Attila:The Scourge of God

by Ross Laidlaw

  After dismounting, and hobbling their horses and remounts, Attila and Callisthenes approached the shaman’s felt tent, or yurt. Attila had made the pilgrimage with the intention of gaining from the sage a prediction of what the future held regarding his Great Plan. Although totally cynical about the supposed magical properties of the Sacred Scimitar, he shared with all his race a belief in the existence of the spirit world, and reverence towards individuals who professed to be able to make contact with it. He had had some doubts about the wisdom of leaving Bleda behind as sole ruler during his absence, but, with no great enterprise afoot involving the Huns, Bleda could do little damage. And the cachet that he, Attila, hoped to gain as a result of receiving favourable omens from Wu Tze, and of making contact with the spirits of his dead father and uncle — Mundiuch and the mighty Rua — must surely far outweigh the effects of any spiteful slander his jealous brother might spread.

  Before he reached the entrance to the yurt, a high-pitched, bell-like voice from inside called, ‘Enter Attila. You are welcome.’ Attila started; how could his presence have been known in advance? Travelling incognito, he and his Greek guide had encountered on the journey only the occasional band of nomads, who could scarcely have had time or opportunity to spread word of his coming, even if they had discovered his identity.

  Callisthenes following, Attila entered the yurt. The interior, heated by glowing charcoal in a bronze brazier of Chinese design, was pleasantly warm, in contrast to the keenness of the air outside. To Attila’s surprise, there was none of the usual shamanistic clutter — skulls, bones, dried animal parts, and so on. The tent was furnished, richly if simply, with nomad rugs, Chinese calligraphic scrolls, and a small square altar of dark wood. Wu Tze himself was a tiny figure, encased in a long tunic of soft deerskin, and high felt boots. Abundant white hair hung to his waist, framing a face whose skin was smooth and semi-transparent, like parchment, and of much the same colour and texture. It was as though the long passage of the years had refined and condensed his body, instead of inflicting on it the normal ravages of age.

  ‘You both have journeyed far and must be tired,’ said the shaman (the Greek translating) in those strange musical tones, after Attila had presented him with a bale of fine furs and expertly cured skins. ‘Tomorrow, Attila, you will tell me the purpose of your visit. But now, when you have seen to your horses and your gear, you and your companion must sleep; first, some refreshment.’ And he pressed on both a simple but sustaining meal of dried reindeer flesh and barley cakes, washed down with kumiss.

  Next morning, after a sound sleep on a bed of furs, Attila, the Greek beside him to translate, accompanied Wu Tze on foot on a search for a species of mushroom which would, the shaman explained, help to induce the state of heightened perception essential for making contact with the spirits. Attila felt filled with energy and confidence. On this bright, tingling day, it was joy just to be alive. Impatient enthusiasm to begin to implement the grand scheme for his people swept through him. He had no illusions about the magnitude of the task. He was, he knew, essentially the unlettered leader of a shepherd people — in Roman eyes, a savage, a barbarian. But he had the vision, the strength of purpose, and the will to learn, to make his plan succeed. After all, Philip of Macedon had been little more than the tribal chieftain of an obscure barbarian nation; yet his son Alexander had created an empire to rival that of Rome. As they tramped uphill towards the treeline through meadows of coarse grass, the vast expanse of Lake Baikal unrolled itself beneath them, reflected light from its surface seeming to fill the air with limpid radiance.

  Attila asked the shaman if he could foretell what the future might hold for him as co-ruler of the Huns.

  ‘Understand that I cannot of myself foretell anything,’ replied the sage, who, despite his great age, set a pace Attila found hard to match. ‘I am a mere vessel, to be filled by whatever messages come to me from the spirit world. Nor can I explain their meaning. That is for the recipient to discern for himself, or, if he cannot, to wait for their fulfilment, when their meaning will surely become clear.’

