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Title: The Darkness and the Dawn
Author: Costain, Thomas B. [Thomas Bertram] (1885-1965)
Date of first publication: 1959
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, 1959
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 17 October 2018
Date last updated: 17 October 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1571

This ebook was produced by
Marcia Brooks, Al Haines, Alex White, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






THE DARKNESS AND THE DAWN

by Thomas B. Costain




    _With the exception of actual historical personages, the
    characters are entirely the product of the author's imagination
    and have no relation to any person in real life._





BOOK I




CHAPTER I


[1]

Of all the myriad dawns which had broken over the dark Wald this one was
the most beautiful, because never before had nature been afforded so
much assistance. Three mounted figures occupied the crest of the hill:
Macio of the Roymarcks, who had been the handsomest man on the plateau
in his day, and his two daughters, both of whom were lovely enough to
aid the sun in achieving a moment of transcendence. The morning vapors,
which the natives called the rawk, had been dispelled and the long grass
looked almost blue. The hills behind them were a rich blending of
colors, gray and mauve and purple and even a hint of red. The silence
was complete, as it should be at such a moment.

The three riders were not concerned, however, with the beauty about
them. They sat their horses in a motionless group, gazing fixedly in the
direction of the flat meadows to the east.

"I hear them," exclaimed Laudio, the elder of the two daughters. She was
a slender girl, dark and vivid and with the fine eyes of her father.

A faint thud of horses' hoofs sounded in the distance. Macio nodded his
head with its rather noble brow and ran his fingers excitedly through
his beard, which was turning white. "As soon as Roric passes that clump
of trees," he said, "he will give Harthager his head. And then we will
be able to judge."

"I see them!" cried Ildico, the younger daughter. Her voice was a light
and pleasant treble. Occasionally the dark race which peopled the
plateau produced a phenomenon, a daughter with hair like the sun and
eyes like the vibrant blue of Lake Balaton at midday. Ildico was one of
these. Laudio would rank as a beauty anywhere; save in the company of
her younger sister, where she went unnoticed.

After a few moments of intense concentration, Macio sighed with deep
content. "We may put our doubts aside," he said. "Look at the action! He
has much of strength and will. I am almost ready to declare that this
morning we shall crown a new king of the Roymarck line."

"Ah, Harthy, my sweet Harthy!" breathed Ildico in an ecstatic whisper.
The delight she felt caused the tips of her red leather riding shoes to
curl up more than even the cobbler had intended.

An interruption occurred at this point. Despite the intensity of Macio's
concern in the performance of the two-year-old Harthager, he turned to
look in the opposite direction. A second horseman was approaching them,
riding at an easy gallop. The head of the family looked back at his
daughters with a disturbed and angry air.

"Who can this be, spying on us?" he asked. "I decided to start the test
before dawn so that no one would be around. If we have ever had a secret
which needs keeping, this is the time. I don't want anyone to know yet
how fast the black is."

"Can we signal Roric to stop?" asked Ildico.

"It's too late to do anything."

Roric was already riding across the flatlands at a speed which seemed to
increase with each stride. Harthager, a black thunderbolt, was in his
full stride. Macio looked at a strange device he carried in the palm of
one hand which might have been called the rude forefather of the
sandglass. He whistled shrilly. "I can hardly believe it!" he exclaimed.

"It's Ranno of the Finninalders," said Laudio, who had continued to
watch the leisurely approach of the other horseman. "I thought it might
be and now I recognize the feather in his cap."

"Young Ranno!" cried her father. "I would rather share our secret with
anyone else on the plateau than young Ranno. What brings him here at
this hour? How did he know we were going to have the test this morning?"
A flush of irritation had spread over his handsome features. "Someone
must have given it away."

"You are wrong if you think I did," said Laudio. "But I don't see why
you are so upset about his coming. He can't do us any harm."

"You think not? It's not only our chance in the races which is at stake.
Don't you realize that we are under the thumb of a man who claims
everything for himself? If Attila gets wind of the speed of this
youngster, he won't wait to take him off our hands."

"Ranno is honorable!" cried Laudio, indignantly.

"Honor does not count when it comes to horses. I have learned that
through bitter experience." Macio looked suspiciously at his dark-haired
daughter. "Are you sure you did not invite him?"

Laudio stared at him defiantly. "Why do you always suspect me? I have
already said I had nothing to do with it. But I am glad he has come. He
is paying us a neighborly visit. That's all."

She tapped the flank of her mount with the blue leather of her heel and
rode off to meet the visitor. Although she had neither saddle nor
bridle, she sat her horse with ease and mastery. It was the proud custom
of the people of the plateau to ride bareback and there was not a single
bit of equipment among the five of them, Macio and his two lovely
daughters, his son on Harthager, and the visitor riding in from the
south.

The pounding of the black's hoofs was now like thunder from the hills.
Macio looked again at the device in his hand. "It passes all belief. It
is a miracle." He scowled back over his shoulder. "What a bad stroke of
luck that he is here! He always looks after his own interests. They have
always been that way, the Finninalders. Do you think this is just a
friendly call, Ildico? At this hour of the morning? Mark my words, young
Ranno has heard something."

"Do you think you should express doubts of him before Laudio?" The
younger daughter looked unhappy over the situation which had developed.
"I am afraid you have hurt her feelings badly."

"I am upset myself."

Harthager was nearing the end of his run and Macio did not raise his
eyes from the device. "Another hundred yards and we will know!" he said,
in a tense whisper.

"Will it be a new record?" asked the younger daughter, excitedly.

"I can't be sure yet. But I think so. Yes, yes! It is certain now. He
will be well ahead."

Ildico clapped her hands exultantly. "Harthager the Third!" she said.

"Yes, Harthager the Third."

Using only his knees, Roric checked the speed of the black two-year-old
and brought him up the slope of the hill to reach a standstill in front
of them. He nodded his head at his young sister and grinned broadly.

"How did you like that?" he asked. He was a taller copy of Laudio,
slender and handsome and with a poetic darkness about him. "Didn't I
predict we would win everything this spring at the Trumping of the Baws?
That is exactly what we are going to do." Then he turned to face his
father and his manner became anxious and solicitous. "Well? Was the time
good, Father? Good enough?"

Macio leaned over his horse's neck to pat his son's shoulder. "Yes, my
boy. The time was better than good. It was remarkable."

Roric smiled eagerly. "I thought it was. But I could not be sure."

"I began the count when you turned that clump of trees. There can be no
doubt about it. He was well ahead of the record. I was particularly
careful because I did not want to deceive myself."

The three exchanged smiles of delight over the result of the test. "I
knew he could do it," said Roric. "In spite of what Brynno says, I
didn't find him hard to ride, Father."

"Of course not!" cried Ildico, indignantly. "He's as gentle as a lamb."

Macio turned sharply in the direction of his golden-haired daughter.
"Have you been disobeying me?"

The girl shook her head. "No, Father. But it has been a great
temptation. You haven't been fair to me. Because I am a girl, you tell
me I mustn't ride him. But he likes me. I think he likes me better than
anyone. As soon as he sees me, he neighs and comes running to me. I am
sure I would find him gentle."

Her father snorted indignantly. "You will never find out because you are
not to try. If you show any tendency to disobey me, I shall have you
locked up." His voice took on an appealing tone. "Ildico, my beloved
daughter, can you not see how dangerous it is?"

Laudio and the visitor had reached the crest of the hill by this time.
Ranno of the Finninalders tossed one long and muscular leg over the neck
of his horse and dropped to the ground. He had arrayed himself in
considerable grandeur for this early morning visit: a tall peacock
feather in his cap, a riding tunic of a lustrous green, wide trousers of
yellow, a belt of gold coins so heavy that they clanked as he moved,
shoes of green fretted leather, each fret stamped with the tree and
raven of the Finninalders. Roric, who disliked this young neighbor, said
to himself: "He has the look of a suitor in his eye. Which of my sisters
does he come courting?"

"I offer you my most humble respects, Macio of the Roymarcks," said
Ranno, bowing to the head of the family. He then turned to the younger
daughter. "And to you, Ildico. You are looking more lovely than ever."

"We bid you welcome," said Macio. "But you come at a very early hour."

"I have had no sleep. Some visitors arrived last night from--from a
point not far east. We talked through half of the night about what we
may expect since a certain man of great power has planted his sword in
the ground again. I then took horse and rode over, feeling that you
would be interested in what they told me." He nodded his head and
smiled. "It was a fortunate time I selected for my arrival. I have seen
something this morning the equal of which I may never see again as long
as I live."

The black was showing impatience at the inactivity in which he was being
held. Macio leaned over and laid a reassuring hand on his moist withers.
He then looked at his visitor. "You think well of him?"

"I thought I had a promising lot this spring," answered Ranno. "But
having seen this one perform, I am out of conceit with all of mine. Did
you make a count of his time?"

Macio nodded in assent. With a slight pressure of his knee, he brought
his mount around until he faced the east. He raised one hand in the air.

"Listen to me, all of you," he said, with an almost fanatical gleam in
his eye. "You, Roric, my son. And you, my two daughters. And you also,
Ranno of the Finninalders, son of my old friend, who has happened to be
here on this great occasion.

"You may think," he went on, "that I am making too much of what has
happened before our eyes this morning. But I must say what is in my
mind. It is known to all of you that the records of our race have been
preserved only by word of mouth. That is why we have so little certain
knowledge of our beginnings. We know that we come from the very far
east, that at one time we lived within sight of the Snowy Mountains and
that we migrated with the seasons. We have always been breeders of fine
horses. Even in the days when we held out our arms to the Snowy
Mountains on rising, it was so. We strove always to improve the breed.
When we were forced to leave our ancestral grounds--for reasons long
forgotten--and moved to the west, it was so. When we passed the Valleys
of the Korama, of the Upper Volga, of the Urals, it was still so. The
breed grew stronger when we sojourned in Sarmatia and later when we
settled for many generations in Illyricum. Now we have lived for
centuries on this fruitful plateau. We are few in numbers and so we
could not hold out against the might of Rome. Today we are a part of the
empire of Attila. In spite of our political misfortunes, we have never
ceased to strive for supremacy in the breeding of horses."

He paused and looked in turn at each of his listeners. "This morning we
have accomplished at last what we have striven for so long: the goal of
our ancestors, even when they were harried westward and left their
footmarks in unfamiliar sands. I declare to you, after an accurate count
of the time, that we have raised in Harthager the fastest horse the
world has ever seen."

There was a moment of silence and he then turned to young Ranno. "We
have had the honor of raising him and we are proud of it. But in the end
he will belong to our people and not to us. And that means, young Ranno,
that the secret must be kept close. We do not want him taken away from
us. That is what will happen if a whisper of today's test gets out."

The representative of the Finninalders bowed soberly. "You can depend on
me to say nothing of what I have seen," he said.


[2]

What followed was in keeping with certain customs which had been
developed over the years in the family of the Roymarcks. Ildico, as the
youngest, took the lead. Her hair, showing a slightly reddish tinge
under the warm morning sun, streamed out behind her as she set her horse
to a triumphant caracoling. Her father had dismounted and walked proudly
at the black's head.

"Stand back!" Ildico cried to the handlers and field workers who came
running out as soon as they arrived in sight of the horse sheds. "No one
is to go in yet except Justo, who will heat the water."

The overseer, who was withered with age, asked in a quaver, "Then we
have a new king, Lady Ildico?"

She gave a proud nod and her eyes beamed at him. "Yes, Brynno." Her
voice was high-pitched with excitement. "A new king indeed! A great
king, an emperor! The fastest we have ever had. My father says he is the
fastest of all time. Tell Justo to hurry."

By the time they reached the sheds Justo had placed red-hot stones in
the water trough and it was hissing furiously and sending up clouds of
steam. Not knowing the custom, Ranno followed the members of the family
inside and was unceremoniously ushered out by Ildico.

"I am sorry," she said, giving his arm a shove. "This is for Roymarcks
only. Finninalders stay outside." Then she laughed. "It's what we have
always done. No one else is allowed to touch the horse or to watch."

Roric and the two sisters dipped pieces of soft cloth (for nothing rough
must touch the hide of the new king) in the warm water and proceeded to
give the black a rubdown which could only be described as reverent. They
hummed an air as they worked, a monotone which repeated itself over and
over, with curious quirks and twists. The head of the family intoned
words to the air. It might have seemed that he was telling of the great
deeds of the Roymarcks but instead he was reciting the story of the fine
horses they had raised. He told of a powerful black on which an emperor
of Cathay had ridden (until he became frightened and fell off), of a
gallant roan which had carried his master across all of Sarmatia in
three days, of Harthager the First and a mad gallop he made to Vindobona
(which later became a famous city named Vienna) without a single pause
to take the word of Roman legions approaching, and who had died of his
efforts. At the finish Macio said, with a hint of moisture in his eyes,
"The bones of these kings have moldered away and today a new king stands
in their stead."

When the glossy coat of the new king had been thoroughly rubbed and
dried, and he had been patted and made much of, and a lump of saccharum
had been secretly conveyed to him on the palm of Ildico's hand, he was
given the smallest kind of a drink of water. Then a basin of oats was
placed before him and he began to eat with finicky tremors of his mouth
and nostrils.

In the meantime the head of the household had been searching in a chest
of extreme age and dilapidation, which looked as though it had
originated within sight of the Snowy Mountains also. He emerged with a
jeweled headpiece and a pair of ancient combs. While he adjusted the
headpiece, his two daughters employed the combs in smoothing out the
mane and tiring it with silken tassels.

The toilet of the monarch having been finished, Macio walked to the
entrance and threw the door open. He said to the servants who had
pressed against it in a state of intense excitement, "You may come in."
Ranno followed them into the shed and, giving Ildico the benefit of a
wink, he asked, "May a mere Finninalder enter now?"

Macio walked slowly to the other end of the long, dark shed. He took
down a silver chain from a section of the wall where mementos of the
past were hanging. It was a handsome thing, heavily studded with opals
and turquoises and squares of carnelian and sardonyx, and suspended from
it was a silver figure of the Roymarck horse with rubies for eyes.

Harthager seemed to sense what was coming. He ceased eating and raised
his head high in the air. The head of the family walked close to him and
placed the chain around his neck.

"Harthager the Third," he said, with as much solemnity as a bishop
anointing a king in a great domed cathedral. "May you be worthy of the
Roymarck chain which so many of your forefathers have worn. We expect
great things of you. We believe you are destined to be
remembered--perhaps for all time."

Then he stepped back and stood in an expectant attitude, listening. The
members of his family followed his example, turning their heads toward
the door through which they could see a corner of the fenced meadows
where all of the Roymarck horses had been collected. There was a long
moment of silence. Then from the fields came the single neigh of a
horse, a high, triumphant note. Another followed and then, almost
instantaneously, the rest joined in.

Macio's face lost the look of doubt which had been settling over it. He
waved an arm in the air. "They know!" he cried. "They know what we have
done. And they approve."

Laudio was smiling delightedly but Ildico gave full rein to her
emotions. She did not care that tears began to stream down her cheeks
when the black monarch pawed at the ground and trumpeted an answer to
his fellows in the fields. She put a hand under her brother's arm and
leaned her yellow head against his shoulder.

"Look at him, Roric!" she whispered. "See how high he holds his head.
See the look in his eyes. He knows he's a king!"

When the excitement had subsided to some extent, Ranno came to Ildico
and studied her face with a puzzled frown.

"It's true," he said. "You actually were crying. You seem to take this
seriously."

"Of course I take it seriously," said the girl, turning on him, angrily.
"It is the most important thing in the world to us. No, not quite that.
It is the second most important thing. And let me tell you this, Ranno,
I shall always remember this morning as one of the great moments in my
life."

The visitor shook his head. "Do you look on me as a friend?" he asked.
"An old enough friend to be honest with you? I am very much afraid that
you are a fraud, my pretty Ildico. Consider for a moment that uproar
from the meadows. Do you really believe it was a--a tribute from the
rest of the stock? Latobius and Laburas, hearken to me, and all the
other gods!"

Ildico looked at him so fiercely that for a moment he thought she was
going to spring at him. He even took an involuntary step backward.

"Of course, I believe it!" she said. "Now I will be honest with _you_.
Do you know why you have never been able to raise horses as good as
ours? You don't love them and you don't understand them. You don't
believe they have strange powers, that they can feel and hear things in
the air. It's true. We believe it, all of us, we know it is true."

In spite of her earnestness, Ranno continued to regard her with an
amused grin. "Have it your way, then," he said. "I accept the reproof.
But I _did_ see that ancient overseer of yours leave the shed before
this--this touching ceremony began. Of course we should not be skeptical
and say that he was going out to the meadows to be there at just the
right time; in other words, to make sure that the uproar began at the
exact moment."

"It is not true!" cried Ildico. "I hate you, Ranno of the Finninalders,
for saying such things!"

He grew serious at this point. "No, no, not that, Ildico. I will get
down on my knees and beg your pardon. I will accept anything you tell
me. But you must not hate me. _That_ I could not bear."

The ceremony over, the company walked slowly out of the shed. Ildico,
beside her father, was aware that the black eyes of Ranno were still
fixed on her with a disturbing intentness. She said to herself: "Why
doesn't he look at Laudio? He must not behave this way. There will be
nothing but unhappiness for all of us."


[3]

It was a time of crisis in the kitchen, which constituted with the long
dining hall the largest part of the low red-roofed home of the
Roymarcks. The last smoked shoulder of ham hung from an otherwise empty
rafter. The casks which had held the salted fish were empty. The
supplies of vegetables buried in pits for winter use were exhausted. It
was a difficult thing to feed so many mouths on dishes made of crushed
grain and on eggs and old hens no longer capable of laying eggs.

Ildico was in the kitchen, discussing what could be done with a rather
meager catch of fresh fish from a nearby stream when she was summoned to
attend her father. It might have been expected that on the death of
their mother the older sister, who seemed most capable in her quiet way,
would have assumed charge of the household. Laudio was of a dreamy
disposition, however, and not as practical as her beautiful younger
sister; and so the largest part of the burden had fallen on the
decorative shoulders of Ildico.

"Where is the master, Nateel?" she asked, giving her remarkable hair a
quick upward twist and binding it in place with a red ribbon.

"In his room, Lady Ildico."

The life of the household centered in the dining hall and the kitchen.
The rest of the space in the house was given over to tiny cubicles where
the members of the family, the servants, and such guests as might be on
hand spent the hours of darkness. They were small, dark, and airless,
and the furnishings consisted of pallets of straw and pillows (for
feminine use only) of feathers. The room of the master, however, boasted
a chair, a bed, and a small tapestry on one wall. He was lying stretched
out on the bed when his daughter answered his summons.

"Sit down, my Ildico," he said. "We have things to talk about. I have
just said farewell to the young man. He asked me to say that he would
have paid his respects to you and Laudio before leaving but that he had
a very busy day ahead of him."

"He seems to be a very practical young man," remarked Ildico.

"He is indeed. I will come back to that later." The master of the
household seemed unusually grave. "I had a talk with him after
breakfast. The news from the Hun court is serious, my child. Attila has
decided to make war--against Rome, according to most reports. He is
going to raise the largest army the world has ever seen and he will
demand from us, from the people of the plateau, all the men and money we
can supply."

Ildico felt a sudden contraction of the heart. "Will Roric have to go?"
she asked.

Macio gave a somber nod of affirmation. "I am afraid that he will be
expected to command the men we send. A score, in all probability. He
must have his baptism of fire sooner or later but it wrings my heart to
think of him fighting in such a cause. Some men are saying that the time
of the twelfth vulture is over and that now Rome must fall. Perhaps they
are right. But must the mastery of the world be yielded into the hands
of the Hun?"

There was a long pause and then Ildico sighed. "Will we be expected to
supply horses?" When her father nodded his head in affirmation, she
said, quickly, "But they won't take Harthager!"

It might have seemed that the prospect of losing the new king was as
distressing as the certainty that the son of the house would lead a
company in the fighting. Macio looked thoroughly unhappy. "How can we
tell? They may demand from us everything which runs on four legs. Yes,
they may take Harthager."

"Won't they realize that he represents centuries of careful selection
and breeding?"

"I doubt if that will mean anything to Attila. He is more likely to say,
'What better ending for a fine horse than to carry one of my men into
battle?' I am very much afraid, my child, that we must reconcile
ourselves to losing our new king. His reign is going to be a brief one."

"My poor Roric!" said Ildico, her eyes swimming with tears. Then she
added, "My poor Harthager!"

As though this were not enough trouble for one day, Macio proceeded then
with another explanation. "I am not sure that this will be a complete
surprise to you, my small one," he said. "You are very observant and I
think you are wise as well. My talk with young Ranno was not limited to
the matter of Attila's exactions. He has asked me for your hand in
marriage."

"No, no!" cried Ildico. Her father's surmise had been correct. She had
been more than half expecting some such announcement but this did
nothing to lessen the distress she now felt. "It is Laudio he must ask
for, not me. It has always been understood he would ask for Laudio."

"That is true. I discussed the match with old Ranno several times before
he died and it was always Laudio then. She was our first daughter and
you were no more than a very small and saucy child. But it seems that
young Ranno has been thinking it over. It is you he wants. He made that
very clear to me this morning."

"I won't marry him, Father!" Ildico spoke with a passionate earnestness.
"I won't! He must be brought to his senses. He must be told that he is
expected to marry Laudio, that it was so arranged between you and his
father."

Macio was surprised at her vehemence. "But, my child," he said, "I
cannot dictate to the young man and tell him who he should want as a
wife. He is a very determined young man and knows exactly what he wants.
What are your objections to him as a husband?"

"I don't like him!" Ildico's eyes, which ordinarily seemed soft and
completely feminine, were now filled with a determination the equal of
anything her suitor could have produced. "I have never liked him. I
think--I actually think, Father, that I hate him!"

Macio was completely at a loss. He stroked his long beard and frowned as
he studied her face. "But why this dislike? He seems to me a handsome
man. He is managing his lands as well as his father did. He has ambition
as well as ability."

"And what more could a girl ask?" Ildico indulged in a short and far
from amused laugh. Her eyes had turned as cold as blue jewels and the
line of her nicely cleft chin had become a study in self-will and
determination. "Don't you know, Father, how generally he is disliked?
Roric grew up with him and has always hated him. The son of the
Ildeburghs, the boy who was carried off and sold as a slave----"

"And who escaped and is now in the service of Attila," said her father.

"He was a gentle boy, Nicolan of the Ildeburghs. I liked him very much.
They say he has become a splendid soldier. He was the same age as Roric
and Ranno of the Finninalders. He and Roric were close friends but they
could not get along with Ranno. His servants are afraid of him. Make no
mistake about Ranno, Father. If the time should ever come when we are
free again, Ranno of the Finninalders would try to take your place as
leader of our people."

"Now you are indulging in wild speculations. How can you tell what ideas
the young man has in his head?"

"Look at him. Watch him. You can read his designs in those calculating
eyes of his." Ildico had fallen into a breathlessness of speech in her
desire to convince her father. "There is another reason. When that
terrible governor was put over us by the Hun----"

When she paused, her father supplied the name. "Vannius?"

"Yes, Vannius. When he seized the Ildeburgh lands and killed the owner,
old Ranno came to terms with him and took over the estates. I know you
never speak of it but everyone in the plateau knows about it. Everyone
knew it was an injustice and he was hated for taking advantage of a
friend's misfortune. Young Ranno has shown no intent to right the wrong.
He still holds the Ildeburgh lands." She got to her feet and looked down
at her father with eyes which blazed. "Do you think I would marry him as
long as he holds the lands of that unfortunate family?"

Macio rose in his turn. "You must not fret your pretty head, my Ildico,"
he said. It was clear he still regarded her as a child and not as a
forceful member of the small family circle. "I did not know your
feelings were so strong. But I confess I am still puzzled. Does Laudio
feel as you do?"

The girl's face clouded over. After a moment she gave her head a shake.
"No, Father," she answered. "I am very much afraid that Laudio loves
him."


[4]

Macio was awakened that night by a steady pounding on the gate of the
palisade which surrounded the house. He sat up on his bed and listened
for a moment. There was not a sound in the house but this did not mean
that everyone was sleeping. It was certain that many of the servants had
heard and were lying on their pallets in silent terror, their heads
tucked under the bed-clothes.

The head of the household, who would have been the head of the little
nation of plateau dwellers if they had been strong enough generations
before to maintain their independence, had little more stomach for
venturing out into the darkness than his people. A stout Christian, he
still believed that the night belonged to the Devil, as indeed did all
the good priests in the world, all the way up to the great bishop in
Rome who was called the pope. When Bustato, the major-domo, had closed
all the doors and windows for the night and had bolted them securely on
the inside, the master was as willing as the most apprehensive servant
or the sulkiest groom to leave the great outdoors to the powers of evil.
When the shutters rattled, he was as likely as any of them to say to
himself that it was not the wind, that it was the Tailed One, the
Flame-spitter, Old Horny (a few of the names they had for the Prince of
the Underworld), trying to force his way in.

But there was something insistent about the pounding on the outside
gate, a regularity which was human and not to be mistaken for the
haphazard efforts of an angry devil to break through barriers before
riding off on the wind to find some less careful victim.

Macio got out of his bed. "This must be seen to," he said. He reached in
the dark for a winter robe lined with bearskin and slipped it over his
shoulders. Outside the door he picked up a bow and pounded with it on a
metal shield hanging on the wall. The sound reverberated through the
silent household.

"Get up!" he cried, angrily. "There is someone at our door who seeks
entrance."

The first to answer the summons was Bustato, the major-domo, looking
thoroughly frightened.

"I am sure, Master," he said, "that it is no human hand knocking so
loudly. It is the Devil demanding to be let in."

"I will open the gate myself," declared Macio. He glanced around him at
the other members of the household who were beginning to gather. Their
faces were moist with sleep and every bit of hair they possessed was
standing on end with fright. "But you will all go with me."

"Who is it?" he asked, when they reached the gate in the outer palisade.

"It is not the Old One, Macio of the Roymarcks." The voice on the other
side of the gate displayed no impatience at having been kept waiting so
long.

"Ah, it is you, Father Simon," said Macio. He reached for the bar which
kept the gate clamped securely in place. "What brings you to our door at
such a late hour? Is there trouble?"

"There is always trouble, my son. But I think that on this occasion my
motives are mostly selfish."

The gate swung in and the midnight visitor stepped into the compound
with a readiness which demonstrated his desire for some supper and a
couch for the balance of the night. It was very dark, there being no
stars in the sky, and the low-burning torch, which Macio had taken from
a sconce in the dining hall as he came through, gave no clear outline of
the visitor's appearance, save that he was small and attired in a
priestly robe. A water bottle was swung over one shoulder and he leaned
on a pastoral staff.

"I came afoot," said the priest. "I thought it the safer way."

Macio led him into the house. The servants were already scattering with
eagerness to finish their sleep. Bustato had closed the gate and was
driving the bolt back into place. He struck with great vigor. Fear rode
on open gates when night came down and the stars were hidden.

"You are here because of Stecklius," said Macio, when he and his guest
had seated themselves in the hall where no one else could hear.

The priest nodded his head. "It is indeed because of Stecklius. He
thinks he will win his way back into the good graces of Attila by making
a determined effort to wipe out Christianity here."

"We have been hearing rumors about it. Has he any conception how many
Christians there are on the plateau? You have been a faithful evangel,
Father Simon."

"I doubt if he has a full list. But of that we cannot be sure. It was to
warn you that I came. It is quite possible that his first move will be
against you and your household." The priest indulged in a deep sigh.
"Stecklius has sent me notice that I am to leave or face the
consequences. Well, my good friend Macio, I do not intend to leave the
plateau country which I have come to love. I have had such orders before
and have paid them no heed. But this time I must go into seclusion, I
think."

"I am happy to receive you in my house, Father Simon," declared Macio.
"You will stay here with me and together we will laugh at Stecklius,
that ugliest of all the dwarfs, that thick-skulled Hun."

"There was a hint in the message I had from the worthy Stecklius," said
the priest, "that I should be wise enough to return to my own people and
so cease from causing dissension and trouble in the realm of the great
Attila. It is twenty years since I left the island of Britain and, if I
returned now, I would find all my old friends and brethren dead or
scattered. It is an odd thing that in the blessed island from which I
came we cannot sleep at nights for thinking of all the wicked heathen
here in the land of the Alamanni and up north where the Norsemen live.
It is so easy to see the evil in other people and never recognize it in
ourselves. If I went back I would not be content to try my hand at
saving the unregenerate among my own people--where they exist in great
numbers, I assure you--but I would soon be caught again with the old
desire to be about my Master's work in distant fields. I would come
back; and so there is no sense in my going away at all. No, I have lived
here so long that I think that now I must remain, even if I have become
obnoxious in the sight of Stecklius."

Ildico made her appearance at this moment, carrying a lighted lamp in
her hand. Her hair was very much disheveled from sleep.

"I was told Father Simon had come," she said, "and so I had to welcome
him, without waiting to attire myself properly."

The priest got to his feet. "I am happy to see you, my daughter. It is a
long time since I have been here and our little yellow bird seems to
have been growing up in my absence."

Macio addressed his daughter. "Our good friend has come to stay with us.
He will be welcome to remain here as long as he can stand our tendency
to think more of the welfare of our horses than the comfort of our
guests."

"For a few days only," declared the priest, firmly. "As soon as I have
made certain necessary arrangements, I shall retire into the sanctuary
where I spent so much of my time years ago."

"The cave in Belden Hill?"

The lamp held by Ildico made it possible for them to see that the priest
looked very tired. He nodded his head, which, after the fashion of the
earliest missionary orders, was shaven in front.

"It is a dry haven I have on the Belden," said the priest, "and it is so
well hidden away that I can stay there in peace. Do you think I would
bring down the wrath of the Attilas and the Steckliuses on my dear
friends by settling myself in their midst? No, it is kindly thought but
in a very short time I must be on my way. In the meantime I shall be
very happy to stay in that little room behind the hearth about which no
one but you has any knowledge."

"And all the servants on the place," said Ildico.

"You know how little we have to fear from them, Father Simon," declared
Macio. "You will be at least as safe in our dark hideaway as in the cave
on Belden."

"And there is always food here," said Ildico. "I will see that something
is prepared for you at once."

Through a suspiciously quiet house, the master conducted his nocturnal
visitor to his own room. His groping hand found a particular place in
the paneling and pressed down firmly on it. There was a sound of
creaking and straining and then a section of the wall opened. A small
room lay behind. It was large enough to contain a pallet and a narrow
table with a pitcher and other domestic articles; and, because it was
located between Macio's apartment and the great hearth in the dining
room, it had the advantage of being warm at all times.

The apparatus which moved the paneling was cumbersome and rusty and as
easy to detect as the drawstrings in a magician's cloak. The little
priest placed the candle, which Macio had given him, on the table and
looked about him with a reminiscent smile.

"This is the fourth time I have been a guest in the hideaway," he said.
"I think it likely that I have been the only one to seek the security it
offers."

"You, and the children when they were small enough to play games of
make-believe."

Ildico entered at this point with a platter of food. The little priest
smiled. "Whenever I begin to imagine myself above the weaknesses of the
flesh," he said, "my stomach takes me in hand and shows me my folly. I
confess, my daughter, that I am very hungry. I have eaten nothing today
save a piece of cheese and a swallow of goat's milk." He looked up at
her with affectionate approval. "Ah, time is such a disrupter of
families! It turns little girls into beautiful women and then tears them
away from those who love them. You will not have this daughter of the
sun with you much longer, my old friend."

"Very little longer, I fear," answered Macio. "I had a reminder of it
this morning and have not yet fully recovered from the blow." He turned
to his daughter. "The good father has come a long way and is very weary.
We must leave him to his supper, and then the comfort of his couch."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The next evening, as soon as the sun had vanished from the western sky,
Bustato went over the house with two helpers and proceeded to close all
the shutters and lock the doors, ending in the dining hall where he
fastened the bolts with a particular vigor. Then he set torches alight
in iron sconces along the walls and placed lighted candles on the table.

Bustato then drew a bench away from the table and seated himself
comfortably in the center. The two helpers placed themselves with equal
nonchalance on each side of him.

Almost immediately thereafter the servants began to stream in. A
stranger to plateau ways would have been amazed by the number of them.
There were cooks and their assistants, chamber women, cellarers and wine
drawers, ax and, as well, chimney men, horse trainers, grooms, field
hands and workers from the manure pits who very humbly took seats at a
distance from everyone else. They all wore the Roymarck livery, a band
of blue around the neck of the tunic and the Roymarck horse embroidered
on the right sleeve. There were enough of them to make it certain that
no one had to work very hard: there were, clearly, three pairs of hands
for every job. The ruddy-faced men and the buxom women looked well fed
and content.

When Macio came in, followed by the three members of his family, the
servants were seated in a solemn semicircle. They did not get up nor did
they indulge in any form of greeting. A bench had been kept clear in the
center and here the head of the household seated himself with Roric on
one side and Laudio on the other. Ildico had changed from the
rose-colored riding clothes which she had worn all day into a white
pallium which almost reached the floor and allowed no more than an
occasional glimpse of her white sandals. She chose to seat herself
beside Brynno, the overseer. They carried on a discussion in whispers,
her blonde head with a pink ribbon around it nodding earnestly, until
the head of the family turned a stern and reproachful face in their
direction.

Macio looked about him then and broke the silence officially. "Is
everyone here?"

Craning necks uncovered the fact that only old Blurki had not put in an
appearance. He was a misshapen, ill-tempered curmudgeon with a sharp
tongue in his head who served as jester for the household and further
enhanced his value by doing sundry chores about the place. He was
responsible for bait for the fishermen, he kept the hearths blazing when
once lighted and, if he failed to earn one loud and general laugh during
the course of an evening, he would have to stay up to wash and dry all
the flagons and drinking mugs and hang them up on nails in a beam across
one end of the long room. Whenever this happened he would mutter
bitterly over the task about the knuckleheads, the ninny-noodles, the
suetguts who did not know a good joke when they heard it.

"I placed him outside as lookout," said Bustato. To justify his choice,
he added, "He always sings off the pitch."

"Then give the signal," said Macio.

The man who sat nearest the hearth tapped with his knuckles on the wall.
There was the same sound of creaking and straining as the dilapidated
machinery proceeded reluctantly to do its work. In a moment Father Simon
in his full robes stepped out into the light of the long dining hall and
walked slowly to a position in from of the rows of benches. The whole
company rose and began to sing a hymn, one of the very early ones which
had been falling into disuse as ritual had developed in the services of
the Church.

The little priest, singing louder than any of them in a bass voice
surprisingly robust in one of his stature, looked about him and felt his
heart fill with a deep sense of happiness.

"How firm they are in the faith!" he thought. "I was right to come here
and to stay, even in the face of the early discouragements. My poor
efforts have been bounteously rewarded. No longer do they worship their
Wotan, the All-Father, or Thor the Thunderer. They have lost all belief
in Asgard, the city of the Alamanni gods, and all fear of the coming of
Ragnarok, the day of dreadful strife. They are Christians and happy in
the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ. Stecklius may harry me from the
plateau but he cannot dim the belief and the peace I read in every pair
of eyes before me."




CHAPTER II


[1]

The Man Who Wanted the World was moody and irritable. In the murky
closeness of the partially subterranean room where he worked, sprawling
on a bench without a back, he glared at Onegesius, his chief minister
and aide.

"You say the last of them, this German prince, has arrived. Why are you
sure he is the last?"

It was his custom to demand explanations many times and, if any
divergence could be detected from previous versions, he would explode
into rage. "Even you--the only one I have trusted--you are now trying to
deceive me!" Knowing this, Onegesius proceeded warily with what he had
to tell. "_Mursa_, there are ten of them in my hands now. The German
arrived this morning in chains. Our men are watching in all parts of the
empire for any further signs of disobedience. But there have been none.
The other rulers are showing readiness to meet the full demands you have
laid on them for soldiers, horses and money. But be sure of this, O King
of Kings: our men have not lost any of their vigilance. They are
watching. They see everything, they hear everything. If there is any
sign of change, we will know at once."

They were referring to the heads of states which had been submerged in
the conquering advance of the Huns; first under Rugilas and now under
the great, the omnipotent, Attila. The ten prisoners were chiefs of
Teutonic countries or kings of racial pockets in Scythia or even
_skiptouchoi_, the barons of the Sarmatian people. They had refused to
supply Attila with the sinews of war.

For the better part of a year the Scourge of God (a title which Attila
accepted with considerable inner satisfaction when it was first applied
to him) had been working without cessation on his plans to assemble the
largest army the world had ever seen. The strain had not impaired the
strength of his thickset body but it had taken toll of his nerves. His
eyes had always been sunk deep beneath his bushy brows; and now they
gleamed like a wild beast's in the darkness of its lair or, more nearly
perhaps, like fireflies in the eye sockets of a skull.

"They must die!" he cried, in a sudden fury. "There must be no delay in
teaching the world a lesson."

"They have not been tried, Great Tanjou."

"Their guilt is clear to me. Nothing else matters."

Onegesius was a man of good address but he was a subordinate by nature
and a timeserver by acquired instinct. He had never pitted his ideas or
his convictions against those of his master. But on this occasion he was
shocked into a hasty word of protest.

"But surely, O Lord of the Earth and the Skies, it would be wise not--to
be too hasty. Some of them, as you know, are the heads of powerful
states. If their guilt could be established before you took their
lives----"

"No!" Attila's heavy fist fell on the flimsy table at which he sat.
"There is no time. In six weeks, in two months at the most, I must have
my army ready. I must be prepared to march. To hold a trial and then see
that the evidence was used to influence the minds of people would take
all of that time. It is a swift lesson they need. A sharp and terrible
one. These heads of states who disregarded my orders must pay the price
of their treason at once. Then there will be haste to obey me."

He got to his feet and began to pace up and down. His legs were short in
proportion to the rest of his body and the extreme heaviness of his
torso made the disparity seem greater. He was in a physical sense a Hun
of Huns: his head was as round as a melon, his eyes were small and with
an almost porcine suggestion about them, his nose was short and with a
slightly comic upturn. He was not in any sense a comic figure, however.
There was power, cruel and inexorable, in every line of him. Men felt
terror on seeing him rather than an inclination to laugh.

