THE SUN WAS setting behind the walls of the city, walls which had seen better days. They had been battered down by Hun siege engines in several places and their stones were blackened where fire had licked them. The city inside was intact, however. The citizens had seen sense the moment their walls were breached and surrendered rather than make a glorious last stand that would have resulted in the deaths of everyone and the utter annihilation of the city and all its glories.
Sirmium was a former home of several Roman emperors and its glories were many: Imperial palaces, a horse-racing arena, a mint, a theatre, public baths, temples and luxurious villas all graced the city but also had contributed to making it such a prime target for Attila. If the palace at Sirmium was great enough for an Emperor of Rome, then Attila, still sole ruler of the Huns, wanted to see just how grand that was, so he could measure his own possessions to see if he was yet an equal.
The city fathers of Sirmium had paid the price for closing the gates on the advancing Huns. They had been beheaded in the forum before the palace, but Attila had spared most of the city. What was the point of capturing one of the jewels of the Eastern Empire to then just smash it to pieces?
The new ruler of Sirmium stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, looking down with interest at a large wooden cross that lay on the grass just outside the gates of the city. Attila’s most trusted warriors stood in a semi-circle around their king while several of the city’s most prominent surviving citizens were also gathered there. They looked nervous, though nowhere near as much as the man who was on his knees before the king.
This man was a sorry sight. He had been stripped naked, and his exposed flesh displayed the cuts and abrasions from the sustained beating he had endured. Both his eyes were blackened, his left so swollen he could no longer see out of it. His nose was smashed to a pulp and several of his teeth lay in a bloody pool of saliva not far away. His grand clothes that had been ripped from his back lay in a heap of rags nearby.
‘Lord Attila, I am so very, very sorry,’ he said. He spoke in the tongue of the Huns but with the accent of a Gaul.
‘I’m sure you are, Constantius,’ Attila said, moving his attention to the kneeling man. ‘At least you have stopped offending us by denying your theft.’
‘It was not theft, lord,’ Constantius said, his voice turning to a whine. ‘I thought the gold was legitimate booty. Everyone else was taking what they wanted. Why should I not?’
‘My warriors fought for this city, Constantius,’ Attila said. ‘They deserve to take their spoils of war. And when they do they first lay all of it at my feet before they dare take an ounce for themselves. You are my secretary. You write letters in Latin for me. Your scribing tool has not spilled much blood and I do not recall you laying any of what you took before me in tribute. Besides, if you thought you had a right to this holy man’s gold, then why did you go to the trouble of misleading him?’
Constantius hung his head. One of the Sirmium notaries, an older man with a very long grey beard in the robes of a Christian bishop, nodded enthusiastically.
‘If you had beheaded him and taken his gold perhaps I would have more respect for you,’ Attila said. ‘Ediko, have you found what happened to the holy man’s gold?’
Ediko had done well for himself under Attila. He had been quick to prove his cleverness, loyalty and trustworthiness to ensure the king recognised how useful he was. In the last six years Ediko had risen to be one of his king’s most trusted advisors, unlike many others who had paid for their mistakes with their heads.
‘The secretary sold it to a Roman merchant,’ he said. ‘He left for Rome just before the city fell.’
Attila grunted.
‘So, Constantius,’ he said. ‘I sent you to negotiate this city’s surrender. The chief holy man gives you the treasure of his church, believing that it could be used as surety for the release of hostages we had taken. Instead you sold it to a Roman and kept the proceeds. You offered none of it to me. You saw a chance to make yourself rich and you took it.’
‘Will I get the treasure back, Lord King?’ the bishop said in a tremulous voice as he wrung his hands before him.
‘I very much doubt it,’ Attila said. ‘But you will get justice. I want my own people and the people of Sirmium – who are now part of our kingdom – to know I will not tolerate corruption. I should have known when Aetius sent you to me as a secretary that you would be trouble. I’ll be surprised if we don’t find out that you’ve been spying on me all these years as well.’
‘No, lord!’ Constantius cried. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. Please spare me… If you kill me, who will read or write in Latin for you?’
‘That—’ Attila began to say then stopped.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats made them all turn around. A Hunnish messenger rider, his horse lathered with sweat, approached. He reined his horse to a halt and swung himself out of the saddle then hurried over to where Attila stood. There he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
‘Mighty king,’ the messenger said, without looking up. ‘I have a letter for you. It was in the hands of a Roman messenger who was intercepted on his way here. The message is for you, personally.’
Attila raised his eyebrows. The messenger dug into his leather satchel and withdrew a folded piece of parchment which he held up. Attila took it, picking it up gingerly as if it might burst into fire at any moment. He unfolded it and a large gold ring dropped out. Attila caught it, held it up and examined it, then he looked at the parchment and frowned.
‘Did you know this was coming, Constantius?’ he said.
‘No, lord,’ his kneeling, bleeding former secretary said. ‘I know nothing of this.’
‘This is written in Latin,’ Attila said, proffering the parchment. ‘I may be able to speak the Roman tongue but their scratchings on parchment is still a mystery to me. It seems you still have a use to me, Constantius. Read this.’
