THE FEAST OF ATTILA.
Splendour and feasting reigned in the halls of Attila. Round the
immense hall of his cottage palace were spread tables on every side;
and the wooden walls, quaintly carved and ornamented, were further
decorated for the festal day by large green boughs torn from the fir,
the laurel, and the ilex. These, gathered together in a knot with
cords of woven rushes, were fixed against the panels as high up as a
man could reach; and, bending over like a plume of feathers, each
nodded above some trophy of barbarian arms, the shield, the bow, the
spear, the corslet, which, tastefully grouped together, hung, not
without poetic meaning, in the midst of the evergreens. Above all
waved a thousand banners, and between the trophies enormous torches
shed a light redder than that of day, but scarcely less bright than
noon.
Below, six long tables were covered with an immense mass of gold and
silver. Cups, vases, bekers, of every form and shape, glittered on
those boards; while round about, seated at easy distances, appeared
all those bold and ruthless chiefs who, under the command of a greater
mind, led on the myriads of Attila to battle. There might be seen
every garb, from the furs of the extreme North to the silks and linen
of the far East; and there, upon the persons of those daring leaders,
blazed gems and precious stones of which the voluptuous monarchs of
Persia and of India might have been envious. There, too, were all
faces, forms, and complexions, from the small-eyed Tartar of remote
Thibet to the fair-haired Northman and the blue-eyed Goth. There were
the splendid features of the Georgian and Circassian hordes; the
beautiful Alani, who brought a race of loveliness from the side of the
Caucasus and the shores of the Caspian, and the hard-featured Hun, or
the frightful Ougour, glittering with jewels and precious stones above
the unwashed filth of his native barbarism.
All was splendour and pomp: cushions, of which luxurious Rome itself
might have been proud, covered with crimson and lined with down, were
spread over the seats and supported the arms of the guests; and the
bright gleam of the torches was flashed back on every side from some
precious or some glittering object.
In the middle of the side opposite to the windows was placed a small
wooden table bearing a single dish, formed of oak, and a cup of
wild-bull's horn: a dagger, that served for a knife, lay beside the
dish, and a drawn sword of enormous weight stretched across the table.
That table, with a seat of plain, unadorned whitewood, was placed for
the use of the lord of all those around; and there he sat, the plain
dark Hun, covered with no jewels, robed in no splendour, clad in the
simple habit of the Scythian shepherds, but with more of the monarch
in his looks than gems or diadems could have given, and with the
consciousness of indisputable power sitting proud upon his towering
brow. What were rubies or diadems to Attila? They were parcels of the
dust on which he trod!
At the tables on either hand sat Ardaric, king of the Gepid[ae],
Valamir, king of the Ostrogoths, Onegisus, Ellac, Edicon, Maximin,
Priscus, Theodore; and at tables farther off were placed Constantius,
the Latin secretary of Attila, and Vigilius, the interpreter of
Maximin's embassy. Many another king and many another chief was there;
and nearly five hundred guests, almost all leaders of different
nations, showed, by their different features and their different
garbs, the extent of Attila's dominion. In the same hall, also, were
collected the ambassadors from several distant countries; and there
appeared humble envoys from Valentinian, emperor of the West, as well
as Maximin, whose coming from the Eastern empire we have already
noticed.
Viands in profusion were placed upon the table, and delicacies of
every kind gratified the palate of the most luxurious: rich wines, of
many a varied sort, circled in abundance; and barbaric music, wild,
but not inharmonious, floated through the hall, mingling with, but not
interrupting, the conversation of the guests. A multitude of slaves
served the banquet with rapidity and care; and no one had cause to say
that, in the hospitality of Attila, he had been at all neglected.
