THE PERIL AND ESCAPE.
It was to one of those detached circles, which we have described as
separated from the general encampment, that Edicon led the way, after
speaking with several of the chiefs, as they passed along. It had been
apparently reserved for himself and those who followed him, for the
enclosure was nearly vacant, except where, before the entrance of a
tall but curiously-formed tent, which had probably been taken in war
from some Eastern nation, blazed up a large and cheerful fire. Around
were seated about a dozen Huns, not less wild and fierce in the
expression of their faces than the rest of their nation; and yet there
was something about their dress and general appearance which struck
Theodore as more familiar to his eye. As he approached, one of them
rose and addressed him in the Latin language, and welcomed him to his
tent with great purity of speech and accent; and oh, how sweet and
musical did those sounds appear, after the strange, harsh tongues
which had lately rung in his ear, amid scenes of ruin, bloodshed, and
strife!
Sweet, sweet indeed it was, but overpowering. He felt the tears ready
to gush from his eyes; a word would have made them overflow; and,
without speaking, he entered the tent to which the man had pointed. It
contained nothing in the outer chamber of the two, into which it was
divided by a curtain, but a lighted lamp upon a small table; and in
the inner a bed, piled up of skins, with a single wooden settle. It
had an air, however, of civilization and comfort; and how often is it
in this life that the air has more influence upon our happiness than
even the reality? We are the slaves of association, and, as such,
truly but children of a larger growth, to whom the paint and tinsel of
appearances render the toy valuable, whatever be its intrinsic worth.
Theodore cared little for the comfort, and thought Roman civilization
had fallen into effeminacy; and yet the sight of that tent, like the
sound of Roman words, sent a thrill through his heart, and made him
happier. Edicon saw his emotion, and seemed to understand its cause,
at least in part.
"You are surprised," he said, "to hear the Latin tongue; but you will
be more so to know that there are several thousands in our host who
can use it fluently."
"I have heard," replied Theodore, "when I was in Rome, that [AE]tius,
the great general in Gaul, has several bodies of Huns among his
mercenaries."[8]
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[Footnote 8: Not only was such the case, but in various contentions in
the empire, hired bodies of the Huns were frequently found fighting on
both sides, and doing their duty faithfully.]
---------------
"Ay, and Valentinian also," rejoined Edicon. "Not two years since full
ten thousand of our nation were engaged in defence of the Western
empire. We are too near neighbours to the East to have such friendly
commerce with her. Besides, Theodosius is unworthy the defence of
brave men--a mere weak coward, a flimsy knave, whose only means of
proving his manhood is by murdering with hired steel the only honest
and noble men left to save his empire."
Edicon struck the chord aright, and Theodore's heart replied, though
his lips were silent. "These men," continued the Hunnish chief,
pointing to the barbarians, who were again seated round the fire, and
took but little notice either of Theodore or their newly-arrived
companions, who had followed him with Edicon--"these men have been
chosen by the king himself, not because they speak thy language better
than others in the camp, but because they are known as faithful and
just. They will accompany thee back into our land; and, though they go
with regret, thou wilt find them true and trustworthy. Ten more will
be added, whom thou mayst choose either from among the Huns who have
lived with the Romans, or from among thy kinsmen the Alani."
"I will choose the Alani," answered Theodore, quickly; and he
observed, as he spoke, the brow of his companion contract as if he
were offended--"I will choose the Alani--not, noble Edicon," he added,
"that I doubt or distrust the Huns, for to me they have been merciful,
kind, and generous, whatever violence and cruelty they may have shown
in dealing with my native land. But remember that those I love the
best have gone to seek a refuge with the Alan tribes; and perchance,
by having some of them near me, I may learn, as I go, tidings which
will cheer and console me to hear."
"Not only as you go," answered Edicon, with a smile, "but afterward
also; for those who are now chosen to accompany you are not only
directed to be your guard by the way, but are also given you--not as
servants to a lord, but as followers to a leader, and will obey you in
all things, as far as our customs permit, so long as you remain with
us."