"What I shall do"--he spoke as though he had a full audience of his
subordinate rulers about him instead of one subservient official--"is to
make of their deaths a great spectacle. Listen to me, Onegesius, and
make certain that you carry out my orders without slip or omission.
Summon everyone tonight to the square. There must be a special place,
raised above the rest, for the heads of states who have obeyed me, and
for the generals and the officers of my household. There must be another
space kept clear where all eyes can rest on it. Here there will be a row
of ten seats and the block will be set up in front of them. I shall not
be there. For the moment I have ceased to be one of you. I am the power
above who has decreed the punishment." He suddenly threw out both of his
arms and cried in an angry voice, "I am too weighed down with burdens
caused by the disloyal conduct of these men to waste time in seeing them
die!"

He fell into a silence while he continued to pace the room, with a
rolling gait like a sailor's.

"The first night--tonight--only two of them will die. Lots will be drawn
beside the block while the ten traitors watch. The two whose names come
out will have their heads chopped off at once. Tomorrow night there will
be the same ceremony and two more will die by lot. This will continue
until they have all paid the penalty of their disobedience. Onegesius,
you are to find ways of making this a spectacle which no one in the
world will forget. Perhaps it should be decreed that the ten traitors
sit in that grim and uneasy row in sackcloth. I leave all that to you."

Onegesius did not venture any further opposition. "It is your will,
Great Tanjou," he said. "It shall be done."


[2]

At noon each day Attila repaired to the Court of the Royal Wives. Hun
women were not subjected to the strict rules of the East which confined
women to the harem and turned them into closely swathed wraiths with
faces hidden from alien eyes. The wives of Attila's bowlegged warriors
were free to come and go, to gossip, to stand in their doorways and toss
insults at passers-by. But these rules had to be amended where the royal
household was concerned. The leader of the Hun people had too many wives
for that. Infidelity would soon raise its head if this large
accumulation of neglected womankind were allowed to mix freely with the
world. Accordingly they were kept in a town within a town, a collection
of small houses behind a twelve-foot log wall. Behind this wall they
were allowed every liberty accorded the wives of general or councilor or
bowman.

Usually Attila donned his best attire for this pleasant daily function,
a tunic of blue silk which fell to his knees and was elaborately
embroidered with gold, and a three-cornered hat centered with a large
ruby and an eagle's feather. But it had been most unseasonably hot and
all through his hours of toil that morning the great conqueror had worn
nothing to cover his thick torso. He rose slowly to his feet and scowled
at the sun.

"I am pressed for time and in any event it is too hot to dress," he
grumbled. "My little lotus blossoms will have to take me as I am." He
looked about him and called in a sharp tone: "Giso!"

His personal attendant, who had not been visible for hours, appeared
instantaneously. He was fat and greasy and, even in a race noted for the
flatness of its snouts, he had undisputably the ugliest of all human
noses. He walked with a stiffness of gait which would have puzzled
anyone who did not know that Giso had been born a slave. It was the
amiable custom of the Huns to cut the sinews in the heels of their
slaves to prevent them from running away.

The attendant stopped short and regarded his master with a questioning
eye.

"Has the blue tunic worn out at last?"

"The blue tunic is as good as ever." Attila was parsimonious to an
extreme degree, grudging every coin which had to be spent for anything
save the maintenance of his great army. The garment in question was the
only one he possessed which had any pretensions to elegance. It had
served on all state occasions for many years.

Giso was the only man in the Hun empire who dared to trifle with the
white-hot temper of Attila. He grinned broadly. "What a pleasure this is
going to be!" he said in a low tone, but one loud enough to carry to the
imperial ears. "What a treat for all the little hearts fluttering so
furiously behind the high wall."

Attila eyed him with every evidence of distaste. "I sicken of your stale
jokes," he said. "Someday soon--it may be this very day--a spirit will
make its way up into the clouds. The head it carries tucked under its
arm will be yours."

Giso always knew when he had gone too far. He was prompt to make his
peace. "I will not care," he said, "if it is from one of the seven hills
of Rome that my spirit takes its departure. But I must see you standing
there with all the world at your feet before I die."

They turned their steps, debating bitterly as they went, to the center
of the huge clutter of plain log buildings which made up the capital of
Attila. Guards with drawn swords stood outside the gate of the Court of
the Royal Wives and they shouted, "The Lord of the Earth, the Mighty
Tanjou!" as soon as the half-naked figure of Attila appeared there. The
cry could be heard repeated from all parts of the temple of femininity
until the loud beating of a brass gong drowned out other sounds.

It had once been the custom for all of the wives to rush out from their
small houses on his arrival, dressed in their best, and most shrill and
excited in their welcome. Attila had enjoyed this kind of reception at
first. He liked to pat and pinch the ones nearest him and to bandy
coarse jokes with them. Gradually, however, he had lost his taste for
it, finding it easier to select his wife for a day and a night without
all of them clamoring for his attention. It happened that he had taken
forcible possession of a Grecian city in the course of his quarrels with
Constantinople some two years before and one of the prisoners was a
Roman official named Genisarius. It was known to Attila, who gleaned
every little bit of information which might be useful from the reports
of his spies, that Genisarius had been in charge of a royal household
and had kept it in ease and quiet. The apprehensive prisoner was placed
accordingly in charge of the busy village of the conqueror's wives, and
with the use of systems of his own had brought peace out of chaos.

Attila was conscious that scores of bright eyes were watching him from
the corners of windows and by other surreptitious methods. This pleased
him and he strutted a little and puffed out his deep chest. He was not
well pleased, however, when he saw that a member of his huge
establishment had seen fit to disobey the order openly. In a small back
yard there was a patch of red which resolved itself on closer scrutiny
into the figure of one of his wives. She was leaning on the bark fence
and watching him intently.

The fact that this particular wife was the possessor of a dark and
lively eye and was moreover of a pleasant plumpness did nothing to
diminish Attila's displeasure. He racked his mind to recall her name and
finally succeeded.

"That is Attamina, is it not?"

Giso nodded. "Attamina it is, and if you have any desire for my opinion,
she is one of the best of the lot."

"I seldom desire your opinion, and certainly not in this."

Not daunted in the least, Giso volunteered some information about the
solitary and somewhat pathetic figure in the bare yard. "You got her in
one of those towns in Moesia that we sacked so thoroughly. The place had
been burned and we thought everyone was dead. The officer you sent to
investigate came across this one hunting through the refuse for food.
Her face was black and she was nearly naked and she spat like a wolf cub
when he dragged her in so you could look her over." Giso gave his head
an admiring nod. "Ah, Mighty Tanjou, what an eye you have for them! You
said at once, 'She will be worth while when she has been cleaned up.
Bring her back after she has been washed and fed.'"

"She _was_ worth looking at," declared Attila, with a reminiscent
twinkle.

"You have not sent for her," said Giso, after making a mental
calculation, "for more than three years."

The good humor which had been slowly winning its way to the surface in
the royal mind deserted him completely at this. "Oaf and slave!" he
cried. "Is it concern of yours what I do about my wives? I will not have
you spying and keeping count on me in this way!" He looked in the
direction of the disobedient wife and was startled to see her raise her
hand in a wave of greeting. "She has never learned to obey," he said, in
a grumble of annoyance. "Still, I must call her in again. I've been
forgetting how diverting she used to be. She _was_ like a wolf cub." He
frowned at Giso as an indication that his lack of tact had not been
forgiven. "Go and warn her that the laws of the household are not to be
broken in this way."

Most of the houses were small, containing not more than one room, but
there was one which towered above the others and had rounded pillars at
each corner. This was the house of Cerca, who had been the favorite wife
for some years because she was the mother of his oldest son, Ellac.
There were many rooms in Cerca's house and the furnishings were quite
luxurious. She was not subject to the rules which bound the other wives.
This was made evident when she came down the steps to greet him as he
passed.

Cerca was no longer young. There were wide streaks of white in her hair
(apparently she scorned the use of dye to which most women resorted) but
she had kept herself slender. Her richly embroidered dress of scarlet
and gold was in good taste. She smiled invitingly.

"I have seen little of you of late, O Great Tanjou," she said. Her voice
was pleasantly modulated.

Attila stopped. "Has it not come to your ears that I am raising the
largest army the world has ever seen? That I am on the point of
embarking on the greatest war in all history?"

The favorite wife smiled. "I listen eagerly to everything I can hear
about your plans. But, O Mighty King, you so seldom see me when you
visit us now. Sometimes you notice me and smile. Sometimes you brush
past me as though I do not exist."

"My mind is filled with many things," muttered Attila. It was clear that
he was uneasy. It was no secret to those about him that this fierce and
unforgiving man was indecisive in matters which pertained to his wives.
He often tried to evade the issues which the size of his household
created.

The fine dark eyes of Cerca compelled him to look at her. "I must talk
with you," she said, in a tone half pleading, half insistent. "Have you
forgotten the long talks we used to have? There was a time when you
thought my opinion worth while and you liked to tell me about yourself.
You even told me how much you hated that Roman boy Aetius, and how you
became uncomfortable and silent when he was around and displaying his
graces. I think perhaps, O Mighty Lord and Master, I was the only one
you ever confided in to that extent."

Attila frowned at her impatiently. "Why are you stopping me to tell me
this?" he demanded.

Cerca answered in an eager tone. "I have a reason, O Great Tanjou. It is
about Ellac. Our son. Your first son, O Attila. He is afraid of you.
When he is with me, or with his young companions, he is gay and full of
life. He has the same masterful ways as his father. But when he sits by
your couch, he is silent. You will come to think of him, I am afraid, as
dull and lacking in spirit. But that would be wrong. Oh, so very wrong!
Ellac is a true son and copy of his father."

"I do not understand the boy," admitted the Hun leader.

"It may be that you have come to prefer other sons." The face of this
wife, who was still counted the favorite although Attila seldom summoned
her now to his own palace, had flushed with resentment. "I hear it is
being said."

Attila had been on the point of brushing by her but at this he stopped.
"What is being said?" he demanded to know. "Who is saying it? Have you
been listening to those two brothers of yours?" He shook his head
angrily. "They have always been dissatisfied. They both thought I should
find governorships for them in the provinces. They even thought I should
give them high commands in the army. They are nothing but
troublemakers!"

"Attila, my lord!" cried the wife. "This has nothing to do with my
family. My brothers have said nothing to me. It is a matter between you
and me. I want you to pay more attention to Ellac, to find out for
yourself how fine he is." She reached out and grasped one of his arms.
"This I ask of you, O Attila. Take your eldest son, take Ellac with you
when you ride to this war. He is old enough. And it is his right to be
with you."

Attila paused and proceeded to give this suggestion the fullest
consideration. "I am getting old," he said, finally. "It is time my
soldiers saw a son riding with me." He nodded his head. "Yes, it is his
right. He is my first son. He is the only one old enough to go." He gave
Cerca a somewhat grudging look. "There. Does that satisfy you?"

The face of the favorite wife lighted up. "It is all that I ask, O
King," she said. Then she touched his arm again, lightly, pleadingly.
"Unless--O My Master, unless you can find it in your heart to take me
back into your good favor again! I know it is much to ask because you
have so many wives. But I love only you."

Attila said, "Humph!" and brushed by her. The matter was settled and he
wanted no more talk about it.

He made his way to a central building of considerable size and even some
pretension to beauty; it had been designed by a Chinese architect.
Professing to scorn all culture, the emperor had been known to say that
when he reached Constantinople and Rome he would not see this
structure's equal. It had a red tiled roof and the interior was cool and
aseptic with marble walls and floors.

Genisarius sat at a table, nervously fingering a pile of parchment
sheets. He was a small man with a skin as dead white as a reptile's eggs
in contrast with the wiry blackness of his hair and beard. Beside him
sat a plump and attractive woman whose eyes were now a faded gray and
whose hair showed traces of white through the inexpertly applied dye.
This was Aja, who had once been the favorite wife, many years before,
and who now acted in the capacity of a household duenna. There was a
third occupant of the room, a slender girl who sat in a corner with her
head lowered and did not look up when he entered.

Genisarius and Aja prostrated themselves on the floor immediately,
intoning, "O Great Tanjou, we are your unworthy servants." For perhaps
the only time since he had seized the reins of absolute rule this caused
him annoyance.

"Get up!" he ordered, irritably. "Do you think I enjoy seeing nothing of
my people but the backs of their heads and their big rumps sticking up
in the air? It is not edifying."

The woman rose promptly. "There was a time, Mighty and Unconquerable
One," she said, tartly, "when you couldn't see enough of mine."

Attila grinned at her audacity. This was the kind of talk he liked to
have with his wives. "It was not any broader then than the spread of my
two hands. And now see what you have done to yourself by so much
guzzling of these rich sweets from the East and the honey tarts of the
Romans." This proof of his own wit dissolved the vapors of ill humor in
the great man's mind. "I am glad to see you, Aja, my partridge. I am
glad to see you standing on your feet and looking at me with those queer
eyes of yours. Not," hastily, "that I want the custom abolished. No word
of what I have just said is to go out of this room. It is because I like
to relax when I am with you. You know, don't you, my Aja, that I have
always liked you?"

"Yes, O Master. Though you don't show it often."

"You held me longer than any of them. It was your uncanny light eyes and
the sharpness of your tongue. You could always make me laugh. And you
are one of my own people, the daughter of a brave soldier. Ah, if you
had only given me a son!"

"I can't give you a son now, O Master. But I can still make you laugh."

This was a mistake on her part. Attila fell back into a defensive
attitude at once. "You have had your turn," he said. He took notice for
the first time of the girl in the corner. With a frown he motioned in
her direction and asked in a whisper, "Which one is that?"

"That is the girl they sent you from Tiflis. Two years ago. Her father
was a wealthy Armenian merchant and a Christian. The girl is a Christian
too."

Attila nodded his head. "I recall her now. She is pretty enough but the
wind would carry her away if my horsemen tried to toss her from lance to
lance. And she could not speak the language. I saw her once only." He
paused and a trace of his earlier irritability returned. "What can you
do with a wife who says nothing and stares at you reproachfully with
large eyes like raisins in a steamed pudding?"

Aja explained the situation in a whisper, although this was an
unnecessary precaution. It was clear that the girl would not understand
what they were saying. "She has not picked up one word of the language
since. She lives by herself, never saying a word to anyone. She has been
very unhappy because the others are beginning to play tricks on her.
Last night"--Aja hesitated, fearing that he would not like the
information she must now convey to him--"last night she tried to kill
herself. She took a knife off her plate and drove it into her side. The
knife did not get very far because it struck a rib."

Attila studied the bent figure of the girl with a puzzled frown. It was
clear that he was uncertain what to do about this situation. "What
tricks do the others play?" he asked.

"Well, sometimes they pretend to be Christians and they begin to sing
hymns when she is with them."

The master of the household did not seem at all pleased. "One droopy hen
like this might infect the whole flock," he said, in a grumbling tone.
"And I have to confess to you, Aja, that I--I feel sorry for her. Those
great dark eyes of hers keep coming back to me, now that I think of her
again." He nodded his head in sudden decision. "For the first time I am
going to get rid of a wife. But, make no mistake about this, I am going
to make my generosity pay me well. We shall make a deal with that rich
moneylending father of hers. His daughter will be restored to him if he
pays us handsomely enough. I would not be surprised if I got the cost of
equipping a whole company of horsemen out of this. Begin the
negotiations at once, Genisarius."

This was the first intimation on his part that he was aware of the
presence of Genisarius. The latter had been teetering nervously on his
feet and dreading the moment when this would happen. Attila's eyes
seemed to pounce on several piles of papers which, he knew, were there
for his attention.

"You pinfeather from a black gander!" he roared. "You have your usual
lists, I see. Names, names, names! Complaints about my wives and sly
hints. You will drive me mad someday."

Genisarius said nothing but Aja went to his defense. "You have sixty
wives!" she charged. "And nothing will suit you but to know everything
that goes on. So, O Lord of All the World, you must have lists with
names and accusations and sly hints." She stepped closer and confronted
him, hands on hips. "I have said it before to you and now I say it
again. You have too many wives. Get rid of most of them. Keep no more
than, say, twenty. No man needs more than twenty wives."

"Because I am sending one of them away, you think I am ready to get
along with as few as a fat thief of a goldsmith or a spindle-shanked
bureau clerk?" Attila was now thoroughly angry. He glared at this wife
who through all the years had remained his real favorite. "Take care or
I will get rid of you. The kind things I said to you have gone to your
empty head. It never pays to be kind, particularly to a wife." His frown
became blacker. "Don't you know by this time, Aja, that I never give up
anything that is mine? Not a foot of land, not an inch of shore, not a
single little round gold dinar of the tribute they send me." He turned
and barked at the palpitating Genisarius. "I'll not be bothered with you
today. Take all your lists and your reports away, you ugly little mole.
All I want of you now is a wife to sit beside me today and share my wine
cup. What suggestion have you to offer me?"

Aja took it upon herself to answer. "There is a surprise." She walked to
an inner door and gently tapped on a gong which had been taken from the
palace of a Chinese prince. The servant who came in response received
whispered instructions and the onetime favorite turned back then to face
Attila.

"This one, O Lord of the Earth and the Skies, came this morning. With
the prisoners from the north."

Attila asked suspiciously: "Is she young? Will she amuse me? Is her hair
as yellow as the gold that this black spider," with a contemptuous
gesture in the direction of Genisarius, "steals out of the accounts?"

"You must judge for yourself."

The girl in the corner had not moved. Her head had not been raised once.
Attila motioned awkwardly in her direction. "Get that one out before the
other comes," he whispered. "And let her know, if you can find a way,
that she is being sent home."

The girl who was escorted in a few minutes later complied with all his
demands. She was quite young and her eyes were blue; and it was clear
they had once been accustomed to laughter even though the shadows of
sadness gathered about them now. Her hair was not the dead yellow of
gold but as vibrant and alive as a daffodil warmed to life under a
spring sun. She wore a dress of green with slashings and gores and
braidings of yellow to match her hair. It was made of the best silk from
the East, for it frothed about her with every step and rustled in a way
that was pleasant and exciting.

"She brought the green robe with her," explained Aja, noting a frown on
Attila's face. But the latter had not been thinking of costs. He had
frowned in bemusement over the beauty of the newcomer.

"Does she speak the language?" he asked in a whisper.

"A little. You must talk clearly and not be impatient if she is slow in
finding her words."

Nothing was farther from the great man's intention than to display
impatience. He took the little prisoner by the hand and led her to a
corner of the room where he began to whisper.

"What is your name?"

"Swanhilde, O King."

"It is a pretty name. It is worthy of you. Do you find it hard to
understand me?"

"No, O King."

"It is a good thing you speak the language, my child. We will get along
well. It is hard to like a wife who does not know what you are saying
and who just sits and stares at you."

She spoke with some hesitation. "But it is only a few words I know. Not
yet many."

Her way of speaking the Hun language with its staccato and guttural
qualities both pleased and amused him. There was a quaintness in her
pronunciation of words which made him want to pat her pink cheeks. "I am
going to like you very much," he said. He gave her the benefit of his
very best attempt at a smile. His eyes gleamed and his lips formed a
perfect sickle under his small nose. "Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes," answered the girl. "I am much frightened."

"That is good too. A wife, if she is to be a good wife, must fear her
husband." How cool she looked! How slender and lovely! He took her face
in his hands and gave it a playful shake. Then he looked up at the other
occupants of the room. "I shall marry her at once. There must be no
delay. You will make the arrangements, Genisarius." The conqueror
stepped back and feasted his eyes on the surprise which this day had
yielded. "I am well pleased. I am so well pleased that I must think of a
suitable present for my new little wife."

But it was not to be as simple a matter as that. The bride-to-be
hesitated and then she said in a low tone, so low that only the ears of
the emperor could catch what she was saying, "Have you not been told
that I am the daughter of Athalaric, the king of the Southern
Thuringians?"

Athalaric of Thuringia! He was one of the ten who had been condemned to
a quick death a bare hour before!

"O Master of the World!" pleaded the girl. "If you want me as your wife,
I will gladly take the vows. I will follow your custom and hand the whip
to you at the same time. I will be a good wife to you. But I understood
what you said about a present for me. Please, O Attila, make my present
the liberty of my father! He has been a good king, a brave king, and oh,
he has been the finest and kindest of fathers. To keep him a prisoner
will be a sad thing for the people he rules and a sadder thing for me.
It would break my heart."

Attila took her roughly by the arm and led her into a small adjoining
room. "Remain here," he said. Then he returned to the main apartment and
confronted Aja and Genisarius.

"Why did you not tell me she is the daughter of one of the prisoners?"

"I was sure you knew," answered Aja.

"I was not told that any members of Athalaric's family had been brought
with him."

"She was brought because the officers who made her a prisoner were sure
you would be interested in her."

Attila's face now showed the sense of frustration which had taken
possession of him. He asked, "Does the girl know her father is to die?"

Aja shook her head. "I think she fears the worst but she has not been
told of what is to take place tonight."

The emperor spoke in a brooding tone. "The girl is beautiful. She is
everything I want in a wife. I am sure I would love her more than any
wife I ever had. But I cannot change this decision I have made because
of--of a domestic consideration. I cannot spare Athalaric and behead the
rest of them."

"I could talk to her," suggested Aja.

"No! That would do no good. I must talk to her myself." He looked at the
woman who had been the first of his favorite wives and to whom he had
given the compensation of a little authority when he relegated her to
the shelf. His expression was one of angry puzzlement. "Why does the
most desirable of all women have to be the daughter of a traitor!"

"There are other beautiful women in the world," Aja reminded him.

His manner showed increasing vehemence. "I could never want any other as
much as I want this one."

He returned to the small side room. Swanhilde had been seated but she
sprang nervously to her feet when he entered. Her face was pale and her
cheeks gave the impression of having grown suddenly thin through the
emotional strain she was experiencing.

"My little golden flower!" said Attila. "I want you to know that already
I love you very much. But this also I must tell you. Your father and
nine other rulers disregarded my orders to provide me with their full
share of men and supplies. What am I to do? I cannot allow this
disobedience to start in other parts of my dominions. My child, all ten
of them must die."

"No, no!" The girl's eyes became distended with terror. "You cannot mean
it. Oh, Great Attila, you are saying this to frighten me. You said you
liked your wives to live in fear of you."

"I wish I could save you pain by being lenient with your father, traitor
though he is. But, my poor little lotus blossom, I cannot change my mind
about this. Because of personal feelings I cannot alter decisions of
state." He took her by both hands roughly and possessively. "Listen to
me. You are only a child. You will outlive what seems to you a tragedy
now. You may even forget in time. All men must die sooner or later, even
kings and rulers, even Attila, who is the greatest of them all. Are you
listening to me?" He gave her a shake. "Come, listen with the greatest
care. I needed no more than one glance at you to know that you will be
my real wife, the one to stand beside me and sit near my throne and
share in my approaching triumphs and glories. No woman ever has had the
chance I am offering you. I shall make you, my lovely Swanhilde, the
queen of all the world!"

She sank to her knees before him. "I will be your slave if you will
spare my father. My good, my generous, my kind and loving father! If you
kill him, I shall perish of grief. If someone must die, let me die in
his place. Would it not be as much of a lesson to other rulers who
perhaps have daughters too?"

He shook his head. "I cannot change what has been decided."

"Then let me die with him!" The girl was weeping hysterically now and
clinging fiercely to his hands. "If my father cannot live, I will not
want to live. O Great Attila, believe me when I say he was loyal to you
but that he thought also of the welfare of his own people. Promise me
this much: that you will give more thought to it."

Attila was not accustomed to debating his intentions at such length as
this. "Give thought to it yourself," he declared, in a brusque voice. "I
have known you a few minutes only but I have offered you a share in the
kingdoms of the earth. I am accustomed to giving orders and not to
explaining them, and I have no more to say than this: if you refuse my
offer for a sentimental reason, you are not the woman I want beside me."


[3]

Attila did not allow these distressing complications in his personal
life to interfere with his work. After leaving the Court of the Royal
Wives, he sat in the open and held his daily Justice in the Gate,
listening to complaints and settling disputes. He displayed good
judgment and a sense of fairness in the decisions he rendered. His
semi-nakedness did not disturb him at all, nor did it seem to give
concern to those who came before him. After the last litigant had left,
he retired to his great dining hall where in solitary state he consumed
a knuckle of cold fat mutton and a handful of dried dates. He then went
below for a consultation with a group of his officers.

They were seated about a long table, these thickset subordinates, and
although they had emulated him in wearing no clothes above the waist,
all of them had retained their high leather boots; which, having been
well oiled and tallowed, stank most abominably. It was difficult for
them, quite clearly, to sit on benches beside a high table when the
racial habits of many generations had accustomed them to sitting only in
a saddle or squatting on the ground. The feet of some of them did not
touch the floor but swung back and forth like those of small boys on a
school bench.

After listening for some minutes to a discussion of the routing of the
armies from the East through the mountainous country called Dacia which
lay to the north of the Eastern Roman Empire, Attila concluded there
were things about them which he disliked more than the odor of their
boots. He rose impatiently to his feet.

"What folly is this I have been hearing?" he demanded. "These orders you
talk of sending will throw my dominions into disorder. We will have all
my armies from the East marching through Dacia at once and crowding each
other off the roads. They will eat the country bare like a cloud of
locusts. They will halt to fight each other. I am not summoning these
armies to war among themselves at fords and crossroads. They are to
march against a common enemy." His eyes roved along the line of ugly,
dwarfish faces at the table; he was contemptuous now and red with anger
at their folly. "Wars are won by getting the best armies to the most
favorable of battlefields. You, my sagacious ones, will founder my
troops in Pannonian bogs and lose whole armies in the passes of the
Carpates Mountains. I have heard enough of this for one day. I had hoped
to get these details settled without calling on the Coated One, who is
engaged in other work. But I see he will have to be set to untangling
these knots you have tied between you."

The expressions on his generals' faces made it clear that whatever
liking they may have had for this favorite tactician and assistant known
as the Coated One had now been thoroughly dissipated. They said nothing
but exchanged glances more eloquent of their feelings than any words.

Attila felt no concern over the resentments of his lieutenants. With a
gesture he dissolved the meeting and watched them shuffle out. Then,
without realizing that he was allowing himself to indulge in the vice of
idleness, he dropped into a deep study. For the length of time that he
sat beside the deserted council table his face fell into repose. It
became less grotesque. Viewed at this moment, it seemed almost to have a
trace of nobility about it as well as strength and cruelty. There was
something about him to induce a reluctant admiration.

Attila became conscious finally of the passage of time and also of the
presence of someone else in the room. He turned and saw Giso standing
inside the door. He frowned at the intruder.

"When did you come?"

"Half an hour ago. I did not dare interrupt the great thoughts which
filled your head."

The man who aspired to crush the earth beneath his heel gave a scornful
snort. "Why do you think it worth your while to tell me lies? You could
not have been in this room more than two or three minutes. The meeting
has just ended."

Giso gestured with both hands. "You are the Master of Life and Death and
cannot be wrong. This makes it clear that the truth is not in me and
that I have uttered a great and deliberate lie."

"What brought you?"

Giso did not hesitate to answer this question with his customary
glibness in spite of the doubtful mood of his master. "I knew you would
need me. The able soldiers who left the presence half an hour
ago--forgive me, O Great Tanjou--who left you two minutes ago, had faces
red with mortification. It was clear they had heard some painful truths.
From this I concluded that their labors had brought forth no results and
that you would have to call in a certain young Illyrian whose name is
Nicolan of the Ildeburghs but who is usually called Togalatus, which
means the Coated One. I came to report that the Coated One is expected
to return this evening. As he is always on time, it may be taken for
granted that he will be here in a few hours."

"He will have to work all night to straighten out this tangle and get a
proper set of orders prepared."

For a moment it seemed that Attila was going to relapse into the mood of
abstraction from which he had roused himself. Then he shook it off and,
getting to his feet, began to stalk briskly about the room on his stumpy
bowed legs. After completing several turns, he stopped in front of his
attendant.

"I have reached a decision," he said. His eyes had lighted up and it was
clear that this decision, whatever it might be, filled him with pleasure
and excitement.

"I knew it was coming." Giso nodded his head with a corresponding
eagerness. "It is about the ten prisoners."

At most times Attila was brusque in his manner and curt in his speech.
He had, nevertheless, a curious gift for words which he could call upon
when necessity arose. On the few occasions when he used it, his face
would light up, his gestures would become eloquent, his speech would
flow easily and convincingly. So it had been on the
never-to-be-forgotten day when he presented himself to the chiefs of the
Huns with the newly discovered Sword of Mars in his hands and had
claimed their undivided fealty.

He began to speak now with an uplifted hand. "I have decided thus. Two
only of the prisoners are to die. Who the two are will depend on the
drawing of the lots tonight. I shall make no effort to control the
decision. The executions will be carried out as I had planned except for
one change. When the heads of the unlucky pair are in the basket, a
message will be read to the people from the"--he paused for a moment and
then began to describe himself with the candid insight he sometimes
liked to display--"from this strange and harsh divinity who rules so
large a part of the world. This contradictory man of destiny, who has
been known to put the populations of great cities to the sword and to
devastate whole countries but who does so because of state necessity and
not through sheer cruelty, will show a side of himself which few men
have suspected. His magnanimity. The message will pardon the other
eight. This unexpected generosity will astonish everyone. It will leave
the eight survivors with a sense of gratitude. The multitude of
spectators will be thrilled and excited. They will even forget they are
not to have the pleasure of seeing the rest die."

Giso found himself carried away with unqualified enthusiasm. "Mighty
Tanjou!" he cried. "It is perfect! By such acts as this a great ruler
commands the loyalty of those under him. All through the empire there
will be nothing but praise for what you have done."

Attila nodded. "But they will find in my generosity no encouragement for
further disobedience."

"It will be as sharp a lesson as lopping off all ten of the heads." Giso
paused for several moments and then added in a tone which might best be
described as sly, "Of course, there will be only nine names in the box
from which the two are drawn."

Attila had gone back to his pacing but at that he swung around so
suddenly that his inadequate legs threatened to fail in their task of
supporting his heavy body.

"What do you mean?"

The sharpness of his tone caused the loquacious Giso to pause and
consider. "Well, O King, it would be natural for you not to risk having
the father of the beautiful German princess selected as one of the two
chop-chop victims."

"You think I would resort to trickery?"

"It would not be trickery, Mighty King. You would be sparing this lovely
young woman from the grief of losing the father she loves so much."

A curious change had been coming over the ruler of the Hun empire. He
seemed almost to have accomplished the miracle of adding a cubit to his
stature. A light which could be defined only as mystical had come into
his eyes. Motives which could not be defined by any words had taken
possession of him, racial beliefs which had governed his people when
they lived their nomadic lives on the cold plains of northern Asia.

"Giso, you were with me when I carried into the kuraltai of my chiefs
the sword which the gods had delivered into my hands, the Sword of Mars.
Where else could it have been found save in the long grazing grass where
the flocks of the Huns fed? That it was now mine meant that the hand of
the god of war had touched my shoulder. It meant I must rule the Hun
dominions alone and no longer share them with my brother Bleda. You knew
then, even as I did, that my fate was hanging in the balance. Suppose
they had not believed in the sword and in the strange way it had been
entrusted to me? Then I would have died instead of Bleda and this great
empire would never have been drawn together and welded into a mighty
force. It was a chance that I took. But I did not hesitate to risk the
decision of the dice of fate."

Giso knew the whole story, the real story, of the finding of the Sword
of Mars. Nevertheless, he was carried away by his master's emotional
statement. "Yes, Mighty Lord!" he said, in a rapt tone. "You have always
listened to the voices which whisper in your ear and in none others."

"Do you think then that I would resort to trickery in the drawing of the
lots tonight?" demanded Attila. "There is too much at stake. This lovely
child, for whom I have conceived a passion which astonishes me, will be
my wife if her father is spared. If he is chosen as one of the two to
die"--the eyes of the great leader seemed to become lost in a strange
fanaticism--"then I will know it was not intended I should have her as a
wife, or that she should ride with me when I lead my armies to the
conquest of the world." He seemed to lose all consciousness of his
audience of one. "When it is a matter of state, I will lie and cheat and
connive. I will resort to any measure. There are no limits to what I
will do to achieve my ends. But this is different. Here the strange
powers which have always guided me must be considered. If I took this
decision into my own hands, would I not be risking their anger? This is
for them to decide."

Giso had quickly relapsed into his normal frame of mind. "But it would
be very easy, Master, to make the drawing come out as you want it. You
desire this beautiful princess. Make sure you get her."

Attila shook off the mood in which he had been held. But he also shook
his head and gave no indication of a change of purpose. "My mind is made
up, Giso. Let me hear no more from you." Then he added as though he
found himself in need of reassurance, "The odds, after all, are very
much in my favor. Five to one." He turned and gestured toward the papers
and reports strewn over the surface of the table. "It may be I shall be
occupied when the Coated One returns. A wedding night is not to be
interrupted lightly. I shall depend on you to meet him and bring him
here. Tell him my generals have failed to work out plans for the arrival
of the armies from the East. He will know what is expected of him. And
now send Onegesius to me."

When Attila had explained his new plan to Onegesius, the latter made the
same suggestion about holding one name out of the box. This sent the
emperor into another long and excited explanation of why he was leaving
the decision to the forces which dictated so many of the most important
things in his life. But Onegesius thought he knew his master better than
that. As he left the presence, he said to himself: "But there will be
only nine names in the box. I am not going to risk the blame if things
should go wrong."




CHAPTER III


[1]

The cantonment of Attila, which he called his capital, lay on a flat and
exposed plain between the Danube and the Theiss, scorning to take
advantage of the defensive value of river and hill. There had been two
reasons for placing it here. The Huns fought best on horseback and so
the openness of the space gave them a chance to take full advantage of
their cavalry strength in the event of attack. This was a point of such
importance that no heed had been paid to other dangers, to the fact that
the crude and hastily built town lay wide open to the assault of the sun
under which it baked uncomfortably in the summer, without a single tree
to shade it. In winter the cold winds blew down between the two rivers
and raged about the wooden walls of the town, relentless and bitter.

The second reason for the selection of this site was of equal
importance. This was the land known as the Great March, where the
Marcomanni had lived, the bold bordermen who had never been conquered by
the Romans. The leader who was now throwing down the gage of battle to
the city on the Tiber could not have selected a better place for his
headquarters than this plain which had never known the tramp of the
legions.

Although the armies which Attila was gathering were for the most part in
tented camps farther west and along the river, the imminence of war had
turned the cantonment into a teeming city. The wives of the emperor,
watching over the walls of their enclosure, saw soldiers stalking the
streets by the thousands: great golden-haired fellows in gaudy tunics
who came from the north and whose size and coloring caused the dark eyes
of the women, having so small a share each in one husband, to widen and
smolder; mounted warriors from the Hun horde who kept together in camps
to the south; dark little men from the east with white robes flapping
against naked, hairy legs and their hands ever on the hilts of
sickle-shaped swords. Thousands of horses were staked out on the plains
in all directions and it often seemed to the people of the town itself
that the feeding of the steeds on which Attila and his men would ride to
the conquest of the world was more important than the keeping of
adequate food supplies for them. They did not complain of this. It was
in all their minds that very soon now they would share in the rape of
the world. "Woman," husbands would say to their wives, "you will sleep
with me someday on a fine wide bed in which a drunken Roman emperor has
lain." They talked of the great jewels and fabrics they would have, of
the golden goblets from which they would drink rich, cool wine, of the
slaves they would have at their beck and call. "Someday soon," Onegesius
had once boasted, "the man who waits on me will be a Roman senator. I
shall not spare the whip on his fat, white back."

During the afternoon of the day when Attila ordered the execution of the
disobedient rulers and then fell in love with the daughter of one of
them, a blare of trumpets was heard at the outer gate of the wooden
town. Three melodious and unmistakable notes had been sounded. Men and
women dropped their work and ran in the direction of the gate, shouting
exuberantly to one another. Well they might, for this familiar fanfare
meant that Micca the Mede had arrived with his caravan.

Micca was a mystery, even to Attila and Onegesius, who had been seeking
for a long time to find the truth about his antecedents. He was an old
man, tall and rather gaunt, with a silky beard, a benevolent eye, and a
flow of talk in which learning joined with blandishment. He smiled a
great deal and he was generous with his presents. It followed that all
over the known world men spoke well of Micca and welcomed his visits.
After trading was finished for the day, people would gather about him or
sit in circles at his feet, and he would tell them long stories. No
weaver of tales in a market place was more a master of drama and
suspense than Micca. He never failed to hold his audiences in fascinated
silence.

He was the most successful trader of the day and men assumed that he was
enormously wealthy. The caravan with which he traveled consisted of a
string of pack horses and half a dozen carts with four wheels which were
painted a bright vermilion. What goods did he deal in? Everything. He
sold jewelry, cloth, and silks from the East, weapons of all kinds,
medicines and charms, articles of toilet, even confectionery and dried
fruit. There was nothing, seemingly, that anyone might want which could
not be produced from inside one of the vermilion carts. He went
everywhere, it seemed. Reports would have him in Constantinople, in
Rome, in cities of the East such as Antioch and Aleppo and Jerusalem,
and sometimes even from towns in Gaul and Spain. But there was
regularity in all his wanderings. He came three times a year to Attila's
headquarters as faithfully and surely as a planet on its orbit. He was
never early, he was never late. It was rumored that he owned caravans as
well which plied back and forth in the Far East and that he had trading
establishments in all cities.

The caravan did not enter through the gate, about which were grouped the
buildings of the elaborate establishment of Onegesius. The vermilion
carts were drawn up in a semicircle no more than a spit and a stride
outside. Planks were produced and placed on trestles to form long
tables. The goods were piled up high on the tables for the inspection of
the people who came pouring out through the gate as soon as the three
notes were sounded on the trumpets a second time.