At length, an elevated seat was placed in the midst of the hall; and
an old but venerable man, with long white hair and snowy beard, slowly
ascended and took his place thereon, while an attendant handed him up
a small rude harp. In a moment, all the Huns were silent, while, with
careful hand and bent down ear, he put some of the strings of his
instrument into better tune. The next moment, he looked up for a
single instant, with the natural glance towards the sky which almost
every one uses when seeking for elevated words and thoughts; and then,
running his hand over the strings, he produced a wild and somewhat
monotonous sound, to which he joined a rich, deep voice, a little
touched, perhaps, but scarcely impaired by age. It was more a chant
than a song; but every now and then the plain recitation ceased, and
he burst forth into a strain of sweet, of solemn, or of majestic
melody, as the subject of which he sung required.
The matter of his song was war and glorious deeds; and though the tale
referred to former times and other countries, when Ruga first led the
conquering Huns to triumph over all other nations of the earth, yet
ever and anon, with dexterous skill, he alluded to some late exploit
in which the warriors around him had had a share. The noble, reckless
daring of Ardaric, the keen, sagacious wisdom of Valamir, were
mentioned with loud applause; and many another had his share of fame;
but still, when wonderful policy, or heroic courage, or warrior skill,
required some more striking and extraordinary comparison, the deeds of
Attila still rose to the poet's tongue, and a new inspiration seemed
to seize him when he borrowed his illustrations from the life of the
mighty man before whom he sat.
While gazing upon him, as he struck the harp, with his white beard
mingling with the strings, Theodore could have fancied that he beheld
the great master of the epic, singing, amid the isles of Greece, the
marvellous deeds of her primeval warriors; and for the first time he
could guess what had been the enthusiasm, what the inspiring interest,
with which the voice of Homer had been heard, and which, graving each
word deep on memory, had served to transmit the great first model of
the poet's art to after ages from his own rude and early day.
Breathless silence hung listening to the song, except when, on some
more powerful appeal to the passions of his hearers, a loud and
approving shout of gratulation burst upon the poet's ear. Even the
slaves paused in their office; and, when the song was over--after one
moment during which not a voice was heard--some lip broke the charmed
quiet with a word of applause, and one universal cry of admiration
completed the triumph of the verse.
A slave filled hastily the wine-cup for Attila, and, as the monarch
rose from his seat, gave another to the bard.
"Father of song," said the king, "I drink unto thee--may thy hand
never lose its strength, nor thy voice its sweetness, nor the footstep
of time wear the memory of mighty deeds from the tablet of thy brain!"
The cup was filled again, and to each of his most famous warriors,
calling upon them by name, Attila drained the cup with some words of
thanks and praise. To Maximin and Priscus also he drank, and then with
ready celerity the slaves cleared the dishes from the table, and
another service as splendid as the first supplied its place.
At every course Attila thus drank to his guests, and song and music
went on, but not with the effect that they produced at first. The
merriment grew higher and more loud; and Attila at length despatched a
slave across the hall to bid Vigilius, the interpreter of the Eastern
embassy, to advance and speak with him.
With a bending head and air of profound reverence, the cunning
Byzantine approached the king. The monarch motioned him to come
nearer, and then addressed him in a low tone, laying at the same time
one finger of his sinewy hand upon the blade of the naked sword that
lay beside him. What he said no one heard; but the effect upon the
countenance of Vigilius was strange and fearful. The rose at no time
flourished very luxuriantly upon his cheek, but now that cheek turned
pale as death. A green and ashy hue, something even beyond the tint of
death itself, spread over all his face. His eyes opened wide, his jaw
dropped; and both Maximin and Theodore, whose looks were fixed upon
him, thought that he must have fallen to the ground. Attila, however,
bowed his head, as a signal that the interpreter might retire; and
then perceiving that he could scarcely walk, the king beckoned to an
attendant, saying coldly, "Lead him back to the table, or from the
hall, if he prefer it."
But Vigilius returned to the table, and drank cup after cup of wine.
Attila looked round to Ardaric with a meaning glance, and then he bade
one of the slaves send in the jesters. A moment after, two of those
miserable beings entered the hall, and one of those scenes of rude and
dissolute merriment ensued which makes the heart ache for human
nature. Laughter rang from every part of the hall; but the face of
Attila was unmoved even by a smile. He sat and heard with calm and
thoughtful gravity; and though he looked round from time to time, and
noticed with careful consideration his various guests, yet it is
probable his mind was far away, occupied with more important
interests.