"It is strange," answered Theodore, thoughtfully; "your king, so harsh
and fierce towards others, is so gentle and merciful to me--considers
my wants, provides for my security, and cares for my comfort as if he
were a father."
"Receive it all with gratitude," replied Edicon, "and he may prove a
father to you. Nor must you think Attila harsh and fierce towards any,
except in the hour of battle, when the spirit of war is upon him, and
with the powers of a god he claims the attribute of vengeance. No!
though grave and stern, he is just and humane towards his people.
Determined in his purposes, inflexible in his judgments, his purposes
towards those who obey him are mild, his judgments even against
himself are equitable. It is only the traitor among his own people,
the aggressor among foreign nations, that he treats with rigour."
"Think me not ungrateful," said Theodore; "I meant not to accuse thy
monarch; and while I felt thankful for the tenderness he hath shown to
me and mine--thankful for life and liberty preserved, and for the
safety of those who are dearer to me than life itself--I have been
forced to marvel that he has dealt so different a measure to me and to
others. There is something strange in it."
"There may be so," replied Edicon; "but think you there are no such
things as sudden intimations given us from Heaven of those with whom
our fate is to be linked for good or evil? Think you that those
prepossessions for or against, which we feel so suddenly, so
unaccountably, in rare and extraordinary cases, are mere fancies,
passing whims, which have no reference to after events?"
Theodore made no reply, for he remembered well his own peculiar
feelings when he had first seen that powerful monarch with whom his
own destiny had since been so completely mingled. He remembered it
well, but he answered not, for the Hun seemed to have seen his
feelings, or at least divined them; and at length Edicon went
on:--"Such may have been the prepossession of Attila towards you; and
we know, or at least believe, that the feelings I have mentioned are
given us by the gods, to let us know our friends and enemies. Does not
the horse tremble when the unseen lion is near? Do not the bleatings
of the sheep warn the shepherd to watch even while the wolf is yet
afar off?"
He paused a moment for reply, and then added--"But I will leave you
to repose; and yet, ere you seek sleep, take some food, for your eyes
are haggard and hollow, your cheek burning as if this tent were a
furnace, and you have neither drunk mead nor broken bread during the
whole day. Bid a slave bring food," he continued, speaking to those
without; and then, taking from one of his own followers the sword which
Theodore had left in his hands, he laid it down on the small table by
the lamp, saying, "You are now turning to another land. Keep your
weapon, for, whether you need it or not, it is always well to be
prepared. Add to it a javelin and a bow; for, as you go through our
country, you may strike a stag or a wild bull, and gain honours in the
chase, which we hold next to war. I will now leave you, and see you
to-morrow ere you depart."
Thus saying, his conductor left him, and a frightful negro slave,
precious in the eyes of the Huns from the hideousness of his face and
figure, brought him cooked meat and thin cakes of flour, with a strong
drink composed of honey. Theodore tried to eat, but only few were the
mouthfuls he could swallow, though the meat was not unsavoury. He
tried, too, to drink; but there was a burning heat in his throat and
mouth, and the sweet liquor was revolting to his taste.
"I will bring wine," said the negro slave, in tolerable Greek; "I am a
present from Attila the King to his Roman son, and he is henceforth my
lord. Wilt thou have wine? for it shall go hard but, with mine own wit
and Attila's name to bear me out, I will find you as pure wine in the
Hunnish camp as ever you tasted in the city of Constantine."
"I would rather have pure water," answered Theodore; "I have a painful
thirst upon me; and heart and tongue feel burning as if with fire."
The slave sprang away, and returned in a few moments with both water
and wine; and mingling them together, Theodore drank with delight
which he had not known for long.
"I thank thee, friend," he said, giving his hand to the slave in
gratitude for the blessed draught: "it is exquisite, and I thank
thee."
The slave took his hand and kissed it, gazing intently on his face;
and then, seeing by the calm and grateful sincerity of the young
Roman's look that no scorn existed in his bosom towards that deformed
and frightful shape which crouched at his feet, he sprang up, saying,
"I have deceived you, but I will not betray you. I am not sent by
Attila, but by Bleda, his brother. Beware of him! Roman, beware of
him!"