  They entered a stand of timber, outrider of the taiga, the great forest belt bounding the steppes, to the north. Here, they located the mushrooms, large red discs with white warts, thus easily visible. Soon, they had filled a small basket, after which they returned to the yurt. The shaman proceeded to burn a sweet-smelling substance on a bronze dish placed on the altar. Then, after preparing and consuming some of the mushrooms, he began to gyrate slowly round the inside of the tent, all the while beating a circular drum made of deerskin stretched on a wooden frame. The fumes from the altar and the insistent rhythmic drumbeat combined to make Attila feel drowsy. .

  He started awake. Several hours must have passed, for no sunlight filtered into the tent, which was dimly illuminated by glowing coals in the brazier. Wu Tze had put aside his drum (the cessation of its thumping must have been what had aroused Attila), and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his shiny black pebbles of eyes seemingly focused on some distant object. Suddenly, in a flat sing-song, he began to speak: ‘I see a wild ass running over the plains, and an eagle flying above it. Together, they attack and put to flight a wild boar. Now the ass pursues another eagle, wounding it before it can fly away. But the wounded eagle turns on the ass, which leaves it to attack the first eagle. This eagle is now joined by the boar, and together they put the ass to flight.’ He paused for a few seconds, then went on, ‘The vision fades. There is no more.’

  Wu Tze stirred and, shaking his head, appeared to come out of his trance. He turned to face Attila. ‘Whatever I have related is for you alone to interpret,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘I have no memory of it, and even if you were to describe it to me I would be unable to explain its meaning.’ He looked at Attila intently, and said gently, ‘But this much I can tell you. I feel you have a great heart and a powerful mind, Attila. But I sense also there are violent passions — anger, will, ambition. These things are not in themselves necessarily harmful; directed properly, they can work towards the good. All things turn on the struggle between two opposing forces, the dark, negative Yin, and the bright positive Yang. Let your Yang rule your Yin, and you will achieve great things. But should it be the other way round, I fear for the consequences. We have a saying in my country: “Happy the people who are governed by a strong ruler and a kindly sage.” You will be a strong ruler Attila; of that I have no doubt. But will you also be a kindly sage?’

  When Attila and Callisthenes reached the Hun camp, Attila was accosted on the outskirts by Balamir, the young Hun he had rescued from the Danube. He seemed agitated. ‘Sire, you are back none too soon!’ he said urgently. ‘Things have been happening which you should know about.’ He hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed. ‘Forgive me, Sire, but they concern your brother. I–I fear it may not be my place to inform you.’

  Bleda. He might have known his brother would cause trouble the moment his back was turned, Attila thought furiously. Temporarily dismissing Callisthenes with grave courtesy, Attila turned to the boy. ‘You may speak freely, Balamir. A loyal friend has nothing to fear from telling Attila the truth — however unwelcome it may be.’ He had formed a liking for this youth who, in gratitude to Attila for saving his life, had appointed himself an unofficial guard and page.

  ‘The day after your departure, Sire, Lord Bleda called a full meeting of the Council,’ Balamir began. ‘He proposed that the peace treaty with the Eastern Empire, which was interrupted by the death of King Rua, be immediately resumed.’

  A slow-burning rage began to build in Attila. How dare Bleda summon the Council in Attila’s absence, and without his agreement? It was a calculated insult — worse, a naked bid to undermine him. The proposed resumption of the treaty was, Attila suspected, a mere pretext for extortion.

  The background to the treaty was complex. The Boii,20 with some lesser German tribes who had recently submitted to Hun suzerainty, had revolted and asked the Eastern Emperor for protection. Theodosius, exhibitin
g the folly of a weak man trying to appear strong, had agreed, and the rebel tribes had entered into a formal alliance with the East Romans — who quickly discovered that they had roused a tiger. Outraged by this provocative act, Rua had demanded in the most forceful terms that the East retract its agreement with the rebels. Realizing that their attempt to play off one set of barbarians against another had badly miscarried, Theodosius and the Senate of Constantinople backed down with unseemly haste, and sued for peace. Negotiations were set in train but, on the death of Rua, were suspended.

  ‘How did the Council vote?’ asked Attila heavily, knowing in his heart what the answer would be.

  ‘When Lord Bleda suggested that a condition of the treaty should be that the East pay for its presumption in gold. .’ Balamir trailed off uncomfortably, the implication of his unfinished sentence only too clear.

