The Scourge of God

She came at midnight. Her hair had curled after its wash-ing, its darkness gleaming like wave-washed stones on a moonlit beach. Her gown was red silk, captured from the Romans, brocaded with silver and girdled with gold chain studded with rubies. A larger ruby the size of a goat’s eye was at her throat, and her sandals were silver. Under threat of death if she demurred, rings of slain matrons had been slipped onto each of her fingers, and the heavy earrings she’d been made to wear hung like trophies. Her eyes were lined with lampblack, her lips highlighted with red ochre, her skin had been scrubbed and moisturized with lanolin-rich sheep’s wool, and her breath purified by chewing mint leaves. The woman who had crouched in her cage like an animal just hours before now stood stiffly, like a child bewildered by fine new clothes. She’d no more choice in this dressing up than in being imprisoned, and it seemed equally humiliating.

“Kneel before your kagan,” he ordered.

Eyes lowered, cheeks blushing with anger, she did so. To refuse would only result in her being pushed down by Attila’s guards. From the corner of her eyes she looked for even the feeblest of weapons. Ilana had no illusions that she could kill Attila, but she knew that he or his guards would kill her, if she tried. That would be release, wouldn’t it? Did she have the courage? But there was nothing to even threaten him with.

“Do you wonder why I brought you here?” She looked up. “To your tent or to Gaul?”

“I could have ordered you a hideous death a thousand times, and yet I stayed my hand,” Attila said. “It amused me to watch young Skilla long for what I hate. From all reports he’s fighting like a lion to win my favor and your company.

It reminded me to be wary of desire and greed, because they change like the weather and have no more explanation. This is why I eat from a wooden plate, sleep in animal skins, and spit out soft bread in favor of meat and gristle. To long for too much is to risk losing it.”

Somehow, she found voice. “To fear to hope is the mark of a coward.”

He scowled. “I fear nothing but the stupidity of those I must deal with. Like you, who longs for what is out of reach: the past. A Hun like Skilla would make you a princess. A Roman like Jonas has reduced you to a cage.” She rocked back on her heels, her carriage more upright now. “It is your cage, kagan. And I know you can slit my throat in an instant. So, yes, why did you bring me here?” He leaned back in his camp chair, lazy in his power. “Alabanda is alive.”

Instantly she was tense. “How do you know this?”

“Skilla saw him on the walls of Aurelia. They fought, but again there was no decision.” He saw her confusion, not just at this news but at his willingness to tell her. He was quiet for a while, amused by her little dreams, and then spoke.

“Have you ever considered that I brought you to Gaul to give you back to him?”

She trembled. “Give me or trade me?”

“Sell you, if you want to call it that, for the sword.”

“You don’t even know he has the sword.” Attila sat abruptly upright and his fist crashed onto the arm of his chair, making her start. “Of course I do! Why else does Theodoric ride with Aetius? Why else do the tribes of Gaul refuse to join me? Why is there no news of Gaiseric and his promised Vandals? Because Rome has been given courage by the sword of Mars, that’s why! But that sword is mine, by discovery and by right. He stole it from me, and I want it back before the battle!”

“You brought me all this way for that?” It was odd how courage ebbed and flowed, and now came unbidden. She even smiled. “Surely you know the Romans would never trade the sword for me. Even Jonas wouldn’t do it.” Attila’s fingers drummed in that habit he had, his dark, sunken eyes regarded her dourly. “He will if you ask him to.

He’ll only do it if you ask him to.” Her heart began to hammer.

“Why do you think I’ve dressed you like a Roman whore, had the pig smell scrubbed off you, and painted your lips the color of your cunt? Why would I do this to a witch who helped the thief steal what was rightfully mine and who set my house on fire and who almost burned me in its flames?

To persuade your lover.”

“I wish we had all burned,” she said quietly.

“We will, witch, if I lose the coming battle because I have lost my sacred sword. We will burn together, you and I, on a pyre that I will build of my choicest possessions-and while I might stab my own heart to quicken things, you’ll be left to the flames.”

“You fear the Romans, don’t you?” she said in sudden realization. “You, the king who professes to fear nothing. The Westerners are uniting to fight you. That’s why we’ve stopped. You fear Aetius. You even fear Jonas. You regret that you’ve come here. It is all going wrong.”

He shook his shaggy head. “Attila fears nothing. Attila needs nothing. But it will spare many lives, Roman and Hun, if the final battle is an easy one instead of a hard one. If you meet Jonas, and he brings the sword, I will let you go with him.”