The Huns no longer roved the plains and drove their flocks back and
forth with the seasons. They had come into power and great affluence.
But at heart they were still herdsmen. They had no skill in their
fingers and no knowledge of handicrafts. In a very crude way they could
fashion garments out of the skins of animals but if they wanted articles
of cloth, linen, or silk they had to depend on barter. The coming of
Micca was, therefore, both a pleasant interlude and an event of economic
importance in their lives. They swarmed around his tables with hungry
eyes, making their offers to his assistants with impatience and
arrogance.

On this occasion Micca himself opened the proceedings with an exhibition
for the benefit of the children. Calling them about him, he raised his
hands to show that they were empty. Next he elevated them above his head
until the sleeves dropped back to his armpits, proving that he had
nothing concealed. Then, suddenly, there appeared in one of his hands a
piece of elastic skin. This he blew up until it became a large head of
Bilbil, the Wicked God, whose nose was as long as the snout of a wild
boar and who had a forked tail. Tying up the end, he sent the little
balloon floating out over the heads of the children. This he did half a
dozen times until the young ones were running in all directions, waiting
for the balloons to collapse and fall into their hands, crying
excitedly, "Bilbil, come down!" and "Let me get hold of your tail, old
wicked one."

The people of the town watched Micca while he performed a few tricks for
their amusement. Heads could be seen all along the wall of the Court of
the Royal Wives. Attila's little partridges were watching with a rather
wistful interest; but not until Micca and his helpers had exhausted the
possibilities of the town would they visit the Court. Trading there
would not be very remunerative. Attila was close with his wives and they
would have to pay for the few trinkets they bought out of their own
meager savings.


[2]

Attila's palace, although it stood behind high wooden walls, was not
large. To the eyes of his followers it seemed imposing, for it had gates
with captured standards floating high up in the air, as well as the Hun
royal standard with its crude symbol of the Gray Turul. The materials
which had gone into the building of it had been planed and molded and
even carved. Inside it consisted of a long room where the Great Tanjou
dined with his staff. At one end was a raised platform with curtains
screening it off from the rest of the room, and here Attila slept on a
huge square bed which had come into the possession of his uncle Rugilas
in the looting of a Byzantine city and had been brought all the way here
on a wheeled platform with six horses dragging it. Beneath the dais were
a number of small rooms, one of which served the great ruler when he
immersed himself in the details of governing his loose-jointed empire.

It was in this corner, which was no more than ten feet square, that
Attila now sat in a low chair behind a marble table which had once been
a source of pride in some Grecian palace. He was so busily engaged that
he grunted impatiently when Giso parted the curtains and entered.

"He has come," announced the attendant, in a cautious tone. "He is out
there, looking at the bed. I think he is wondering if all your wives
sleep in it at once."

"Who do you mean?"

"Who do I mean? Who else could I mean but that gentle-speaking old
ewe-neck who has just arrived." Giso's tone changed to a grating
whisper. "I mean that ferret in the guise of a harmless mole, that
grasping offspring of a father with no legal heirs. I mean Micca the
Mede."

Attila said without looking up, "Have him come in."

Giso seemed to resent the whole proceeding. "There is someone else with
him. The new one is to come in first."

"If it is so desired."

Giso was unwilling to leave the matter there. "If you saw a woman
wearing a spiked helmet, you would not believe her a Roman soldier. This
other one is wearing Micca's livery but you can tell at a glance that he
does not belong. Then who is he? And what does he want?"

"Bring him to me and I will soon find out," said Attila, sharply.

The man who was ushered in immediately thereafter was small and shrunken
in frame like a pod which has withered on the vine. He wore the coarse
linen tunic with broad red stripes around the neck and hem which
constituted the livery of Micca but it was obvious that he did not
belong with the men of bulky thews and horny hands who labored in the
pay of the itinerant merchant. He was more like an official in some
governmental department or a public scrivener, albeit he carried himself
with considerable dignity.

"My name, O Great and All-Powerful Attila, is Hyacinthus," said the
little man, in a voice which seemed to confirm this identification. "I
am a servant--I may say a trusted one, or I would not be here on this
mission--of the Princess Honoria."

Attila raised his head at this and gave his visitor a long and steady
look. "The Princess Honoria? Do you mean the sister of my royal brother,
the emperor of Rome?"

"Yes, O Mighty King. I am the bearer of a letter for you." Hyacinthus
produced the letter from a receptacle hidden under his belt. He placed
it on the table before the Hun ruler and then laid beside it a gold
ring. "The ring is from my mistress, the princess. A mark of her respect
and a proof that the letter is in her own hand."

Attila lifted the ring and gave it a quick examination. It was a plain
circlet of gold, inscribed with the royal insignia. He recognized the
markings and so nodded his head in acceptance of the authenticity of the
letter. His mind was filled with speculations. Why should the Princess
Honoria write to him? Was this just another effort to dissuade him from
the invasion he was planning while the whole world watched and trembled?
He tried to recall a story he had heard years before about the Princess
Honoria but it eluded him.

"If the Great One does not read Latin----" began the envoy.

"I do not!" declared Attila, with a brusqueness of tone which placed the
language of Rome far beneath his notice.

"Then may I read it to you, O King of Kings? The message it contains is
most confidential and important. As you must be aware, the princess, my
mistress, has been held in confinement for a number of years because of
an episode which caused offense to her mother and to her brother, the
august emperor."

The episode in question came back into Attila's mind. The princess had
been indiscreet. She had taken as a lover a steward in her household.
The fellow's name had been Eugenius and he had been a poor kind of lover
for a princess of the Theodosian line. The man, quite properly, had been
executed and nothing more had been heard of the princess except that she
was being held in some kind of honorable but strict confinement.
Attila's interest in the nature of the message from this lady of
indiscretions began to mount rapidly.

Hyacinthus proceeded to read the missive in precise, clipped tones. It
was in effect an offer of the hand of Honoria in marriage if he, Attila,
Mighty Lord of the East, would rescue her from the irksome life to which
she had been condemned and restore to her the estates and honors of
which she had been deprived. Having completed the reading of the note,
which was commendably brief, the envoy proceeded to explain that his
mistress was watched so closely that it had been very difficult to get
the letter out of the household. He, Hyacinthus, had found it necessary
to don the disguise of a trader in the train of Micca in order to bring
it to the mighty ruler for whose eyes alone it was intended. It would be
wise, he added, with a shake of his close-cropped head, if the Lord
Attila would keep the letter from all other eyes.

"I expect to die for the part I have played in bringing this to you, O
King of Kings," declared Hyacinthus, with a dignity of resignation which
raised him at once in the respect of his royal listener. "I will be well
reconciled to my fate if I can be sure that the secret of my mistress'
design does not become known because of any slip or mistake on my part."

Attila had by now recalled the whole story. His impression at the time
had been that Honoria was no better than a royal wanton, allowing full
rein to the degenerate strain which flowed in her blood. She had been
young and beautiful when she behaved with such rashness; at least she
had been credited with a dark and vivid charm.... When his armies
reached Rome, he said to himself, he would not need her consent, which
she now tendered with a hint of condescension. He would make her one of
his wives if he so desired. It was more likely that he would apportion
her to one of his generals, for she was beyond the age where he found
women interesting. While these thoughts crossed his mind, however, he
was aware that in the back of his mind there was a feeling of pride that
a Roman princess was willing to marry him of her own wish and accord.

Fearing that this sense of gratification, of which he was ashamed but
which he could not suppress, would show in his manner or in the tone of
his voice, Attila answered in a voice which he kept sharp and official.
He would give due consideration, he informed the messenger, to the
contents of the letter from the Princess Honoria and would find a way to
convey his answer to her in due course.

As he spoke, his eyes were considering the articles of great rarity and
value which covered a large part of the surface of the table. These were
from the loot of generations. Even in the smallest and humblest houses
in the town such trophies would be found. Selecting a ring with a fine
opal, his parsimonious instincts rebelling at the necessity, he handed
it to Hyacinthus as a reward for the risk he had assumed. With a gesture
of dismissal, he then brought the talk to an end.


[3]

Attila summoned Giso with a rap of impatient knuckles on a small Chinese
gong as the door closed on the diminutive but proudly carried back of
Hyacinthus. The attendant came to the door and paused there.

"You have the ears of a fox," said Attila. "What have they heard about
the Princess Honoria?"

Giso closed the door behind him. "The impatient one? She is the worst of
the lot." He paused and smirked. "It is necessary to keep that one under
lock and key. She has become a mystery because no more than a handful of
people know where she is being held."

Attila was frowning. He had hoped for a different report. "I know where
she is being held."

"So! That was what brought Little Hips to see you." Giso made a sweeping
gesture. "It is all nonsense to speak well of her. The princess is an
open door where anyone can knock and enter."

The temper of the Hun leader flared up suddenly. "You are a fool!" he
cried. "Send Micca in to see me. And keep out of my sight yourself or I
will be tempted to shorten you by the length of your head."

"I am a fool," said Giso, cheerfully.

Micca entered the room and stood before the Hun ruler with his head bent
and his eyes on the floor. There was a rigidity about his long back
which suggested uneasiness and more than a hint of wariness in his warm
dark eyes.

"O Mighty Attila, born of the heavens and the earth, established by the
sun and the moon, I am your humble servant," he said.

"Begin," said Attila.

Micca proceeded then to demonstrate that the caravan in which he made
his rounds and the wide empire of trade he had established were no more
than a blind to cover up his real function in life. Micca was a spy, a
very handsomely paid spy no doubt, in the employ of the man who proposed
soon to plant his broad and heavy foot on the neck of civilization. "The
world trembles, O Great Tanjou," said the merchant. "There is no longer
any doubt in Constantinople or Rome or Ravenna. They know you will
strike soon. But where will the blow fall? That is the speculation which
keeps the world occupied. Nothing else is spoken of. It is generally
believed that you will hurl your strength at Rome. The city cringes in
fear. A Roman bishop, to whom I sell many strange articles--strange for
a churchman to need--bought nothing from me on my last visit there no
more than two weeks ago. His face was ashen, his hands trembled. He said
to me, 'I need nothing because soon I shall perish in the flames of
Rome.'"

Attila heard this statement with a mental smacking of lips. He savored
for several moments the feeling of pride it aroused in him and then
directed the attention of his visitor to a matter of immediate concern.
"What can you tell me about the Princess Honoria?"

Micca's eyes narrowed. He realized that he must now walk on thin ice.
What was it this Hun wanted to hear?

"Hyacinthus has been cunning enough, O Master of the Earth, to keep all
his secrets from me," he began, cautiously. "I knew only that he desired
to talk to you of the princess. Perhaps I could supplement what he has
told you if I had some knowledge of his mission." There was a pause
which Attila did not show any inclination to break. "This much I can
say: that she is kept somewhere in the high hills between Rome and
Ravenna. She has a considerable household and she abides in comfort and
dignity; but she may not set a foot outside the marble walls of her
palace."

"What is your opinion of her?"

Micca answered without delay or reserve. "She has a wise head and a
strong mind. If she should ever emerge and gain the upper hand of the
emperor--it is not impossible--all Rome would shake with the exercise of
her will."

"What of her person?"

Micca gave this matter some thought. "If I pause it is because four
years have passed since I saw the princess with my own eyes. One can
never be sure of what four years will do to a woman. When I saw her, she
was--what word shall I use?--she was intoxicating. She was slender and
she carried herself with a regal air. Perhaps it is misleading to put
the effect of her in such words. She was queenly, it is true, but at the
same time she was--ah, she was completely feminine and alluring! Men's
eyes did not leave her."

"All that you say means nothing," declared Attila. "Queens and
princesses are always praised to the skies. You are told that one is
beautiful and when you see her you find her eyes dull and her skin
muddy. You are told that one has a regal figure and you find that she
has the grace of a hippo in the Nile. I have been misled often by this
light which blinds men's eyes and now I want the truth."

Micca answered with an emphatic nod of his head. "When I last saw her
she was beautiful, O Heaven-Born. What is she now? I cannot tell."

"Is she dark or fair?"

"She is dark, O Great King. Her eyes were like a pool glistening under
the moon. Her hair was black but lustrous. Ah, yes, Proud and Mighty
One, she was a picture to set one dreaming."

"Has there been any further scandal about her?"

Micca could have told of the stories whispered by men lolling on their
couches in the bathing houses of Rome, in fact wherever they met in
their hours of leisure. He had reached the conclusion, however, that
Attila wanted to hear the opposite of this. On that account he decided
to dissemble.

"If there has been talk, it has not come to my ears."

"What you mean is that other stories are being told about her."

"They have not been told to me. But consider this, O Great Tanjou: a
woman who has once been indiscreet is always thereafter a mark for
vicious tongues. Men state as fact what they want to believe."

"That is true," said Attila. "One must not be misled by the loose
tongues of fools." The Hun ruler digested what he had been told for a
few moments. He did not trust this tall old man standing with bent back
before him. Micca always had a purpose in what he said. It happened,
however, that he had stated what Attila wanted to hear.

"And now for matters of more importance. What word have you of Aetius?"

Aetius was the dictator of Rome. As a boy he had been sent as a hostage
to the court of Rugilas. He and Attila had been much of an age. They
rode together and they fought and wrestled. They ran races and competed
in all manner of games, the fleet and slender Roman boy and the strong,
thickset Attila. Aetius always won, except when it came to a sheer test
of strength. He was a superior type, handsome, lithe, charming,
educated, always ready to recite from the poets or to sing and to play
on the lute.

There was a curious flatness in the tone of Attila in propounding this
question. He did not intend to convey any hint by his voice of the
feelings he held for the man who now controlled the destinies of Rome.
All over the world it was believed that he and Aetius were still the
closest of friends. Micca, uncanny in the accuracy of his judgments and
perceptions, knew better than this. He knew that Attila hated Aetius,
that he had always hated him.

Micca answered in a voice which conveyed no intimation of the knowledge
he carried in his shrewd head. "The Emperor Valentinian grows more irked
every day because he must bow to the will of this general. The mother of
the emperor hates Aetius because he killed her favorite in his climb to
power. Yet Aetius is more firmly established than ever before and this
is because of you, O Heaven-Born."

Attila nodded. "Naturally. He is the best general they have and they
must place their reliance in him to face me if I decide to strike at
Rome. But let me tell you this, Micca of the Medes. They must not be too
sure of the genius of Aetius. He is not a Scipio Africanus or a Caesar.
He is not even a Pompey."

"You will have an opportunity soon to judge him as he is today. He
intends to pay you a visit."

Attila was taken completely by surprise. He leaned forward and stared
hard at the itinerant merchant.

"He is coming here?"

"Yes, O King of Kings."

Attila did not speak for several moments. "That is strange. Does he not
realize he will be placing himself in my power?"

"Aetius," declared the merchant, "is a man of rare parts. No one is more
gifted. But he has one weakness in his fine armor. He has a great
conceit of himself. Tell him that he is not another Caesar and he would
hate you all the rest of his life. Will the Unconquerable Lord of the
Earth and the Skies permit a poor vendor of trifles to speak in full
candor?"

Attila nodded his head. "Proceed."

"Aetius will come here to meet you without fear. It is firmly in his
mind that he can bend you to his will if he can meet you again face to
face. He is certain he can dissuade you from your purpose of invading
Italy. He is convinced, of course, that such is your plan."

There was a pause. Attila had listened with the impassivity of a statue.
His eyes, fixed on the merchant, were without expression. "How much he
would like to know if it is my plan," he thought. Aloud he said only,
"Go on."

"He will bring proposals."

"Yes."

"He has other courses to suggest. The one on which he counts most is a
plan for you to invade northern Africa. He will be prepared to offer you
a free hand against the Vandals there under Gaiseric. He will even be
prepared to lend you assistance should you want it. He will
unquestionably agree that Carthage should remain in your hands."

"It is a great prize."

"Yes, Mighty King. Carthage has become again one of the greatest cities
of the world."

After a long silence, Attila began to ask questions. He grilled the
merchant for two hours about the preparations the Romans were making to
resist attack. How large would their armies be? Was help expected from
Constantinople? Where would the legions be concentrated? How soon would
their concentrations be completed? Micca was well informed on all
points. He responded with a wealth of detailed information. Attila,
watching him and weighing his answers, became convinced that he was
hearing the truth. He made no notes but his mind was busy storing up
every morsel of fact and rumor. He was mentally setting down the number
of the legions, the names of the commanders, the places where they were
stationed.

To an onlooker it would have seemed curious that the relationship
between the two men had changed. No longer were they master and man, the
ruler of so much of the earth and the spy who served him. They were so
absorbed in their talk that such considerations had been laid aside.
Attila asked his questions and commented on the replies he received in a
low and rapid voice, the tenseness of his expression demonstrating the
depth of his interest. Sometimes he appeared angry, sometimes he was
jubilant; occasionally even he was amused and his broad face would light
up and the sickle smile would appear. Micca talked with equal
absorption, and he not only answered the questions thrown at him so
abruptly but asked some of his own. It was a case of two men who knew
their respective trades meeting on what was, for the moment, common
ground.

Micca had continued to stand, however, and he gave a sigh of relief when
Attila announced that he had no further questions. The merchant said: "I
am weary, O Mighty King, born of the earth and the stars. We were in the
saddle by daybreak and I have had nothing to eat since."

Attila got to his feet. He had become again the ruler, holding the power
of life and death in his hands. His mind was busily reviewing what he
had heard. "This man grows more useful all the time," he was saying to
himself. "I must continue to use him, even though I am sure now that he
spies for Aetius as well as for me. Perhaps he betrays both of us to
that soft lot in Constantinople; those stupid drones who ride in their
gold chariots behind their fat white mules. How daringly he asked me
questions, seeking for information he could sell. He is playing us all
against each other and raking in his rewards with both hands. What a
pleasure it would be to have him covered with honey and staked out for
the ants to finish."

He studied the merchant closely and the wrinkles tightened about his
eyes and all hint of humanity left his face. He was saying to himself,
"This smooth and daring rat will pay me one visit too many. He will come
to me when I have no further need of him. Then I will burn out his eyes
with red-hot spear points and I will cut off his ears. I will send him
back to my good friend Aetius--that very good friend of my youth--and
with him will go a note that I give him to the Romans exclusively so
that he can see and hear for them."

Then he smiled again, a wild and exultant grin. He was thinking that
when this time came Aetius would himself be dead, his body rotting with
the soldiers who had fallen beside him.

"You shall have an honored place at my board," he said to the merchant.




CHAPTER IV


[1]

During the final stages of his talk with Micca the Mede, Attila had been
fully conscious of the rapid advance of the hours. The first stars of
evening were in the sky when the bent back of the tall merchant vanished
through the door. He glanced up then at the small window above him.

"It is over," he said to himself. "The names have been drawn and two of
them have lost their heads."

There was no suggestion of suspense about him. He was sure that his
supreme luck had continued, that the gods to whom he deferred in his
mind had looked upon his inner wishes; and so he had no doubts as to the
outcome of the drawing. In any case, had not the odds been five to one?
When had he needed better than that?

"Because I have spared her father, my little Swanhilde will be very
grateful," he said to himself. "How her lovely eyes will shine! Tonight
I shall have her sit beside me at the board so that my bold fighters
will be able to feast their eyes on her."

It was with a satisfied spirit that he addressed himself to the
Adoration of the Moon, which was his practice each evening. Turning to
the window, he looked up at the orb which was showing its broad face
above the line of the log wall.

"O Moon," he said, in a solemn voice, "this is Attila, the son of
Mundzuk, who was the son of Turda, the son of----" He proceeded to
enumerate the whole of his lineage, carrying the line back for a score
of generations. "O Moon, who guided my people when they lived on the
cold plains and who has been watching us march to the conquest of the
world, continue to give us of your support now that the great test is at
hand. O Moon, cold and clear and so very old and wise, give me of your
counsel, direct my feet into the right path. See to it that I do not
fail in the great task ahead of me. See that I do not become weak. Today
I was guilty of a weakness. Let it not happen again. I must be hard as
well as strong.

"Do this for me, O Moon, and I pledge that I shall burn none of the
cities of mine enemies until the hours of the day are spent. So that
thou, O Moon, will ride up into the sky in time to see the high flames
greet you like sacrificial fires and as proof that thy servant has been
working in thy behalf."

His voice went on, sometimes rising to an almost ecstatic pitch,
sometimes falling into a mumble as a mood of incoherence settled upon
him. Finally he lowered his arms and turned to take up again the mundane
affairs of life. He realized that he was hungry.

Onegesius was waiting for him outside the door. The night was closing in
so rapidly that a servant stood behind the latter with a flaming torch
to light the way up the narrow steps leading to the dais. Attila could
hear the stamping of impatient feet on the floor above his head. His
officers, back from the pleasure and excitement of the executions, were
hungry also.

"It is over," he said, with a nod to Onegesius.

"Yes, O King of Kings," was the answer. "I followed your orders. The
crowd was large and there was much excitement. The people seemed pleased
that the rest are to be spared."

"Who were the unlucky ones?"

If the light cast by the torch had not been so unsteady Attila would
have been aware that his assistant was pale and very nervous. Onegesius
swallowed uneasily before answering.

"The first one was Galata of Eastern Sarmatia." There was a pause. "He
whimpered when his name was called. The guards had to take him by the
arms and lead him to the block."

"He was always a troublesome fellow. I'm glad he was one of them. Who
was the other?"

"The second one--was Athalaric of Thuringia."

The eyes of Attila blazed with the wild surge of emotions which filled
him on receiving this intelligence but before he could speak Onegesius
hurried into an explanation. "There was some trickery about it, O Great
Master," he said. "I had disobeyed your orders because I--I knew you did
not want Athalaric to die. I did not put his name in the box. I held it
out. See." He fumbled at his belt and produced a slip of parchment on
which appeared the name of the ruler of Thuringia. "But when the two
slips were drawn, one of them carried the name of Athalaric. What could
I do then? I could not protest that there had been a mistake, that it
was not your desire that he should die. I could not say that someone had
maliciously juggled the slips. All I could do was to stand there and
watch Athalaric die."

Attila asked in a voice of suppressed fury: "How could it have happened?
Who could have done it?" He examined the slip. "It is clear that someone
was determined that Athalaric should die. Could it have been _them_? Is
this the proof that it was not intended for me to have this girl as my
new wife? Have the gods turned their faces from me? It is possible that
_your_ trickery angered them."

"No, no!" cried Onegesius. "I know it was someone who had a part in the
drawing. There were several who had the chance to substitute the slip. I
had arranged things so that it would not be known that one name was not
in the box. As soon as two had been drawn, the rest were emptied out and
burned at once. Then the two names were read. There were four who took
part in the ceremony of the drawing. O Great Tanjou, there can be no
doubt that it was the work of human hands. It will not be hard to get at
the truth."

There was a moment of tense silence. Attila kept his eyes on the ground
and so his assistant could only guess at the nature of the conflict
going on in his mind. Would he believe what he had been told? Or would
he decide that he, Onegesius, must be punished because he had angered
the gods?

"Who would play me such a trick?" asked Attila, finally.

Onegesius breathed more freely. He was not to be made the scapegoat
after all. "Are there not many," he said, "who would prefer you not to
have another wife, one so beautiful she would have all your favor and
who would give you sons you would prefer to those you have now?"

Attila looked up at this. "It is possible." He tensed his fingers as
though they clasped the soft neck of the guilty one. But he dropped no
hint of what he proposed to do. After a long silence, he asked in an
almost normal tone, "Did he die well?"

"He died bravely, Great Tanjou. It was a contrast to the sorry ending of
Galata."

"Do not tell me yet the names of those who helped in the drawing. I must
think." Then he asked abruptly: "What of the girl? Where is she?"

"She has given way to her grief. Aja says that she cried out repeatedly
that life holds nothing for her now, that she wants to die."

Attila grunted. "I want no wife beside me who snivels and cries," he
said. "Perhaps tomorrow she will come to her senses. We shall wait and
see."

Attila stumbled once as he climbed the dark stairs. He struck at the
wall with an impatient hand. "Can it be that the gods are turning their
faces from me?" he asked himself. "Is it a warning? Perhaps I have not
striven hard enough; for the wise man knows that he must keep on
pleasing the gods with accomplishments. He cannot sit down and expect
them to favor him."

The clamor from the hall stopped suddenly. There was complete silence
when Attila reached the last step leading up from the lower depths where
decisions of world-shaking importance were made. He paused, wondering
what had happened to close all the mouths of his raucous warriors. Then
he heard a single voice raised and recognized it as that of Micca.

"Many hundred years ago," the itinerant merchant was saying in the full
and rounded tones of the professional storyteller, "when Sargon was king
of Babylon and the world was at his feet, there was a poor tailor who
plied his trade in a small booth inside the gates of the city. This
unfortunate man had a family of three sons who were thin and ill
nourished because their father was too poor to buy them the food they
needed. When it came his time to die, this poor man, who had worked so
hard with such meager rewards, realized that he owned only three
articles which he could leave to his three sons, a needle, a length of
thread and a piece of wax. He summoned his oldest son to his bedside and
gave him his choice----"

"A stop must be put to this," said Attila to himself. "It is womanish
pap for my warriors to hear."


[2]

When the curtain was drawn back and Attila appeared at the top of the
steps leading down to the main room of the palace, Micca's voice trailed
off into silence. The leader of the Huns raised a hand in salute and
immediately the fighting men who made up the company sprang to their
feet and cheered wildly. "O Mighty Leader, may the gods direct your feet
on the way to Rome! O Attila, live forever!"

He descended three steps and then stopped. Again he raised an arm, this
time as a demand for silence.

"You saw two men die tonight who had refused to obey my orders," he
called. "I have pardoned the others. And now, I trust, there will be no
more disunion in the ranks. There will be nothing but eagerness and
obedience when the earth begins to tremble under the marching feet of my
armies!"

The room went wild with excitement. The blond German warriors of the
north joined with the squat fighting men from the east in cheering the
king who had united all the barbarian races. They waved their swords in
the air as he descended the rest of the steps and walked to the elevated
table at the head of the room.

"Lead us to Rome!" his followers were chanting with almost maniacal
excitement. "To Rome! To Rome! To Rome! Our swords thirst for the blood
of the sons of Caesar! Our arrows cry out to be launched against the
tyrants! Against those who laugh at us and call us barbarian!"

Attila seated himself. Raising both arms, he commanded silence and
invited his fighting men to seat themselves at the smaller tables which
filled the room. They obeyed with alacrity, being both hungry and
thirsty. Their master then looked about him with satisfaction. The
bloody lesson of the evening had produced the desired effect. In the
eyes of the men about him he could see nothing but eagerness for the
battles which lay ahead, no hint of holding back, of disobedience. This
was what he wanted to see. "_My_ men," he thought, "are the best
fighters in the world. They will crush the Roman squares and smother in
blood the legions of these effete fools."

His eyes found other reasons for satisfaction. The tables were covered
with looted treasures: tall jeweled standing cups, gold and silver
vessels filled with salt and with spices from the East for those who had
learned to like them, and long golden platters from which other kings
had once partaken of meat. The wooden walls of the hall were covered
with trophies and the round pillars holding up the ceiling were draped
with rich silks. The objects on which his covetous eye rested had been
wrested by bloody hands from marble halls where refinement ruled:
tapestries, mirrors of polished silver, the crowns and scepters of
conquered kings now dead, the great curved swords of leaders vanquished
long before. There was always pride in his eyes when he viewed these
fruits of conquest.

His own table and chair were small and simple in design but they were
placed high above all others in the room. He noticed as he took his
place that, for the first time, a second chair had been placed beside
his. The exalted feelings, which had welled up inside him as he
responded to the welcome of his warriors, subsided and he felt suddenly
downcast; for he had ordered that Swanhilde was to sit beside him. The
chair was empty.

He said to himself with a grim determination: "I must make my peace with
her. It will not be easy, for the child is filled with courage and
spirit. I must see her in the morning."

Before the heaping platters of meat could be brought in, there was a
ceremony to be observed. Attila nodded to Onegesius, who shared a table
directly beneath the dais with Micca, as a special guest. Onegesius rose
to his feet and called in a loud voice:

"Linicenthus!"

One of the eight subsidiary rulers, who had been pardoned a bare hour
before, got up from somewhere in the rear and walked to the steps
beneath the dais of Attila. The ruler lifted a plain cup of ivywood, the
only one on his table, for he insisted on being served in the simplest
manner. The cupbearer filled it with rich wine from the sun-baked region
called Tokaz. The emperor touched his lips to the brim and the cupbearer
then bore it to the kneeling Linicenthus. The latter quaffed the wine
and then said in a loud voice:

"O Mighty Emperor, who will one day rule all of the earth and the seas
and the skies above us! O Favorite of the Gods, to thee I give thanks
for the great boon of life I have received at thy hands. To thee I
pledge my undying fealty and my promise to lead my men under your
banners when we march against the common enemy."

All eight of the pardoned rulers were summoned in turn and expressed
their allegiance in similar words. They were proud men, kings in their
own right and long accustomed to rule; but they displayed no hesitation
in their obeisances to this barbarian from the East who had forced them
into submission. The lesson taught them had been a sharp one but it had
been completely effective.

The ceremony over, the room burst suddenly into the kind of activity for
which all the rude warriors had been waiting. The servants came into the
room in a long procession, carrying platters of roasted meat high above
their heads. There were dozens of haunches of beef and mutton as well as
spitted chickens and ducks, and dishes of steaming stews. Every pair of
eyes in the room lighted up at this welcome sight; all save those of the
man who sat alone above them, for Attila could not stifle a feeling of
dismay at the amount of food he must offer each night to his men. He was
a light eater himself. On this occasion he took no more than a morsel of
baked lamb. The ivywood cup was not refilled. It was apparent to
everyone in the room that he was in a strange mood but this did not
serve to dampen the feelings of his followers. The hall was filled with
their loud voices as they slashed and cut at the warm roasts and tore
the chickens apart with greasy fingers. Their feasting did not prevent
them, however, from keeping wary eyes in the direction of the solitary
figure seated high above them; and so, when he raised a hand abruptly in
the air, an almost immediate silence fell on the room.

Attila pushed the wooden cup to one side, perhaps as a hint that the
feasting and drinking should come to an end. Beneath him the seat which
Micca had occupied was empty and a feeling of resentment took possession
of him. "He has contempt for us," he thought. "He left the table as soon
as he dared."

Every eye in the place was fixed on his face. Attila forced himself to
put the action of Micca out of his mind. He looked about him slowly.

"What better way is there for justice to be done than in the presence of
my splendid warriors?" he asked. He was pitching his voice high so that
everyone in the hall could hear. "All of you know that Uldin of the
Bulgars, who deserted to the enemy some months ago, has been captured
and is now a prisoner here. I am of a mind to settle the case at once."
He glanced down at Onegesius. "Have him brought in."

There had been continuous desertions since the Hun yoke had been forced
on the land of mighty rivers and great forests which stretched from the
Black Sea to the Rhine. Men who found they could not exist under
barbarian rule had sought freedom outside the borders. Attila's pride
had been ruffled by the volume of the desertions and he had included
demands for the forcible return of the runaways in all of the peremptory
exactions he laid on his Southern neighbors. The few who had been sent
back in response had been promptly crucified in the open squares of Hun
cantonments or at much-traveled crossroads. Of those who had fled, the
one for whom the Hun leader felt the deepest hatred was Uldin of the
Bulgars, and his capture had been accepted as a personal triumph.

While he waited Attila licked his lips with eagerness. "So!" he thought.
"At last he comes before me. Uldin the proud, Uldin the superior, Uldin
the troublemaker! Now we will see how he bears himself in the face of
death, this prince of unrest, this leader of discord!"

The man who was brought in by two tall guards, with his arms tied behind
his back, was garbed in Dacian costume with a long-sleeved tunic and
wide trousers. He was young and tall and apparently of unusual strength.
His eyes surveyed the eagerly grinning company with nothing but scorn
and then came to rest on the single figure seated on the dais. There was
no hint of fear in them.

"Uldin of the Bulgars," said Attila, licking his lips a second time and
staring down at the prisoner, his voice alarmingly low, "you think
poorly of us. You call us barbarians."

The prisoner answered in a clear and high voice. "Yes, O Attila. I think
poorly of you. I have called you barbarians so loudly and openly that
all the world has heard."

"You have had the boldness to write me in similar terms. When you wrote
this letter you were enjoying what you believed to be the secure
sanctuary of the court at Constantinople. You did not seem to know how
far my arm can stretch and that you might face the consequences of such
audacity. Perhaps you now regret that you wrote it."

"I do not regret it, O Attila."

The emperor continued to speak in a restrained voice. "Do you mean you
would not have taken more care in choosing your words if you had known
you would be caught and brought before me thus?"

"That is what I mean."

"It seems," said Attila, looking along the rows of fierce and ugly faces
below him, "that this proud young man sets small value on life. It is
well that he does." He leaned over the table and fixed his eyes on the
unrepentant captive. "You will die in the morning, O Uldin of the
Bulgars. The Romans, who seem to you so much more worthy of your praise
than my people, invented a cruel way of getting rid of their enemies and
their criminals. They nailed them to a cross and left them there to die
slowly in torment. You, O Uldin, will die by this method your friends
have used so much. At break of day you will be crucified in the open
square where two other men lost their heads tonight. I shall give
permission for the troops in the camps along the river to come in relays
and see how traitors die."

The prisoner said nothing for a moment. Perhaps the knowledge of what
lay ahead of him caused his courage to desert him briefly. When he
spoke, however, it was without any evidence of fear either in voice or
manner.

"Crucifixion is a death reserved for criminals," he said. "I am a king."

"In my eyes, you are a criminal. The worst kind of criminal. You have
disobeyed my laws."

"If I am subject to the laws of the Huns," cried the condemned man,
"then I may demand that you allow me to fight for my life. There is a
law which says so. I believe it is called the Law of Sangaree."

A voice from somewhere in the hall spoke up eagerly. "That is right. Let
him fight for his life under the Law." Another voice joined in. "But he
must fight any champion sent in against him, armed with any weapon,
while he himself has nothing but a knife the length of his forearm." The
idea was being joyously accepted throughout the room as a measure of
entertainment as well as a demonstration of a right which any of them
might sometime demand. Greasy hands waved beef bones in the air and
clamored for the fight to take place at once. The name of a champion to
face the young king was introduced by one of the most vociferous and was
at once taken up by the rest. "Ivar! He's the one we want. Ivar the
Briton! Send him in to attend to this black Macedonian who demands his
rights under the Law."

Attila was not pleased with the turn things had taken. He would have
preferred to make the death of Uldin a long-drawn-out one so that all
his men within marching distance could come in and see the traitor
writhing on the cross. But he was too shrewd to disregard the wishes of
his men, particularly when they were invoking a law of long standing,
one of the few which had survived from earlier centuries.

"Ivar the Briton is not here," he stated. "He accompanied the Coated One
and may not return until tomorrow. He will not be in time to fight this
upstart who invokes a law older than any of his own." All of the company
were standing now, some with their jaws still filled with food, others
voluble in their demands for a furious clash of champions at once. "Who
will volunteer, then, to fight this man under the Law of Sangaree?"

There was no immediate response. The still hungry company stared in
unison at the stalwart king of the Bulgars and silently reckoned him a
mighty champion even when armed with nothing more potent than a knife
the length of a forearm.

"If no one comes forward to fight him," declared Attila, in a voice of
bitter impatience, "he will die by the method I have ordered."

Uldin, fearing that he would lose his chance to die on his feet in
combat under the rules prescribed by the Law, glanced at the angry faces
about him. When he realized that no one was coming forward, he cried in
a taunting voice: "Are you all afraid of me? Do you hesitate to meet me
even though I shall be armed with nothing better than a fish scaler? Has
your courage deserted all of you? Or is it that Huns prefer to fight in
great numbers and have no stomach for the kind of conflict that brave
men welcome?"

The dark faces of Attila's warriors showed bitter resentment at his
words but each man waited, nevertheless, for some other champion to step
forward. Uldin was a foot taller than any of them, and his arm, which
would clutch the knife, was long and powerful.

"Is it because I am tall and straight and you are squat and crooked?"
cried Uldin, who was now deliberately baiting them into action against
him. "Are you all afraid to face me with the advantages the Law gives
you? Listen, then, to what I propose. I am ready to fight any two of you
under the same conditions. Two of you, armed to the teeth, and I with no
more than my slender blade. Come, O brave warriors from the East. Is my
proposal not a fair one? Do you think it lacking in boldness? Select
your two champions at once and remove the ropes from my arms so we can
settle the issue while the great Attila looks on."

A huge ebony figure had emerged from the door which had served the
servants in their trips to and from the kitchen. He had a white cap on
his round head and in his hands was a long rod of iron which he had been
using as a spit in preparing the dinner. This was Black Scyles, the head
cook. Making his way through the room until he stood directly behind the
captive, Black Scyles waved the iron spit in the air with a savagery
which told how much he would enjoy employing it on the head of the proud
Bulgar.

It may have been that Attila now desired to bring the episode to a quick
ending. It would stand as an indelible reflection on the courage of his
Hun warriors if no contest under the Law took place. Better, then, to
let Uldin die at once before it became too evident that no champion was
going to volunteer.

Attila's smoldering eye caught the excited orb of the man with the spit.
He raised the forefinger of his hand which rested on the table. Black
Scyles accepted this as a command. He gave the iron bar a flourish in
the air and brought it down on the head of the young king.

For a moment the tall figure did not move, although it was clear from
the sound of the blow that the skull had been fractured. Then the inert
body seemed to fold slowly and sway forward. It fell with a thud to the
floor.

Immediately the eager fighting men in the room went into action. With
drawn daggers they converged on the spot where Uldin of the Bulgars lay,
his head in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. There was a savage
scramble to get near enough to plant a blow in the unresisting flesh.
Like a pack of pariah dogs, they fought and snarled over the body of the
man who had taunted them openly. When the rage to be in at the kill had
been satisfied, the object on the floor bore little resemblance to
anything human.

Attila waved a hand to the servants who had come out in a mad hurry from
the dark kitchens where they blew on the coals and tended the spits, to
stand in the doorway and stare with eyes white-rimmed in their
smoke-blackened faces.

"Carry it out," he ordered. "The executioner has been saved the
necessity of killing this disobedient dog."