At length, gliding in among the slaves, who, with their busy services,
occupied the greater part of the space which the tables left unfilled
in the centre of the hall, appeared the boy Ernac, and took his way
towards the table at which his father sat. The first smile that
crossed Attila's lip beamed on it as the boy appeared; and greeting
him with many a fond caress as he hung at his knee, he spoke with him
for a few moments in a low tone, with an expression which showed how
that stern heart was melted at the sight of tender youth. After a
while, lifting his eyes, he looked towards the part of the hall at
which Theodore was seated, and at the same time spoke a few words to
his son. The boy's eyes instantly followed those of his father; and
bounding away as soon as they lighted upon Theodore, he was at the
youth's side in a moment, and greeting him, with eyes radiant from
pleasure, upturned towards his face, while his lips poured forth words
of gratitude and gladness.
"I thought thou hadst gone away, and left us for ever," he said,
"though my father said that thou wouldst return. Yet I remember, when
I lost a young wolf that I had tamed, they all told me it would
return, but it never came again. It was too wise," he added, laughing,
but with a gleam of intelligent light beaming from his eyes--"it was
too wise, when it had got back to its woods and to its own way of
life, to come back to captivity and strange customs."
Ardaric, who sat near, laughed at the boy's simile; and Theodore,
smiling also, answered, "And so I suppose, Ernac, because we Romans
say the great founder of our city was nourished by a wolf, you thought
I must needs follow the example of your wolf's whelp. But did it
promise you it would return before it went."
"No!" answered the boy, laughing; "and you did promise my father to
come back: I know that is what you mean; and I did not intend to say
that you were wrong to keep your word. If my wolf had returned, I
should have loved it better, even though it made no promise, because
that would have showed it loved me."
"And do you love every one who loves you, Ernac?" demanded Theodore:
"if so, love me, for I love you."
"And so I do, noble Theodore," answered the boy: "ungrateful should
I be if I did not love you. I always love those who are brave and
generous, and I shall ever love you, because you saved my life, and
risked your own to save it. So I will try in return to love you better
than myself, and I will ask my father to make you a king instead
of me."
"But would you not wish to be a king, Ernac?" demanded Ardaric. "Power
is a great thing, boy! Power and command, to a brave and wise man, are
not to be despised. Would you not wish to be a king?"
"Not I!" answered the boy: "I will be a chief under my father or my
brother, and lead men to battle; but I never saw that kings were
happier than other men. I would rather have some one to tell me what
to do, and to make sure that I did not do wrong, than have no one to
guide me, and be obliged to blame myself every day. Even you, noble
Ardaric, you are a king, and yet you come to fight under my father's
standard, and are willing to do what he commands."
A slight flush came over Ardaric's cheek; but he replied, without
anger, "True, Ernac; but we have not every day an Attila. The wisest,
and the noblest, and the bravest may be proud to obey him; but a
weaker king might find a foe in Ardaric where Attila finds a friend.
With pleasure we obey those that we respect, but we spurn from us
those that we despise."
"That is what I mean," said Ernac: "I would sooner obey some one whom
I could love and reverence, than take all the trouble of making others
respect and yield to me. No, I would rather not be a king; but I would
fain see Theodore a king, and striking down enemies beneath his arm as
he struck down the wild urus."
Both Ardaric and Theodore smiled, perhaps to think how readily that
unambitious spirit might learn in after years the lesson of aspiring;
but if they thought so they were wrong; for such as it then showed
itself was the natural moderation of the young chiefs spirit; and it
never became contaminated, even in mingling in scenes of strife and
contention, where every one strove for dominion except himself.
They looked up, however, at the same moment; and both remarked, as
their glances accidentally wandered over the opposite table, that the
eyes of Ellac, the eldest son of Attila, were fixed upon them and
Ernac with a look of jealous malignity, as the boy stood by them and
prattled of all his fancies.