  Gold. It would prove the ruin of his people, thought Attila despairingly. In the past indifferent to the ‘yellow iron’, whose softness made it useless for any practical purpose, the Huns had recently become obsessed with it. Once they had made the momentous discovery that gold could command power and possessions without limit, they couldn’t, it seemed, get enough of it. Bleda had sown the seed of an idea in their minds: that the Eastern Empire could prove a milch cow for the precious stuff. Like greedy children who come across an unguarded peach orchard, they would become difficult to govern and direct, their minds preoccupied by the easy acquisition of riches, which in the end would avail them little. Unless he could nip that temptation in the bud, the task of realizing his dream — the forging of his people into a great nation, for which he needed the help and friendship of the Romans — would prove immeasurably harder. At one stroke, it seemed, Bleda might have dealt his plan a fatal blow.

  1 Probably through an accidental admixture, during its making, of chromium, a metal whose ore exists abundantly in Hungary, and which today is the vital ingredient in the manufacture of stainless steel.

  2 The Black Sea.

  3 ‘Scythia’ was an imprecise term, implying roughly the whole of the steppe region.

  4 The Dnieper.

  5 The Don.

  6 The place names are, as far as possible, taken from Ptolemy’s World Map (second century), supplemented in one or two cases from Ortelius’ Theatrum orbis terrarum. Some names, e.g. Danga Lacus (Ortelius) for Lake Baikal, are conjectural. Both Ptolemy and Ortelius show a large lake in roughly the right area for Lake Baikal, but this may be guesswork — although of a higher category than the ‘Here be dragons’ variety. Where the ancient name can’t be traced, the modern form (e.g. R. Lena) is used.

  7 The Volga.

  8 The Ob.

  9 Romania.

  10 The Urals.

  11 434.

  12 16 May.

  13 The Baltic.

  14 2 June.

  15 Probably the Orkneys or Shetlands, though some have speculated Iceland.

  16 20 June.

  17 The Sayan Range.

  18 Digression: a favourite device of classical authors, wishing to expand on a topic not necessarily connected with the main narrative. A famous example is Ammianus Marcellinus’ ‘Excursus on the Huns’, in his Histories.

  19 A Greek navigator who, in the time of Alexander, sailed round the north of Britain, perhaps as far as Iceland, and explored the Baltic.

  20 Bavarians.

  EIGHTEEN

  All fugitives will be returned, the annual subsidy doubled, safe markets established for the Huns, and Rome will make no alliances with anyone at war with the Huns

  Priscus of Panium, Byzantine History, fifth century

  Whips in right hands, reins in left, Attila and Bleda, flanked by their seconds, faced each other across the forest clearing. Attila’s attendant was young Balamir, Bleda’s a middle-aged warrior of hulking physique. Raising his hand, the latter called out, ‘No weapons other than whips; no strikes on the face; the contest to continue until one surrenders.’ He glanced at each opponent, who nodded in turn; then his hand swept down.

  The long lash of the whip trailing behind him, Attila circled the glade, never letting his eyes leave his brother, who matched his movements as though their mounts were connected by an invisible axis. Bleda was afraid, Attila could tell: there was sweat beading his unhealthily plump features, and a nervous grin had replaced his habitual crafty smirk. Also, he was out of condition and beginning to run to fat; since becoming joint ruler, Bleda had felt free to indulge a gluttonous trait. Despite being physically at a disadvantage, Bleda had had no choice but to accept his brother’s challenge to a duel. A refusal, if broadcast, would have branded him a coward — a fatal tag for a Hun, especially if he were a ruler.

  Fighting with whips required expertise (acquired only through long and arduous practice), courage, and cool judgement. Each flick, because it could not be quickly repeated, had to count — hopefully forcing one’s opponent to retreat, or landing a blow. Blows could inflict wounds varying from angry weals to frightful lacerations.

  Slowly tensing his right arm, Attila judged his moment carefully, then struck. The whip-lash buzzed through the air like an angry viper, to smack against Bleda’s shoulder, ripping away a strip of clothing and skin. Bleda shouted in surprise and pain; he riposted, but not quickly enough, allowing Attila to weave aside, then send his lash snaking across to land a second blow, this time across Breda’s rib cage. The duel continued, the long lashes hissing, coiling, and snapping. Attila’s superior skill enabled him to score hit after hit, while avoiding Bleda’s clumsier strokes.