[3]

It has already been told that Micca the Mede left the dining hall early.
He made his way with sure steps to one of the large tents pitched on the
plain outside the gate. It belonged, obviously, to someone of
importance, for it stood fifteen feet high and was at least thirty feet
across, and it was most snugly covered with the thick felt which made it
cool in summer and warm in winter. The itinerant merchant lifted the
flap and asked, "May a humble purveyor of simple goods enter the home of
the honorable and influential Berend, son of Cham?"

The thickset man seated behind the pile of ashes, which had accumulated
during the winter, nodded his head in welcome but did not get to his
feet, for a Hun used his legs as little as possible. "Come in, O Worthy
Micca," he said, in a reedy voice.

There were guests in the tent already, half a dozen men wearing their
round felt hats crowned with red tassels pulled down over their brows.
They gave no sign of recognition, it being the role and the sole
privilege of Berend to greet the newcomer. A group of women, seated with
their backs against the matting of steppe grass which formed the inner
lining of the tent, were not so decorous. Looking out at the visitor
from under lines stretched along the lattice and weighed down with
joints of beef and lamb, dried fish, and bags of meal and flour, they
nodded their heads and smiled in anticipation of a pleasant evening in
the company of the great storyteller. The women were more of a type than
the men and distinctly more rewarding to the eye, their black eyes
smiling in round faces bronzed by the winds, and all of them as lively
and as plump as pea hens.

The man seated on Berend's right moved over to accord that place of
honor to the latest arrival. When Micca had seated himself cross-legged
beside his host, he seemed like some great snowy bird which had
plummeted down by mistake into a convention of jackdaws.

It was the rule that conversation should proceed from the point of
interruption and visitors remain discreetly silent for several moments;
long enough to gain some inkling of the opinions of the earlier arrivals
before venturing any of their own. Micca observed this point of
etiquette and to his surprise discovered that they were not discussing
the double execution of the evening. Instead they were deep in a problem
which concerned all of them very much. What steps were to be taken to
conserve the trade of Rome when that city went down in violence and the
inhabitants were put to the sword? Only one of the guests shared with
Berend the gnomelike proportions of the Hun, the round yellow face and
the deep-sunken eyes. The rest were of various nationalities, men who
had deserted their own lands for good reasons and taken service with
Attila. None of them were fighting men. They were money-changers,
traders, merchants of one kind or another, all intensely acquisitive and
bitterly selfish.

They were trying to find some way of preventing any stoppage of the
wealth which flowed into Rome from all parts of the empire. The spout
through which the gold and the loot poured so abundantly must be kept in
operation after Roman domination had been ended.

Micca listened with an uneasiness which he did not allow to show on his
face. "This is the final proof," he said to himself. "There is not in
any of them a trace of doubt that it is Rome Attila will attack this
time. They are so sure, they do not think it necessary to pretend before
me, a Roman citizen." Thinking of the huge encampments he had seen on
the plains, he wondered if Aetius would be able to put armies in the
field strong enough to stem the tide. He shared an opinion held by
everyone in Rome, that Aetius was an adroit leader and a soldier of
sound parts but that he lacked the genius of the great captains of the
past. He was not even placed on a par with a more recent commander,
Stilicho.

It was Berend who introduced a new note into the discussion. "We must
remember this," he said, in guttural tones of deep earnestness, "that we
are no longer nomads. Never again will we strike our tents and follow
the turn of the seasons. The time has come for us to sink our roots into
the rich soil of the south as deeply as we sink the sword into the
ground when we go to war."

"Not the plow!" cried his fellow Hun, Barich. "The plow is the sign of
servitude. Let the rest of the world stay in slavery to toil. We must
rule the world from our saddles!"

"Victory, O Barich, has its penalties," declared Berend. "It will be
from Rome that we rule the world and not from here. Attila will sit in
the palace of Valentinian. The rest of us will fold up our felt tents
for the last time and content ourselves with marble walls. The plow will
become the symbol of the kind of life that victory will fasten on us."

"Do you mean," cried his compatriot, "that we must start to live as the
Romans do? That we must squat every day in these great steaming baths?
That we must live on peacocks' tongues and the eggs of fishes?"

"They say a bath is very pleasant," said Berend, with a broad grin. "But
you have not grasped what I mean, Barich. I think it will be well to
talk about something else. Perhaps our honored guest will tell us a
story."

So Micca proceeded to tell stories. The men who sat behind the ashes
forgot their deep concern in the trade of the world as his skilled
tongue wove its spell. The lively round eyes of the women, like
dead-ripe plums, were fixed on his face with a fascination which was
evinced in squeals of astonishment and little trills of fear. He was
selecting his stories with such foresight that at the end of each he
could lead his hearers on to discuss the points raised and he could then
ask them questions. The group in the tent (where it was pleasantly cool
because the top had been opened) did not realize how cleverly he
interjected his questions or the satisfaction he took in the information
gleaned from their replies.

Finally the tall old man felt that he had gone as far as he dared with
this subtle interrogation. He bowed to his host and begged permission to
withdraw. Getting to his feet, he said: "If Rome falls as you expect, I
will see you there. Saddened and impoverished, of course, but with goods
still to offer you--for I am a trader, not a soldier--and perhaps new
stories to tell. If Rome does not fall--and you cannot blame me if I, a
citizen of the empire, entertain doubts on that score--I will continue
to come here and, I hope, to be greeted as an old friend. Whichever way
it is to be, I trust that you will all abide in the best of health."

The moon was high in the heavens when he emerged, and at its fullest.
There had been a time, and not far in the past, when the nomads from the
Eastern steppes had been impelled by moons such as this to take to the
saddle and to race their horses madly while their plump wives joined
hands in circles and danced and sang. The light had other effects and
when a man spoke of his April son or his August daughter he was not
referring to the months in which his children arrived. The tents which
now stretched in all directions, seemingly without end, looked ghostly
in this strange light. Micca himself, with his white robes swishing
about his ankles and his long silver hair falling over his shoulders,
was like a wraith. He made his way toward the gates of the city where
there was much noise and confusion. Booths had been set up for the
dispensing of strong drinks and a company of dancing girls were
wriggling and galumphing in a singularly graceless manner. As he paced
slowly from one group to another, he became aware that someone was
following him. Stopping finally and, without turning, he asked in a low
voice:

"Is it you?"

"Yes, my lord Micca."

"No names! You must cure this habit or sometime you will utter a name
when it will cause serious harm. Have you news for my ear?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Come, then, to my tent behind the first of the red wagons."

Half an hour later, in darkness because no lamp had been lighted in the
tent, Micca sat down with the man who had been following him and
listened to the whispers in which the latter delivered his report. If
the darkness had been less complete, it would have been seen that the
merchant was wearing an impatient frown.

"It comes to this," he said, finally. "You have done nothing."

"My lord Micca!" protested the visitor. "I have done everything that is
possible. By the beards of my ancestors, I swear that I have not been
held back by any fear or lack of willingness for the task. You do not
realize the dangers and the difficulties I face. I must wait for the
proper opportunity to present itself."

"There must be no more waiting."

Micca's voice carried a distinct note of warning. After a moment of
silence, he continued in the same tone. "You see the armies this man is
gathering. You know that he aims to attack Rome. There is only one way
to avert the blow. Attila must die."

He got to his feet and closed the flap of the tent, after gazing
intently to make sure that no listeners lurked outside. Then he produced
a lamp from somewhere in the darkness and lighted it. Holding it above
his head, he scrutinized his visitor closely.

What he saw was a lean, hawk-billed face staring at him apprehensively
from the framework of a white turban and a bushy black beard. The
attitude of the visitor, seated cross-legged on the ground, made it
clear that he suffered from an extreme uneasiness of mind.

"Ala Sartuk," said Micca, "you agreed to carry out the mission I
proposed to you. You accepted gold in advance. Do you know the source
from which the gold came? From a very high source, Ala Sartuk. The man
whose gold you took could reach out and pluck you from any hiding place
to which you might scuttle."

The man responded in a sulky voice. "I agreed to do your bidding. I took
the gold you offered. But I did not know how carefully he is guarded.
Even if I succeeded in getting within striking distance, I would be cut
to pieces before I could do more than raise my knife."

"A way can be found," declared Micca. "But before I tell you of the plan
in my mind, I must make it clear to you that you will not be allowed to
step down--nor to delay any longer. We have a reason much more potent
than gold to drive you into action. Are you aware that your father in
Moesia and your two brothers have joined the deserters and are now in
Roman territory? If I give the word they will be returned to Attila to
be dealt with--in the usual way. If that happens, their deaths will be
laid at your door." Micca raised his fine head and stared hard at his
visitor. "That is not all. There is the attractive widow of a certain
money-changer, the rich man who absconded and was brought back to die.
She also will be returned if we are driven to extreme measures. Am I not
right in assuming that you, Ala Sartuk, are more concerned over the
welfare of the beauteous widow than in saving your own skin? You would
not like her to suffer the fate that the Huns reserve for female
captives?" There was a brief silence during which the rolling eyes of
Ala Sartuk vainly searched the face of the merchant for signs of
relenting. Then Micca continued. "It would avail you nothing to go to
Attila's men and say that Micca the Mede is plotting his death. I would
die, of course; but you would die also and in due course the two
brothers who would be sent back--that has been arranged for, of course.
The rich widow woman would become the property of some greasy Hun."

Silence fell on the tent and then the visitor asked in a whining voice:
"Is your magic equal to finding me a way to get within striking distance
of the great khan?"

"I grant you that the difficulties here are great," said the merchant,
his manner and voice still completely unruffled. "But some information
came to my ears today. The Tanjou plans an excursion. He will ride into
a country where the population is thin and the woods are thick and dark.
His plan is being kept a secret and he will travel with a small company.
Under such circumstances he is likely to relax his vigilance at times. I
have arranged that you are to leave for this country at once. There is a
man of some wealth and position who will receive you. He will help to
find you the opportunity. Your escape has been provided for, if you
accomplish your mission."

A long silence fell between them. The fingers of Ala Sartuk plucked at
his glossy beard and his uneasy eyes kept darting about in all
directions.

"I will do it," he said, finally.

Micca nodded his head in satisfaction. "There will be more gold for you
if you succeed," he promised. "And when the Hun empire has dissolved
into nothingness--which is inevitable after Attila's iron hand has been
removed--you will be regarded as a benefactor of the whole human race.
Nothing will be too good for you, no praise too high." He paused and
then asked in an anxious tone: "Have you kept your skill with the
knife?"

Ala Sartuk flexed the muscles of his right arm with an irritable nod.
"Carry the lamp to the other end of the tent," he instructed. "Place it
on the chest over there. Then step clear."

Micca did as he was bid and was quick to step well back as soon as he
had deposited the lamp on the end of the chest. Ala Sartuk had produced
a knife from his belt. He felt the edge of it and then gave it a single
flourish above his head. His arm whipped forward.

Darkness descended on the interior of the tent. The knife had cut the
tallow in two.

"An easy target," said the knife thrower, with a trace of
self-satisfaction in his voice. "The neck of Attila will be a more
difficult one."




CHAPTER V


[1]

Attila wakened at dawn. He had a great dread of the dark and it was his
custom to have a lighted torch beside his bed. At regular intervals
during the night a servant would come in to make sure it was still
burning. But this time there had been a slip. He awakened in complete
darkness and lay in bed for several moments without stirring, wondering
what had happened.

Black Scyles had heard the first signs of life in the royal bed and now
made his way up the steps. He carried a goblet of hot milk. Attila
quaffed the milk in quick gulps.

The ebony countenance of Black Scyles was stretched wide in a gratified
smile. "I broke the head of that one with a single blow," he boasted.
"He was dead, that bad man, before he reached the floor."

"You did well," said the Hun ruler. "There will be a reward for you."

The royal cook had been promised rewards before but none of them had
ever been received. It would be the same this time; still, he was glad
that the terrible master was pleased.

Giso heard the sound of voices in the bedchamber and put in a prompt
appearance. Attila grunted at him. "Onegesius. I want him."

"The ever watchful Onegesius, as it happens, is a late sleeper. He is
not like you, master, who wakes up with the sun--with a head full of
schemes." Giso motioned in the direction of the great hall below.
"Perhaps he's down there. Many of them drank too much and went to sleep
on the floor."

He walked to the curtain and drew aside a corner of it in order to
survey the scene. He began to count, a twitch of scorn on his lips.
"Twenty-three," he announced. "Faugh! How they snore!" His eyes darted
quickly over the bodies of Hun officers sleeping off their potions on
the rushes like pigs in a sty. "Onegesius is there. And he seems to be
in very bad company. His two closest companions belong to the lucky
eight. His head is cradled on the broad morass of warm suet which Nonnus
from Burgundy calls his stomach. His feet rest on the bony countenance
of Menalippe the Goth. I will go down and rouse him."

He clumped loudly down the steps. They heard a sound of splashing water
below and in a few moments Onegesius joined them. He was soaked from
head to foot but his eyes were still heavy with sleep. Attila snapped
one palm against the other and both Giso and Black Scyles disappeared.

"I have work for you," said Attila. He lowered his small feet to the
floor and began to don his clothes with swift and careless movements.
"An embassy must set out at once for Rome. Select three of our ablest
men, all of whom must be well known to the Romans. They are to go direct
to the emperor and demand at once the person of my promised wife, the
Princess Honoria. They must demand also that I receive with her one half
of all the dominions of Rome which are rightly hers by inheritance. The
emperor will refuse both demands, of course, with great indignation; and
I shall have a perfect pretext for going to war."

Onegesius had listened in a state of amazement and mental confusion. "I
do not understand, Great Tanjou," he said. "You say Princess Honoria is
your promised bride? I have heard nothing of such an arrangement."

"It is a matter of a few hours only," explained Attila. He held up the
ring. "There it is: the pledge of her understanding and agreement. She
sent an envoy to me, the man Hyacinthus who came in the train of Micca,
disguised as a seller of linens and silks. She promises her hand in
marriage if I can recover for her the liberty which has been taken from
her and the honors of which she has been robbed."

Onegesius was still bewildered. "The last word heard of the princess,"
he said, "she was to be married to some convenient old cuckold in Rome.
As for her inheritance, she has little or none. There are no lands she
can claim under the Laws of the Twelve Tables."

Attila had finished his toilet. "It is your greatest weakness," he said,
"that you are too concerned with facts. The princess has no inheritance
of any size to claim. I am well aware of this but it does not prevent me
from claiming half of the dominions of Rome. You have been with me long
enough, surely, to understand that my policies are based on an
understanding of human weaknesses. The greater the lie you tell, the
more likely you are to convince people that you are telling the truth.
The more absurd the claim you make, the more you will get in the end.
These are my rules and it is time you understood them, Onegesius. First,
never be guilty of telling the truth if a lie will serve your purpose
better; and never be content with a small lie, make it such a resounding
one that in the end people will be brought to believe by its very size
and audacity. Second, no half measures where claims are concerned. Claim
everything at first, even if your grounds are weak; and recede from your
initial position very slowly. Do you understand now?"

Onegesius nodded, although it was clear that he was still uncertain
about such audacity. "Is it your intention, then," he asked, "to take
the princess as your wife?"

It was Attila's turn to express uncertainty. "I am not sure," he said.
"It may be sufficient to demand her hand in marriage, a claim which the
Emperor Valentinian will reject with scorn. If it should come about that
marriage with her would strengthen my hand, I would most decidedly take
her as a wife. It would be a distasteful matter for me." He looked
questioningly at his assistant. "Do you not see advantages for me in
marrying a princess of the imperial Roman family?"

"I see a disadvantage," declared Onegesius, shocked into honesty by the
nature of Attila's stand. "You have always demanded virginity in your
wives. Do you intend now to wed a woman who is notorious for her loss of
inexperience? Do you not fear that the world will laugh at you for
accepting such a wanton bride?"

Attila raised both arms in the air in sheer exasperation. "You have
heard nothing, you have learned nothing. If I found it necessary to
marry this woman of easy consent, I would have a story to tell which
would make the world believe her a woman of spotless purity." He lowered
one arm and pointed a finger triumphantly at his assistant. "I have the
story ready now. I will announce to the world that Honoria has been the
victim of her brother's greed. As an excuse to seize all her honors and
lands, he invented the story of her dalliance with the household
officer. To make the first lie hold, he now systematically spreads
stories of her continued wantonness. Tell that to the world loud enough
and often enough," cried Attila, triumphantly, "and in time the Emperor
Valentinian himself will be wondering if it is not true after all."

Onegesius was beginning to understand and admire his master's
philosophy. "Perhaps your story is the truth," he said.

"Perhaps it is. How do we know?"

"When, O Great Tanjou, do you want the embassy to start?"

"Tonight," said Attila. "At the same time, send word to Constantinople,
and to all other courts of any importance, of the claims we are pressing
on that vicious simpleton, the emperor of Rome."


[2]

Giso came back to announce an early visitor. "The best one," he said,
"your favorite--and mine."

It was Aja who followed him into the room. She had come in such a hurry
that there had been no time to apply any of the customary aids to
appearance. Her face looked gray and old. Her robe hung limply on her
plump frame and did nothing to conceal the fact that she waddled.

"O Mighty Lord of All the Earth," she began, "we regret you have
suffered the misfortune of which I must speak. It is in no sense the
fault of anyone----"

"Speak up!" commanded Attila, sharply, when she did not continue. Then,
his mind leaping quickly to a conclusion, he said, "You are trying to
tell me that the girl is dead."

Unable for the moment to command the use of her tongue, Aja did no more
than nod.

Attila stared at her so long and with such a fixed and somber air that
the woman found it hard not to scream with terror. When he spoke,
however, it was to say no more than, "I have been expecting this." A few
moments more of silence followed and then he asked, "Had my orders been
followed?"

Aja compelled her tongue to resume its function. "Yes, Great Tanjou. She
was so overcome with grief that she wept for hours. I had her watched as
you had instructed. Two women remained with her until she fell asleep
from exhaustion."

"Then how did it happen?"

"It must have been that she wakened during the night and tried to
escape. It was no more than a quarter of an hour ago that her body was
found under the wall. She had been struck by an arrow and it had gone
right through her body. The sentry knew nothing about it. He swears that
he heard nothing and it is true, O Great Tanjou, that his quiver is
still full. He did not shoot the arrow."

Onegesius drew his master to one side. Attila seemed stunned by what he
had heard. His face was the color of tallow and his eyes were dull.
"This is the work of those who juggled with the slips in the drawing.
They have found a way to kill her as well as her father."

The Hun leader muttered, "It may be as you say."

"The time has come for speaking openly. This is the work of one of your
wives who has borne you a son, and her dependents who count on his
favors later. They have seen to it that this most dangerous of all new
rivals has been removed from their path." He took a quick look at his
master's face to see how far he dared go. "Four of them have borne you
sons. Do you believe any one of the four capable of this?"

Attila nodded his head slowly. "Yes. Any one of the four. They are all
full of pride and ambition and as fierce as a lioness with a single cub.
Even Cerca--perhaps more likely my quiet Cerca than any of the others.
We must find the guilty one at once.... Onegesius, get all the
evidence and bring the guilty ones to me. We must be very sure before we
act." He was speaking in a low and almost breathless tone. "I must be
certain which is the guilty one. And when we are certain, we must act
quietly. I do not want any open scandal about this. I do not want the
world to know that one of my wives could plot so against me. The guilty
one and her brothers--or whoever may be involved--will disappear and
never be heard of again. It will be a mystery and it will never be
explained. The sentry must die at once."

"Yes," said Onegesius. "I will see to that first."

"It will be supposed we are convinced he shot the arrow." Attila paused
for a moment as though conjuring up in his mind the scene which had
resulted in Swanhilde's death. "See that he is put to death quickly and
easily. It is likely he has been a good soldier. His death will lull
suspicions and make it easier for you to get at the truth."

Attila had been holding the blue tunic in one hand. Now he turned and
tossed it on the bed. "I cannot dress in my finery when that little
creature lies dead with an arrow through her pretty body." He walked
over to face Aja directly. "Do they think I can be prevented from
choosing new wives as I see fit?" he cried in a sudden fury. "Take this
word back to those scheming, treacherous women who abide with you in the
Court. The one who brought about the death of this innocent child must
hear the news at once. I am going to take a new wife. Can you guess who
she is? It is the sister of the emperor of Rome! Tell them that from
this hour forward things will be different. There will be only one wife,
my illustrious and patrician bride, the Princess Honoria. She will sit
beside me and have a palace of her own, with ladies to attend her and a
huge staff of servants. She will have her own company of guards. The
rest of you will be no better than concubines. Tell all that to them, my
Aja, and watch how their covetous faces will turn white and how dread
will come into their spiteful eyes. Go, and spread the tidings among
them at once."

When Aja had taken her departure, in such a hurry that she did not pause
for the customary obeisances, Attila's mood changed. He looked sad and
tired. "I meant what I said, Onegesius," he declared, with a nod. "I am
going to have one wife, to rule beside me in proper State. She will be
the empress of the world, my true _yen-chi_. If what Micca says about
the princess is in any sense true, she will be the one. But I think
instead this new wife will be someone you will find for me." He laid a
hand on his assistant's shoulder and gave it a peremptory shake. "Yes,
you are going to find her for me."

"I? Where am I to find her?" cried Onegesius.

"I am laying an injunction on you. You must find for me a wife who will
so chain my fancy that I shall be able to forget the little one who was
killed last night. Search the whole world over if necessary. Look
everywhere. Send the word out that we will give a great reward to anyone
who can tell us where she is, this beautiful woman we seek. It is a
difficult task I have entrusted to you, Onegesius, for the memory of
Swanhilde will be hard to drive from my mind.

"She will need to be even more beautiful," he went on, after a pause.
"Her hair must be fair. It must be as bright and golden as the light of
the sun. I will have none of your girls from the East with their lively
black eyes. The Court is full of that kind now. She must have blue eyes,
as blue as the sky. She must be slender. I am weary of your
full-breasted pigeons. Do you know where you can find me such a wife,
Onegesius?"

The officer shook his head. "I know of none such, O King of Kings," he
said. "But I shall find her for you."

For the first time Attila's voice took on a grim and menacing note.
"Find her quickly then. I will tolerate no delay. It must be made
possible for me to forget."




CHAPTER VI


[1]

It was a relief for Attila to turn his mind back to military matters. He
stumped on his short legs down the stairs to the offices under his
bedchamber. He found the Coated One in the room where the consultation
had been held with his generals the previous morning. Nicolan of the
Ildeburghs had been working all night but had finally completed his
labors. Four deep piles of parchment notes lay on the long table, one
for each of the armies still to march in from the East.

He was a young man. Tall, slender (he looked light of frame, at least,
in the company of thickset Huns), dark of eye and hair. He had something
of the Greek about him, an intelligent eye, a good brow, a pair of hands
which looked almost delicate. This impression, that he might be more at
home at a sculptor's bench or in front of an artist's canvas, was
quickly contradicted by his air and manner. He was a man of action,
intensely alive and full of energy, quick of movement and keen of
perception. He was, in fact, much like a well-tempered blade, with the
sharpest of edges and a handsome burnished pommel.

"I am finished, Great Khan," he reported. He gestured toward the piles
of notes. "The orders are there."

Attila did not have to question him. He knew that the four documents
contained full and explicit orders. The armies still in the East would
know when to start, which roads to take, how far to march each day,
where to find food depots and supplies of water, when and where to ford
rivers. Every detail would be set down clearly. The four bodies of
troops would cross Dacia in turn and follow each other down the line of
the Danube. There would be no interfering with other armies and no
confusion. The orders would be concise and clear and easy to understand;
more important still, they would be easy to follow, at least they would
never demand the impossible or leave a commander with any excuse for
failure.

"They must be dispatched at once," said Attila, in a gratified voice.
Then he glanced at his proficient assistant. "You are weary?"

"A little, O King."

The sun was already blazing in at the windows and the atmosphere of the
room was warm and humid. Nicolan wore, nevertheless, a tunic of cloth
which was fastened closely about his neck. He tried to clear his eyes of
the symptoms of weariness by rubbing a hand across them.

Attila seated himself at the end of the table. "I will reward you," he
said, "with another difficult mission. You must be back in the saddle at
an early hour of the afternoon."

Nicolan nodded easily. "A few hours' sleep. Then I'll be ready to
start." He proceeded then to demonstrate that he did not share the fear
in which the ruler was so universally held. "There was a reward promised
me long ago and it is now overdue. The return of my lands, O King of
Kings. The Finninalders should be forced to give them up. They made an
illegal deal with Vannius to take them over after the killing of my
father. It was an infamous transaction, O Mighty King. Vannius had no
legal grounds for seizing the lands in the first place. Of the money
paid by the Finninalders, not a single sesterce went into the funds of
the state. Vannius kept it all. You, the head of the state, were robbed
also. Has not the time come to right all this?"

Attila frowned heavily. It was some time before he replied. "I am not
sufficiently acquainted with the facts. I can do no more than make you
another promise, that this will be looked into in due course."

Nicolan was not willing to drop the matter as easily as that. "You have
made that promise to me several times already," he said. His face had
taken on an angry flush. "Have I not served you well? I am not asking
for a reward, O Great Tanjou, I am asking only for justice."

"You must not press me!" exclaimed Attila, with a rising inflection of
voice. "We are preparing for war. When we have won our victory, there
will be lands and wealth to be distributed and I promise that you will
have a large share. Would you not prefer estates on the warm hills of
Italy to these lands about which you give me no peace?"

Nicolan shook his head. "There is nothing in the world that I want save
the lands of my father."

"That is where I am sending you. Come. Let the matter go for the time
being. Perform the mission on which I send you and then we shall talk
further about your lands." A brusque motion of his hand indicated that
the matter was closed. "It is curious that I have never set foot in this
country from which you come, although it lies at my very back door. All
I know about it for certain is that your people raise fine horses. There
is a rumor as well that your women are more than passing fair."

Nicolan nodded his head proudly. "We raise the finest horses in the
world, O Mighty Tanjou."

"The finest? A sweeping claim. Have you not been with us long enough to
know that the horses we breed are the best in the world?"

"Come to the plateau country, O King, and see for yourself," said
Nicolan, eagerly. "Our horses have as much speed as the Arabs and more
endurance. They are large and handsome. Truly their equal is not to be
found elsewhere."

"You will say next," declared Attila, impatiently, "that your people
ride as well as mine."

Nicolan nodded again. "I think I may say so in all truth. They ride best
without saddles and they never use reins."

Attila laughed. "I will concede that they raise good talkers up on these
plains of yours. Well, I shall see for myself soon and be able to judge
of the merits of both men and horses. I shall visit this great country
within the next fortnight. It is not only because you have such fine
horses. I desire also to find myself a new wife, one with golden hair
and a face that is pink and white, and a figure that is as slender as a
reed. I am told you are a dark race but that sometimes your women are
born with hair like the sun. I am curious to see both with my own
eyes--the great horses which are so fast and the beautiful women with
the sunshine in their hair."

Nicolan's face had grown grave. He saw good reason now for wishing that
Attila was not going to pay a visit to the land on the high plain. When
the latter ceased speaking, he asked, "Do you want me to go with you,
Great Tanjou?"

Attila shook his head. "I want you to go first. When I set out, the fact
cannot be concealed. Men have a cleverness for concealing what they do
not want me to see. All the best horses would be out of sight before my
own mount set a hoof across the border line. The beautiful daughters
would cease to exist. I know their little tricks, these subjects of
mine! And so I want you to go first and have a report for me when I
arrive on what you have seen."

"You want me to spy out the land," said Nicolan, in a suspiciously quiet
voice.

Attila caught the intonation of his voice and the royal eyes began to
simmer. "Is it that you do not want to serve me in this? That you put
the interests of your own people above mine?"

The young man from the plains looked his much-feared and hated master
squarely in the eye. He was fully aware that the temper of the ruler of
half the world might erupt at any moment like a volcano. "It is true, O
King, that I have no stomach for such a task," he said. "But I will ride
ahead of you and give you an honest report of what I see nevertheless.
Will you permit me to tell you why?"

Attila motioned him to proceed. Nicolan got to his feet and stripped off
his tunic. He then turned so that the emperor of the Huns could see his
back. It was a mass of ugly scars, crossed and recrossed, and deep and
still angry in appearance, although it was clear that the wounds which
made them had been inflicted years before.

"People shudder when they see my back and so I never expose it to view.
That is why I have earned for myself the name of Togalatus, the Coated
One. The Romans did that to me, O King of Kings." Nicolan was speaking
in a low voice. He stopped long enough to replace the tunic. "They
killed my father and they carried off my mother and me to Rome where we
were sold as slaves. My lovely and gentle mother died, which was
fortunate for her. She could not stand the life. I was a slave first in
the household of Aetius----"

Attila's eyes took on a sudden gleam when he heard this. "In the
household of Aetius? My old, my great friend, Aetius? Tell me,
Togalatus, what kind of master did you find him?"

Nicolan answered quietly. "You have seen my back. Is it necessary for me
to say anything more? Except this: because Aetius will be in command of
the armies of Rome, I am ready to help in getting all the horses
necessary for the campaigns against him."

Attila began to speak in a reminiscent tone, which was at the same time
sly and full of resentment. "He was such a handsome and gifted boy, that
old friend of mine. He could outrun me on his long legs. He could read
and speak several languages and he could play the lute and sing in a
fine, clear voice. How he used to laugh when he beat me at something!"
He turned to Nicolan. "Did this feeling you have for him enter into your
work last night and make these orders sound in every particular and free
from any error?"

Nicolan nodded curtly and with a sudden flush in his cheeks. "I was
doubly careful, O King. That is why I took so long on the work. I was
making certain that your armies from the East would arrive in time and
in good condition for the work ahead of them."

Attila had forgotten the tragedy of the early morning. He indulged in a
triumphant cackle. "I see it was a fortunate thing that you, my young
Togalatus, were given to Aetius when the Romans carried you off."


[2]

When the ruler of the Huns had taken his departure there was a sudden
movement in a pile of rugs under the table at which he had been seated.
They were tossed aside and a copper-haired man with a broad and engaging
face crawled out. When he got to his feet, it was apparent that he
towered over most men by many full inches. He stretched his long thewed
arms and yawned.

"I am hungry," he announced.

"You are always hungry, Ivar," said Nicolan.

The Briton, who would have been matched against Uldin of the Bulgars if
he had been obtainable in the early evening hours, laughed in an amiable
tone. "I have a large body to feed, my busy, scribbling friend. Do you
suppose we can get some food quickly?"

Nicolan went to the door and called: "Scyles, you lazy scoundrel! Bring
us food at once. The best you have and plenty of it. If you have any
doubts, go right up to the man whose feet I hear on the floor above me.
He will tell you we must have whatever we want. _That_," he said, when
he had come back to stand beside his friend who bettered his height by
nearly half a head, "will be the one reward I get for the work I did
last night. Did you hear what we were saying, the mighty one and I?"

Ivar nodded. "I wakened just as the great bringer of death and
destruction came in. I decided it would be best to stay where I was and
not bring myself to his attention. And so I heard everything he said."
He then asked a question in a serious tone of voice. "Nick, good friend,
will you do as he has ordered? I mean about spying out the land for
him?"

The young man from the plains who now served as Attila's chief tactician
answered in a tone of equal gravity. "You heard what I told him. Have
you any thoughts in the matter?"

The pleasant face of the tall Briton showed that he was entertaining
serious doubts. "I am not certain," he said, frowning. "It is a hard
thing to go against your own people."

Nicolan agreed to this. "Yes, it is a hard thing. But my people are in a
very difficult position. There we are, high up on the plain and no more
than a handful as compared with the races around us. It has been
impossible to stay independent. First, it was the Romans who engulfed us
and despoiled us, and then introduced their customs and abominations
among us. Then came the Huns. For generations we have had masters to
obey. Most of my people prefer the Romans to the Huns. I do not. They
don't know as I do how lazy, cruel, degenerate, haughty and corrupt the
Romans have become. The Huns have strength at least. If I must serve, I
would rather serve a strong man than a dancing master and pimp."

"But, good friend," said the Briton, "this is a question not of which
one you must serve, but of how far you must serve. I have never told you
much about myself. My father was the slave of a rich holder of land in
the fen country. He wore an iron collar around his neck and when I was
big enough to walk they came and forged one around _my_ neck. They made
it large enough to last all my life, they thought, but they did not know
I would grow so large. Before I was fifteen, they had to come again and
file it off and put a larger collar around my neck. When they saw how
strong I had become, they sold me to a Roman trader who thought he could
offer me as a gladiator. But Rome had become Christian and the fighting
of gladiators in the forum was prohibited before I could be trained for
it." His eyes had assumed a faraway look. "You might think I do not owe
that country of mine any loyalty. It gave me nothing but blows and
withheld the right from me to stand up and call myself a man. And yet,
good friend, it calls to me. I think all the time of the soft air, the
greenness of the grass, the sweet fields which yielded so much good food
that even I, a slave, had plenty to eat." He gave his head an emphatic
shake. "I could not do anything to hurt that country of mine. I shall go
back someday soon."

"I love my country as much as you do," declared Nicolan. "The air is
just as sweet, the fields as rich. There is nothing in life I would
rather do than watch the Trumping of the Baws. There is a girl back
there I want to see again, although she may be married now; a girl with
yellow hair and a fine spark in her eyes." He dropped a hand on his
friend's great shoulder. "Let this be consolation for you, my huge Ivar.
I had already decided that the first thing I will do when I reach my own
land is to visit a Christian priest. He has been there ever since I was
a boy but he had to stay in concealment much of the time because Attila
has no liking for missionaries. He comes from the island where you were
born."

Ivar frowned in a puzzled way. "Why should a British priest come to your
country to make Christians out of you? Why did he not stay and do the
same for our own people?"

"I shall ask him that when I see him," said Nicolan, smiling. "He is
very wise and he sees into the heart of things. I will tell him what is
demanded of me and ask him what I am to do. He will know, that smiling
old priest. And whatever he says, I shall do. Does that satisfy you?"

Black Scyles arrived at this moment with a dish containing a most savory
mixture of meats. In his other hand was a bowl of _camus_, a heady Hun
brew. These he placed on the table and in a trice the hungry Briton was
seated in front of them.

"It is no wonder you are so big, master, when you have such a big
appetite," said the cook. "That Bulgar, now, you would have found him an
easy mouthful to swallow if you been there, eh, master?"

On their return the evening before, the pair had been told of what had
happened in the great hall. The Briton nodded without any pause in his
eating. "I think it would not have been too hard, Scyles. But I am glad
you finished him instead of me."

Nicolan found that he had no appetite. When the cook had left, he walked
over to the narrow window high up under the ceiling through which the
warm sun was shining. Stripping off his tunic a second time, he seated
himself where the welcome rays could reach his scarred back, believing
that the heat might be beneficial to it.

The loss of a full night's sleep and the warmth of the sun on his back
put him into a reflective mood. His mind strayed back to the past and he
began to recall everything which had happened to him since that day of
horror when the Roman slave trader with the villainous scar on his face
had come to the house of the Ildeburghs. He could still feel some of the
panic he had experienced then, he could hear the cries of the frightened
servants, the wild neighing of the horses, and old Maffa screeching her
maledictions.




CHAPTER VII


[1]

Old Maffa screamed her wild curses in words which no one, not even those
whose memories went far back, could understand! One of the soldiers had
soon ended that. A gesture from the fat and freckled hand of the
renegade Roman who had been placed in charge of the plateau country had
sent the soldier over to the angry old woman. A swift stroke of his
blunt sword, which drove the point forward no more than a few inches,
had torn a great hole in her throat and had silenced forever the ancient
nurse of the Ildeburghs.

Nicolan had wakened early that morning. In fact, he had slept very
little, being too much concerned over an emotional discussion he had
heard between his father and mother the evening before. His mother, his
wise and lovely mother, had been urging Saladar of the Ildeburghs to
adopt a more conciliatory attitude toward Vannius, as the turntunic
Roman was now called, although all men knew his real name was L. Pontius
Oriens and that he had absconded from Rome when his peculations in the
royal funds had been discovered. Attila had handed him the country to
govern with the understanding that large funds were to be raised.
Vannius had not only done this, finding ingenious excuses for accusing
the leading families of legal infringements and seizing their lands and
horses, but he had managed as well to fatten his own purse beyond all
reason. No man had ever been more hated than this evil-tempered tyrant
who had set up a household, with many coarse yellow-skinned wives from
the East, in the heart of the plateau.

"Saladar, Saladar!" Nicolan's mother had cried in the course of the
discussion. Her dark eyes were filled with an urgent fear. "You must
learn to bend a little. You are at this man's mercy. If you continue to
answer him so sharply, he will take away everything we have. I do not
mind that. It is the fear that he may take your life which makes it
impossible for me to sleep of nights."

"Amanina," answered Saladar in an affectionate tone. "I do not like to
see you so disturbed, my dearest wife. But I must tell you once and for
all that I cannot pander to this servant of the evil gods. It is not in
my nature to bend my back to him, this double-tongued traitor and thief!
The demands he makes on me drive me into a fury. Not even to make things
easier for you, my sweet Amanina, can I give in to him."

"But, my lord and husband, I fear only for your safety. Do you think I
care about the lands and the horses and the little bits of gold we have
saved? No, no, Saladar, I would face a penniless future rather than see
you bend your knee to this evil monster. But your life, O my Saladar, is
more precious than our pride. It is needful that you give in to him.
Perhaps just a little, my loved one. Flatter his pride. O Saladar,
Saladar! I beg you to do this."

It was not yet daybreak when Nicolan decided he would no longer toss
uneasily on his hard couch. He rose and dressed in the dark, uttering an
angry ejaculation when he stubbed his foot against the ivory base of his
bed. The Ildeburghs had been wealthy for generations and their low
U-shaped house was filled with luxurious appointments. It was still so
dark that he had to walk cautiously as he bent his steps in the
direction of the western meadows where the baws were being pastured. His
thoughts were now concerned only with the fine yearlings they would have
for the Trumping this year. It was seldom, in fact, that his mind held
any other thought. Being a true son of his race, and only fifteen years
of age, he regarded horses as the only interest worth a man's attention.

