Ross Laidlaw - Attila:The Scourge of God

Suddenly, from a copse directly to Carpilio’s fore, burst an enormous brown bear, the biggest animal the boy had ever seen. With its powerful muscles bunching and sliding beneath the shaggy pelt, its little red eyes blazing with fury, its open jaws revealing its vicious fangs, the creature was terrifying. Carpilio was gripped with paralysing fright and his bowels seemed to turn to water. He felt the horse beneath him start to tremble. On either side of him, he was aware of the young beaters’ mounts beginning to rear and plunge. Knowing that a horse’s instinct is to flee when faced with danger, but aware too that attempted flight, with the bear directly in his path, was probably his worst option, he placed a reassuring hand on the stallion’s neck. Such was the empathy he had already established with the animal that it quietened immediately.

‘Hold still!’ roared a mighty voice in Hunnish — Carpilio had picked up enough of it to understand the words. Attila kneed his horse into the line of panicking beaters. ‘Present your lances; he won’t face the points.’

But the advice went unheeded. The line wavered, then broke, as first one youth then another dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and bolted. In a few moments, all the beaters in sight of the bear, except Carpilio, were galloping pell-mell for safety. Last to flee was Barsich who, turning in the saddle, presented to his friend a face contorted by terror and anguished guilt. Left to confront the enraged bear were Carpilio, his father, Attila, and an elderly foot-retainer with three hunting-dogs in leash.

The old man loosed the dogs, huge, wolf-like brutes with spiked collars. They flew at the bear, which reared up on its hind legs, displaying to the full its awesome size and menace. A forepaw armed with sickle-like claws flicked out; the foremost dog cartwheeled in the air, its back broken like a dry stick. Undeterred, the remaining pair leapt at their quarry, sinking their teeth into its flank and haunch. With an ear-shattering roar of pain and rage, the bear struck its tormentors with those terrible claws. One spun to earth, howling, the pink coils of its intestines spilling from a gashed belly; the other dropped lifeless, its skull stove in like a crushed eggshell.

‘Keep still, boy,’ Carpilio heard his father whisper as the bear turned its attention to its human adversaries.

Attila charged, his lance aimed at the bear’s chest. As the point struck home, in a blur of movement too fast for the eye to follow a paw connected with the horse’s head, hurling rider and mount to the ground. Towering above them, the lance embedded in its body, the dying monster raised its arms to smash the life from the man pinned helplessly beneath the screaming, blinded horse. But before it could deliver the death-blow, Aetius, vaulting from the saddle, ran forward to confront it. Head swinging to face this new opponent, the bear roared, blood gushing from its gaping jaws. Simultaneously, Aetius thrust upwards with his spear. Impelled with all the power of a strong and desperate man, the blade drove through the creature’s palate deep into its brain. For a moment, the stricken animal stood still. Then it swayed, and toppled with a crash that shook the earth.

Like ripples from a stone dropped in a pool, a hush spread through the assembled tribesmen. All, on horseback as tradition dictated, were from the same clan as the disgraced beaters. Headed by Rua, the venerable leader of the chief division of the Hun Confederacy, those who would decide the fate of the offenders filed in cavalcade into the central space cleared for them: Attila and his brother Bleda, Aetius, and five senior elders. The culprits, ten in number, cowered bound and terrified on the ground. Carpilio, as the one beater involved in the incident who had stayed at his post, and was therefore an important witness, was also present.

‘We’re not here to discover the guilt or innocence of these boys,’ announced Rua, speaking in a surprisingly loud, clear voice for one so old. ‘Everyone knows they ran away, thus putting at risk the lives of our Roman guests, as well as that of my nephew Attila. It was a shameful thing to do, bringing dishonour not only on themselves but on their families, their clan, and indeed their whole tribe. All that remains is to decide their punishment.’ He turned to face Aetius. ‘General, as our guest, whose hosts betrayed your trust, it is for you to recommend an appropriate penalty.’

‘Friends and fellow Huns,’ said Aetius, speaking in their language. ‘I feel that I may address you thus, having lived among you as a hostage when a boy. What are we to do with these young men? We could, I suppose, be merciful; many among you may think that their lapse was not so very terrible. Faced suddenly with appalling danger, is it not understandable that untried boys should flee? And should we not on that account forgive them? I say we should do both. Not to understand, not to forgive — that would call for hearts of stone indeed. But’ — Aetius’ gaze moved round his audience, holding it — ‘I say we should also punish. I say this not from any petty personal desire for revenge because their cowardice put my son’s life in danger, but because not to punish them would weaken your clan, and in the end destroy the guilty ones themselves. If out of misguided pity we were to spare them, think of the consequences. Next time a wolverine attacked the goats in his charge, the herd-boy, fearing to face such a terrible animal, might also flee, knowing that he could expect to be excused. The rot would spread like a grassland fire. Courage and hardihood — these are the twin thongs that bind your clan together. Loosen them, and the clan falls apart. Understand that mercy can have cruel consequences.’

‘And what punishment would you suggest as fitting?’ asked Rua.

‘To remove the cancer that, left untreated, would grow and spread throughout the clan, there can be only one penalty.’

Mingled with whickers and neighing from horses, a stir and murmur swept round the assembly, then gradually subsided. Rua looked round enquiringly at the members of the tribunal. ‘If any other would speak, let him do so now.’

‘Flavius, old friend,’ said Attila in a deep rumble, addressing Aetius rather than the audience, ‘you and I go back a while. We have both seen and done things which at the time seemed past mending, but which in the end came right. Surely, in this special case, mercy could be shown. These lads have learnt their lesson. I would be willing to swear, by my honour and the Sacred Scimitar, that they will never re-offend.’ His broad Mongol features puckered in a frown. ‘When all’s said and done,’ he went on, a hint of appeal creeping into his voice, ‘they’re only boys.’

Aetius, sitting upright in the saddle, shrugged impassively and remained silent.

‘Must all be put to death?’ remonstrated Attila, leaning forward over his horse’s neck. ‘Would it not suffice if lots were drawn?’ The note of entreaty was now unmistakeable. ‘Yesterday, Flavius, you saved my life. Do not make that debt harder to bear by forcing me to plead.’

Aetius conceded, and so it was decided that lots be drawn. The prisoners’ hands were unbound and a jar containing pebbles — seven black, three white — was passed around them. White meant death. When Barsich’s turn came, his eyes sought Carpilio’s. The boy withdrew his clenched fist from the jar. For a long, agonizing moment the friends’ eyes locked.

Barsich opened his hand. The stone was white.

The tribesmen assembled near the top of the cliff to witness the sentence, watched in silence as the three condemned were led towards the five-hundred-foot drop. Two began struggling and crying for their mothers as they were dragged to the edge before being hurled over. Bodies twisting and flailing, they screamed all the way down. Pleading with his guards, Barsich prevailed on them to release him, so that he could die with honour. Freed from their grip, he walked calmly to the lip of the precipice and stepped into the abyss. .