  Attila had no wish to cause Bleda serious injury, merely to teach him a lesson for his presumption, and to force him to disclose certain information he was keeping from Attila. Balamir had said that subsequent to Bleda’s Council meeting, but prior to Attila’s return from his pilgrimage, he had several times observed Bleda engaged in earnest conversation with leading members of the Council. At Attila’s request, the young Hun had, at some risk to himself, managed to eavesdrop on one further such conversation, by listening outside Bleda’s tent under cover of darkness. The voices had been too low for him to glean much, but it had sounded as if they were discussing conditions to be imposed on the Eastern Empire, regarding the peace treaty the Council had voted to resume. Excluding Attila from these secret deliberations — by which the terms of the treaty would become set firm — was an insult not to be borne; hence Attila’s challenge to his brother.

  Bleda was tiring, his strokes becoming wilder and more desperate. Fear and hatred showed in his eyes; and something else, which Attila could not immediately read — a look of cunning calculation? Too late, Attila saw his brother nod imperceptibly; then he felt his whip tighten against its stock and resist his pull. Whirling round in the saddle, he saw that Bleda’s burly second had gripped the lash by the middle. Even as he looked, the accomplice wound the tail section round his waist, to provide an anchor. Balamir flung himself at the man, only to be knocked senseless by a massive blow to the temple. A sudden stinging pain across his nose and cheeks, accompanied by a loud crack, made Attila turn towards Bleda. His brother’s apprehensive expression had changed to a triumphant leer, as he drew back the whip to deliver a second stroke. The first, had it landed two inches higher, would have blinded his opponent.

  Attila reacted with lightning speed. His horse, trained to interpret and obey the smallest signal, backed swiftly in response to the pressure of his master’s knees. With enough slack now to wield it, Attila smashed his whip-stock into the face of Bleda’s second. Howling with pain, the man released the whip and staggered back, clutching his shattered jaw. So quickly did all this happen that when Attila turned back to his brother, the latter’s whip hand was still moving back. Naked terror showed in Bleda’s face; he struck out frantically. Ignoring the pain, Attila took the blow on his forearm, then grabbed the lash and, with a violent wrench, tore the whip from his brother’s grasp. Flinging it to Balamir, who was picking himself up gingerly from the ground, Attila snarled in a voice thi
ck with rage and contempt, ‘Watch, brother. Watch — and learn what happens to a traitor when he crosses Attila.’ Unhurriedly and systematically, he began to hunt the injured man with his whip.

  Screaming, pleading for mercy, Bleda’s accomplice stumbled about the glade, vainly trying to escape the terrible whip, which snapped and sang, laying flesh open to the bone with every cut, and gradually reducing him to a tattered scarlet horror. Eventually, he swayed, seemed to stiffen, then with a loud cry flung up his hands and collapsed, as his heart stopped beating.

  ‘Play me false again, brother,’ Attila grated, ‘and I swear I’ll kill you, too. Now, tell me the terms that you and your friends in the Council have decided to impose upon the East.’

  The setting for the signing of the treaty with the Eastern Empire, near the city of Margus in the Eastern province of Upper Moesia, was tranquil and beautiful: a grassy plain surrounded by tall mountains clothed in forests of oak, beech, and chestnut. Attila and Bleda, with a sizeable retinue consisting of armed warriors and the leading members of the Hun Council, all mounted, confronted the Roman delegation from Constantinople. The latter, perhaps hoping to flatter and mollify the Huns, and thus secure more favourable terms, had proceeded from Margus to the meeting-place on foot. The Roman party was made up of two ambassadors, Plinthas, a general of barbarian origin but of consular rank, and the quaestor1 Epigenes, a wise and experienced statesman; a clutch of secretaries and officials; and a number of young Germans from important families, fugitives who had sought refuge in the Eastern Empire when the Huns conquered their homelands. This last group looked distinctly apprehensive.