A word of explanation is required at this point. The language employed
by the people of the plateau had been added to constantly over the
years, words being borrowed from the other races they had encountered in
their slow westward migration. One of the words thus acquired was "baw."
It had meant in one tongue a pack horse, in another a friend. As a horse
and a friend were practically synonymous terms with the people of the
plateau, the word had gradually been applied to the yearlings,
particularly at the time when, with much sounding of trumpets, the
landowners brought the best of their stock for a match and testing every
spring. In another week the Trumping would take place and Nicolan spent
all of his time currying the best of their yearlings, and discussing
their chances with Sido, the overseer. Sido's long whip, which curled
constantly about the legs and backs of his helpers, had never been known
to cause a quiver on an equine hide.

It was dark and still when Nicolan reached the entrance to the west
meadows. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he emitted a loud whistle.
Instantly there came neighings from all points and the staccato beating
of hoofs as the yearlings came running in his direction. Nicolan grinned
proudly to himself. "The fine little fellows!" he said. "They know me."

Soon they were all about him. The sun had lifted an inquiring yellow
eyebrow over the eastern rim and he could now see their up-pointed ears
and their long graceful legs. "My pets!" he said, reaching out to rumple
the manes of the two nearest him. "Are you going to make me proud at the
Trumping? Are you going to win all the prizes, my fast little fellows?"

"What's this?" demanded a sharp voice from the darkness behind him. It
was clear from the tone of Sido's voice that he was angry.

"It's Nicolan. I came down to see how our young men were getting along."

He could hear the long whip of the overseer swishing in the air about
him. "And what good could you do in this darkness? All you have done is
to get me out of bed in a great sweat and fear that someone was trying
to steal them," declared Sido. "I could not see who you were and in
another second this whip of mine would have cut a strip of flesh off
your back. And well you would have deserved it!" He added in a grumbling
tone, "I would not have been slow to let you feel the weight of it,
Master Nick, if I had caught you up to any tricks."

Nicolan knew this only too well. On many occasions he had felt the sting
of the overseer's whip on his legs.

"But they know my whistle," he said, exultantly, nodding his head at
Sido in the dark. "Did you hear them come across? They were over the
meadows in a shorter time than any other lot have ever been able to do.
I think, Sido, we will sweep the Trumping this year."

Sido responded in a grumbling tone. "They are not bad, it is true. Their
eyes are the right color--there isn't a hint of blue in any of them.
Their throats are neat and clean. Their pasterns have the right slope
and their backs are strong. When they have their growth, they will stand
higher than the Arabians. All this is good but it is still too early to
be sure about them. The judges will have to guess, as they always do."

"It will not be hard for them to guess right when they look at this
lot," declared Nicolan, confidently.

The sun had come up enough so that he could see the amulet around each
slender neck, a protection against poison and evil charms.

It was at this moment that a wild and frightening wave of sound reached
their ears: men's voices raised in anger and fear, the shrill cries of
women, the clash of sword on shield, the frenzied neighing of horses. It
came from the direction of the house. Recalling the discussion of the
precious evening, Nicolan jumped at once to a conclusion. The hated
Vannius had arrived to take possession of the Ildeburgh properties and
his father was resisting by force of arms. Without pausing for a
moment's thought, the boy turned and ran in the direction from which the
sound had come.

Sido knew also what the clamor meant. The blow which had been
anticipated so long had fallen at last. He could not be of any help in
the fighting, he said to himself; it would be over before he could get
there. But he could perform one service at least, he could get some of
the best horses into the hiding place which bad been provided in the
Black Clough for such an emergency. Sighting one of his assistants on
the far side of the meadow, he cupped his hands over his lips and
shouted instructions to him. In a very few minutes the horses had been
collected into a compact body and were being driven off down a narrow
gulley.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The fighting had come to a tragic end by the time Nicolan emerged on the
green plateau where the house of the Ildeburghs stood. Resistance had
been brief, because the lookout man posted in the cover of trees which
commanded the road had fallen into a doze and had been knocked into
insensibility by a blow on the head with the flat of a Roman blade
before he could sound the alarm. Saladar, who slept lightly, had rushed
out sword in hand when the first iron-shod hoof sounded on the stone of
the road; and this had been accepted as full justification for a
murderous attack on him, under which he had gone down. Three of his men
had shared his fate later.

When Nicolan arrived on the scene he saw first of all his mother
standing defiantly before Vannius, her arms bound behind her back, her
face cold with grief and despair. The body of his father lay where he
had fallen. The world came down in sudden and complete ruin about the
boy and he did not resist when two of the governor's men seized him
roughly and dragged him up to stand beside his pale mother.

Vannius was sprawled in a wide chair which had been brought out from the
house for his convenience. It was a beautiful thing of chaste Grecian
design and in it his bloated body looked macabre and out of place. His
face had once been finely cut but was now coarsened by years of
indulgence and grotesquely mapped by purple veins.

"Is this the son?" he asked, in a thick voice.

When assured that Nicolan was the heir to the Ildeburgh lands and
honors, he gave a negligent gesture of his hand toward the limp body of
Saladar. "Everything this traitor owned is to be confiscated," he said.
His yellowish eyeballs rolled slowly and sickly in the direction of
Nicolan. "The boy will be disposed of with the mother. That is, of
course, if Trigetius, who seems to believe in one-sided bargains with
all the profit for him, can be induced to make a reasonable offer."

In a voice which the boy did not recognize, so drained was it of all
human quality, Amanina whispered in her son's ear, "We are to be sold as
slaves."

Nicolan became aware at the same moment of a man beside the chair where
Vannius slouched obesely, a Roman with an acquisitive squint and a scar
on one cheek which lent his face a villainous expression. This, he knew,
must be Trigetius. Everyone in the plateau lands had heard of him. He
was a slave trader and the most unscrupulous of them all.

The slave trader made his face still more hideous by frowning as he
pondered the problem. Finally he named a figure.

"It is not enough, my hardfisted Trigetius," declared the governor. "The
widow is worth that much alone without considering the value of the
boy."

Trigetius did not need to look again at the still and tragic figure of
Amanina, having already assessed her as a highly valuable commodity who
would sell at a very fine profit to some elderly Roman on the watch for
desirable feminine slaves. He turned instead to study the boy. "He's
thin," he commented, in a disparaging tone. "You can count all his ribs.
There would be little bidding for him."

"I appeal to Attila!" cried Nicolan, roused to a sudden fury of courage.
"My father had broken no laws. You have killed him so that his voice
cannot speak in his own defense."

The eyes of Vannius looked again in his direction. "I sit here in
Attila's stead and I am vested fully with his powers," he declared.
"When you appeal to Attila, you appeal to me. Get that into your head,
impudent stripling."

"He does not know the things you do in his name!" cried the boy. "They
say it is his desire to be fair to those who live under his rule."

"The comb of this young cock needs cutting," said Vannius, dropping all
pretense of dignity and speaking in an angry voice. "I know no late
worse than to confide him to the care of the considerate Trigetius, who
will know how to curb his tongue and humble his pride. Because of what
he has dared say to me, I shall argue no longer over terms for this
pair. I make you a fair and easy proposition, O kind Trigetius. Throw in
that opal you wear around your neck and I will accept your price."

The trader with the ugly scar detached the jewel from the heavy gold
chain around his neck. "I will give the stone only," he said. "The chain
is worth more than the skinny hide of this--this very rash young
upstart." He dropped the opal into the fat cushion formed by the
governor's cupped hand. "The deal, then, is made. I will pay you in
Roman gold, which I am sure, O Vannius, you would demand of me in any
case. May I say that on the whole I am content to part with the stone. I
suspect it has brought me bad luck...."

"Nicolan, say nothing more," whispered Amanina in her son's ear. "You
will only bring more misfortune on your head if you rouse their anger in
this way."

The eyes of Trigetius seemed to draw closer together as they went from
mother to son. He motioned to a servant. "Truss the boy's arms. We are
leaving at once and I do not want any attempt to run away. If he makes
as much as one false step, let him taste for his breakfast the fine
flavor of the bullwhip."


[2]

By the end of the day the party of the Roman trader had been swelled by
the acquisition of more prisoners who were being sold into slavery, a
dozen or more men and women too frightened to whisper among themselves;
some of them were being disposed of by owners of their own race and
blood. They had not yet left the plateau and Trigetius decided for
safety's sake to camp well off the road. He set two of his men to act as
sentries while the rest prepared a meal over a carefully screened fire.
Neither Nicolan nor his mother had any appetite, which brought the
trader over to give them a curt piece of advice. "If you faint on the
road tomorrow for lack of food or if you lag, you must expect the
consequences. The medicine I serve to slaves is sharp."

"I have looked this day on the dead face of my husband," said Amanina.

The trader nodded his head. "You will think better of it tomorrow when
hunger drives grief out of your head." He looked at her with a shrewd
eye in his scarred face. "You are a woman of family. Sit down and I will
tell you something for your own good." He squatted down first, lifting
his long linen robe over a pair of lean and hirsute knees. Much
gesturing with both hands provided an accompaniment to what he proceeded
to tell her. "Trading in slaves is my business and I make it pay me
well. I am not a hard man but I never let sentiment interfere with what
I do. My field is in the border provinces and in sections where the
Romans have lost their hold. The more unsettled a part is, the easier it
becomes to pick up slaves at low prices. Mostly I buy children. The
parents sell them. When their families get too large, they turn over
some of them to me. Children are no trouble. One tickling with the whip
and all the foolishness goes out of them. But I make the best profit
with women like you--wellborn, good to look at, and with a pleasant
cushioning of the bones. You may find this hard to believe but it is
true that our interests are identical. You want a good master and an
easy way of living and I make my best profit when I find these for you."
He nodded his head slowly. "With the great families in Rome there are
always nice occupations for female slaves. I might find someone who is
looking for an _auro praepositia_ and that would suit you well because
all they have to do is to keep the gold plate and see that it is well
burnished. There are always _lectors_ who read to the family. Then there
is the _corinthiaria_ who looks after the brazen vases. A little
lower--but still quite respectable, oh, indeed yes--are the _structia_
who see to the making of the ornamental confectionery and the
_panicoctaria_ who make fine cakes." A sly look came into his eyes.
"There are still easier posts about which I need not tell you anything,
for I see you are a woman of delicate scruples. There are many buyers in
Rome for this kind of slave and sometimes they pay high, very high
indeed; the older the buyer, the higher the price."

Amanina did not answer. She was holding her head down in the deepest
shame, her hands clutched in her lap.

"But if you don't watch yourself, woman, I will have to sell you to a
lower kind of family; as an _auditia_ who cleans the house or a
_cubicularia_ who works in the bedchambers. That is what happens when
you get to weeping and pining and letting your hips get thin and hollow
and your neck stringy. It is hard to give women away when they are like
that."

Nicolan, standing close at hand, said at this point, "My mother is
unhappy and ill. I demand that you leave her alone."

Trigetius got slowly to his feet, an angry frown in his close-set eyes.
"I was trying to be helpful when I should have turned you both over to
my men for a sound whipping. It is always with young cocks like you that
I have trouble. Let this be a lesson to you." He raised the whip in his
hand and brought it down across the boy's shoulders. A hot, excruciating
pain surged through Nicolan's body and instinctively he shrank away. "Do
you want twenty more like that? I will see that you get them if you open
your mouth again."

All through the next day Nicolan's shoulder and neck pained him so much
that he tramped beside his mother in a dazed and unhappy silence. He
thought mostly of his father, his mood swinging from a furious and
desperate rage to the numbness of despair. His bonds had been removed
after the first few hours on the road but he kept his hands with
conscious firmness against his sides. When they reached their camping
place for the night, and the rest of the prisoners were consuming the
coarse fare which had been provided for them, a far from palatable
concoction of pulse and corn, heavily salted, he moved his position
close enough to his mother to be able to whisper in her ear.

"We cannot stand this," he said. "We must contrive to escape. I have no
idea how it can be done but there must be a way. We will find it in
time. And that means we must be able to make our way back. I have been
thinking about it and I am going to draw a map."

His mother shook her head in despair. "Nicolan, you must not build your
hopes this way!" she whispered. "It will not be too hard for you, my
fine son. You will grow taller and stronger and in time you will be able
to buy your freedom. They say that Rome is filled with freedmen and that
many of them are powerful and wealthy. If you tried to run away, my son,
and they caught you, they would nail you to a cross. It is what they
always do." She shuddered. "Some men of our race have died that way. You
must promise me to be sensible. What"--a tear, the first he had seen her
shed, was on her cheek--"what good would come of returning to our home?
They would take us again and sell us to other masters."

"Mother, what will become of you?"

"My son, it does not matter. I lost all desire to live when I saw your
father go down under their swords."

Nicolan sat in thought for a long time before speaking again. "I do not
want to add to your grief. It may be as you say, that it is impossible
to escape. But I am going to make the map. It will keep my mind
occupied, at least."

The next night, after everyone had fallen into a sleep of complete
exhaustion, he made his way with great stealth to the fire. Here he
found a charred twig in the ashes and returned with it to his place. His
mother, on his urging, had ripped a strip from the bottom of the one
spare robe she had been permitted to bring. Taking a small piece of it,
he proceeded to make a map of the ground they had covered since leaving
the familiar homeland.

He was discovering something about himself which made it easy to
complete the task. His eyes were adept at gauging distances and judging
the levels of roads as well as the height of the land. Now he found that
his hand had an unsuspected skill in transferring everything he had seen
in the fullest detail to the white material. When the drawing was
finished, he was certain that it would be an easy matter to follow the
instructions he had set down.

Each day thereafter he kept his eye on the course of the road, noting
each detail of the trail which seemed important and carefully estimating
the distances. Each night he took another square of the material and set
down what he had observed. The pieces were numbered and stowed away
under his belt.


[3]

One of the other slaves was a tall man of middle years who answered to
the name of Sarus. Usually Nicolan walked beside his mother but one day
he found himself at the foot of the line where Sarus, who had bad feet,
was always to be found. They fell into talk and the limping elder man
told his story to the boy: how he had been born and raised in Illyricum,
that he was a free man but had married a pretty slave girl. Amaga had
borne him two sons and her hard master had claimed them as his property.
When they were old enough, they had been sold to a slave dealer.

"My Amaga is dead," said the unhappy father. "When I learned that my two
sons had been bought by a senator in Rome, I decided I must follow them
by any means at all. I must see them. I must be in a position to help
them. Perhaps someday I might even be able to buy them free. But I
couldn't do any of these things from Illyricum." He gave his head a
saddened and weary shake. "There was only one thing to do. I sold myself
to Trigetius. With the money he paid me--he drove a hard bargain--I may
be able to purchase the freedom of my poor little sons. If I can find
them."

"What will happen to you then?" asked Nicolan.

Sarus turned on him a face which was transfigured with emotion. "Nothing
else will matter," he cried, "if I can get them free!"

The day came finally when they saw on the horizon the walls of the great
city which the change-seeking Romans had built close to the waters of
the Adriatic as a rival to Rome. It was apparent at first glance that
Ravenna was already a great accomplishment, for the roofs of white
marble palaces and the towering spires of churches showed above the
walls. Sarus as usual was hobbling along in the rear and he raised the
stick, which gave some aid to his legs, as a signal to Nicolan to drop
back.

"Have you heard?" asked Sarus, in a whisper when they were pacing along
together.

"I have heard nothing."

"We are to be offered for sale here in Ravenna."

Nicolan looked at his companion and saw that his face was drawn into
lines of suffering and despair.

"But Trigetius won't offer you," he said. "He made you a promise. That
you would be taken to Rome."

"A promise made to a slave is nothing," said Sarus, bitterly. "It can be
broken in the next breath." He groaned in desperation of spirit. "He has
chosen Ravenna because so many of the wealthiest Romans are coming here
now that the old woman"--he was referring to Galla Placidia, the mother
of the emperor--"has made it her home. It is said that even the emperor
is talking of moving here. Prices of everything are going up. Slaves
bring a better price here than in Rome." Disregarding the proximity of
one of the guards with a heavy whip in his hand, the unfortunate father
cried out in a loud voice: "Alas, my poor little sons! I shall never see
them again!"

To give him some comfort, Nicolan pointed out that in all probability
the wealthy Romans, who would bid for slaves on the market at Ravenna,
kept up establishments in Rome as well. He might still hope to be taken
to the capital of the empire.

"I have thought of that," said Sarus. "I get some small comfort out of
it."

The next day the male slaves, who had slept in the courtyard of an inn
outside the city walls, where the smell of stagnant water in the canals
which had been dug to drain the fens around the new city filled their
nostrils unpleasantly, were ordered to discard their clothes. They were
then instructed to take turns in stepping with both feet into a bucket
containing white paint. After doing this, they sat in rows on the damp
cobbles with their feet raised on pieces of wood to give the paint a
chance to dry.

Nicolan asked the meaning of this strange proceeding of the man seated
next to him. "This," was the answer, pointing to their whitened feet and
ankles, "means we are barbarians and have been brought across the bounds
of what they call their empire. The buyers--the slavering, stinking
beasts who will come and look us over and poke their fingers into our
stomachs--know about us, without being told, from things like this.
Someday Marha will look down and see what we suffer and we will dip
_his_ fingers into molten lead and poke them into _their_ stomachs!"

"Will we be offered for sale naked?"

The other slave nodded. "They want to see what they are buying."

"The women too?"

"As naked as the day they came into the world. That's what brings the
buyers out. Lots of them come to the slave market every day. They get
more pleasure out of it than anything. Many of them, without a copper
coin among the lot of them, stand around and buy the naked girls with
their eyes."

Nicolan was so filled with angry emotion that he wanted to cry out
against such abominations. He was asking himself if his mother would be
compelled to undergo this ordeal. He was sure that, if they made her
stand nude in the market place, she would die of the shame. Never would
she be able to survive such humiliation as this. He raised his wrists
and stared at the chains which bound them together. Was there nothing he
could do? He called to the guard who stood over them and demanded a word
with Trigetius.

The guard laughed and gave his whip a swish in the air. "A word with the
master? Foolish little slave, I will curl the ends of my whip around
your skinny ribs if I hear another word out of you."

The slave market was circular in shape, with benches two feet high
around the outside. Trigetius had rented half of the space and had
planted spears in the ground at each end with a rope looped from handle
to handle. Nicolan was halfway of the section where the men stood on
display. He had not dared turn his eyes in the direction of the women. A
card with a price on it had been pasted to the skin of his waist but he
refused to imitate the others and bend his head to find what valuation
the astute Trigetius had placed on him. He kept his head up and his eyes
fixed on the sky above the white marble portal of the Slave Exchange.

Buyers and mere lookers were walking up and down in front of the
benches. They congregated for the most part where Trigetius showed his
wares and most of their talk was of the healthy men and buxom women he
had brought. Occasionally a buyer would step up to flex a muscle.

"You will never sell," said the man next to Nicolan, in a whisper.
"You're not worth the price he has put on you. What were you, the son of
a German king or a Sarmatian baron?"

Nicolan passed over the ill will behind the remark. "What is the price
fixed on Sarus?" he asked. That unhappy man was standing at one end of
the line and it was easy to see from the pallor of his cheeks and the
lines about his eyes that he was a prey to the deepest fears.

"Low," was the answer. "He will be the first to go."

This proved to be an accurate guess. An old Roman with a predatory nose
raised a hand in front of Sarus and snapped his fingers as a sign that
he would pay the price. The pale Sarus, unable at first to believe that
this great misfortune had come his way, had to be shoved off the bench,
landing in a heap at his new master's feet.

A few minutes later one of the guards came to a stop in front of
Nicolan.

"Get down," he said.

"Have I been bought?" asked Nicolan.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" demanded the guard, angrily. "I told you
to get down. Yes, you have been bought. I don't know why. You don't look
as though you had a good day's work in you."

Nicolan got his courage up to the point of looking at the other end of
the line where the women stood. There were many gaps already. His mother
was not there.

His first reaction was one of hope. Had Trigetius, in deference to his
mother's station in life, exempted her from appearing on the slave
market? If that were the case, he would take her on to Rome and dispose
of her there. The possibility of this was dismissed almost immediately
from his mind. It was much more likely that Trigetius had found a
purchaser for her at an early stage and that she had already been
claimed by her master.

His mother was looking forward to death with such a fierce desire that
gradually he had come to feel some reconciliation to this as a solution.
He could do nothing for her, no matter how passionately and continuously
he turned over every possibility in his mind. There was no one to whom
he might appeal. They had been dragged into a world where the kings of
conquered countries labored as slaves for the dominant race and heroes
died under the lash of cruel overseers. If there was nothing they could
do, what hope was there for him? One only: he might be able to seize the
sword of the tall black attendant who stood in the center of the market
and slash about him until he was cut down and killed. This suicidal
gesture would not abate his mother's sufferings a single jot.

"Follow me," said the guard.

He was taken back to the underground room in the Slave Exchange where
those who had been sold were held until claimed. A few moments later
Trigetius came and squatted down beside him.

"I have done well with you," he stated, with a satisfied nod of his
head. "You have been sold to Aetius."

At this most unexpected announcement, Nicolan turned and stared at the
dealer. Aetius was the master of Rome. By the death of Boniface eight
years before the only rival had been removed from the path of the
ambitious Roman who had spent his youth at the Hun court and had later
become the best of the imperial generals. Despite the hostility of
Placidia, the mother of the weak young emperor, Aetius had acquired a
control over Roman affairs which amounted to dictatorship.

The trader nodded his head again. "This will be a great chance for you.
As you can read and write, you may be advanced in his service. Aetius is
the greatest man in the world today--barring, of course, that monster up
there. I have sold him many slaves and so I know him well. He depends on
my judgment and it required no more than my recommendation to close the
deal with his agent, who came out yesterday."

"What will he do with me?"

Trigetius raised both hands with the palms up. "Who am I to say what the
great Aetius will do? He has need of men with education since he has his
hands on all the departments now. The young emperor is a slack-bellied
glutton and fool and Aetius never consults him any more. The old
woman"--Nicolan knew he was referring to Placidia--"hates him like
poison but there is nothing she can do. They say she bites her nails
with rage in her palace at Ravenna and swears that someday she will have
his head brought to her on a charger. But Aetius goes right on governing
the empire."

"What have you done with my mother?"

Trigetius was twisting a quill in his teeth with an air of oily
affability. "I sold her," he said. "It was settled last night by private
treaty. Her owner is a wealthy man of advanced years who has a house in
Ravenna as well as in Rome. He will be an indulgent master, if she will
be sensible about it."

"I am afraid my mother is indifferent to what may happen to her."

"I had been noticing that her health was not good. That is why I decided
to make a quick sale." Trigetius nodded with pride in his own sagacity.
"There are doses you can give slaves before exposing them for sale. It
puts color in the cheeks and brightens up the eyes. A young girl can be
made to look very lively and all the buyers will bid for her. I seldom
do it because I have a reputation to maintain. Your mother is a comely
woman and she could still be sold without going to such lengths. The old
bag of bones who bought her was quite pleased with her."

Nicolan, holding himself under a tight rein, asked in a low tone, "Will
I be able to see her before we are separated?"

"There is still time. I grant you this favor because I have done well
enough with both of you. You will tell the steward of Aetius that I was
lenient and considerate." Trigetius got to his feet. "Come with me."

His mother was sitting by herself in a corner of the room where the
women were held. The chains had been removed from her ankles and wrists.
Nicolan seated himself beside her.

"Do you know that we have both been sold?" he asked.

"Yes, my son. You are being taken to Rome. Surely, in the household of
such a great man, you will have fair treatment."

"I have no idea what it will be like."

"Be careful and sensible, my poor son. You are young and you must think
of the future."

"I think only of you. Mother, Mother, what will happen to you? Have you
seen this man they call your master?"

"No, not yet." She leaned over and stroked his hand gently. "My son, it
does not matter about me. I think only of the release which will come to
me very soon now. I think of rejoining your father in the land to which
his spirit has gone." She roused herself sufficiently to turn and look
at him with deep love in her eyes. "My son, I am afraid that I am a
better wife than mother. My thoughts have all been of the husband who
died before my eyes and not of the son who must go on living in this
cruel world."

"That is as it should be, Mother," said Nicolan. "A man must stand on
his own two feet in this world, even if they are painted white. Have no
fears for me. Somehow I will escape. And I promise that I will take a
full measure of revenge. And this I promise too, that I shall love and
reverence you to my last hour of life."




CHAPTER VIII


[1]

Although Rome sat quiescently under his eye and the provinces trembled
at his nod, Aetius was an upstart. He had been born in Silistria, which
was a dark and barbarian land along the Lower Danube. His father was one
Gaudentius, who had risen to be called the Count of Africa although it
was certain that not one drop of pure Roman blood pulsed in his veins.
It was a custom among the members of the great old families to ask each
other in cautious whispers: "Aetius? Where was Aetius yesterday?" and
the answer was, "Where he will be tomorrow."

When this able and ambitious man found it necessary to locate himself
suitably in the capital of the great empire over which he now ruled, he
discovered that a palisade of pride ringed the Palatine Hill. Here stood
the palaces of dead and gone emperors with the homes of the great
families clustering about them. Not as much as an inch of land was for
sale or subject to confiscation. And yet where else but on the Palatine
could a man of his stature live? Even with the power he had gathered
into his hands, the best Aetius could do was to take a scrubby piece of
land on the slope. It was close to the spot where Cicero had once lived
in considerable pomp but there was no consolation in that when it was
found that a house built on this site would of necessity cling
precariously to the sloping earth. When Aetius finished with the raising
of his far from pretentious walls, it was found that the entrance road
would be too steep for any form of conveyance. The carriages and
curtained litters in which visitors arrived had to remain, therefore, on
the crest while the passengers approached the plain stone entrance on
foot, with the aid of an iron railing. Some arrived in a belligerent
mood but mostly they were reduced to a proper degree of humility by the
experience.

The palace of Aetius was, therefore, the least imposing as well as the
least comfortable on this mighty citadel of privilege where the riches
from the rape of a world were squandered. The _vestibulum_, which was
always crowded to the point of extreme discomfort, was almost bare of
furnishings. The best accommodation it offered was a ledge around the
walls and this was crowded at all hours. There was never a moment
seemingly when this inhospitable stone did not accommodate the soft
posterior of a senator and the lean, tough shanks of at least one
general.

As though conscious of his obscure beginnings, Aetius had shown the good
taste not to follow any of the fads and fashions of the moment. He had
not filled the saloons of his aseptically new house with _imagines
majorum_, the waxen masks of ancestors, real or imaginary, with which
social climbers bolstered their claims. He had not placed on his walls a
single relic of the departed great, a form of antique for which all
right-thinking patricians competed bitterly. If Aetius accompanied a
prominent visitor to the door before dismissing him, he never tarried
beside a prayer rug on the wall to say, "Do you find it hard to believe
that the lovely knees of Helen, yes, _the_ Helen, pressed this many
hundreds of times?" or with even greater arrogance, "This sword, which
cost me a fortune, I assure you, knew the touch of the hand of great
Caesar."

The only distinctive feature of the house, perhaps, was a strong stone
lodge at one side which was surrounded by a moat and could be approached
only by a single drawbridge. Here Aetius slept and, when he had retired
for the night, the bridge was raised and bolted securely to the wall. He
shared with all dictators a desire to sleep in well-guarded isolation.

In spite of its drawbacks the house was well adapted to the needs of its
owner. Most of the visitors came on matters of business or political
concern. They would be taken for a brief minute or two into the small
spare room where the dictator sat. They would be questioned sharply and
to the point and dismissed as soon as the question at issue had been
resolved. Aetius tried to see everyone who called and so had won for
himself the good will of the common people, which he was sensible enough
to value above the condescension of the patricians.

A visitor who looked about him in this Spartan house and took note of
the cedarwood cabinets, fitted with pigeonholes and cubicles and stuffed
with notes, and observed the busy secretaries and scriveners who came
and went in silent absorption, could not fail to realize that the owner
had dedicated himself to work. If they enjoyed the opportunity of
watching him closely they would come in time to know that his was not
the kind of genius which excelled in brilliant improvisation and arrived
at results by daring expedients; that, instead, the great Aetius, who
without doubt _was_ a genius, was systematic and thorough to a degree.
He took no decision until he had carefully considered everything bearing
on it. He possessed so much common sense, in fact, that secretly he had
no belief in the accepted superstitions of the day. Before going into
battle he consulted the auguries in deference to the universal belief in
the need but he took his course from the information his scouts and
spies had brought instead of following the conclusions adduced by a
study of the quivering entrails of newly killed poultry.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A day came which was memorable only to a slave newly arrived in Rome who
had stared about him at the great marble palaces and the high public
buildings as well as the malodorous caverns where the poor lived and had
found himself in a welter of emotions, excitement, incredulity, shock,
and resentment. In the early afternoon of this day, Aetius escorted a
visitor through the _atrium_ and out to the entrance, above which
stretched that difficult road so hard to ascend. The visitor was a tall
and stooped man in his late middle years with a friendly eye which saw
everything going on about him.

"Micca," said the dictator of Rome, in a careful whisper, "you have
brought me much information which will be useful and for which I thank
you. Come back again after you have paid your visits to Constantinople
and to that--that man of envy and scorn, that boaster and bully who will
someday cause us great trouble. I depend much on the news you glean for
me. On your way, stop at Ravenna and find what the old woman is thinking
and doing. She seems consistent in one thing only, her hatred of me."

"The--the personage to whom you refer is not hard to understand, O Great
Aetius," said the trader. "If you persevere in the opinion you have just
expressed, you will never be at fault where she is concerned." He
continued then in a tone for all to hear. "I thank you for the
commissions you have been generous enough to confide to me. I shall
strive to please you with what I obtain."

The _vocator_, whose duty it was to keep account of all visitors and
inform his master in advance of their names and occupations so that
Aetius could greet them with familiarity, said to the great man as he
returned from dismissing Micca the Mede: "There is a new slave. The one
purchased from Trigetius. He is the son of a wealthy landowner on the
Alfld. The father is recently deceased."

"That one," said Aetius, pausing. He was so thorough in his methods that
no detail was too insignificant for his attention. He even made it a
point to see each new slave. "Who are still waiting to speak with me?"

The _vocator_ went over the list. A score or more were waiting for a
chance to see the master of Rome. None, however, was of first importance
and Aetius decided they could all wait. He would have a look at the
slave first.

Nicolan was surprised at his initial glimpse of the ruler of Rome.
Aetius was the handsomest man he had ever seen. The boy who had roused
the enmity of his stunted playmate Attila had grown into an imposing
figure, with a high and finely proportioned forehead, a straight nose,
an animated eye. On second glance it became apparent that his good looks
were limited by an expression of extreme severity. He never smiled and
when he spoke it was in cold and contained tones. Behind the animation
of his eye was a hint of calculation.

The ruler of the empire studied a note which the _vocator_ had placed in
his hand. "I see here," he said, without raising his eyes, "that you
read and write."

"Yes, my lord Aetius," answered Nicolan.

"Do you know anything of this new way of writing?"

"I understand the shorthand."

"Who taught you?"

Nicolan hesitated. "A priest. A very learned man who came from one of
the islands of the west and who studied it in a book."

"A missionary, I judge. The first one I have heard of who seems to have
some practical sense. It is good you can write the short way. I have a
few here who use it but not as many as I would like. You come from the
plains below the Danube. Have you ever seen the emperor of the Huns?"

"No, my lord Aetius."

"Have you seen this renegade who has been put in control of your
country? He goes by the name of Vannius."

"Once, my lord. On the morning he killed my father and sold my mother
and me to the trader."

"And what is your opinion of him?"

"He is a cruel and ignorant tyrant. If he escapes retribution long
enough, I will strangle him someday."

Aetius handed the note back to the _vocator_ and addressed Nicolan
without turning in his direction. "I asked the question to see if you
would be foolhardy enough to answer. The first lesson you must learn, it
seems, is that a slave has no opinions." He turned to the _vocator_ and
said in a matter-of-fact tone: "I will make it light this time. Tell the
bailiff five lashes only. Take him away."

The prompter asked, "What work is he to be given?"

"When he recovers from the effect of the lashes, the bailiff will put
him to copying."

"What class is he to be in?"

"The lowest," instructed Aetius. "This one needs to be taught humility."


[2]

Sitting where the warmth of the rising sun bore down so gratefully on
his scarred back, Nicolan found that his recollections of living in the
lowest classification of slavery in the household of Aetius, apart from
several episodes of sheer horror, had to do mostly with food. He was
always hungry. The meals served twice a day were scanty and at times
unpalatable. The first consisted invariably of a porridge-like substance
made of wheat which was supposed to be nutritious but certainly was not
pleasing to the taste. The second, served in midafternoon, was rather
more substantial: thick slices of a heavy brown bread with a few shreds
of gristly meat or cheese made of goat's milk, and a cup of thin sour
wine to wash it down.

To make it harder for those who subsisted on this monotonous fare, they
were drafted for service in the kitchens when Aetius entertained and the
sights and smells would drive them almost mad with craving. Nicolan
served on many occasions in the preparation of the gargantuan feasts
which the dictator served to groups of prominent Romans. Once he was
delegated to stuff the stomach of a boar, which had been spitted whole
on a huge turning-iron, with deliciously roasted sausages. Another time
he was put to work with the dessert squad, far away from the great hot
fires where the roasts were preparing, and he spent several hours of
temptation in filling field-fares with dried grapes and almonds and
luscious tarts with fresh fruit heavily sugared and then embedded in
cushions of brown custard. There was an almost irresistible impulse in
him to seize a morsel of this wonderful food and cram it into his mouth.
Fortunately be never yielded to the desire. Sharp eyes scrutinized the
laboring ranks of the slaves and any surreptitious munching of food
would bring a cry of "Thief!" or "Birds in the cherry tree!" The bailiff
had one method only in dealing with such cases. He would say, "Five
lashes," or, if it were a second offense, "Ten lashes."

The sentences of the bailiff were always carried out immediately. First
the Punishment Bell would ring, sounding three sharp notes somewhat like
the swish of the lash, and all members of the household who were free at
the moment would repair to the kitchen court which had been built out
somewhat precariously from the base of the building. The delinquent
would be stripped to the waist and compelled to kneel. A tall eunuch
from Numidia applied the whip. He was so skillful that, if he so
desired, he could make the lash curl about the flesh of the victim
without causing excessive pain. But more frequently, when he disliked
the offender or felt complete indifference, he would let the rawhide
crash down on the shrinking backs with an effect like the impact of
white-hot metal bars.

Nicolan's first taste of the whip had not been too great an ordeal. At
any rate he had managed to sustain it without emitting a sound. His
second was a much different matter. The grapevine of the slaves, which
distributed news of the outside world as well as the gossip of the
household, had brought him word that his mother was dead. Her life had
ended in Rome within a fortnight of her sale to the wealthy landowner.
She had not followed the warning of Trigetius, quite clearly, and had
been subjected to the disciplinary lash. The son's grief had been
violently expressed and the bailiff, informed of the threats he had
uttered, departed from his usual formula by saying, "Ten lashes." This
time the eunuch allowed the heavy whip to cut the skin and Nicolan
fainted as the last of the ten stripes descended on the shrinking flesh
of his back and shoulders. He was in the hospital of the household for
several weeks before his strength came back.

In course of time he was promoted to a higher level in the slave scale,
owing to the proficiency he showed in his work. This meant that he no
longer slept in a room below the level of the ground on a mound of dank
straw. He had a narrow bed to himself in a long ward which accommodated
nearly seventy of the higher-ranking slaves. There was a long tiled bath
in the adjoining chamber, capable of use by half a dozen adults at the
same time. This had to be shared with the female slaves and an
arrangement had been made whereby the women had the sole right to the
bath until two in the afternoon, after which it was exclusively for the
use of the men. He took his meals with the same privileged group in a
stone chamber from which could be heard the clatter and confusion of the
kitchen. The food was better, although inclined to be coarse at times
and monotonous always.

To his surprise, he found the conversation at meals interesting. For the
most part the high-placed slaves discussed the affairs of the household
and of business generally. There was continuous reference to the uses
they were making of their _peculium_, the reward they were allowed to
make and keep. Sometimes they conversed on such matters as world
politics, the arts, the leaders of Rome, religion, and philosophy.
Nicolan was surprised at the intelligence they displayed. Comparing
their talk with the languid and insipid tattle in the great dining room
above, he got the impression that slaves were more alert of mind and
enterprising of spirit than the masters of the world who lolled in the
absurd existence of luxury and privilege they had created for
themselves.

Nicolan was put into the copying room first, and here he worked with
such speed and proficiency that in a short time he was promoted to
secretarial work. As a final upward step he began to take dictation from
Aetius himself. The tail, stern Roman recognized him without a doubt (he
never forgot a face) but he gave no evidence of interest or recollection
when Nicolan entered his room for the first time. It was soon apparent,
however, that he had been well satisfied. Within a week Nicolan was
doing all his work.

Aetius dictated with great speed, saying "Letter" or "Note," and
plunging at once into a flow of well-conceived and trenchant sentences.
Sometimes he would pause and rub the end of his fine long nose with a
forefinger but for the most part he was never at a loss for a phrase. To
keep up with him, the fingers of the young slave had to move as fast as
the legs of a charging soldier of the legion.

It was by reason of his frequent attendance in the small workroom of the
master, from the window of which a view could be had of most of the
great city, that Nicolan became the sharer of a secret. Conscious of the
contempt of the patrician families, Aetius was planning to raise himself
high above them all. His idea was one of great audacity: to divorce his
wife and take in wedlock in her place the sister of the emperor, the
young and vivacious Princess Honoria.

The dictator discussed this scheme with several of his closest
adherents, senators and men high in the army and the governmental
services. The consultations were carried on in whispers but otherwise no
effort was made to keep the secretary, sitting at his small table in a
corner, from knowing. He was a slave and was under the strictest
obligation to divulge nothing that concerned his master. There was less
danger in him than in the four walls which enclosed them as they
whispered about the plan.