"I have no cause to fear him," answered Theodore: "I have done naught
to injure him."
The slave shook his head mournfully. "Are we only injured by those
whom we have injured?" he demanded. "Alas! were it so, I should not be
what I am. But I must speed hence, and not talk with thee too long,
lest he hear that I have done so, and think I have betrayed him."
"But tell me, what is thy name?" demanded Theodore. "I have naught to
give thee as a reward, but some day, perchance, I may have, and I will
not fail."
"My name is Zercon," answered the slave; "and I am the crooked and
mutilated jester of Bleda, the brother of Attila. Thou hast looked
upon me with eyes of feeling and compassion, and I am rewarded enough;
but I will serve thee further still."
Thus saying, he left the tent, and drew the external curtain closely
after him. Theodore paused to think over what he had heard; but, as he
reflected, he could find in all the wide range of probability no cause
why Bleda should seek to injure him--"There must be some mistake," he
thought; and, overpowered with weariness and exhaustion, he laid his
sword close beside the bed of skins, and casting himself down,
endeavoured to forget his cares in slumber. Restless, unhappy,
fevered, long and painfully he tossed upon that lowly couch, courting
in vain the blessed influence which opens for us, for a while, those
gates of care, that shut us in the dreary prison of ourself. The
faintly-burning lamp stood beside him; and by its pale light, as his
eye roved round, the dark hangings of the tent became peopled with the
spectres of imagination. His father passed before him, as he last had
seen him at Byzantium; but his garments were spotted and dabbled with
blood, and his countenance was pale with the ashy hue of death. Then
came Flavia, with a crown upon her head, and a shroud about her
person. Then he beheld Eudochia struggling in the arms of a fierce and
eager form, and then Ildica glided across the scene, clothed in bridal
robes, and with her left hand clasped in that of a wild, shadowy
shape, which led her slowly forward, while in her right she carried a
naked dagger, dropping as she went large gouts of crimson blood.
He knew, he felt, that it was all delusion, but yet he could not
banish the swarming fancies that disturbed his brain, and even
deceived the organ of sight itself. He closed his eyes, and resolutely
turned his face to the wall of the tent, near which he lay, and
employed himself in listening to the various sounds which rose up from
the myriads spread over that wide plain. Although there were some
noises which might be distinguished from the rest, an occasional burst
of laughter, the loud and measured tones of some singer or reciter, or
the wild notes of various rude instruments of music, yet the general
buzz of all the many voices far and near came upon his ear with a
drowsy and lulling hum, which gradually brought on an inclination to
sleep. As time passed, too, the louder and more distinct sounds died
away, and the whole subsided into a low and whispering rustle, which
was like the noise of the sea upon a pebbly shore, only that it wanted
the regular intermission of the successive waves. Forgetfulness fell
upon him; but in a moment he awoke again with a quick start, gazed
round to see where he was, felt the load of care pressed back upon
memory, and hastened again to close his eyes, and cast it off once
more.
He slept again, and this time more profoundly than the last, though
his breathing was short and thick, and his limbs tossed to and fro.
The lamp burnt more and more dimly. The sounds in the camp fell into
silence, only broken now and then by the wild neighing of a war-horse.
At length, a little before midnight, the curtain, which separated the
tent into two chambers, and which he had let drop when he lay down to
rest, trembled as with a slight wind--was slowly moved--was drawn
back; and a tall, powerful form took a step within, and let it
quietly fall again. Two more paces brought him to the side of the
couch where the young Roman lay, and, with arms folded on his chest,
the giant-like intruder gazed upon the sleeping youth, and then looked
cautiously round the tent. When he had done so twice, he blew out the
lamp, and drawing over his tall form the mantle which Theodore had
cast off, he crouched himself down at the foot of his bed. All was
still and silent but the quick, heavy breathing of the Roman youth,
and the rustling of his clothes, as he turned from time to time upon
his uneasy couch. In less than half an hour, however, the curtain
again moved, and a listening head was advanced within it.
