Attila Chapter One

Attila: CHAPTER ONE

[I, Constantius, Scribe to the Great King Attila, do hereby attest and aver that the Great King himself has commanded me to record his story, from his earliest days, unto his days of glory in the Year of Our Lord, four hundred and forty three.

He begins his account with an offense most nefarious and grievous against him and his, he says. When he was a young prince, an urgent messenger recalled him from a raid to aid his father, who was under treacherous attack. He claims (can this be true?) that a young Roman, by name Aetius, was one of his companions on the raid, that he is the same who is now the General of the Imperial Field Armies of the Western Empire, my generous patron.... They rode all night, he begins, and in the morning....]

One moment the plain stretched, rolling and empty, the pale winter sun squinted down at our rushing hundred floating in a vast space, all alone in our strange desperation. The next, as we crested a small rise overlooking the camp, the plain was crowded: horses and riders, racing forward and back at full speed, swords flashing, arrows flying, lances thrusting, spearheads glittering as they arced into the sky.

There was my father, large and powerful on a fine black horse, a distinctive figure even at that distance. A small knot of warriors nearly surrounded him. They lunged at him. His men were outnumbered. They were being pushed back, beyond him.

"For Munducius!" I shouted, kicking Gonul to a full gallop, readying my bow with one hand, an arrow with the other. Shouts surged almost over me as I rushed forwards. I guided Gonul with my knees. He was attuned to my slightest pressure, veering to the side as I drew near.

I aimed carefully, released, the arrow hissed as it left my fingers. The bow-string hummed in my ear. The arrow spitted a man nearly at my father's back. As I drew near I shot again. I could see my father brighten, heard him shout: "Attila! My Attila!" as he lashed out with his great sword.

For one tortured instant I wished I was fully grown, strong enough to press into the tangled mass of men, hewing my way. I shook my head and shot again, knowing I could do more with my arrows than with sword or lance. I kept Gonul circling around the knot of men fighting my father, shooting arrow after arrow, reaching for another even as the last left the bow-string. Almost all found flesh, but still there were more men, pushing my father back.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw a tremendous bear of a man rushing towards us. His spear was nearly twice the length and heft of a regular Hun warrior’s, his black horse a monster on the battlefield. He was headed straight for my father!

I readied an arrow, was loosing it, when a rough rope fell over my head. The arrow went wild, the huge man on the black horse hurtled on. The point of his great lance caught my father under the jaw. Blood exploded.

My voice strangled in a cry.

He was a bloody sack of limp flesh, my father no longer, flung by the huge lance, his blood spraying, slack limbs soaring into the cruel gray sky. Then he fell, a soundless, boneless heap on the icy ground.

I wrestled to fight off the noose tightening around me. My arms were pinned to my side.

"Munducius is dead! The Eaglet is caught!"

I was dragged from my horse.

I didn't feel anything. I hoped they would kill me. I was pushed, shoved, pummeled. I didn't see the blows, or the faces of my tormentors. I was dazed, in suspension between sense and senselessness. Again and again I saw my father, arms and legs streaming out behind him like a ragged pennant--why didn’t they kill me, too?--a bird plummeting with an arrow through its heart. My father, my father!

Bound, I couldn't even rip at my cheeks, what any Hun warrior should do in mourning. Everything blurred.

Then suddenly all shone hard and clear.

I stood before my uncle, King Rugila. His upper lip curled in a sneer, his eyes appraising me. Shouts diminished into a long silence.

"Release him!" Rugila's voice resounded across the circle of panting men.

Hands untied my bonds.

"He's of the Royal blood," the King continued. "He'll need to lead the strava for his father." His eyes dimmed, and for an instant his grimace might have been regret for my father's death. His brother. He nodded at the nobility surrounding us. Their brightly embroidered tunics glinted with rows and patterns of gold buttons. Their faces were hard, eyes staring at me.

I glanced round at them. I knew them! Men of my father's retinue! I glimpsed the careful face of Laudaricus, trying to look away. There were others, too, but there were many faces I had seen only in passing, fellow Huns glimpsed at the fair, or at the Royal gatherings when many tribes met. They had seen me. They stared at me now the way a hawk studies a mouse between its claws.

And there was my brother, Bleda, his large round face grinning, his eyes thin slits, enjoying my misery.

One set of eyes, far to the back, looked friendly, troubled at my plight: the Roman youth, Aetius.

My uncle rubbed his hands together and grinned meanly. "We'll have use for him after the strava. He's worth Roman gold, hundreds of pounds. He was supposed to go months ago, but the fool, Munducius, stood in the way. After all, they'll treat him as a Royal." He warmed to the irony. "They must show respect to our house. His brother, Bleda, came over to us last night, so he'll be the new chief of the Ultinchuri, but you, Attila," his eyes skewered me, "you will be our surety, our pledge to the Western Romans--as you were supposed to be."

I had an urge to lunge, kick, bite, tear with claws. Futile. I was surrounded. Looking up, I saw, beyond the circle of Huns, the gleam of burnished helmets, shining cuirasses, bright scarlet capes. Above the peering, rounded faces of my people, beyond the friendly face of Aetius, I glimpsed sharp features, reddened skin, round eyes: Romans! Roman soldiers. They stared back at me, wordless, their eyes like polished stones.

[And so ends the first installment of the Great King's account on this cold day, the tenth of Januarius in the Year of Our Lord Four Hundred and Forty Three.

The wind has been blowing from the East for months, laden with the icy cold out of the emptiness of the vast unknown lands, hurling it into our faces. I have heard stories from other mouths about how he went to the Empire. He, it seems, is already building a case for why he succeeded his uncle. Rugila's sons, so I've heard...ah, but that's another story....

I must be careful here. I sit writing this late into the night, but he must not know that I question his account. To him I am but a faceless scribe who does his bidding. All these barbarians are like that. They have no conception of the work it takes, nor of how my hands and fingers are almost frozen to the bone as I write this. I, who come from a long line of scribes. My father's father was even scribe to His Highness, God's Anointed in the holy city of Rome itself. And here am I scribbling the story of this man who would destroy all that is holy and good! May the Good Lord pardon me!]