With trembling, scraped and bloody hands Constantius took the parchment and began to read.
‘Lord King,’ he said at length. His voice was cracked and not just from fear and the beating he had taken. ‘This is a letter from Justa Grata Honoria, the sister of the Western Roman Emperor. She says she is in great distress. She is a prisoner who is being forced into an unhappy marriage and throws herself at the mercy of the mighty Attila, praying he will come for her and rescue her from her plight. In return she will give you half of everything that is hers.’
The bishop let out a gasp.
Attila held up the heavy gold ring and pursed his lips.
‘Well now, this is a first,’ he said. ‘I have three wives already, but this is the first time a woman has proposed to me.’
‘Proposed?’ the bishop said. ‘I don’t think—’
The sharp look Attila threw in his direction silenced him before he could finish.
‘And if this Justa Grata Honoria is the sister of Emperor Valentinian,’ Attila said. ‘Then her dowry would be considerable. Half of everything that is hers must be…’
He grinned like a wolf.
‘About half of the Western Roman Empire,’ he continued. ‘This is perfect, absolutely perfect.’
‘So you see, you still have a use for me after all, Lord Attila,’ Constantius said with a pleading smile that revealed his broken and missing teeth. ‘Can you forgive me? You will need someone to write the response to this letter for you.’
Attila looked at him for a moment. Then he looked at the bishop.
‘You can read and write Latin, holy man. Right?’
The bishop nodded.
‘Good. You will do it for me then,’ Attila said. ‘You can no longer be trusted, Constantius, and my new secretary, this old holy man, needs to see justice done. Crucify him.’
Constantius began to curse, then scream in terror as Attila’s bodyguards closed in around him. They forced him down onto the wooden cross then held his legs together, turned his feet sideways, and held a large iron nail against the side of the upper heel.
‘Please, don’t,’ the Gaul pleaded.
Then one of the Hun warriors struck the nail head with a hammer. There was a resounding ring of metal on metal, a horrific crunch of grinding bone, and Constantius let out a wild shriek of agony. The nail was driven through both heel bones, pinning his feet to the wood beneath. The warriors then moved on to his arms, spearing them across the cross-piece and hammering a nail through the wrist of first the left, then his right arm. Bright red copper-smelling blood gushed from all three wounds. Constantius was now screaming at the top of his lungs.
The warriors heaved the cross upright, sliding the base into a hole that had been dug for it in the ground. They filled the hole in with dirt, then stepped back sharply as a stream of urine cascaded down from above. Constantius continued to scream and writhe around in pain. He slumped down and forwards, only to increase the pain on his transfixed wrists. To try to relieve that he pushed himself up from his pinned feet, but that transferred his weight to his skewered ankles. Screaming at the pain that invoked he slumped forward, beginning the whole terrible cycle of torment once again.
Attila watched for a time, his face impassive.
‘How long will it take for him to die?’ he said to Ediko.
His advisor shrugged.
‘Sometimes it can take days, Mighty One.’
Attila frowned in a way that suggested he could not listen to his former secretary’s screams for that long. More because the sound irritated rather than horrified him.
‘These Romans must be an exceptionally cruel bunch to have invented such a torture,’ he said.
Attila turned and began to walk away, gesturing to Ediko that he should follow.
‘Tell me, Ediko,’ he said when the two of them were far enough away from the tortured screams of Constantius to hear each other talk, and at the same time not be overheard by the others. ‘Did I do the right thing? Will the people think me cruel for this deed?’
‘The people love you like a father, Mighty King,’ Ediko said. ‘And a good father disciplines his children. It is his right. It is expected.’
‘But do they believe I have the right to rule alone?’ Attila said. ‘What do your spies tell you? Do people still talk of Bleda?’
Ediko hesitated before replying. Attila spotted it straight away.
‘They do, don’t they?’ he said.
‘Yes, lord,’ Ediko said with a sigh. ‘There is sometimes talk of whether you rule by the blessings of the Gods or through your own hand.’
To Ediko’s surprise and relief, Attila gave a little chuckle.
‘Some would say they are the same thing,’ he said.
‘If only you had the Sword of the War God, Mighty One,’ Ediko said. ‘Then no one would question whether you should rule or not.’
Attila held up the gold ring.
‘That is now within my grasp, Ediko,’ he said. ‘This letter is most excellent. We have been ready for war for some time but now we have the excuse. We have the cause. We can attack them with purpose. And what more noble cause could there be than rescuing a virgin who is in distress?’
‘From what I have heard, Mighty One,’ Ediko said, ‘the Emperor’s sister is far from a virgin.’
They both turned around and watched the unfortunate Constantius squirm, flail and cry on the cross for a little while longer.
‘I had not seen someone crucified before,’ Ediko said. ‘I didn’t think there would be so much blood.’
The sun was almost set now and the entire scene was bathed in deep red light.
‘This is just the start of the bloodletting,’ Attila said, his eyes pointing at the crucified man but seeming like they were looking at something a thousand miles beyond him. ‘There will be much more blood, destruction and suffering. But if it has to be, then let it be now.’