"The lamp has gone out," said a whispering voice, speaking to some one
in the outer chamber, in the lowest tone that the human tongue can
assume; "lift up the curtain of the door, lest I miss my blow."
The curtain was lifted up, the inner one pushed back, and in streamed
the pale, calm moonlight, showing Bleda, the brother of Attila, partly
advanced within the inner chamber. He took another step forward, and
listened, grasping tight the shining blade which he carried in his
hand. Another step brought him within arm's length of the Roman's
couch, and his hand was raised to strike, when, bounding like a lion
on his prey, up started from his master's feet Cremera, the Arab
freedman, and seized the murderer in his gigantic grasp.
An instant struggle took place; but the Hun was no match for his
antagonist, who cast him down upon the ground, shaken, and nearly
stunned. Another barbarian, however, rushed in, sword in hand, from the
outer tent; but Theodore was now upon his feet, and, springing across
the prostrate body of Bleda, interposed between the armed Hun and his
gallant freedman. Another barbarian appeared at the door of the tent,
and how the struggle might have gone, who shall say? but then there
came a cry of Attila the King! Attila the King! and, with a torch
before him, the dark monarch of the Huns advanced slowly into the
tent. He gazed round upon the faces of all present with that stern,
calm, unmoved look which never changed but in the fury of the battle.
Bleda, who had risen, answered his brother's glance with a look of
fierce and fiery impatience, and planted his foot upon his sword,
which had fallen from his hand in the struggle, as if he feared that
some one should snatch it up. The companion who had followed him, with
his naked blade still in his hand, stood trembling before the face of
Attila with a pale and changing countenance.
To Bleda the great monarch said nothing; but slowly drawing his heavy
sword from the sheath, he raised it over his head, and at a single
blow cleft through the scull of his brother's follower, till the
trenchant blade stopped at his teeth and jaws.
Bleda sprang forward with wrath flaming from his eyes. "How darest
thou," he cried, "slay my servant?"
"How darest thou," said Attila, in a voice of thunder, "lift thy hand
against my friend? Thinkest thou that Attila can be deceived? Thinkest
thou that Attila will not punish? Bleda, Bleda! Once, twice, thrice
have I warned thee! The measure is full! See that it run not over. I
am neither blind to thine ambition nor thy purposes. Beware while it
is yet time, and be yet my brother."
"Why, what have I to fear from thee?" demanded Bleda, haughtily; "am I
not a king as thou art? Did not the same father beget us, the same
mother bear us? Was not the dominion left to us equally divided? What
art thou that thou shouldst judge me? Am I not a king as thou art?"
"Our portion was once equal," answered Attila; "but though I have not
robbed thee of one tribe or of one charger, what are my dominions now
and thine? I have added nation unto nation, and kingdom unto kingdom,
while thou hast held thine own only beneath the protection of thy
brother's shield. Bleda, I have trod upon the necks if fifteen kings,
each greater than thou art. Force me not to tread upon thine. Once
more, beware! I tell thee, the cup is full! Thou knowest Attila; now
get thee gone, and leave me."
Bleda paused a moment, as if he would fain have given voice to the
rage that swelled within his heart. But there was a strange and
overwhelming power in his brother's presence, which even he, who had
struggled with him from infancy up to manhood, could not resist. He
remained silent then, not finding words to answer; and taking up his
sword, he shook it with a bent brow at Cremera, and quitted the tent.
"Take away, yon carrion, and give it to the vultures," said Attila,
pointing to the body of him he had slain.--"Brave man," he continued,
turning to Cremera, "well hast thou done what I gave thee in
charge--thou hast saved thy master's life; now leave us, but wait with
the men without, to whom I gave the task of guarding him from evil.
Bid them be more cautious for the future and tell them, that the
presence of the king's brother--nay, of his son himself can never more
be an excuse to Attila for failing in obedience unto him. For the
present, they are pardoned; get ye gone."
Cremera retired; and Attila motioning his own attendants to withdraw,
made them drop the curtain of the tent, and then sat down upon the
couch of skins. Theodore stood for a moment by his side, but the King
made him be seated, calling him by the gentle name of my son.