Nicolan was not interested at all. What did it matter that his master,
who made no effort to win affection or foster allegiance in his own
household, was hatching a scheme to raise himself to a place in the
imperial family? Everything that happened in this proud and wealthy
city, this center of corruption and hypocrisy and wickedness, everything
he heard and saw and felt, added to his hatred for Rome and the Romans.
Once he said to himself that Rome was like a dying leper clothed in
shimmering silk and wearing a jeweled crown; and the phrase stayed in
his mind and he often repeated it to himself, with a sense of pride that
he had coined it.

The men consulted by Aetius seemed to favor his idea. It would
consolidate his position, they told him, more securely than anything
else he could do. Only one of them raised a doubt. "What of the old
woman?" he asked. "You will never get her to consent."

Aetius smiled at this. "Nothing will give me more pleasure than to go
over her head. I will have the matter settled with the emperor before
she has any inkling of it."

Within a very short time it was announced that the Princess Honoria, who
had been sharing the semi-retirement of her mother in Ravenna since the
rise of Aetius had taken all power out of the hands of Placidia, would
pay a visit to Rome. The manner of Aetius became gay, in fact it might
have been termed frisky, as he set himself to planning a suitable gift
for the lovely guest. He summoned the best jewelers of Rome to make
suggestions but listened to their ideas with impatience. None of them
could think of anything but necklaces and tiaras and bracelets, all of
which would involve him in enormous expense without achieving any
suggestion of thoughtful planning. It happened that Micca the Mede was
in Rome at this juncture and the desire of Aetius came to his ears. It
happened also that Nicolan was with his master when the itinerant
merchant was admitted. Micca, wearing a confident smile, had a bundle
under one arm, carefully swathed in silk wrappings.

"O Great Aetius!" said Micca, bowing as he stood in the doorway. "I am
told you have need of a gift and it came to my mind that there was in my
possession an article which might seem to you well suited."

The habitual cold expression on the face of Aetius showed some sign of
amelioration. "It is true that I need a gift of great rarity," he said.
"I have been in despair of finding it."

"If my lord Aetius will permit me to show him what I have--" Micca moved
close to the marble table at which Aetius labored so many hours of the
day. He placed the bundle on one corner and proceeded to remove the silk
wrappings. When the final cover had been taken off, there was revealed a
tall urnlike vessel of surpassing beauty which possessed not one but
four lips. It was whiter than the most translucent chalcedony and was
decorated with rubies set in a scroll of delicate silver work. It was so
lovely that even the practical-minded Aetius fell under its spell
completely and did not trust a finger to touch it. Obviously it was very
old and everything about it spoke of great associations in the past.

"What is the purpose of it?" asked Aetius, after several moments of
silent contemplation.

"See, my lord Aetius." Micca touched a finger to the inside of one of
the lips and a delicate spray of perfume was the result. "That is
balsam. Inside there are four sections and each contains a different
perfume. It is"--even the old merchant seemed to stand somewhat in awe
of this ancient and lovely thing--"my lord Aetius, it is certain that it
is very old. It came from the East and the story I have been told is
that it once belonged to an emperor in China. I confess that I have no
proof of this. The body, as you see, is of white jade and the rubies are
flawless." He hesitated and then added, "I can conceive of no finer
gift."

Aetius was both pleased and excited. He got up and moved around the
table in order to see the urn from every angle. He even smiled, a
fleeting effort which was entirely muscular and carried no hint of inner
warmth.

"What is the price?" he asked.

Micca answered in a tone of velvety unction. "The price, my lord, is
very high. Let me put it this way. The price is your continued
confidence in me. It can be expressed only in terms of my appreciation
of the honor you do me. If it pleases you, it is yours. I give it freely
and gladly. There can be no question of any other kind of payment
between us."

After Micca had left the room, leaving the urn on the table where the
eyes of Aetius could rest on it with mounting and intense satisfaction,
the real ruler of the empire began to plan the note which was to
accompany it. He took the greatest care in the phrasing and paused often
in search of the right word. It was clear that the astute mind behind
the severe dark eyes was now deeply committed to the idea, and that this
man, who had seized the reins of real power from the worthless emperor
and his ambitious mother, was now determined to win the highest of
honors for himself. Had not Placidia herself been given as her second
husband an Illyrian general named Constantius, whose achievements had in
no way equaled those of Aetius and who had been, moreover, a loutish and
sullen figure? And had not Constantius been made joint emperor with
Placidia's brother at the same time that she was given the title of
Augusta? Was it presumptuous to think that history might repeat itself?


[3]

The sight of Ivar breakfasting at the other end of the room made
Nicolan's thoughts turn to the first time that he had seen the tall
Briton. Although he had been involved immediately thereafter in a
nightmare of suffering, he could still recall the meeting with a depth
of affectionate feeling. He smiled across the room at his friend and
Ivar paused long enough in his prodigious eating to smile back.

Aetius had decided to send a large number of secondary gifts with the
jade urn, a few small pieces of jewelry, some bolts of oriental cloth,
as well as fruit and flowers in great profusion. Each article was to be
carried by a slave on an embroidered cushion of green velvet and Nicolan
found that he had been selected as one of the bearers. Those honored in
this way were attired in special livery for the occasion, consisting of
a white robe with a stripe of green across the breast and on the lower
hem, and new sandals with green thongs. They were instructed minutely in
what they were to do.

They were ushered into a high-pillared room in the royal palace and in a
few minutes the princess entered, followed by a bevy of her maids and
several important-looking officers of the imperial household. She spoke
in a very sweet voice to the young general who had been selected to make
the presentation. Nicolan was taller than most of the other slaves and
so was stationed in the rear rank, holding one of the cushions on which
reposed a vial of true nard, a most aromatic perfume. To his own
surprise he found that he was quite curious about the sister of the
emperor.

The Princess Honoria was a slender girl with enormous black eyes and a
manner which could not be described as effusive but which certainly
strayed beyond the narrow confines set for royal dignity. She smiled
often and she made it clear that she was delighted with the urn. Her
approbation seemed to extend to the young general as well, who had black
hair curling closely over his head and a handsome bronzed face. As he
knelt before her she allowed her fan to touch his shoulder; the merest
touch, of course, which could have been accidental but obviously was
not. When it became Nicolan's turn to climb the three marble steps and
sink on one knee in front of her, with his head carefully lowered, he
found himself carried away on a wave of sheer intoxication. Seen close
at hand, she was undeniably lovely. Was his imagination playing him
tricks or had the long black eyelashes fluttered as he sank to his knees
and held out the cushion on both hands? It had not happened, of course,
and a fine piece of presumption it was on his part to have conceived it.
But what followed was not imagination at all.

Before one of her ladies could lift the vial for her inspection and then
deposit it with the rest, the princess said in a voice quite as sweet as
the tone she had used for the young soldier, "How lovely!" and lowered
her head to test its fragrance. She had beautiful hair, as dusky as her
eyes and with a soft natural wave. He was conscious of a faint but
intoxicating perfume which made the contents of the vial seem coarse and
ordinary. While her head was thus bent close to his he heard a voice
speak to him in a tone so low that he again suspected it was something
he had conjured up in his mind.

This was what he heard, or what he believed he heard: "What a pity you
are a slave--and not _my_ slave!"

His head swam and he wondered how he was going to get sufficient control
of himself to rise and walk backward down the marble steps. Before he
had recovered any degree of his self-possession, she raised her head and
said in a casual voice, "It is nard and _not_ one of my favorites." This
had the effect of bringing Nicolan back to earth. He raised himself from
his kneeling position and reached his place in the line without any
mistake.

A few minutes later the ceremony was over. With a final smile, which she
tried to distribute impartially over all the occupants of the room, the
slender princess disappeared. Nicolan began to breathe naturally again.
"I wonder," he asked himself, "if she spoke to the others like that?"
The thought was dismissed instantly. He was sure she had not.

The slaves were led to a dark room in the rear of the palace where a
single jug of _mulsum_ had been provided for their refreshment. The
freemen of the party were partaking of food and wine from a well-laden
table in another room. When it came to Nicolan's turn to take a sup, he
shook his head. He knew from the color of the wine that it was inferior
_mulsum_ and suspected that it was not real Falernian wine which had
been mixed with the honey water in making it.

At this moment a tall young man, wearing the livery of the princess,
entered the room and glanced about him. Nicolan had noticed him during
the ceremony and had been impressed not only with the strength of his
bare arms and the fine lines of his powerful legs but much more by the
steadiness of his dark gray eyes. Once their glances had crossed and
both had smiled instantly and instinctively. It was as though they had
met and had said to each other, "We are going to be friends."

The tall slave, for he wore the badge of servitude on his shoulder,
walked over to where Nicolan was standing. "You refuse the _mulsum_," he
said, speaking in halting Latin words and with a marked accent. "You are
wise. It is thin and very sweet."

"I had a disinclination for it apart from its quality," answered
Nicolan.

"It is clear you have not been a slave long. Did they paint your feet
when they brought you to Rome?"

Nicolan nodded. "They did that in Ravenna. I come from the north, the
country of the Upper Danube."

"I come from much farther north. From Britain. Perhaps you do not know
of it--an island north of Gaul. A large and very fine island." The tall
slave motioned in the direction of the wine jug, which was now empty. "I
have been a slave all my life and so I am not so much concerned at being
treated in this way."

"I saw you upstairs. I thought what a gladiator you might have been
before they closed the arenas."

"I saw you too. I said to myself, 'I like him and I must see him before
he leaves.'"

This friendly speech brought tears to Nicolan's eyes. It was the only
kind thing which had been said to him since that morning of wrath when
Vannius had appeared so suddenly and had put an end to everything worth
while in his life. Since then he had been surrounded by the stern and
critical faces of those who had authority over him and the ill will of
the other slaves who resented his elevation to the post he now filled in
the household. He had almost reached the stage of believing that all
kindliness had fled the world and decency had become a thing of the
past.

"If we could only be together!" he said, impulsively. "I have been alone
now for three years. I have no friends, none even to wish me well. I
have been very unhappy."

"My name is Ivar," said the Briton. "And yours, my new friend?"

"Nicolan. My father was a landowner and a breeder of fine horses."

Ivar did not volunteer any information about his own background. Perhaps
he thought it sufficient that he had already said he had been born a
slave. He remarked with a thoughtful nod of the head: "It would be very
fine if we could be together, as you say. But I am afraid that cannot
be. I have a fear of Rome; and it seems unlikely that I will ever be
sold here. Would you prefer to be in Ravenna?" He shook his head
emphatically. "It would not be good. It is better for you, and safer,
where you are."

A sharp word of command from the bailiff who was in charge of the party
brought this brief conversation to an end. Nicolan fell into line with
the others. Looking back over his shoulder, he received a quick smile, a
nod of the head, and a wave of a hand from the young Briton.

The interest which he had felt when the lovely eyes of the princess had
smiled for him was gone. It was not of her charms he was thinking as he
marched from the palace. He was thinking instead of Ivar, of the
friendliness in his wide-spaced eyes, of the genuine quality of his slow
smile.

The slaves of Aetius walked back to his palace on the slope of the hill
in double files. Nicolan found himself paired with a man of sandy
complexion and inquisitive eyes whom he recognized as the anointer of
the household, the _unctor_. As was customary with one of his
occupation, the _unctor_ was in a talkative mood.

"What do you think of her?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he
proceeded to give his own opinion of the Princess Honoria. "I like them
more substantial myself. She's all eyes and no hips." He looked up
suddenly to ask, "What did she say to you?"

"To me?" Nicolan was caught off guard by the question. "Do you mean the
princess? She said nothing to me."

"That is odd," said the _unctor_. "I was sure I saw her lips move.
Others thought so too." He gave a sly nod. "She wants to captivate every
man she sees, although they say she is really in love with that big
slave. The one who talked to you."

Nicolan turned an incredulous face on his companion at this. "You must
be wrong. I am sure he has never looked at her. Not in that way. He must
know what the penalty would be."

"I am glad I am not in the shoes of that one." The anointer shook his
sandy head with emphasis. "He belongs to her and he must obey orders.
But would he be spared on that account? Not if the old woman got a hint
of what was going on. But the princess is a sly one. She has little ways
of her own. It will be a good thing for you, Master Clerk, if she never
sees you again. You caught her eye; there could be no mistake about
that." He grinned up at his taller companion. "I would like to know what
it was she said to you."

                 *        *        *        *        *

No secrets could be kept in a household containing over one hundred
slaves. Nothing escaped so many curious eyes; and they loved, in
addition, to prattle and gossip, so that in time a grain of truth would
become a toothsome pudding of fiction. It was soon known in the palace
on the slope of the Palatine that the master proposed to set his wife
aside and take instead the beautiful royal princess. This created a
great deal of discussion, much of it unfavorable, for they knew that
royal slaves could never be given their freedom.

Aetius had intended to keep his plan a secret until certain necessary
arrangements could be completed but the news swept over Rome and two
things happened immediately. The visit of the princess was cut short and
she was sent back to Ravenna in a great hurry, and Aetius was summoned
to the palace of the emperor. He came away from this interview with a
red face and an air of suppressed fury. How the word got out can only be
conjectured but soon all Rome knew that for once the puppet ruler had
asserted himself. He had made it clear to Aetius that he must abandon
the idea of allying himself with the royal family.

Nicolan was busy copying letters at his small table in the corner when
Aetius came in. He did not look up, it being a rule of the household
that slaves never spoke unless addressed directly. His ears told him,
however, that something had gone wrong. There was anger in the footsteps
of the master.

"It seems," said the dictator of Rome, who had just learned that his
dictatorial powers stopped short of controlling the personal affairs of
the royal family, "that word of things I plan is reaching the outside.
What I say here in confidence today is shouted to the housetops
tomorrow. Now, who can be responsible for this?"

Nicolan went on with his copying but his hand had become unsteady. He
sensed grave danger for himself. A slave had no defense against any
charge his master might care to bring.

Aetius stared down at his desk in a bitter silence. Everything had
seemed to be going well. He had seen the princess twice and had talked
to her at some length. Honoria had found him interesting. She had become
quite gay and had fluttered her eyelashes at him. Later she had confided
to one of her maids that she thought him handsome. And now this had
happened! Aetius thought of the absurd pretense of dignity the emperor
had assumed during their interview, how he had puffed out his pasty
cheeks and refused to discuss the plan at all.

"Are you the one?" he demanded of Nicolan.

"No, my lord Aetius! No, no!" exclaimed the latter. "I never repeat what
I hear. I swear that this is the truth."

Aetius pointed an accusing finger at him. "You write the letters. You
hear what I say to visitors. All the documents go through your hands.
Who else is there to suspect but you?"

Nicolan realized now the full danger which confronted him. He was
completely in the dark as to what had gone wrong and so had no way of
defending himself save by protesting his innocence again.

"I am faithful to your interests, my lord!" he declared. "I do not
gossip with the rest of the household. I have never given anyone a hint
of what happens here."

"I am told the princess whispered in your ear when she was receiving my
gifts." This seemed to have galled him particularly, that the princess
who might have been his wife and shared with him in time the throne of
imperial Rome had shown interest in a slave. "It all fits in! Yes, I
think you are the one, my sly and silent one. It is a good thing I have
found you out so soon."

He began to pace up and down the room. He had fancied the princess and
this added to his need to pay off the score. What if she was as
flirtatious as people said? He would have been able to tame her. Each
time he turned in his angry pacing, he scowled at his silent and
apprehensive clerk. With each turn it seemed that his belief in the
guilt of the latter had become more firmly established in his mind.
Finally he halted and summoned an attendant by a sharp clap of his
hands. To the _ostiarius_ who answered the summons he gave a brief word
of instruction. "Take him to the bailiff!" pointing to Nicolan. "He is
to be punished."

"How many lashes, my lord?"

Aetius had gone to his seat behind the marble table but at this he got
again to his feet. It was as though he could not keep still. Ever since
he had emerged from his painful interview with the emperor ("That weak
fool!" he kept repeating to himself), he had been like a bull with a
lance head in its hide. He needed an outlet for his inner rage; and,
guilty or not, he had found his victim.

"How many?" he cried, with a flourish of his arms. "It would be
impossible to name a number high enough for the wrong he has done me.
How many lashes for treachery? Tell the bailiff he is to have fifty."

The eyes of the _ostiarius_ opened wide with incredulity and he
stammered a comment. "My lord Aetius, no man could live after fifty
strokes!"

"Are you questioning my orders?" demanded the master of the household.
"As for this one, who has sold me to my foes, I am not at all concerned
over his chances for survival."


[4]

Nicolan lived through a period of semiconsciousness during which he
suffered without respite and from which he rallied for a very few
minutes at a time to a realization that he had survived the punishment
after all. The pain in his lacerated back was so terrible that he would
welcome a return to the comatose condition from which he had been
roused. His mind was incapable of coherent thought but it was possessed
of one strong desire, that he be allowed to leave his mutilated body and
be through with life.

Later he was able to recall something of what had filled his fevered
mind during the long spell when he hovered between life and death. It
had to do entirely with the people of Rome: their arrogance, their
cruelty, their corrupt ways, their lack of the great qualities which in
earlier centuries had carried them to the mastery of the world. His
thoughts had gone around and around like a squirrel in a cage: from the
feasts that Aetius arranged for his guests (as all wealthy and powerful
Romans did) and the great succession of rich and costly dishes which the
slaves brought in to the little circle of lolling sybarites, to the
picture of the slums of the great city where the poor lived like beasts
and fought viciously for food; from the magnificence of the great white
palaces on the Palatine to the malodorous stews of Subura; from the
armies of Rome recruited almost entirely from among barbarian
mercenaries who were willing to sell their great bodies and sword arms
for Roman gold, to the futilities of the Romans themselves, the
effeminacy of the marble baths, the strumming of lutes in palm groves,
the inconsequential chatter about cloudy philosophies. He came back
continuously through days and weeks of delirium and suffering to one
thought. Why did not the world see that allegiance need no longer be
paid to a master race which had become so effete and helpless?

There was one stage, a lengthy one, when his mind was concerned entirely
with a conversation he had heard, as he sat in the cabinet of Aetius and
wrote industriously at his small table, a talk between Aetius and a
priest. He never found out who the priest was. The room had been silent
and then suddenly he had looked up and a tall old man with a high brow
and sunken temples and a pair of burning eyes was standing in the open
door, holding a forefinger above his head.

"I have come to rebuke you, O Great Aetius," said the old priest.

At this point the picture always became blurred in the sick mind of the
young slave. He would hear the voice of the old man crying out that the
people of Rome no longer gave heed to the teachings of Christ and Aetius
replying in a cool and cynical tone that the teachings of Christ were
needed in their place but they had no place in the governing of an
empire. Aetius kept repeating, "Nothing counts but the power and the
glory of Rome." Over and over again he said this, shaking his head
angrily when the old man preached at him passionately of the need for
fairness and honesty and the practice of Christian virtues. When he had
first listened to this talk, Nicolan had thought of Father Simon, who
preached the same things to the people of the plains; and sometimes now
in his disordered mind it became Father Simon and not the strange priest
who was talking to Aetius. But whether it was Father Simon or the
strange priest, no impression was made on the cold-eyed head of the
state. Nicolan wanted to cry out to Aetius that he was wrong, that
ideals were more necessary, and more effective in the course of time,
than legions of armed mercenaries. But because he had said nothing when
he heard the talk in the first place, his tongue now stuck to the roof
of his mouth.

His mind would come back to a moment of sanity from this confused
clatter of tongues and he would say aloud: "That is why Alaric got to
Rome and why Attila will beat the Romans now. They think of nothing but
the power of gold. They are proud of their selfishness, they boast of
it; but it will be their downfall."

The periods of consciousness became longer and finally he made a final
and complete emergence into sanity. For days he lay without any movement
and with no will or desire to take up the matter of living; for,
although the agony in his back had dwindled to a condition of numbness,
any movement would start it again. At first he did not care where he
was, knowing that people were about him but not concerned as to who they
were, that voices sounded in his ears without rousing in him any desire
to know what they said. A conviction was growing in him, in spite of
this apathy, that he was going to live. At first he was vaguely
reluctant to go back to the bitter existence from which he had so nearly
escaped. It was not until the physical forces in his body took control
that he began to welcome the idea of living again.

When his mind reached this state of acceptance, he began gradually to
take an interest in what was going on about him. He was being kept, he
realized, in the sickroom of the palace. In any establishment where
there were servants by the score, it was necessary to have facilities
for the care of the sick. Aetius had done as little about this as
possible. The room he had set aside was small and low of ceiling, with
one window opening on the kitchen court and a second over the steep
slope of the hill. It contained two beds of considerable size, both of
which were usually filled with two or even three patients. Nicolan found
that he was sharing one of them with a kitchen slave from the East who
was suffering from some strange and violent malady. It came to Nicolan
finally that the man was insane and that he himself would have to watch
with great care to escape injury. The man tossed and groaned and
indulged in wild and incoherent tirades. Sometimes he would sit up with
a glitter in his eyes and begin to sway back and forth as he sang a song
over and over again in a gabble of unfamiliar words. This was, had the
involuntary listener known, the riding song of a great people of the
East and it went something like this:

    _The sun dies each day in the west._
    _It is submerged in the waters,_
    _Or it sinks into the cover of the hills._
    _Even thus must die the foes of the Hiong-Nu._

In his more violent moments he would spring up and charge about the room
with a heavy wooden club (he clutched it so firmly in his sleep that it
had been found impossible to take it away from him) in both hands. He
would shout and scream and beat at the wall with the club; while the
guards would watch anxiously from the doorway and not venture into the
room until this mood had subsided.

In the other bed were two very sick men who seemed to be dying. At any
rate they lay quietly with closed eyes and never spoke. One of them had
spells of coughing and the sponge which lay in a basin beside the bed
was becoming constantly redder from the blood which was swabbed off his
face.

A day came finally when Nicolan had the sickroom to himself. He was not
sure but he thought that the two patients in the other bed had died. The
day before the madman from the East, still clutching the club in his
hand, had leaped out of the window and had gone rolling down the hill.
No one cared enough about what had happened to him to inform the sole
remaining occupant of the hospital.

The household physician came in late in the afternoon and seemed
surprised to find Nicolan in sole possession of the room. He stared at
the empty bed but made no comment. He had served in many of the
campaigns of Aetius and was called Old Crack-Bones behind his back
because he was a little abrupt and rough in his methods. The term,
however, was applied with respect for the veteran, who was said to have
a certain degree of kindliness buried deep inside him.

The physician took possession of the only chair and seemed disposed to
talk.

"Did you know you were given up for dead after the full number of lashes
had been applied?" he asked. "I had been away and when I returned it was
all over. Your body was lying in the middle of the kitchen court. Aetius
was having guests and everyone was too busy to spare any time for you.
Besides it had started to rain heavily and the idea seemed to be that
you could stay there until the storm was over. I had spent too many
nights going over battlefields with a torch and finding a few survivors
in the piles of corpses to take anything for granted. I went out and
found that you were still breathing. You were nearly gone; another half
hour and the tiny spark of life would have flickered out." He shook his
head in wonder. "I still cannot understand how you survived. If you had
been a stouter and stronger man you would have gone under early." He was
silent for a moment and then asked, "Have you had a sight of your back?"

Nicolan shook his head. "I have been afraid to look. Is it badly
marked?"

"It is a mass of deep scars from just below your shoulders to the waist.
I must warn you that it is not sightly."

"Will they be permanent?"

Old Crack-Bones nodded. "You will have them to your dying day. The angry
color will be lost in time but the deep welts and ridges will remain.
Well, you must count yourself lucky. You are still alive."

Nicolan said in a somber tone: "I see no great luck in that. But for
this boon--and in time I hope to see it in that light--I have you to
thank. I want you to know that I am grateful."

"You are a young man," said the physician, gruffly. "I hear you are
quick and clever with the pen. You will earn your freedom someday." He
gave his head a satisfied nod. "Yes, I saved your life. But I am not
foolish enough to take any pride in that. I have saved the lives of
thousands; and most of them, I am compelled to say, were quite
worthless. Your case was not hard because I am highly skilled in matters
of the bodily exterior--in setting bones and healing wounds and in
cutting off arms and legs. I have even dug splinters of metal out of
skulls and seen the owners stalking around afterward in perfect health
and with no more intelligence under the skull than they had before. But
here, my young friend, is the tragedy of it: I can save others but I can
do nothing for myself. You see, we who are physicians know nothing of
what goes on inside the human body. What causes all these fevers and
diseases? All we can do is guess. We say, perhaps, that an evil spirit
has taken possession of the sick body. Or that the man is being punished
for his sins. At this very moment I have in my right side a pain as
though my bowels are being explored with a red-hot iron. It is an
inflammation of some kind. What can be done for it? Nothing. If I were
one of my own patients, I would be trying all manner of silly helps but
knowing in my own mind they would be of no use. I do not bother to find
relief for myself. In a few days perhaps I shall be as dead as one of
the eels they are skinning for great Aetius' supper tonight."

He got slowly and painfully to his feet. "All that you need," he said,
"is to get some flesh back on your bones. What food have they brought
you today?"

"Nothing," answered Nicolan. "No one has been in all day. I have had the
place to myself."

"Are you very hungry?"

Nicolan discovered that he was. It was the first time that he had been
conscious of a healthy desire for food.

Old Crack-Bones motioned across the kitchen court. The deep caverns,
where strange and costly dishes were being prepared, were filled with
light and vibrant with noise. "Aetius has many guests tonight," said the
veteran. "Many great people. He has been entertaining much lately. They
say he feels the need to live down that great blow to his prestige--the
refusal of the emperor to have him as a brother-in-law." He glanced back
at Nicolan. "He has found out at last that you are still alive. Never a
question has passed his lips, although usually he demands to know
everything that goes on in this vast household of his. The impression is
that he was a little ashamed of the fit of temper which led to your
punishment. I don't know about that. If it's so, it is the first time in
his life that he has regretted anything he has done."

Nicolan made no comment. He forgot his hunger, he allowed everything in
his mind to be carried away in the wave of hate which had swept over
him.

"Two days ago I took him the list of slaves, to discuss with him the
health of the household. We do this once a month. He began to skim it
quickly and when he came to your name--I knew because I was watching
him--he stopped and looked up at me with a surprise he could not
conceal. But he said nothing. He dropped his eyes at once and went on
down the list. He asked no questions about you. I'm told he has
discovered the truth and knows now that you were innocent. If that is
any satisfaction to you."

Nicolan did not reply at once. "It is not a sense of satisfaction I
feel," he said, finally.

Old Crack-Bones put a hand to his side. "This pain!" he groaned. "I am
told he will take you back when you get out of here. Which will be in a
day or so. Is there satisfaction in that?"

Nicolan felt his lips tighten. "No. None whatever. But I am a slave and
so I will have to obey."

The veteran walked to the door. "I will speak to the _promus_," he said.
"He has a heart somewhere in his huge body and will send you food. But I
am afraid you will have to wait until the master and his guests have
been served. That will be a long time, for the first course has just
gone up."

It took a long time indeed to serve Aetius and his guests. The shadows
of night had settled about the palace walls and the incessant drone of
night insects rose from the hillside before a kitchen slave, a
coal-black man with a broad smile, brought in a platter and placed it on
the table with a cheerful clatter. "Sick man nearly starved?" he
inquired. One glance at the platter convinced Nicolan that the results
had more than justified the delay. A wonderful odor reached him from a
beef rib, sprinkled, he was sure, with the very best _garum_. There was
also a capon leg, brown and crisp, and beside that a little nest of
fresh red berries in a basket of flaky pastry.

"I am sure this will complete my cure," he said, to the friendly waiter.
"My heartfelt thanks to the _promus_ and to you. I have nothing else to
offer."

He continued to stare at the platter with incredulous eyes after the
waiter had gone. Not since the morning when he had been seized and sold
as a slave had he been allowed to partake of such rare food. But when he
sat down to it, with a lighted wick floating in oil at his elbow, he
found that the habit of hearty eating had left him. He was content with
the capon leg and a single mouthful of the beef.

While he was eating he became conscious of sounds on the hillside below
the window. He laid the beef rib back on the platter and listened. The
sounds continued, and he decided that someone was stealthily climbing up
the rocky slope. Was it the madman coming back? He considered this
highly unlikely, for there had been no caution or stealth in that
unfortunate man.

Nicolan got to his feet, surprised to find that so much of the stiffness
had left him and that even his scarred back responded to the dictates of
his will. Taking the lamp in one hand, he walked to the window and
looked down the hillside.

The climber had been keeping an eye on the window. Nicolan saw him
flatten himself against the earth where he remained for several moments
without making a move.

"Who is it?" he asked, in a careful whisper.

There was no immediate response. Then a cautious voice asked, "Nicolan?"

"Yes. This is Nicolan."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes. There is no telling how long it will last but I think it unlikely
that anyone will come now until morning."

"Then I will come up."

It was Ivar. Nicolan thought he had identified the voice and as soon as
the head of the climber came within the circle of light he recognized
the reddish hair and broad brow of the Briton. To prevent any other eyes
in the palace from seeing what was happening, he carried the lamp away
from the window and placed it back on the table.

Ivar threw a muscular leg over the sill and dropped his feet to the
floor with an exclamation of satisfaction.

"My good friend, this is very lucky," he said. "I have been getting
reports of you, in a roundabout way, and have wanted to come for a long
time. How fortunate that when I do come I find you all alone."

"You are taking a great risk," said Nicolan, anxiously.

Ivar did not seem concerned. "For three weeks," he said, "I have been
existing in the greatest danger. I have become accustomed to it." His
eyes went to the table and remained fixed on the platter of food with
such fascination that for several moments he said nothing more. "My
friend," he whispered, then, his nostrils twitching as the fine odor of
the beef reached them. "During those three weeks I have had small
chances to eat. I am sure that another week of it would see the end of
me. Would it be too much to ask that I be allowed a mouthful of--of what
I see on the table?"

"It is all yours," answered Nicolan. "I have eaten all I want."

The tall Briton approached the table with wary steps, almost like an
animal stalking its prey. Then he dropped into the chair and began to
eat like a hungry dog, gulping the food without pausing to savor its
richness. After a few moments he compelled himself to stop and looked up
at Nicolan with a hint of moisture in his eyes.

"Have I died and gone to Valhalla?" he asked. "Never in my life have I
known such rapture." He scooped up the last remnants of the beef and
then fell to on the berries and pastry. When the last crumb had vanished
he sat back in the chair and looked at Nicolan with a sudden change of
mood.

"I have run away," he said.

Nicolan gave vent to a startled exclamation. It was almost impossible
for a runaway slave to get out of Italy and the penalty for those who
tried and failed was death by the most painful method which could be
devised. Few made the attempt, although it was the most widely discussed
of all subjects when groups of slaves got together.

"Do you know the risk you are running?" he asked.

The Briton nodded his head. "There was nothing else left for me. Things
had reached a stage where I could no longer stay." He did not volunteer
any further information but Nicolan, remembering what he had heard about
the preference of the Princess Honoria for the brawny Briton, did not
need to be told. "I ran away before the party started back for Ravenna.
For three weeks I have been hiding in the hills east of the city." He
motioned over his shoulder with a thumb. "An ex-slave, a Briton who is
married to a Roman woman, owns a herd up there. He told me of a cave
where I would be safe and he has given me food once in a while. He did
the best he could for me but his wife is a saving woman without any
kindliness or sympathy and she watches the food like a hawk. I have been
slowly starving." He glanced questioningly at Nicolan before continuing
with his halting speech. "I waited because I thought you might go with
me. After what you have been through, you might feel disposed to risk
it. What do you think? Do you want to make the try--and are you strong
enough now? I think I have strength enough for the two of us. If you
were to tire, I could carry you on my back."

Nicolan was thinking hard. "Is the risk any greater than what I face in
staying?" he was asking himself. "This man who bought me has the power
of life and death in his hands and he does not hesitate to use it. Could
I hope to survive if he had another of his evil tantrums?" A second
consideration took possession of his mind. "This is the best chance I
will ever have. Never again will there be a comrade as brave and strong
as this one to share the risks. It is a case of now or never. If I
refuse to go, I will have to live in Rome as a slave for the rest of my
life."

"I do not want to urge you," said Ivar, after a long pause, during which
Nicolan had continued to weigh all sides of the problem. "It is better
for two to go than one. You see, all the walking must be done by night.
During the day you sleep; one watching while the other gets his turn of
rest. You have to beg your food or steal it." He gave his head a brisk
nod. "I have a plan. My friend, the Briton up there in the hills, says
it would be mad to attempt to get away by land. No one could hope to go
all the way up through the hill country and then cross the Lombardy
Plain. You will lose your way a hundred times and always you have to be
asking directions. No matter how careful you are, you are sure to be
caught sooner or later. The best way is to get to the coast by the most
direct route and work passage on one of the ships. The captains are
always short of men and they do not ask questions. My friend up there
has given me the names of two captains who would be willing to risk
taking us. Unfortunately they both ply the eastern routes and never sail
for the Pillars of Hercules."

Nicolan had heard much discussion of this point. "But they say that life
on the ships is no better than slavery. In some ways it is worse. You
sleep in the hold and your food is full of worms, and the captain gives
the lash if you don't jump to obey him. And when you get to an Eastern
port, you do not understand the languages you hear spoken. You have a
few coins only in your purse--for the captain always cheats you of most
of the pay you have earned--and so all you can do is to hang around the
water front and wait for another ship ready to take you on. You hope
that someday a ship will be sailing for your own country, so that you
can get home, but you never find one. After a while you give up hope and
spend your life in the ships. The conditions are worse than anything you
have to endure here." Nicolan shook his head emphatically. "I see no
sense in changing from one set of chains to another. If we are going to
risk our lives in running away, we must see the prospect of freedom at
the end of it." His mood changed to one of eagerness. "I would rather
die than stay. It is over three years since my mother and I were carried
off and sold as slaves here in Rome; and the thought of escaping has
never been out of my mind. And _I_ have a plan, a better one, I think,
than getting away to sea."

He went to a place beside his bed where his clothes and belt were
hanging on a peg. From the purse under the buckle of the belt, he
produced two small coins and a long strip of papyrus which had been
carefully folded up inside. He shook this out and Ivar saw that it was a
map.

"This will make it possible for us to get away by land," said Nicolan,
confidently. He proceeded to tell how he had made the original map,
laboring over the campfires after all the others had gone to sleep. When
he started to work at copying, and had access to paper and ink, he had
redrawn the original with the utmost care, using small squares as in the
first instance and then sewing them together, to make the long and
legibly marked strip which he now held in his hands. "With the help of
this," he declared, "we will never have to risk asking questions. We
will travel by night and sleep in concealment during the day and, if we
use proper care, we will never be seen. All the information we will need
is here."

Ivar took the map into his hands and studied it carefully. Then he
looked up. His eyes, which had seemed to Nicolan quiet and reserved, had
lighted up. "Then you will go with me?"

Nicolan did not hesitate. "Yes, my friend, I am ready to try. The only
reason I had for not saying so at once was that I wondered if I had the
strength. I do not want to be a drag on you."

Ivar got to his feet, his face shining with relief and excitement. "Then
why do we linger? Let us be on our way."


[5]

It was five weeks later. The two ragged, barefooted, and weary men had
followed the directions on the map which Nicolan had drawn and had not
found it at fault. Traveling always by night, they had been able to make
their way in the darkness without ever taking the risk of asking
directions. On no more than half a dozen occasions had they spoken to
strangers and each time it had been when hunger drove them to beg at the
isolated huts of sheep-herders. They had found that the lonely men who
tended their flocks in the hills were kind and willing to help. On one
occasion, they met with a demonstration of kindness that played a great
part in the success of their flight but this story will be told later.
The food obtained in this way had been eked out by fruit picked at night
in orchards and berries found in the woods. They had been lucky enough a
few times to catch fish in the streams they passed.

And now it was apparent that they had reached a land where the law of
Rome no longer ran. Nicolan pointed to a bend in the road ahead of them.
A man on horseback had come into view.

"A Hun," he said.

Ivar made a shade of his hands and stared with intense interest at the
approaching horseman. He perceived that the Hun was wearing a hat of red
felt, that his legs were cased in long riding boots, and that a circular
sword was stuck through the front of his belt.

"So, this is one of them, the men who want to conquer the world," he
said. "He seems to ride with skill."

"Skill enough. But wait until we come to _my_ country. That is where men
know how to ride--and have the best horses in the world for their
riding."

The tall Briton turned to his companion with a quizzical grin. "A
suspicion has been in my mind for some time. Now it has become a
certainty. You have been purposely edging us toward the more easterly
roads. I supposed at first we were going to your country, up there on
the plateau to the west, but somehow there was always a reason for
taking a different road; one which turned out to be in this direction
and took us across the Danube. You wanted to come where we seem to be
now--in the center of the Hun country. Is it not so?"

"It is so." Nicolan frowned in deep thought, keeping his eye in the
meantime on the horseman who was now pounding down the road at a fast
pace. "When I sat in the room of Aetius, and saw what was done and heard
everything that was said, I learned many things. I learned things which
I kept sealed up in my mind and never divulged, although I was offered
up to death on the mere suspicion that I had done so. One thing I
learned was that Aetius is certain he must fight the Huns someday. It
will not be for some years but he is already making preparations for it.
He is certain he will beat them when Attila finally attacks Rome but he
does not think it will be easy. He despises Attila but is beginning to
fear him also." There was a pause, as they stumped along together on
stiff and weary legs. "Ivar, if there _is_ war between the Huns and that
degenerate race who will be led by Aetius, I want to fight on the side
of Attila."

He had never come out so openly before. The Briton looked at him with a
protesting frown. "Nick, good friend," he said, "you must not let your
personal grievances sway you in this matter.

"I have grievances, many and bitter ones," declared Nicolan. "But it is
not only because I have been so badly used myself that I feel like this.
I spent all my spare time in Rome looking at the way people lived, the
high and the low alike. Never before has there been such a display of
wealth and such terrible poverty. The poor are no better than slaves.
All the loot of the world is being spent by a few hundred families. But
that was not all. What galled me most was the spirit of Rome. These
proud and cruel people are concerned only with gain. They no longer have
ideals and they make a boast of it. Each man wants to beat all the
others in a race for power and wealth. That is what they consider worth
while. Ivar, this we both know in our hearts: the world cannot go on
without sincerity and decency, it will fall into ruins when it ceases to
be guided by ideals."

