, and even Ernac knew better than to attempt to speak to Attila directly. He lost weight; his skin—once sanguine—paled, and he showed no interest anymore in his wives. He was sinking, and had I not come to hate him with a passion which made my former feeling seem like mere distaste, I might have said to myself, The war sword has finally begun to do its work; I have only to wait and let events unfold.

  One night, when spring was close at hand, E
rnac said to his brothers, “I suspect that Aetius loves our father still.”

  Attila, who seemed to be sleeping only the moment before, glared at the boy. “Never let me hear you speak of Aetius and his love for Attila,” he snarled.

  Ernac gasped to find himself the victim of his father’s wrath. His face hardened, so that it was clear that he was close to tears. He lowered his head and set about playing with his food.

  But Attila continued to stare at him.

  This brief exchange disturbed me, for I recalled how a seemingly candid remark had once stirred my father from his lethargy. And sure enough, the next evening, Attila passed his wine cup around and made his first speech in many nights. “Perhaps we have taken this matter of Aetius and his Thuets too seriously,” he said. “We have lost men, yes, but their sons are coming of age and anxious to fight for Attila. My guess is that Aetius thinks we feel indebted to him now. Perhaps we should send him a letter and say that is what we feel.” His men and his sons perked their ears to hear more, but there was no more that night. On the next, however, he spoke to his men at length on the matter of the Western Empire. And not long after, they marched again.

  This time, I did not speculate on what might or might not happen to Attila or Edeco. It was enough to know that they were gone and, also, that Attila had left enough guards behind (there were plenty of men too badly wounded from the last battle to march) so that one was always posted outside my hut, for I had no desire to leave it. Now that I did not feel compelled to spend my time measuring my hatred for Attila, I was free at last to mourn for my brothers in earnest. And mourn I did, for my brothers and for all the other Burgundians who had likely died along with them. How strange it came to seem that my conspiracy, meant to bring Attila down, should have had for its result their deaths. My mind went cloudy when I thought of it, and I could not seem to recall the sequence of events which had brought about such a dire result. I felt certain of one thing only: I had made a grave mistake in coming to Pannonia; the Burgundians would have fared far better had I stayed at home and raised my child. I thought of the old days, and of how my going to Brunhild had its part in Sigurd’s death, and I felt myself more cursed than the war sword. As I sat, day after day and night after night, as rigidly as Attila had sat during his brief moment of distress, I considered taking my life so as to put an end to the curse within me. The only thing that kept me from doing so was the memory of Sagaria. Truly, I did not like to do a thing of which I knew my friend would disapprove. That is how much I loved her. Of course I knew that Sagaria would not approve of my killing Attila either, when the time came, but that there was no hope for. If I were to heed the words which I seemed to hear Sagaria saying during the fleeting moments when I was able to sleep, then my purpose in coming to Pannonia would all have been in vain—as would my own sufferings and my brothers’ deaths. Only by killing Attila could I justify all that had gone before, and thus, when Sagaria drifted unbidden into my dreams, I bade the young Roman hold her judgment and her tongue.