"Thou art surprised," he said, "to see thy faithful freedman here
amongst us; but when I found thee first, sleeping in the watch-tower
beyond the Danube, he sat between thee and me with his spear in his
hand, glaring upon me as I have seen in Eastern lands the lioness
glare upon the hunters, who would take her young; and I said to mine
own heart, 'If this youth should ever want a faithful guard, here is
one who could spill his own heart's blood rather than a drop of his
lord's should flow.' When I followed thee from Margus, too, I found
him almost alone, struggling with some of my warriors who had gone on
before, in defence of the women, for whom, as well as for thyself, I
had promised thine uncle my protection. He would not yield till a
heavy blow on the head had stunned him, but I gave him in charge to
those who are skilled in the secret virtue of herbs and flowers, with
commands to bring him after me, and to cure him. They promised me he
should be soon well; and when I heard of thy danger, and that he had
recovered, I sent him hither to guard thee, till I could come myself,
not choosing to oppose any of my own nation to the hand of my brother;
and I knew that that brother would do the deed he meditated with his
own arm."
"Then I have once more to thank thee, mighty Attila, for life," said
Theodore; "to thank thee, the enemy of my native land, the destroyer
of my countrymen."
"Not so," replied the monarch: "I have once saved thy life, I grant,
when thou wert in the power of Ardaric; but for the deed of to-night
thou owest me nothing. I promised thee protection, and had I not given
it when I could, I should have been myself thy murderer. But
to-morrow thou seekest to depart and leave me. Is it not so?"
"It is," answered Theodore; "not that I am ungrateful for thy favours,
oh king! nor insensible to the distinction which thou makest between
me and others of my race; but the scenes I have beheld, the grief and
bitterness of heart that I have endured, since the morning sun of
yesterday, would soon terminate my existence, were they often to be
renewed. Did your nation wage warfare like a civilised people, I might
endure though I might grieve; but now the sight of the utter
extermination and devastation which thy tribes inflict wherever they
pass is death, is worse than death to me likewise."
Attila fixed his eyes upon the ground, and remained for a moment
silent:--"I will reason with thee, my son," he said at length; "for,
though I disdain the art of the idle and subtle fools, who wrangle, as
I hear, for an empty word in the schools of thy capital, yet Attila is
not without reasons for anything he does, and when needful, can give
those reasons, if it so please him. Thou talkest of the hostilities of
civilised nations, and speakest with anger and fear of our more just
and reasonable dealings in our warfare. But we make war upon our
enemies, not upon our friends. We either go to subdue and bring under
our dominion other nations, or to avenge ourselves upon a foreign foe.
If the first be our object, and resistance is offered to us, how
foolish to leave our enemies the means of resisting us with success?
how weak to spare men who have done all they could to slay us, or
women and children, by which the race of our adversaries may be kept
up and increased? No; it behoves us to smite with the arrow and the
sword, so long as there is any power of resistance in the land, and
never sheathe the blade; or unstring the bow, till we are undisputed
masters of the whole race and region. Then again, if we go for
vengeance, what vengeance do we gain by suffering our own warriors to
be slain without slaying our enemies? The more that die, the more is
vengeance satisfied, and if we purchase it with our own blood, we must
drink the blood of our enemies. What you call civilised warfare is a
mere folly, which protracts the attainment of the end it seeks, and
often loses it altogether--which, instead of blazing like a bright
fire, and consuming rapidly a small quantity of fuel, lingers
long, and burns a thousand-fold as much. No, no, my son, the most
merciful warfare is that which is the shortest; and that in which no
compassion is shown or asked, is always sure to be the soonest over.
Nevertheless," continued Attila, "I seek not to make thee witness the
ruin of thy native land, though, methinks, the destruction of thy
father's murderer might well repay the sight; but thou shalt go hence.
The men I have chosen to accompany thee are under thy command, and
thou shalt have cattle, and woods, and pasturage assigned thee from my
own herds and lands; ay, even gold shalt thou have, and, what is
better, security and peace; for whosoever lifts his hand against thee
shall have Attila for his foe; and now fare thee well, till we meet
again on my return."