"And so you want to see Rome pulled down," said Ivar, thoughtfully.
"What is to replace her?"

"I am no prophet. I don't try to look that far ahead. I am concerned
with one thought only--to help in the defeat of that corrupt world we
have left behind us. Anything that replaces it will be an improvement."

When the Hun horseman drew rein in front of them there were other riders
following him down the road and raising a cloud of dust. He exploded
into a clatter of words which seemed definitely hostile.

Nicolan said, "We speak Latin," without making any impression on the
Hun, then pointed to himself with one hand and motioned with it in the
direction of the west, saying "Bakony" several times. The horseman
understood this and gave his round head an affirmative bob. Nicolan
pointed then at Ivar and waved his hand high to indicate the far north,
saying: "Britain. Island. Britain." The Hun shook his head impatiently.
This was beyond him.

When more of the riders had come up, they formed themselves into an
escort for the two strangers and wheeled about to return by the road
they had used in their approach. They jabbered among themselves and
scowled at the pair on foot, motioning for more speed and even producing
their swords in threatening gestures.

"It seems that we are prisoners," said Ivar.

"Attila's main city is not far from here. That is where they are taking
us."

"I wish they would show a little more concern for our weary legs,"
complained the Briton.

"The Huns are born to the saddle and have nothing but contempt for the
human leg," explained Nicolan. "A few of the Hun words I knew as a boy
are coming back to me. As far as I can make out, they think we are
spies. They are pleased with themselves for capturing us."

"They expect for us an early death," said Ivar. "And they are pleased at
the prospect."

The Hun cantonment was in an early stage of its development. It sprawled
over a wide stretch of flat land but it lacked the impetus of impending
war to turn into the great beehive of activity it was to become later.
However, a standard flaunting the turul floated over the main gate to
let the world know, or as much of the world as came that way, that its
prospective master was here. It was clearly a very busy place behind its
wooden walls, for they could hear even at a distance the hum of human
voices aided by the neighing of horses and the barking of dogs. There
was an impression in more civilized parts that Hun dogs lacked the power
to bark but the canine population of Attila's city seemed determined to
give the lie to this story.

A troop of horsemen, carrying spears and leather targets, emerged from
the front gate. They came out at top speed, as though an inclined
drawbridge had been there to lend them impetus, an impression
strengthened by the thunder of the hoofs. They swept down the road
toward the newcomers and then began to gallop about them, curvetting
their horses and shouting like madmen. Their antics raised such a dust
that it was impossible to see anything of the road and even the royal
standard above the wooden gates was blotted from view.

"Are they mad?" asked Ivar, anxiously. It was clear that he had never
participated before in such a frenzied welcome.

"Yes. But also they are calculating and cunning. You can never tell what
they will do next but you must never underestimate them."

One of the mad horsemen rode at Ivar with leveled spear and did not
divert the point until the last possible moment. It ripped a piece of
cloth from his sleeve. The horses, small and stocky and with savage
heads, seemed to be entering into the sport. They kicked up their heels
and neighed viciously.

"We came here of our own free will, good friend," said Ivar. "And I
begin to think it was a very great mistake to do so."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The eyes of the two travelers, which had gazed on the white palaces of
Rome and the glories of the Colosseum, saw the capital of Attila as a
mean and tawdry place. His palace, which seemed so great to his
followers, was little more than a frame hut enlarged many times over;
with wooden pillars, it was true, and a pointed roof and some carved
beams. The mounted escort, which had brought them in through the gate of
the city, still screaming and gesticulating with their spears, dropped
back now and disappeared from sight. The two captives were led through
the dining hall, which impressed them somewhat with its size, and down
the steps into the warren of small offices where Attila spent his days.

It was difficult to enter his own special cabinet because a map had just
been carried in and was occupying the whole of one wall. The Scourge of
God was wearing a blue tunic (_the_ blue tunic which was new then and
shiny with its rich embroideries) and sitting behind his small table.
His harsh and unblinking eyes studied the prisoners with an
unfriendliness which added to their mental discomfort. An interpreter
began to question them in Latin, addressing himself first to Ivar, whose
great bulk had already created much comment. The latter explained their
status and told of their long flight. Nicolan, standing at one side,
fixed his eyes on the map.

Attila sat in silence during this stage of the interrogation. At first
he had given his attention to the magnificent physique of the Briton.
Then he shifted his position slightly and looked at Nicolan, who was
still studying the map. It showed the network of roads between Rome and
the natural barrier of the Alps. He was tracing with his eye the course
they had followed in their escape from Italy.

It had been assumed by the two travelers that the Hun emperor was
depending entirely on the interpreter but to their great surprise he
suddenly spoke up, using the Roman language with an easy if not a
scholarly intonation.

"My map makers are the best in the world," he said. He motioned to the
chart on the wall and addressed a question to Nicolan. "You, who are so
much interested in this one, what do you think of it?"

Nicolan, much to his own surprise, had no feeling of fear for this great
conqueror who was gradually gathering the dominions of the world into
his control. He addressed his answer directly to Attila. "I have never
seen a better one. It is beautifully drawn and with the most complete
detail. It is true to scale. But it must also be said, O Mighty Emperor,
that it is very inaccurate."

The high note of Attila's laughter filled the room at this remark but no
one made the mistake of thinking him amused. "This young cock is not
afraid to flap his wings and crow," he said. The corners of his mouth
drew down as he savored his displeasure. "So, my map is inaccurate! What
does an escaped slave know of the making of military maps and of the
roads to Rome?"

Nicolan was now aware of a tensity in the room. He had had the
effrontery to criticize something which Attila prized highly. It became
clear to him, as he glanced at the flush around the deeply embedded eyes
of the emperor and at the uneasiness of the Hun officials in the room,
that he must justify what he had said or face unpleasant consequences.

"Perhaps I have spoken without sufficient care, O Great Emperor," he
said. "But it is true that we made our way during the hours of darkness
from Rome to the border. We never made a mistake. We knew the distances
and the turn of the roads. It was never necessary for us to retrace our
steps and we never had to make inquiries."

"You have made this journey many times?" asked Attila.

"No, Your Imperial Greatness. Once before only. We had a map I made on
my first trip over the roads."

Attila was beginning to show some trace of amusement. "How old were you
when you made this map?" he demanded to know.

"I was fifteen years of age."

"And this chart you drew is more accurate than what my skilled map
makers have been able to do for me?" He gave a quick look around the
room and grinned at his officers. "You have more impudence in you than a
Roman scholar who pretends to know everything." His eye came back to
Nicolan. "Where is this map which is so wonderfully accurate?"

Nicolan produced the much-thumbed and worn map from under his belt. In
response to an impatient demand, he crossed the room and laid it on the
table before the emperor. The latter studied it for a few moments.

"Onegesius," he said, "bring my map makers in. We must get to the bottom
of this. No, I have a better idea. Bring in the observers I have used on
the roads to Rome. We will find what they say about it first."

The room had to be partially cleared to make room for the military
observers who were ushered in a few minutes later by the black-a-vised
Onegesius. Even the proud officer, who had brought in the prisoners and
who had not yet received so much as a glance from his master, was among
those banished. The experts studied the handsome map on the wall and
Nicolan's creased and flimsy strip of papyrus. They contrasted the two
on specific points, they ran their fingers along the course of roads,
they traced the outlines of mountains and rivers. Then they whispered
and conferred and, with every evidence of reluctance, came to a
decision.

"It is true, O Mighty Tanjou," said one of them, "that in some points of
detail the official map is not--it is not exactly as we recall the roads
to be. This opinion we give because it is always your desire to have
information that is fully correct. It is not our desire to find fault
with the skilled hands which made the map."

"Are these faults serious? Are they wrong by yards or by miles?"

"By--by many miles in some cases."

"Do you find similar mistakes in this?" Attila pointed, with no attempt
to conceal his annoyance, at Nicolan's map.

The spokesman hesitated. "It is done in miniature, O Mighty Tanjou, and
so it is hard to judge. But on the hasty examination we have made, we
find no faults to call to your attention."

Nicolan heaved an inner sigh of relief. The storm had been weathered,
the wrath of Attila averted. He looked at the figure behind the table
and saw that the head of the Hun empire had not bolted the information
fed him by his military observers but was disposed to digest it slowly.
He asked many questions, all of them very much to the point.

"It is clear I must have some serious words with my map makers," said
Attila, finally. He squared around and stared hard at Nicolan. "Your
self-confidence may be no more than the audacity of youth. I hope so. It
is my present feeling that you, with your little maps which have
confounded my experts, could be useful to me."

"My friend and I came to your capital, O Great Emperor," said Nicolan,
"in the hope that we could take service with you."

Attila turned his head in Ivar's direction. "I can use this great ox,"
he said. "Although he resembles nothing so much as a chestnut stallion,
I am inclined to think he comes from the island of the Black Singers."
The accuracy of this guess brought a bow of assent from Ivar. Attila had
so much confidence in his own uncanny powers of observation that he
always expected to be right. He turned his attention back to Nicolan.

"You come of a stubborn race," he said. "They raise horses but by nature
they resemble the mule more. I have found it necessary to be very severe
with them. Will you be as stubborn as the rest or will you be ready to
serve me in any capacity I may suggest?"

Nicolan decided that no better time for frankness would ever present
itself. "I am placing a price on my services, O Great Emperor," he said.
Even the anxious expression that he detected on Ivar's face did not
deter him from continuing. "Vannius, acting as your agent, killed my
father and confiscated our lands. He sold my mother and me into slavery.
I am asking that the injustices he did be rectified and that the lands
of my father be restored to me."

Attila assumed a defensive attitude at once, it being foreign to his
nature to relinquish anything of which he had taken possession. "I am
not aware of the circumstances," he said, in a grumbling tone. "Vannius
is dead. He was a liar and a thief. When I found he was taking more out
of your country for himself than for me, I had his head cut off. It has
been a great regret with me ever since that I allowed that greasy
traitor such an easy death." He studied Nicolan with a calculating eye.
"Your impudence passes all bounds but I cannot help feeling some regard
for the way you set forth your demands, preposterous though they are. We
will leave the matter this way; when you have proven your worth to me,
we will discuss what kind of reward you have earned. It may be that your
lands will be awarded to you; but, my bold young bantling, you must not
think I am making you any promises. When I make a promise I keep it; and
so I am chary about committing myself." He said abruptly to Onegesius:
"Now you may bring in the envoy from Constantinople. Have this map
removed from my sight first. I do not want to lay eyes on it again until
the mistakes in it have been rectified."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The memories ended at this point. The warmth of the sun pouring down on
Nicolan's back through the high window had conquered him. He fell sound
asleep and his rhythmic breathing caused Ivar to get up from the table.
Brushing a hand across his lips, the tall Briton proceeded to make his
friend comfortable, placing a bearskin from the floor back of his head
and one in the small of his back. The chair was not the kind of couch
one would choose after a full night's work but it was much better than
anything they had enjoyed during the long weeks of their flight from
slavery.




CHAPTER IX


[1]

Before the sun had completed its climb above the horizon on a warm
morning some weeks later, Nicolan and his invariable companion reached a
part of the country which lay in a bend of a legendary river, one of the
great waterways, which centuries later would be called the Blue Danube,
although it would have been nearer the truth to speak of it as jade
green or brown or even black. This corner of the Bakony lands, with its
thick forests and small lakes and umber hills, proved so exhilarating to
Nicolan that he put his horse to a gallop, watching the while with
busily questing eyes. Suddenly he hauled in his mount and pointed a
finger. In the center of a clearing ahead of them stood a long and
rambling wooden structure with smoke pouring from one of its chimneys.
The house was surrounded by a palisade of pointed logs, and the presence
of an ornate framework over the entrance lent to it a hint of the
Orient. His mood changed immediately.

"Mine!" he said. There was a choking sensation in his throat and he
found it hard to speak. "My father died inside the gate when Vannius
made his surprise attack. I was off there in the pasture lands when they
struck." He sat in silence for several moments. "This is worth
everything--the insults they have heaped on me, the threats, the angry
looks, the refusals to give me their lists. To come at the end to the
place where I was born!"

The weeks they had spent in surveying the Bakony lands with an eye to
the man power and, more important still, the horse supplies had been
difficult ones. Nicolan had been received with open hostility. He had
been reviled as a traitor to his own people. It had been necessary to
resort to threats to get the information he needed from his stony-faced
compatriots. As it was his intention to fight for the most lenient terms
for them, he had felt the injustice of this deeply; but he had said
little in his own defense.

"Is this our last stop?" asked Ivar.

The Briton was not accustomed to riding and had found it necessary to
use a high-backed saddle, thus presenting a somewhat ludicrous contrast
to Nicolan, who had discarded his gear on reaching his native land, it
being the custom there to ride bareback. Ivar seemed glad of the chance
to rest after the jolting he had sustained in the course of their climb
from the plains below.

Nicolan shook his head in response to his companion's question. "We do
not stop here," he said. "Yesterday Ranno of the Finninalders gave me
the information I needed." He paused for a long moment of bitter
reflection. "I won't set foot on Ildeburgh land until I come to claim it
as my own! May the gods speed that day!"

He looked about him and sighed deeply. The plateau was flat and rich but
relieved of any hint of monotony by clumps of alder, willow, and acacia
trees. The grass was thick and green. His eyes picked out other colors
which had delighted him as a boy, the blue of wild hickory like a
reflection of the sky, a hint of violet, and the red and yellow of the
first pasqueflowers. Far off in the distance, against the proscenium of
the sky, were the jagged peaks of purple hills.

"Only Macio of the Roymarcks remains to be seen," he said, finally.
"I've tried to arrange our movements to reach him today so we can watch
the races. I want to see this fabulous Harthager in action."

He withdrew his lance from its rest and scooped up some of the turf.
"Look at it!" he said. "There's nothing richer in the world! Someday all
this will be mine. But there's only one way I can claim it. By serving
Attila. If he is beaten by Rome, the legions will march north again and
this country will be portioned out to their leaders. Some great captain
will take it or a soft-bellied army contractor will buy it in. On the
other hand, if by some miracle my country became independent again, the
Finninalders will be left securely in possession. They've become a
powerful family, the second, I expect, in wealth and influence. I have
no kinsmen left to back me in my claims. I couldn't hope to oust them.
So, Attila is my only hope." He turned to Ivar, his expression set and
hard. "You keep at me, my friend, demanding why I ride with the Huns.
I've given you many reasons, all of them good. Now I give you another, a
purely personal reason, a selfish one, if you like. I am taking the only
course open to me to regain my inheritance."

The Briton nodded his head. "That's an answer all men can understand.
Even I, who wore the iron collar of slavery in my cradle, can sympathize
with you."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Half an hour later they reached the crest of a hill. Below them lay a
stretch of flat country with the red roof of a rambling house barely
visible above a nest of trees.

"The land of the Roymarcks," said Nicolan. "We were neighbors for many
generations and I think my people always felt jealous of them. They were
so rich and powerful. But all that changed for me when Macio's youngest
daughter was born."

At this moment his attention was attracted by a horse and rider emerging
from the shadows about the house with the red roof. He saw that the
rider was a woman. The sun was climbing high and, by straining his eyes,
he perceived that she was slender and young and that her hair streamed
out behind in a golden cascade.

"It is Ildico," he said to himself. Although it was many years since he
had seen her, he was delighted with this chance of meeting her again.
"Ride on, Ivar. Wait for me in that clump of trees where the road turns
in."

He set his mount to a swift gallop to catch the rider on the horse which
was as black as midnight and he smiled as he recalled the many times he
had sat in tongue-tied silence and worshiped this high-spirited young
daughter of Macio. Could anyone have been as much in love as he was
then, or as incapable of expressing his feelings?

The girl gave no indication that she was aware of his presence, even
when he came pounding up behind her, except for one quick glance from
eyes of such beauty that he caught his breath. She swung away from the
main trail and followed a narrow road which wound up into the western
hills, thus forcing him to drop back where his eyes became filled with
dust. They rode thus for the better part of a mile. Then the road
widened on attaining the crest of the ridge and he was able to pull up
abreast. All his attention had been focused on the girl, noting every
detail of her blue riding jacket and taking in with a sense of delight
the grace of her carriage and the slender line of her back, but he had
been conscious at the same time that she was riding a remarkable horse.
"What a magnificent fellow!" he thought.

They galloped together for some distance, the dark eyes of the man never
leaving the face of the girl. For her part she looked straight ahead but
there was a hint in her attitude of acceptance of his presence. Finally
she turned for a quick glance and then, with an imperceptible pressure
of her knee, brought her mount to a slower pace. For the first time
their eyes met squarely.

"We could have left you behind," she said. "It would have been very
easy. I held Harthager in because he is going to race this afternoon and
it wouldn't do to give him more than a short run." She continued to look
at him intently. "I know who you are."

"_You_ are Ildico of the Roymarcks," said Nicolan. "It is easy for me to
recognize you. But if you know who I am, you have a very good memory."

"I think you are Nicolan of the Ildeburghs. The boy who was carried away
to Rome." Her expression became one of defiance. "The one who has sold
himself to the Huns."

Nicolan did not meet this challenge at once. He was studying her face.
She lacked the long narrowness of feature which was almost universally
encountered on the plateau; instead her brow was broad, her nose rather
short and delicately modeled, her cleft chin of sufficient width to
suggest character and determination. Her beauty thrilled and at the same
time frightened him. "There can be no doubt about it, she is the one
Attila is looking for," he thought. "One glance will be all he needs."
This possibility disturbed him so much that he began to think of ways
and means of keeping her out of the emperor's vision. "She should be
sent away," he thought.

He became conscious that she was holding her chin very high and that
every line of her was taut with disapproval. "I am well aware," he said,
by way of answer to her unspoken charge, "that I am not held in high
esteem here."

"My brother Roric is the only one who has a good word for you."

Nicolan flushed with pleasure. "He was my best friend when we were boys.
It makes me happy to know he is still my friend."

"Don't count too much on it. My father is very bitter about you."

Nicolan was watching her with the closest attention, noting her
mannerisms, the way her eyes closed when she smiled, her habit of
gesturing as she talked. One of the oldest proverbs of the plateau
country came into his mind. "A man may reach the highest peak," he
quoted, "but still be blinded when he looks into the sun."

She retorted quickly, "Then it is wiser not to look."

"Sometimes," he said, "one look is worth a life of blindness. I am here
for such a short time that I must take advantage of the few chances I'll
have."

"Perhaps Father will relent and let me talk to you at the races. You
_are_ coming?"

He was realizing that her opinion was more important to him than the
combined voice of the plateau people. It seemed of the utmost importance
to make his position clear to her. "Those who hate me stay at home and
curry horses instead of riding them to the wars. But I--I ride on the
greatest adventure the world has ever seen. Do you understand, Ildico?
Attila will conquer the world. Is it a time to be staying home and
tossing manure?"

"Is it a time," she countered quickly, "to be fighting for the oppressor
of your own people?"

"The Romans oppressed us before the Huns came," declared Nicolan. "We
have one choice only, a choice of masters. I know that most of our
people prefer the yoke of Rome. I do not. I've served under it and I
know what it's like. I will ride with Attila when he leads his armies to
the plains of Lombardy. I hope to be there when the last flapping is
heard of the wings of the twelfth vulture." He had not taken his eyes
from her face for a moment. "And in the upturning I shall recover the
lands stolen from my father."

Ildico was now watching him with an intentness which equaled his own.
"You are wrong and blind," she said. "But even if you are so very blind,
I think you are honest." Suddenly she began to smile. "How much you have
changed! You were such a quiet boy."

He turned then and studied her mount. "This must be the great Harthager
I've heard so much about. Isn't it unusual to take him out for such a
brisk run on the day of the races?"

Ildico shook her head. "He needs the exercise. Father and Roric will be
angry with me because they don't think he does. Old Brynno will be
furious. I know better than all of them." Her voice had risen to a
vehement pitch. "Do you believe that horses always know when they are
going to race?"

"Of course. They have ways of knowing things. Do you suppose they talk
among themselves?"

"Yes," said the girl, eagerly. "I've heard them."

"They know when there's going to be a battle. I've visited the horse
lines before a brush and it's always the same--ears twitching, eyes
looking afar off, a curious low whinnying from all parts of the line.
What's more, a horse knows if he is going to be killed. He is very quiet
and he doesn't eat and his tail hangs limply."

"Oh, the poor fellows!" cried Ildico. "I feel sorrier for them than I do
for the men who are killed in battle. It's the men who make the wars,
not the horses."

"Then you are sure Harthager knows he's to race today?"

"I am sure he does."

Harthager was strong enough to toss off the slender figure perched on
his back with one rearing motion of his strong legs. The black was
holding his head up and pawing menacingly in his anxiety to be off.

"This morning I knew he wanted me to take him out. You see, we
understand each other. We have talks. He has ways of telling me things.
He whinnies as soon as I go in and you would be surprised if you knew
how much difference he can put into it. When he needs exercise, he taps
on the door of his stall with one of his hoofs. This morning he never
stopped--tap, tap, tap, tap! He could hardly wait to get out. He was
telling me that he was boiling with energy and had to work some of it
off. He was saying to me, 'Take me for a run in the hills. Then I will
rest and this afternoon I will run as I have never done before.' He
meant it. You'll see that he will win with the greatest ease."

"I hope to be there to see it."

The girl gave him a rather disturbed look. "If you come, I shall treat
you the same as any other guest," she said. "Father will be very angry
with me. His eyes will be as black as thunderclouds. I am afraid there
will be scenes afterward. But I don't believe I shall let that influence
me, Nicolan. I am _so_ pleased you are here."


[2]

Nicolan rode to the spot which he had appointed as the meeting place
with Ivar but found it deserted. Several minutes elapsed before his tall
companion returned. The Briton pointed back over his shoulder.

"She's come. The woman with the red hair."

Nicolan frowned in disbelief. "You don't mean the widow of Tergeste?"

Ivar nodded. "Do you see the tents behind that clump of trees? That's
where she's camping. I saw them arrive; a dozen horsemen at the least
and half that many pack horses. She travels in state. I went down and
watched from behind the trees. She was riding a white horse with gold
trappings and she was giving them orders like a slave overseer."

"She must be mad to ride this far north of the border. I think, Ivar, we
must visit the beautiful widow again and give her some advice. Do you
suppose she'll remember us?"

Half a dozen tents made of silk in the broadest shades of red and blue
and yellow had already been pitched on the flat ground beyond the trees.
The servants were now engaged in watering the horses at a small stream
some distance away and the blaspheming incidental to this labor came
clearly to the ears of the two visitors.

A mahogany-colored slave at the entrance to the largest of the tents did
not address them but waved his arms in admonition. "He's probably had
his tongue cut out," said Ivar, in a tone of compassion.

"We desire to see the Lady Eugenia," said Nicolan to the silent slave.

The mute bowed and vanished inside. In a matter of seconds another man
of bronze skin came to look them over.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are officers of the Great Tanjou, Attila, master of the world and
emperor of the skies."

The man vanished in turn. Coming back after some delay, he opened the
flap wide and said, "Mistress will see servants of the great khan."

The interior of the pavilion had already been completely settled in a
manner as luxurious as any Roman villa. There were rich rugs on the
ground and there was a couch of noble proportions behind which stood a
tall mirror of polished metal. The mistress, in a gown of green and
gold, was seated on a corner of the couch while a third male slave plied
comb and tongs on her hair.

The widow of Tergeste was a woman of indeterminate age, handsome enough
to be in her early twenties but with sufficient proof of experience in
her large brown eyes to be much farther along on the highway of the
years. The red of her hair was instantly suspect but even the most
critical observer would have to acknowledge that the application of the
dye had been most skillful.

She gave Nicolan an appraising look and then motioned to both servants
to retire.

"I know you," she said, in a voice of deep undertones. "You are the poor
starved rat who came in the dead of the night, tapping on the door of my
little place in the hills above Aquileia. There were two of you, a pair
of runaway slaves. You begged piteously for food."

"Yes, my lady. We were seeking liberty. You were most kind to us. You
saved our lives."

The widow rose to her feet and walked toward them, her voluminous skirts
trailing behind her. She looked hard in the direction of Ivar, who had
remained just inside the door.

"Is that the great silent ox you had with you the first time?"

"Yes, that is Ivar."

"He's turned into a Hercules, hasn't he?" She motioned imperiously to
the Briton to come closer. "You're a handsome fellow after all. A very
handsome fellow. I didn't suspect it, you were such a bag of bones
before. Phoebus Apollo, how I like big men!" She turned briskly in
Nicolan's direction. "And now what brings you here? You're not in any
need from the looks of you. I understand that you are in the pay of the
Scourge of God. Has it been a case of escaping from one master to fall
into the clutches of another?"

"No, my lady. We are free men. But you are right. We are with Attila's
forces. We are here because I have matters to discuss with Macio of the
Roymarcks. When we saw your tents, we decided to pay our respects first;
and also to give you some information."

She showed signs of an eager interest at the mention of Macio. "I also
have come to see him. Rumors reached my ears that he has raised a
fabulous black horse. Have you been lucky enough to see this Harthager?"

"We had a look at him in action not more than half an hour ago.

"Tell me, young man, is he as fast as they say?"

"My lady, he has quicksilver in his heels. He carries a set of bellows
as powerful as the steed Apollo drives across the sky each day."

A determined light showed in the alert eyes of the widow. "I must have
him! I am going to offer the old man a price he won't be able to refuse.
Where is this Macio to be found?"

"You have pitched your camp on his land, my lady. His house can be seen
from the top of the slope east of here."

"Then I must go to him at once. But, first, what is the information you
have for me?"

"You will be well advised to leave immediately. Attila is coming. He's
riding through this country and can be expected here in a few hours."

She gestured carelessly. "That for your Attila. I am not afraid.
Everyone, even this terrible Hun, knows about the widow of Tergeste. I
come and go as I please."

"He is no respecter of persons," urged Nicolan, earnestly. "You may not
know that we are in a state of war. He wouldn't hesitate to despoil even
as great a lady as you. It's possible he would think you a spy or, at
the least, he might hold you for ransom. My advice is to pack and leave
at once."

"Not until I've seen Macio and bought this fabulous Harthager. I tell
you, young man, I have a mission to perform, a duty--to convince the
stupid Romans, with their thick heads of solid stone, that they won't
keep the people satisfied much longer with the kind of entertainment
they offer in the circuses. They've all turned Christian so they can't
offer a tasty massacre any more. And they don't seem to know that horse
racing is the greatest sport in the world--when it's well done. They
stick to chariot races or sometimes they turn the horses loose with
clowns and tumblers on their backs, skipping from horse to horse and
dancing and lying down. Why can't they see that a proper race, with a
rider on each horse, is the most exciting thing in the world? They have
them everywhere in the world, except in Rome. Even in Greece, and _that_
shows how slow we Romans are. Sutphus of Epirus holds races every year
and contestants come from all over. I was there last year with a roan I
thought very well of. I lost a fortune. One hundred thousand sesterces!
And that's a lot, even for the widow of Tergeste. Now I must buy Macio's
black and return to Epirus for my revenge. I can't wait to see the
weasel face of Sutphus when the black runs away from the field! That's
why I'm here and nothing will persuade me to leave until I've bought
him."

"Attila will take Harthager for himself." Nicolan was struck with a
sudden thought. He paused to give it careful consideration and then
added in eager tones: "I believe, my lady, that I have a plan. I'm
certain no power on heaven or earth would induce the old man to sell his
great colt but he might be willing to lend him. He might see the wisdom
of having the black out of the way _before alien eyes can rest on him_.
You would have to swear to bring him back as soon as the war was over.
It would be necessary to work quickly. Every minute counts."

The widow's eyes had opened wide with excited speculation. "Do you think
he would agree?"

"I don't know. I'm inclined to think so. He doesn't want this great colt
carried off to be slaughtered in the war. Of course, he would insist on
sending a trainer along with you whose word would be law where the
black's concerned." Suddenly he clapped one hand on the palm of the
other. "I have it! He could put his daughter in your care, or both
daughters for that matter. On the understanding that you would take them
away with you in an hour's time and get them over there into Roman
territory as fast as your horses can travel."

The widow nodded her head in understanding. "This will be no place for
young girls."

"All fathers with unmarried daughters are in a panic. Particularly when
the daughters are beautiful."

"I take it that Macio's daughters are particularly good to look upon,"
said the Lady Eugenia, with a shrewd smile.

"I've seen one of them only, the younger, Ildico. She's as beautiful as
a sun goddess." He paused for a moment. "I think she could take charge
of the colt. I saw her ride him this morning."

"I will agree to any conditions!" cried the widow. "Anything which makes
it possible for me to race Harthager in Epirus. Come, young man, take me
to your Macio of the Roymarcks and expound the plan to him."

"The expounding of the plan I leave to you. In fact, I think it would be
wise not to mention me. I am, after all, Attila's man. He would think it
ill of me to lose him such chances. He is most partial to girls with
golden hair. One glance at Ildico would be enough to stoke his desire to
the blazing point. Go, then, to the old man and lay _your_ plan before
him." He glanced about him. "And set your servants to packing at once.
There won't be any time to lose if Macio agrees. Attila has a habit of
arriving early."

"You have a shrewd head on your shoulders, young man." The widow paused,
frowning at the silent Ivar. "Doesn't this great hulk of flesh ever say
anything? He has done nothing but stare at me since he came in."

"It is his way of showing how much he admires you."

"Well," said the widow, patting the tall superstructure of her gleaming
hair. "I could teach him some better ways of showing it. A thought
occurs to me. If I am to take the girl and the horse with me, why don't
I take him as well? I could make good use of him. And I would pay him
better than Attila."

"You do me too much honor, my lady," said Ivar, hastily. "There is
active duty ahead of us. I am better suited to that."

"Don't think that serving me isn't active duty. It's been compared to
fighting a campaign. But I pay well. Your pockets would always be as
full as your stomach. Think it over. I might be a very partial mistress
to you."


[3]

From the cover of the trees, the two friends watched the departure of
the widow's augmented party an hour or so later. It had not taken long
to convince Macio of the wisdom of a plan by which he could remove his
golden-haired daughter from danger and by the same stroke keep Harthager
out of the ruthless hands of the Hun. The widow had talked to him first;
and, although no mention was made of her visit when Nicolan had been
admitted later, there had been an obvious relief in his attitude. It had
been a brief talk he allowed the advance representative of Attila. No
more, in fact, than, "Here is my stock sheet and, here, a list of the
men on my land. Is there anything else you need?" His tone had been
hostile and Nicolan was certain that the old man had no inkling that the
plan was his and not the widow's. On leaving, Nicolan asked if there
would be any objection to his presence at the races. Macio's answer had
been a gruff and unfriendly "None."

From where they stood, they could see that Ildico, with her yellow hair
well concealed under a velvet bonnet, was riding beside Harthager. She
kept her head inclined in his direction. It may have been that she was
endeavoring to console him for the undignified way he had been muffled
up in an old blanket quite unfitting one of his high station, and that
lime had been used to trace a disguising white star on his nose.

"It is strange," said Nicolan, "that he sends Ildico only and keeps his
other daughter home. Do you suppose he doesn't care enough about her?
Laudio might well find favor in Attila's eye. I remember her as a comely
girl. She had dark hair and eyes but her skin was fair and delicate. I
wonder, now, what Laudio thinks of this? She always had a temper of her
own."

The party, proceeding at a brisk trot, was soon lost sight of in the
trees which clustered along the winding road. Nicolan watched with fixed
attention until the tail of the last horse had vanished from sight. Then
he turned a sober face to his companion.

"I may never see her again," he said.

Ivar could afford to be philosophic about such matters, having as yet no
interest in them. "I concede that she is pleasant to the eye," he said.
"But the world is full of lovely women. You will have many chances to
console yourself."

"Perhaps it's just as well," acknowledged Nicolan, in gloomy undertones.
"It's certain the Roymarcks will never forgive me. What bitterness the
old man showed me this morning! His eyes seemed to look right through
me." He sighed deeply and it was several moments before he continued.
"One thing is certain. If she does return, she'll find me dead or master
of the lands of the Ildeburghs!"




CHAPTER X


[1]

Attila did not arrive early. Nicolan kept one eye on the races that
afternoon and one on the eastern road, from which direction the Hun
leader was due to appear. Lacking the zest which would have been loaned
by the participation of the much-discussed Harthager, the races were
rather dull. Ranno of the Finninalders won more than the Roymarck
entries, an unexpected turn which did not seem to displease Laudio, who
rode beside the winner. She was looking almost as lovely as her younger
sister in a pink-colored riding jacket and black high boots.

The afternoon passed and no cloud of dust rose from the eastern road to
proclaim the approach of Attila.

When the last race had been run, Nicolan said to his companion:
"Something has happened to change his plans. There's nothing left for us
but to ride back to headquarters."

As they turned their horses, however, a stir among the spectators caused
him to rein in. "What's this?" he asked. Then in a tone which had an
undercurrent of excitement, he added: "I believe, my friend, we are
going to see a Duel of the Whips. We must wait for this! Prepare for the
most stirring and terrifying spectacle you have ever watched."

The spectators had drawn closer in, leaving an oblong space of perhaps
one hundred and fifty yards in length. A mounted contestant appeared at
each end of the space, riding bareback, of course. Each had a heavy whip
of most unusual length wound around his wrist and a poniard in his belt.
Macio presented himself at one side and made an announcement, pointing
first to one of the opponents and then to the other. A deep murmur arose
from the watchers.

"In a Duel of the Whips," explained Nicolan to his companion, "they
maneuver for position and try to curl the whip around the neck of the
other man, in order to drag him from his horse. Those whips are twenty
feet long and you will be surprised at the skill they show with them.
Boys are trained to the use of them from the time they are five years
old, because anyone may find himself involved in a duel. When one is
dragged to the ground, he is no longer allowed to defend himself. His
opponent can do either of two things. He can extend the boon of life to
the prostrate man or dispatch him with the knife at his belt. Generally
they use the knife; because feelings run deep." He stopped suddenly and
drew in his breath. "I know one of them. The tall one at the other end.
Rathel of the Dotterspeares. He was a gentle and quiet boy and we were
close friends. But he was never very strong and I'm afraid this--this
will go badly for him."

They dismounted and made their way to the front rank of spectators.
Nicolan decided to get what information he could from the man nearest
him, a small fellow with a cap on his head as pointed as his inquisitive
nose.

"What is the quarrel?" he asked.

"Sparkan claims the girl that Rathel is to marry was promised to him by
her father when she was in the cradle. Both fathers are dead now, and so
there is nothing for Rathel to do but fight him. It won't be an even
duel. Sparkan has fought with the Whips several times and has always
killed his man." He looked up at this point and discovered the identity
of the one he addressed. His expression changed, becoming dark and
angry. "Is this any concern of yours, Nicolan of the Ildeburghs?"

Nicolan answered in a quiet voice, "Rathel was my friend."

"A friend no longer! He's going to die out there but I'm sure he
wouldn't change places with you."

The duel had started. The man Sparkan was tall and heavy of frame. He
controlled his mount with practiced ease and sureness and his dark eyes
never left the figure of his opponent. There was deadly stealth in the
way he held his whip. Half a dozen times it whipped out like the head of
a cobra striking from its coils and each time it missed by no more than
an inch. Rathel was showing horsemanship of a high order also, although
he gave the impression of being continuously on the defensive. Only once
did he succeed in getting behind his opponent, the position from which
the whip could be used to best advantage, and the cast he made from
there was far from accurate.

"My poor Rathel!" breathed Nicolan. "There can be only one end to this!"

The end came almost immediately. The black-maned Sparkan gained the
coveted position and his rawhide whistled across the intervening space,
winding itself about the neck of the unfortunate Rathel. A single tug
brought the latter to the ground. He lay where he had fallen, according
to the rule, and made no effort to regain his feet. His poniard he had
already cast aside.

There was an animal eagerness in the speed with which the victor sprang
to the ground and an urge to kill in the way he released his knife.
Nicolan turned his eyes away. In a moment he heard a deep sigh rise from
those about him and the frightened cries of women.

"One stroke only!" said Ivar. "It was murder, as surely as the dispatch
of a gladiator when the thumbs were turned down."

"My poor friend!" said Nicolan. Although he was not of the Christian
faith, he whispered, "May God be kind to him."

The spectators seemed too stunned to move and the small figure of a
priest in a gray robe had to fight a way in to the cleared space. He ran
to the center of the course and dropped on his knees beside the dying
man.

"That is Father Simon," said Nicolan. "The priest we tried to find at
Belise Scaur as we came through; the one I hoped would relay word of
Attila's demands in advance of us. He's risking his life by showing
himself publicly in this way."

The priest repeated a prayer over the recumbent body and made the sign
of the cross.

"I call on all of you to witness that he lived long enough for
absolution," said the priest. "He had not brought himself to the true
faith, my poor Rathel of the Dotterspeares, but he was a good and honest
man, and a sweetness of spirit kept him always in the straight path. In
the end he knew himself a sinner and his eyes begged forgiveness before
he betook himself to the life beyond. May the merciful Son of Heaven
receive him into eternal peace."

The kinsmen of Rathel took charge of the body. The patriarch of the clan
anointed the brow and cheeks and then placed on the head a white cap.
The victim was encased in a stiff white vestment and his arms were
crossed on his chest, with his knife in the right hand. The whip he had
used was wound around his wrist so that he would depart to spirit land
with the proof on him that he had died in a duel, thus ensuring the
cordiality of his reception. Finally they grouped themselves about him
and intoned a long and high dirge. The girl who was to have married him
watched from a distance, her head bowed in grief. When Sparkan
approached her, smiling triumphantly, his bloodstained knife back in its
place, she turned in a sudden hysterical anger and waved him away.


[2]

The emotional effect of what he had seen took hold, at this stage, of
the man in the peaked cap. He pointed an accusing finger at Nicolan.

"There's the one!" he cried. "He should have been killed in there and
not Rathel. He deserves death, this traitor who is selling his own
people to the Huns."

