The Death of Attila: A Novel

For Bobby

ONE

BEFORE THEY REACHED THE river, the horses had grown used to the corpse. Tacs had not. Of course it was cold enough except at the height of the day so that the dead flesh hardly smelled, and Tacs had bound it into a tight wrapping of his and the dead man’s cloaks, to keep the spirits from getting at it. Still, at night, when Tacs was camped, Marag troubled his sleep.

On the morning of the sixth day after Marag’s death, four days after they left the mountains behind, they came within sight of the river. Tacs had the grey horse on a long tether so that it could graze while it traveled. Seeing the glitter of water in the distance, he jerked on the tether and reined in his black pony, and for the space of two long breaths he sat motionless staring at the undulating line of trees that marked the river bank. The sight of the river overwhelmed Tacs, even more than if he had met another of his own people. In four months the only other Hiung he had seen was Marag, and now Marag he saw too much of, in the night.

He nudged the pony with his heels and gave the grey horse’s rope a shake, and with the rope swinging between them the two horses started down the slope again. The river sank out of sight beyond the next rise. Although this steppe seemed level it actually rolled in long waves from horizon to horizon. Now in the middle of autumn the plain was crisp and brown. The dry grass rustled under the black pony’s hoofs. Brown birds marked with white, brown mice and rabbits appeared and disappeared among the patches of weed and the stands of high grass. Everything smelled of dust and drying.

The grey horse stopped to scratch its shoulder with its teeth. Tacs kept on, his eyes moving constantly. With the river so close he knew he rode under the Kagan’s protection. But the habit of watching was strong in him and Germans lived on this plain as well as Hiung. Tacs had seen that the soldiers of the Romans were mostly German and he could see no difference between the Roman Germans and the ones who served the Kagan. They were all dogs. The pony reached the end of the grey horse’s leadline and Tacs was almost jerked from his saddle. He yanked on the rope; the grey horse broke into a trot to catch up. The black pony climbed in short lunges up the next slope into the roar of the wind.

There the river lay, apparently no closer, but now Tacs could see where the Roman bridge crossed it, well to the east. While the two horses walked on, taking him slowly down again into the trough of the plain, he thought uneasily of other ways to cross the river. Here it ran swiftly, deep between treacherous banks, and so late in the autumn the water would be freezing. He could not swim it, and the nearest ford was days away. He knew that the bridge was guarded by Germans, probably by Gepids. It had been Ardaric, the King of the Gepids, who sent Tacs and Marag away from the army in Italy and so caused them to be left behind when the Kagan suddenly retreated. Now Marag was dead in consequence. It was unclear to Tacs whether such a death required vengeance; he would have to talk to a shaman about it.

The high wind stirred up a whirl of dust as tall as a man and drove it skittering along the crest of the next rise, picking up dead leaves and bits of branch. Its careening path headed roughly toward the bridge. Tacs followed it. He had no choice—if he went north looking for a ford or an unguarded bridge, he would have to spend at least two more nights with Marag.

Throughout the rest of the day, he rode steadily toward the river. In the blue arch of the sky an eagle appeared and circled him awhile, perhaps waiting for him to leave the dead man. Tacs wondered if he might not now make a burial platform and leave Marag on it, here within the boundaries the Kagan had declared his, and thus have served Marag properly. Through the early afternoon he tried to argue himself into it, although the taboos and ritual of their people required three witnesses to bury a warrior. Gradually he became aware that he could not bury Marag here anyway because it was not truly land of the Hiung, and he switched to thinking of how he would catch frogs to eat, once he reached the river. The frog was one of his totems, and eating its meat made him agile.

In the late afternoon he came to a worn path in the plain, the road that led to the bridge. Turning to follow it, he rapped his heels against the black pony’s ribs. At first the pony only pinned back its ears and snorted. Tacs kicked it harder, and the pony bucked, and Tacs smacked it across the ear with his open hand. Sulking, the pony stepped out into a brisk trot, towing Marag’s horse along after him.

They came within sight of the bridge, and through the trees along the far bank Tacs saw a camp with a fire and a line of picketed horses. They had to be Germans; no Hiung would tie a horse with the whole wide plain to graze it on. Almost at once the men in the camp saw him coming and rushed forward to bar the bridge. They came on foot, running, half a dozen men. Tacs reined in. The Germans swung the wooden bar to close the bridge and stood watching him, talking among themselves. Most of them carried bows, and one or two even had swords, like the Romans.

Come forward, one of them shouted, in German.

Tacs looked from side to side. There was no other way to cross the river. He reeled in the lead rope until Marag’s horse stood with its head almost against his thigh and started forward.

The black pony caught the scent of the Germans and flung up its head and neighed. At its high squeaky neigh the German horses beyond the river surged and lunged against the picket rope and whinnied in answer. Tacs kicked the pony forward again. It pinned back its ears and Tacs patted its neck. He had taught it to hate Germans. Those at the bridge were waiting for him; one man came forward toward him.

Who are you?

A Hiung, Tacs said stiffly, in German. I go to Hungvar. The Kagan is my chief.

So you say, the German said. How do we know that you are not a spy, sent by the Emperor?

They always said this. It was a German trick to try to keep him here, perhaps even to turn him back and force him upriver. Tacs choked down his anger. The Germans were all laughing at him, their teeth showing in the midst of their blond beards.

I am the Kagan’s man. My name is Tacs, my father was Resak, my brother is Ras, we are of the frog clan of the Mishni Hiung and our—

What’s that? another German said, going toward Marag’s horse.

Leave that alone, Tacs called.

The German leader lifted his pale bushy eyebrows. His red lips curved into a smile smooth as a woman’s. What could be in that bundle? Something you don’t want us to see? With his men crowding after him, he went up and reached for the rope that held Marag on his horse.

Leaning across the grey horse’s back, Tacs grabbed the German by the wrist. No. Don’t—

The German struck him with his fist. Hands seized him from behind and dragged him down out of his saddle. The black pony reared. A German had hold of its bridle; the pony lashed out with its forefeet, shrilling, and the German stumbled back. Wheeling, the pony galloped off into the plain, away from the bridge. Tacs cried out. On foot he was helpless. He flung his weight against the arms that held him, but the Germans held him fast; they were much bigger than he was.

Don’t kill him yet, the leader called. Let us see what he was bringing to Hungvar.

With a knife he cut the rope and pulled the wrappings from Marag, and Marag slid rolling down into the dirt of the road.

Outraged, Tacs whined in his teeth. The Germans recoiled. Marag, covered with dust, lay almost at Tacs’ feet. A sour stench leaked from the body. One of the Germans yammered out an incantation. The men holding Tacs let him go, backing away; their leader’s face was twisted and he licked his lips.

Tacs knelt down beside Marag and pulled the cloaks around him again. To touch Marag filled him with fear, and the odor made his stomach heave, but he could not bear to see him lying covered with dust in the midst of Germans. He wrapped the cloaks carefully around Marag’s feet and tucked his rigid arms inside and drew the thick folds of bearskin across his face. Seeing Marag’s face, even stiff and distorted, reminded him again that he was alone and his friend was dead, and he straightened up and beat his body with his fists and wailed in grief and loneliness.

Their faces whey-colored, the Germans had backed off around him. Tacs lifted Marag up in his arms. The body was frozen in the shape it had taken while lying across the grey horse’s back. It was hard to lift but easy to return to its place on Marag’s saddle. The rope lay in two pieces on the road. The Germans deserved all the ill luck that cutting a rope would bring them. Tacs knotted the rope together and tied the body fast. Taking the reins of Marag’s horse, he walked back along the path, away from the bridge, and whistled for the black pony.