Ardaric turned to Theodore, saying, in a low tone, "Were all as
moderate as this fair boy, a bitter strife might be averted from the
future."
But as Theodore was about to answer, Maximin and the rest of the
Romans rose to withdraw; and knowing to what a pitch of excess the
revels of the Huns were often carried, the son of Paulinus followed
his countrymen from the hall.
Late and long the intoxicating juice flowed in the banquet-chamber of
Attila; but early on the following morning Maximin was admitted to the
presence of the king, and a long audience terminated as favourably as
the Roman ambassador could wish. Even Vigilius seemed to forget the
fear that some casual words of Attila had called forth; and, at the
end of a few days, the envoy and his train took their departure from
the Hunnish village, bearing with them rich presents. Several Roman
captives also had been liberated at their request; but, alas! though
Maximin tried eagerly to persuade Attila to free Theodore from the
promise he had made to remain among the Huns, the monarch was, on that
point, inexorable.
Some months passed by in the sports and occupations of winter, and
Theodore became more and more accustomed to the manners of the
barbarous nations among which he lived. The favour of Attila towards
him was unbounded; and the commanding mind of that great conqueror was
not without its effect upon the heart of Theodore. He became fond of
the proximity and conversation of the Hunnish king, and felt a sort of
strange and exciting pleasure in the vague sensation of awe with which
Attila inspired all those who approached his presence. The monarch's
kindness attached him, and his greater qualities gained the young
Roman's reverence, even while the strange excess of his worse passions
mingled a degree of regret in the sensations which he felt towards
him.
At the same time, the favour in which Theodore stood with Attila,
though it caused him some enemies, gained him many friends and
courtiers; and kind-hearted, liberal, bold, skilful, and active,
possessing all those qualities, in short, which barbarous nations most
admire, united to the graces and accomplishments of civilized life,
Theodore won the love of many for his own sake; so that the halls of
his dwelling were far more frequently filled with the noblest and
greatest of Attila's chiefs than those of Ellac, the monarch's eldest
son.
At length, as spring began again to blossom over the earth, the
interpreter Vigilius once more appeared at the court of Attila,
accompanied by his son. But then came forth the secret of his former
journey, and of the words that Attila had spoken. The base intriguer
was instantly seized and brought before the king, on whose right hand
stood Edicon as his accuser. Around were placed the chieftains of the
Hunnish nation, and, in their presence, Edicon charged the interpreter
Vigilius with having endeavoured to seduce him, during his embassy to
the court of Constantinople, to take the life of Attila on his return.
Seemingly yielding to the entreaties of Vigilius and Chrysapheus, he
had feigned, he said, to enter into all their plans; but immediately
on reaching his native land he had revealed the whole to Attila, who,
with noble magnanimity, had suffered the suborner of his subjects to
come and go unarmed under shelter of the character of Maximin the
ambassador, who had been kept in ignorance of the base designs of
those who sent him. But when, after having been warned that his
treachery was discovered, the interpreter dared again to show his face
in the country of the Huns, bearing bribes to the officers of the
king, vengeance might well be demanded, and Attila determined that the
accusation should be publicly made, and the crime fully punished.
Vigilius, of course, denied his crime; but when the very purse which
contained the bribe he brought to Edicon was laid before him, and
death--bitter death--was awarded by the assembled chieftains, both to
himself and to the son who was the companion of his journey and the
sharer of his guilt, his courage failed; and, confessing his crime,
but laying the burden thereof upon the eunuch Chrysapheus, he
petitioned for life and pardon with all the eloquence of terror.
Attila gazed upon him as he would upon a writhing worm in his path;
and, scorning to tread on so pitiful a thing, he sent his ambassadors
to demand of Theodosius the head of the chief instigator of the
treason meditated against him. Theodosius bought the pardon of his
minions with gold wrung from his people; and Attila continued to treat
with the monarch of the Eastern empire, while he prepared to turn his
arms against the West.
These things, however, have been related on an eloquent, though not
impartial page; and to that I must refer those who would go deeper
into the history of the time. This is but a story of a narrower
sphere.