Men who had been on the point of reaching their horses and starting away
came to a halt. The shrill words had struck home. They fell into
vociferous groups, they muttered, they raised their fists and rattled
the daggers in their belts.

"Death to the traitor!" cried a high clear voice from the heart of the
crowd.

The spectators began to move forward slowly but with frowning and
ominous purpose. Nicolan felt no fear at first. Here, he realized, was
his chance. The accusation had been hurled at him openly; so now he
could defend himself with equal openness. Everyone would hear what he
had to say, and perhaps they would understand.

"Do you want your Roman masters back?" he demanded. "Vannius was a
Roman. Do you want his like, sitting over you again like a greedy
vulture? Do any of you want to be sold as slaves in Rome as I was? Do
you want to feel the whips of Roman overseers on your backs?"

"The whip!" The word was taken up by the shrill little man who had
started the trouble. "Would this spy of the Huns have the courage to
stand up to one of our own people in a Duel of the Whips?"

"Yes!" cried Nicolan, letting himself be carried away. "But you all know
that the skill we are taught with the whip as boys can be kept only by
constant practice. I have not had a whip in my hands since I was carried
away to Rome."

"We know you for a coward, Nicolan of the Ildeburghs!" cried a voice.
"Your heart is weak and you have only a wily tongue for reasons and
excuses."

"When I have had a chance to get the feel of it again, I will ride
against anyone you pick!" declared Nicolan.

"Against Ranno of the Finninalders?"

"Yes, against Ranno of the Finninalders." Then a sudden surge of anger
caused Nicolan to throw all caution to the winds. "He above all others.
I ask nothing better than a chance to fight Ranno. Ranno whose father
connived with Vannius for the murder of _my_ father. You all know that
he was in the plot with Vannius. That he stood aside when my mother and
I were taken away and sold as slaves! Many of you here must remember my
brave father and my gentle mother. Can any of you believe that the
Ildeburgh lands should remain in the hands of Ranno? Think back over the
years and remember what this treacherous family has done! Yes, I'll
fight with Ranno. I will fight him with the best will in the world!"

By this time the crowds had gathered thickly about them. Nicolan's
words, seemingly, had not had much effect. He saw nothing but angry eyes
and savagely nodding heads. Some had drawn their knives and were waving
them in the air.

"Cut him to pieces!"

"Hang him on the highest tree in the grove!"

"Don't listen to his prating about the past. It's what he's doing today
that counts!"

"This is the end of me!" said Nicolan to himself. "I should have kept a
still tongue." And yet a sense of exultation weighed above the fear he
felt. If he had to die, this was one way he might have chosen: defending
himself against his accusers, crying out the truth about the evil
Finninalders.

He drew his dagger to defend himself, although he realized it would be
of little use in the struggle. The hostile ring was already within a few
feet of him. And then he heard the voice of Ivar raised above the
clamor.

"Stand back!" the Briton was shouting.

Nicolan did not realize that his friend had gone into action until he
saw Ivar plunge against the advancing line of angry men. The hands of
the huge islander closed on the necks of the two nearest him. With
apparent ease he raised both of them in the air, cracked their heads
together, and threw them into the ranks of their fellows. The impact was
great enough to crumple up the line and to sweep many off their feet.
The advance came to a momentary halt.

"I do not speak your words!" cried the Briton. He threw off his tunic
and raised his naked arms in the air, flexing his great muscles as he
did so. "But I think you will understand me. Listen. I am a mighty
fellow. Those two who lie there so quietly, they are not hurt. I was
easy with them. But I will not be easy with the rest of you. Oh yes, you
would kill me. There are many of you and you have weapons. But before I
died, I would kill plenty of you. It would be unpleasant deaths you
would suffer."

The advance had not been resumed and Ivar looked along the line of
lowering faces. No one met his glance, not wishing to be picked for a
further demonstration of his strength. "Let me give you advice. Stay
where you are. Why should many of you trade your lives for mine and that
of my friend?"

Another voice was heard at this point, that of Macio. He had ridden up
in great haste, shouting to the mob to break up. He drove his horse into
the midst of them, opening a lane to the danger center. Here he reined
in and glanced about him with an eye which blazed angrily.

"Men of Bakony!" he cried. "Since when have you become cowards? A
hundred of you prepared to attack two men! This is not the way of our
people. Listen to me, my friends. These men are guests. No harm shall
come to them while they stand on land of mine. Enough of this! Stand
back, all of you, or my sword will be drawn in their defense."

The men who had lost their footing rose slowly, grumbling angrily; but
the rest fell back and seemed uncertain what to do. Some of them,
clearly enough, were now ashamed of the part they had been prepared to
play.

"Are we to be told what to do?" asked the querulous voice of the man in
the peaked cap.

Macio turned fiercely in his direction. "So, you are here, Marklius of
the Pens? I am sure you started all this. Wherever you show your
sniveling nose, there is trouble. Be off, you thief with the double
tongue, or I'll see that you suffer for the evildoing you have been
forgiven in the past!"

Another voice joined in. Ranno rode up to the edge of the crowd.

"What is this I have heard?" he asked. "That I am being challenged to a
duel?"

He dismounted, throwing the reins to a bystander. There were six plumes
in his bonnet, one for each race he had won that afternoon. Macio had
won four but he was not wearing them. The step of the newcomer was both
jaunty and confident.

He confronted Nicolan with a supercilious smile. "I greet an old
comrade," he said. "You were once Nicolan of the Ildeburghs but now you
are Nicolan the Hun, the traitor who comes to spy out the land. Can it
be that you are in earnest, that you desire to match your skill and your
courage against mine?"

"It must be as clear to you, Ranno, as it is to me that sooner or later
we must put our differences to an armed test," said Nicolan. "You stand
in my shoes. You hold the land that belongs to me and refuse to let it
go. For this I must kill you."

Ranno moved closer and studied him with a show of mock alarm. He slapped
one hand against his thigh, encased in sky-blue hose.

"There is still plenty of light. What better time could there be for it
than now? Come, let's make a memorable day of it. A second Duel of the
Whips!"

"What eagerness you show, brave Ranno! You are ready to fight a man who
has not had a whip in his hand for ten years. You would make short work
of me, my honorable son of an honorable father. I have no intention of
throwing my life away. I still have too much to do. I must prove, first,
that your father was with Vannius in plotting the death of my father. I
must confront you with proof of the infamous transaction which gave you
our lands. I must show that I am now the rightful owner. When all that
has been done, then I shall be prepared to meet you in a Duel of the
Whips."

"He is right, Ranno," declared Macio, in a voice which left no doubt of
his disapproval of the stand taken by the man who aspired to marry his
daughter. "Have you forgotten that Rathel was granted three months for
training when Sparkan challenged him? It has always been the rule."

"If his impatience cannot be slaked," said Nicolan, "let me point out
that we each carry sword and dagger. Why not fight now with these
weapons? I am ready if he is."

But Ranno, it developed, did not want to fight on such terms. He would
wait, he declared, until they could use the whips.


[3]

When the two friends had mounted their horses, they found that Macio was
waiting for further talk with them. He was now accompanied by his
daughter Laudio.

"A word with you," he said to Nicolan. "For your ears only."

"Is it your purpose, dear Father," asked Laudio, in a bitter tone, "to
explain why you sent Ildico away and left me to face whatever may befall
us in the wars?"

"Peace, child!" said Macio. "You know the reason."

"All our people are wondering!" cried the girl, her slate-colored eyes
flashing in her resentment. "Are you going to proclaim it to them? They
are smiling behind the back of the oldest daughter who was not thought
worth the effort to save!"

"Laudio, Laudio!"

"It doesn't surprise me," persisted Laudio. "You have always preferred
her. Ever since she was born. You've shown it in a thousand ways, my
father. You wouldn't have cared if I had been taken from you, to live in
horrible slavery among the Huns. But Ildico, your favorite, your beloved
child with the golden hair! Ildico must be sent to safety, even though
it may bring down the wrath of Attila on all of us!"

Macio laid a hand on the reins of Nicolan's horse and led the way at a
walk to a distance where they could speak without being heard. He
disregarded his daughter's outbreak and proceeded to speak of other
matters.

"I cannot ask you to sit at my table tonight," he said. "If I did, none
of my other guests would break bread with us. There would be the three
of us only, you and I and Father Simon. They are strong to hold a
grudge, these people of ours. You have seen that today." He continued in
a hesitant tone. "Since Attila has not come to state his demands, what
are we to expect? Will all our horses be taken? And all our young men?"

"I am hoping he will accept the requisition lists I have prepared,"
answered Nicolan. "If he does, no breeder of horses will be left without
adequate stock to maintain his strain. The drain on the man power will
be heavy. What can you expect? It is war; one half of the world fighting
the other half. Young men capable of bearing arms must respond to the
call. I must turn in the lists I have prepared."

"What share of our horses would be left to us?

"If Attila accepts my list, nearly a third will be left you."

For several moments Macio made no comment. He was thinking no doubt of
the fine sires and mares and the promising youngsters he would lose, for
horses do not come back from wars. Finally he gave a brief nod of his
head. "I must be honest and tell you that your plan is more lenient than
I dared hope for. None of our people expected to escape as lightly as
that. If he agrees, you will have done us a service." He hesitated
again. "But you must not expect any gratitude from them. As I said, we
are a stiff-necked people. They can see one thing only; that you are an
officer with the Hun. You may lap them all about in privilege and luxury
and they will still cry shame on you." He made a gesture as though to
brush the topic aside. "Tell me, Nicolan of the Ildeburghs, how did it
come about that you knew the widow of Tergeste?"

"Ivar and I were running away from slavery in Rome. We hadn't eaten for
days and we were so weak that we could barely walk. When we reached the
walls of the city of Aquileia, we knew that we couldn't go on. An old
woman, whose aid we asked, said the widow had a kind heart and would be
ready to help us. She took us after dark to a large place in the hills
beyond the walls. The old woman left us outside while she pleaded our
case with the widow. At first the Lady Eugenia, so we were told later,
was not of a mind to interfere. We were runaway slaves and she was one
of the largest owners in the empire. If hers ran away, she would think
ill of anyone who aided them. But she agreed to hear us and, when we had
told our story and she had seen the scars on my back, she relented. Ah,
how generous she was! She kept us with her three days, hidden in a room
where none of her people would know. She brought food to us herself.
Then she sent us off, with money in our belts and a supply of food for
several days. It was because of her goodness of heart that we managed in
the end to escape across the line to freedom."

"I learned something just now which made me think you saw her this
morning."

"Yes, my lord Macio."

After a moments silence, the old man went on. "That Attila did not come
after all is beyond the mark. I am happy that my daughter and my great
horse are well on the way to a sanctuary where the hand of the Hun
cannot reach them."

"It was wise to send them. Word would have reached the ears of Attila
about them before very long. While we speak of this, I would advise that
you pick out your two best horses at once and send them to him as a
personal gift. Inform him that Harthager is racing in the south and that
you plan to send him one of the great black's get for each of the royal
sons when Harthager becomes a sire."

"An excellent idea. The plan that the widow proposed to me this morning
was so sound that I fell in line with it at once. I did not ask if she
had discussed it with you. If the scheme was hatched in that long head
of yours, I knew you would not want it known. So all I can say to you is
this: that I think it was your forethought which has benefited me so
mightily and I want you to know that I am grateful."




CHAPTER XI


[1]

Nicolan was not left long in doubt as to the reason for Attila's change
of plan. He heard it as soon as he rode through the gate of the teeming
city in the bend of the river. The officer in charge of the guard leaned
out through the open window of his small wooden cubicle and accosted
him.

"Have you heard what's afoot?" he asked.

"I have heard nothing."

"Aetius is on his way north. With a small guard only. He arrives
tomorrow."

Nicolan was taken aback at this news. "The Roman leader?"

"None other. He has twelve horsemen with him. No more."

Nicolan turned to study the officer, his lips puckered as though he were
indulging in a silent whistle.

"How is it that you know this, Eppigus?" he asked.

"Everyone knows. The word has spread like fire in a grain field. The
great khan is preparing a reception." The officer nodded eagerly. "I
would like to know what kind of a reception it is going to be. What
manner of death do you think he plans for the bold Roman?"

Nicolan brushed this aside. "Your nose is a short one, Eppigus, and yet
you cannot see beyond it. What would you say if a great banquet was held
for the Roman and he was then permitted to return to Rome?"

The officer laughed loudly. "You are a fool, Togalatus!" he said. He
withdrew inside but almost immediately his head reappeared. "Your folly
made me forget. I have an order for you. You are to report at once to
the great khan."

                 *        *        *        *        *

When Nicolan was admitted, Attila was sitting by the side of his bed,
wearing no more than a pair of loose woolen drawers. He stifled a yawn.

"What reports have you?"

Nicolan produced his lists. Attila looked first at the horse
requisitions and slitted one eye thoughtfully as he considered the
total. "I agree," he said, finally. "It is a large enough supply. We
must not be greedy. There will be other wars."

"Macio's great black had been sent to race at Epirus. It will be no
loss. A race horse is flighty and full of moods, so it's of no use for
the cavalry. The old man promises you the first four of Harthager's get
when he's used in the stud. One for each of your sons, Great Tanjou. I
brought with me his two finest chargers, which he desires you to have
for your personal use."

Attila grunted. "He is being suspiciously generous, this Macio. What is
he concealing? I must give some thought to this later."

The emperor of the Huns looked up sharply at Nicolan. "I've had a report
of a woman riding south on a black horse. A young woman with hair as
yellow as sunshine on the desert. It was no more than a glimpse my
lookouts had of her. The party she was with turned off the trail
immediately as though not wanting to be seen. They all said she was
beautiful. Was she real, think you? Is she the wife I've been seeking?
Or was she a vision supplied by Them?" He was back on his old belief
that great powers in the spirit world watched over him and were always
ready to reward or punish him according to his deserts. Then he gave his
head a negative shake. "No, no. If They intended it as a promise, the
vision would have appeared to me. Then who was she?"

"Women often look beautiful at a distance but lose in charm at closer
view."

"Not this one. My men swear her like has never been seen before. If she
is flesh and bones, I shall find her. I believe she may be the divinely
gifted one who alone is fit to share the throne I shall set up in Rome."

After a pause for reflection, he considered and approved the statement
of available man power. He yawned again and then indulged in a disgusted
frown. "Can it be that I am human after all? That I share the weaknesses
of ordinary men? True, I rode all last night; but that has never tired
me before. Why, then, do I find myself for the first time in my life
yowking for sleep like a thin-flanked bridegroom?" He held up a hand. "I
am giving Aetius a reception. It will be the finest ever held. A
festival, in truth. It will not be anything like the wine-tasting
festivals for the twice-born Dionysos.... You see? The Greeks call me
an ignorant barbarian but I know all about their insipid and womanish
annals.... This one will leave a far different taste on the tongue of
my boyhood friend." He looked at Nicolan intently. "I shall want you
here. You are to play a part in it."

When the two friends were inside the gate and settled in their quarters,
Ivar began to ask questions.

"Is the man mad to trust himself into the hands of Attila?"

"He is mad--or very wise. I don't know which it is. Aetius is very sure
of the strength of his position and he doesn't believe Attila will dare
lay violent hands on him. He has a great deal to gain--or so he
thinks--by getting into close contact. Perhaps he thinks he can persuade
Attila not to attack Rome, to lead his armies somewhere else--against
Constantinople, or North Africa, or even against the Visigoths in Gaul.
Or failing that, he hopes to get some inkling as to how Attila will
proceed against Rome. You see, the people of Gaul are bitterly
antagonistic to the Huns and they might decide to attack if Attila moves
his army into Italy. That leaves our great man with a hard decision.
Should he leave his flank exposed or should he strike at Gaul first; and
then, having brushed them aside, get to grips with the empire? Which he
will do is a problem which keeps Aetius awake at nights, I am sure. He
won't decide where to mobilize his forces until he knows Attila's
purpose. Perhaps he expects to get to the bottom of it while he's here."

The same questions were being asked all over the noisy city. The men who
tramped bowlegged through the narrow passages and the plump, black-eyed
women who peered out from doorways all wanted to know what Attila would
do to this bold Roman who was placing his head voluntarily in the lion's
jaw. They all had the same idea, that their leader should take full
advantage of his opponent's foolhardiness. Nothing less would suit them
than the sight of the handsome head of Aetius decorating the end of a
pike over the city gate.


[2]

It was indeed a handsome and imposing head that the dictator of Rome
carried on his shoulders when he arrived with his handful of mounted
men. It was a familiar scene which greeted his eyes and he gave no
indication of fear or indecision. He addressed the captain of the guard
in the Hun tongue, smiling in a friendly way and avoiding any show of
discontent when Onegesius came to greet him and not Attila. The hours he
had to spend in a small house near the inner city of imperial wives
before any message reached him did not seem to ruffle his good nature.
This much, at least, he had expected when he decided on his gamble.

He felt better about it, without a doubt, when he was ushered that night
into the great hall in Attila's palace by attendants who bowed to him
and said, "Attila is _my_ lord and _thy_ lord." The leader of the Huns
had outdone himself for the occasion. Everything in the way of a trophy
had been brought out and put on display. The walls were covered with
flags and tapestries and prayer rugs. The tables glistened with silver
and gold. Among the guests already seated were the heads of eight
states, most of them endowed with royal titles. There were generals and
ministers and wealthy merchants and religious figures. There were even
women present; not wives, for that would have opened the doors too wide,
with men's matrimonial inclinations running into high numbers; but
voluptuous creatures all of them, in glowing yellows and rich reds, who
had been brought from points as far distant as Constantinople, the home
of well-mannered courtesans. Attila himself would have been
disappointed, nevertheless, had he searched among them for the beautiful
golden wife he sought.

Remembering the days when he had been a youthful hostage at the
barbarously frugal court of Attila's uncle, Aetius was both surprised
and amused at the efforts made to impress him. He recognized one of the
women and said to himself, "Now where next will my little Pulchra
appear?"

None of the kings had been invited to occupy the empty chair on the dais
beside that of Attila. Aetius was escorted there and was received with a
few words of welcome in far from gracious tones. Aetius looked about him
and recognized some of the faces, in addition to the blonde Pulchra. He
began to feel much easier in his mind over the outcome of his rash
venture.

"Talk!" said Attila. "That's what you came for."

"Yes. I came to talk. I recall that I talked a great deal in the old
days. You said very little. You sat and looked at me and kept your
thoughts to yourself."

"You had nothing but contempt for me."

There was a long pause. "That is true," said Aetius. "I resented being
sent as a hostage. I never forgave my father for allowing me to be
selected."

"I hated you," Attila said. "You were tall and well dressed. Your nose
was high and straight and women admired you. You were a scholar and I
hadn't learned to read. My hatred has grown with the years."

Aetius nodded. "If I had not been sure you hated me, I would never have
dared pay you this visit."

Attila stared with a complete lack of comprehension at his uninvited
guest. "What reasoning is that?" he demanded. "Is this the talk you
Romans call subtle? I don't understand it."

Although the room below them was filled with talk and sounds of
laughter, all eyes were fixed on the two men who had met under these
extraordinary circumstances and who might settle between them the fate
of the world.

"It is simple," the Roman said. "Let me explain. In five years, perhaps,
both Attila and Aetius will be dead. You may fall in battle or you may
succumb to the heavy inroads you make on your strength. As for me, I
will fall, as Caesar did, to the knives of conspirators. I live in
constant danger of assassination. What happens to us in these few
remaining years is not everything. In the hundreds of years to follow,
men will study the history of these dramatic days, and ask what manner
of man the great conqueror Attila was and, in lesser degree, the upstart
Aetius. I know how deep your pride runs, O Attila. You do not want the
men of the future to scoff at you as a barbarian. You will not let them
say you feared me so much that you had me killed. No, no! Your pride
demands that you show your supremacy over the hated Aetius on the field
of battle. I had to be very sure of the depth of your hatred before I
could thrust myself into your power in this way."

The spectators sensed that the air was charged with tension. The food
was left untouched and they watched with almost breathless interest.
Conversation died down to a drone and then ceased, until nothing was
heard in the long hall but the shuffle of the servingmen's feet.

Attila had listened to his antagonist with a sense of shock. What Aetius
said was true. The leader of the Huns had not realized before how true
it was. There would be a savage pleasure in ordering the death of Aetius
but the satisfaction it brought him would be momentary. It would be
small compared to the great triumph he longed to achieve over his rival
on the field of battle. The ugly, slower-witted boy must win the
ultimate victory over the handsome and glib youth from Rome. He must
prove his mastery in the greatest test of all. To kill Aetius now would
be to rob himself of the chance for that supreme achievement.

Attila gave his round and ill-shaped head a fierce nod. "You are right.
I hate you too much to kill you now."

"Then," said Aetius, "I shall talk, as you demanded. There is much to
say. I must make it clear, first, that I come in the hope that we can
save the world more struggle and bloodshed at the moment. We must clash
ultimately, you and I, but must it be so soon? Should we not consider
first the easy spoils the world offers to the great power we both
command?"

Attila looked scornfully at the imposing figure beside him in the
spotless white toga. "I, the youngest nephew in my uncle's house, I rule
now over more of the world than Alexander had under his sway. Everything
I have achieved has been by struggle and bloodshed. You, my Aetius, are
the master of Rome. How did you achieve that? By struggle and
bloodshed."

"No, no, I am not the master of Rome. I serve the Emperor Valentinian."

Attila, the more honest of the two, gave his shaggy head an impatient
shake. "Why then are you here if you are no more than servant to that
slothful and stupid son of degenerate parents? I have no time to waste
on go-betweens. Is it in your power to reach decisions? If it is not,
you waste my time; and that I cannot forgive."

Aetius hesitated. He was practiced in the suave exchanges of diplomacy
and the bluntness of the Hun leader disturbed him.

"I have the power to make decisions," he said, finally.

Attila grunted and settled into his high-backed chair, stretching his
bandy legs under the table. "Then talk," he said. What Aetius proceeded
to say was a masterpiece of carefully phrased suggestion. He did not go
to the extent of offering Constantinople as a better target than Rome
but he hinted at the ripeness of the Byzantine plum. He was more direct
when he turned attention to North Africa. Here was a rich field for the
scythe of the conqueror, one moreover where Roman and Hun might labor
together as allies. He advanced a cleverly conceived plan of campaign,
placing it before his listener with the hesitancy of one who pretended
to know himself in the presence of the great master of strategy.

Attila listened and grunted and said nothing. It was not until the sweep
of the Roman's argument subsided into a trickle of words that he roused
himself.

"First," he said, "we have matters to settle. Matters over which Rome
has boggled and squirmed and refused to act." He glanced about the room
until he saw the face of Nicolan at a seat near the far end of the hall.
He gestured to the latter to come forward.

Nicolan obeyed with much inward reluctance, certain that his former
master would recognize him and foreseeing dangerous complications.

"Do you know this man?" Attila asked the Roman visitor when Nicolan
stood before them.

The handsome features of Aetius hardened when he looked down at Nicolan.

"I know him," he said. "He is a slave of mine. He ran away from my
household in Rome some years ago. I did not believe a slave could escape
from the city alive and so I was sure he had been killed!"

"Do you claim him?"

"Of course. He is my property."

"Then I will give him to you. To do with as you wish. Crucify him as a
lesson to other slaves. Or take him back and make use of him. I have
found him helpful."

Nicolan knew that he faced death in its most terrible guise. There was
no hint of mercy in the set features of the Roman dictator. Then he
studied the face of Attila and was conscious that something was being
held back. He heard the Hun leader say: "But there must be a fair
exchange. I have a long list of those who have run away from my
dominions and are now in sanctuary with you. These must be handed over
to me. I have put Nicolan at the top of the list of those I am prepared
to return to you because he is of the greatest value to me. Here is the
other list. Look it over carefully."

Aetius took both lists and his face flushed as he glanced at the names
of those Attila demanded in exchange.

"You do not mean it!" he cried. "You have here, at the very top, the
name of the Princess Honoria."

"She desires to become my wife but is held a prisoner by orders of the
emperor," declared Attila. "I demand that she be sent to me as the first
condition of any discussion about our future relations."

The face of Aetius showed how unexpected this demand was. "You ask the
impossible. The Lady Honoria is a princess of the imperial line. The
Emperor Valentinian would never consent."

The watchful eyes below, whether they belonged to Teuton king, Sarmatian
overlord, or plain foot soldier, were fixed with sudden alarm on the two
figures seated above them. They saw Attila take the two sheets, which he
and his guest had been studying, and tear them to pieces. They saw him
turn to Aetius and say something with an air which did not suggest
amity.

What Attila had said was, "Now I shall talk." He brushed aside a serving
arm which would have filled his drinking cup. He had taken no more than
a few mouthfuls all evening. "You are not ignorant of the fact that I am
preparing for war. For the last twenty-four hours of your ride you were
in country covered by the tents of my warriors. I have assembled here
the greatest army ever seen on the face of the earth; and still they
come. Where do I plan to strike? That is what brought you here. You hope
to find some proof of my plans, or to trap me into an admission. I find
no fault with this. I have my own spies everywhere. Perhaps I should be
proud that Aetius, the master of Rome, has thought it necessary to act
as his own spy." He paused and then threw a question at the visitor.
"What conclusions have you reached?"

"You are preparing to attack Rome. I am so certain of it that I am here
in an effort to convince you that nothing but ill can come of it--for
you as well as for Rome. Have you taken into consideration the
advantages which always rest with the defenders? The desperation, the
patriotic fervor which makes men excel themselves, the intimate
knowledge of every foot of terrain, the relative ease of feeding the
defending armies? All these advantages were on the side of Rome when
Hannibal attacked her. And Hannibal failed."

"I know all this. I am still certain I shall beat you, Aetius, and raze
the walls of your great city."

"The haruspices have been at work. They agree that your purpose is to
attack us. They agree also that you will fail. And die in the attempt."

"What methods do they use, these haruspices of yours?"

"The study of the entrails of the newly killed. Not animals. Not slaves.
They use the bodies of young maidens."

The watchers, who had sensed a growing tension between the two men on
the dais, were disturbed to see Attila throw back his head at this point
and indulge in a roar of laughter. He seldom laughed. There were many in
the room, in fact, who had never seen him give way to mirth. His
laughter now, it must be said, had little suggestion of mirth about it.
Beginning with a curious low-throated chuckle, the sound mounted slowly
until it reached torrential volume. It was not infectious in any sense;
it was, instead, fearsome, horrendous, unhuman.

"I am the barbarian," said Attila, when his laughter ended. "You are the
cultured scholar, the man of wide knowledge. Yet you believe in
divination, in the prying of priestly fingers into the vitals of dead
things to learn what the future holds. I laugh at such folly. I, the
barbarian, depend only on my own judgment, based on experience--and on
the reports of my spies and my advance troops. Oh, I let the priests
perform their functions. The people around me believe in them. And now,
Aetius, as between us, which is the real barbarian?"

Aetius disregarded this question. He asked, "What method of divination
do your priests use?"

"The Flight of the Arrow. Human sacrifice, naturally. At the instant of
death, the victim shows what she has seen beyond this life. It is done,
not by the writhing of her bowels, but by the direction of an arrow. It
has been used by my people for centuries. It is interesting to watch.
Shall we try it, O my friend from the so-called world of learning and
culture?"

Aetius found it hard to conceal his eagerness. A fanatical light
appeared back of the sternness of his eyes. "Yes, O Attila. Summon your
priests and let us learn what they can tell us."

The hall was cleared, save for Attila's generals and chief advisers, as
well as two of the party accompanying the Roman leader, and the heads of
allied States--perhaps twenty spectators in all. The curtain closing off
the raised area of the hall was rolled back. Attila's bed was shoved to
one side. Then a metal bar, with a pair of sandals permanently attached
in the center, was brought in. It was then noticed that the wall at the
far end of the hall, a distance of perhaps eighty feet, was covered with
a map of the world.

Attila raised a hand in the air. "Bring in the maiden," he commanded.

A pretty young girl, with flowers in her dark hair and draped across her
white tunic, was led in. She struggled to free her arms from the
viselike grip of priestly fingers.

"Is she of the right age?" asked Attila.

"Yes, Great Tanjou."

"I cannot judge from this distance if she is lovely enough to please the
gods."

"Yes, Lord of the Earth and Skies. The maiden is surpassing fair."

"She is not a slave?"

"No. Her father was a sheepherder. He resisted our demand for her and
was killed in the struggle. This will make it a double sacrifice and so
please the gods. Even Marha, the One of Terror, will be pleased."

"Does she know what is expected of her?"

"Fear has taken her in its grip. She trembles like a young fawn. It is
the right mood, Great Tanjou."

The feet of the girl were placed in the sandals and an iron ring was
attached to one of them. Another ring was placed around the neck of the
victim, and the two were then attached by a bow-string of unusual
strength. An arrow, more than four feet long, was fitted into a notch
around her waist.

"May her departing spirit direct the arrow truly!" cried one of the
priests. "May we thus wrest from the gods the knowledge of where the
victory of Attila will be won! Pull!"

Two powerful Hun bowmen began to draw back on the string. The girl
screamed in terror and pain. They continued to pull until it seemed
certain that her head and heels would meet. Then there was heard a sharp
and sickening crack. The girl's body collapsed, her head striking the
floor but the rest of her body contorted unnaturally by the anchoring of
her feet to the bar. Her back had been broken.

The arrow sped with great velocity in the direction of the map. It
struck into the wall with such force that the feathered end quivered
visibly.

"Where has it struck?" demanded Attila.

One of the priests pointed with a long black finger. The head of the
arrow was firmly imbedded in a circle of red which marked where the City
of the Seven Hills lay on the river Tiber.

"Rome!" he cried.

Attila spoke in a mocking tone to Aetius, whose face had turned pale.
"Was it trickery? Or have the gods spoken?"

"The truth has been revealed."

"You came here convinced you knew my purpose. So you have learned
nothing from this that you didn't believe before. Now I have a word of
advice for you, O Aetius. Get to horse at once. A guard will accompany
you beyond the point where my armies are encamped. You must ride all
night. My people do not like to see you here. Nor do I."

His voice rose to a shrill pitch and he began to give vent to his real
feelings. "Some of my people remember you as I do--the boy from Rome who
laughed at us. They still call you by the names we made for you then,
'The Poet,' 'The Long Nose,' 'Little Half-ass,' and 'The Skin Bather.'
My people are demanding your blood. Get away at once while your head is
still on your shoulders." He turned savagely on the Roman leader. "I
won't be able to control my impulse to have you killed if you are here
when the sun rises!"


[3]

After the departure of Aetius, the work of mobilization proceeded at an
increased rate of speed. More armies came in from the north, made up of
tall men with dull yellow hair and carrying rude weapons. Horses were
delivered from the Alfld. Nicolan found himself so immersed in detail
that he had time for nothing but work. He slept in snatches and read
reports at his meals. He was surprised, therefore, to receive a summons
from Attila and to discover that what the emperor desired to discuss was
the unknown young woman who had been seen by his advance horsemen.

"I have had later reports," said the Hun leader. "The party reached
Aquileia. There, instead of turning down the south road to Ravenna, they
skirted the head of the sea and went to Tergeste."

"Did they all find her beautiful?"

"She was wearing her hair under a round felt cap like a boy. But one of
my men saw her remove the cap and shake her hair loose for a moment. It
was golden and her beauty was great enough to strike him dumb with
wonder." Attila looked steadily at his assistant. "From the direction
taken by the party, I am inclined to think they came from your country."

"The women of my country are dark," declared Nicolan. "Is it not more
likely that the party came through my country on their way from the
forest lands beyond the great river? There the women have hair the color
of sunshine and they let it hang down their backs in long free tresses."

Attila fell into a thoughtful mood. "It is true that the lovely
Swanhilde, who died so needlessly, came from the forest country. It may
be that the wife I must find before I am crowned in Rome will come from
the north. But I have a strange feeling about this beautiful girl who
has appeared and disappeared so quickly. I think she will be seen again
and that she will be the wife I have waited for so long."

"But, Great Tanjou, she seems to have vanished from sight."

"She is in Tergeste," declared Attila. "No one can leave there without
my people knowing. They are watching. Someday soon, I shall have further
word of her."

He then put the topic aside and plunged into arrangements for an
immediate march. The die had been cast. They would strike first at the
hostile people beyond the Rhine. Not until the armies of the Gauls had
been broken would the drive on Rome begin.




CHAPTER XII


[1]

Half a million men in leather jackets and red topknotted caps with bows
over their shoulders were facing half a million other men in gray and
brown under the eagles of Rome and the gaudy banners of the Visigoths.
From where he stood behind the earthworks on a high point of the
Catalaunian Plains, Nicolan could see, burning bright in the blackness
of night, the bivouac fires of the enemy. The next morning these million
men would converge and clash and perhaps a quarter of them would be
murdered before the sun sank again. Nicolan watched the twinkling lights
with a sense of personal guilt. He had known this to be inevitable and
he had seen it approach without any qualms, even with equanimity,
because the war might lead to the restoration of his rights and lands.
Now, because of this, he felt as though the responsibility rested
entirely on his shoulders and a feeling of fear took possession of him.
For the first time he was uncertain of the stand he had taken.

Attila was sitting silently on his horse a short distance away. He
thought better that way and it was clear that he had much to think
about. The generals and rulers of conquered lands who were commanding
their units under his direction had not been able to get a word out of
him for an hour. The Hun leader was not the mere barbarian that the
world pictured, with an urge to fight and kill and conquer. He was, on
the contrary, thoroughly realistic and he knew that Aetius sat behind
those myriads of campfires on the horizon and plotted cleverly the
methods of attack he would follow the next day. He, Attila, had been
caught somewhat off guard at the siege of Orlans, just as that city was
ready to drop into his hands like a peach from a wall. At any rate he
had been in a poor position to turn and give battle. A retreat had been
necessary and now he had come to bay between the Seine and the Aube,
waiting for Aetius to accept the gage of battle. He was not happy. Those
three brother princes, who were extolled so highly for their gallantry,
were no better than ox-heads, he said to himself. They had allowed
Torismond of the Visigoths to seize a height of land on the left flank
of the Huns. The first necessity of the morning would be to dislodge
Torismond from his commanding position. Attila tore off the skins of
field mice which had been tailored together to make him a wrap, feeling
a wave of anger mount inside him. These hotheaded sons of weak fathers,
what a price he paid for their adherence! This, already: the archers of
the enemy commanding his flank from that captured hilltop, and the three
gay fools carousing in their tents!

Nicolan knew the emotions which were smoldering in the breast of the Hun
leader and he was wondering if he dared to approach him with a
suggestion. He wanted to report that the grade up the hill was less
steep on the far left and an attack there at dawn might scatter the
Visigoths with one wild charge.

He heard someone behind him in the dark and a familiar voice said:
"Nicolan! I have come to offer my hand in friendship."

It was Roric of the Roymarcks, who had already distinguished himself in
several sharp encounters. Nicolan turned eagerly to greet him.

"My old friend!" said Roric. "Tomorrow we may both die! I do not want to
pass over into the shades with this cloud between us."

Nicolan's emotions were so stirred that his voice shook. "Roric, I could
not go to you," he said. "I knew how you felt about me. How all of you
felt. I couldn't face more rebuffs."

Roric was in a mood for open confession. "You were right about all this.
Here we are, all of our race, fighting for Attila. We refused to see the
truth of the situation. All of us but you. Nick, my good friend, I have
felt tonight the stirring of the wings about me. Tomorrow I shall die. I
must say this to you first. If you survive, promise me you will think of
my people and wrap the cloak of your foresight about them--my father and
my sisters and our great horses, as you did on one occasion we both know
of. Yes, my father told me it was you who saw the way to get Ildico out
of danger."

They shook hands gravely in the dark.

"I swear, Roric, to put their welfare above everything. But, come, you
are in a despondent mood. Tomorrow, when the legions of Rome have fled
in defeat, it will be another story."

"For you, I trust. But not for me. I have heard the voices whispering
near me and the hands reaching in the dark. I am marked to die." Then
the son of the Roymarcks shook off the heavy mood in which he had come.
A hint even of elation came back into his voice. "Before we crossed over
into this accursed Gaul, I had word from Gaddo the Kite. He had been
sent to attend my sister. She sent him back. He knew they were being
watched at Tergeste and suspected it was by agents of Attila. He brought
the word that they had succeeded in getting away and had reached Epirus.
Also he brought to my father a story of the race there."

"Was the little Ildico well and content?" asked Nicolan, eagerly.

"In the best of health and well content." Roric smiled broadly. "At
first she was very angry because the other horse owners refused to let
her ride Harthager. It would be an affront to every one of them, they
swore, to have a woman ride against them. The widow of Tergeste shamed
them out of that. 'So,' she said, 'it is now the men who fear the women.
The world is turning topsy-turvy.' She offered to double her wagers and,
of course, they grasped at that. Ildico could ride, they said, but she
must not offend the proprieties. She must wear the cap and shoes of a
paid rider." Roric paused to laugh. "What a picture she must have made,
my little sister, swallowed up in one of those round felt hats and in
boots twice too large!"

"But she won! I am sure she did."

"Trust her for that. It's a strange thing that Harthager always did his
best when she was up, even better than when I rode him. She was very
wise about the race, according to Gaddo. She took Harthager right out to
the side, giving away twenty yards by doing it but making sure there
would be no interference. It was not until they saw the finish post
ahead that she began talking to him. They are close friends and he knows
always what she says. I can just hear her saving in his ear, 'Now, great
fellow, now is the time to show these earthborn horses that you are not
mortal and that you were trained by the gods with the clouds for a
course!' Harthager flattened himself out like a black thunderbolt and
raced across the line many lengths ahead of the field. The widow of
Tergeste won back all she lost the year before and a pot of profits."
Roric's voice lifted to a less prudent pitch. "That little Ildico! She
lost her cap in the riding, and both shoes, and she came back to the
judges with her hair floating behind her like a ruddy comet and her
little pink toes turning up in her excitement."

"You are a poet, friend Roric!" cried Nicolan. "What a picture you have
given me! I would have given an arm and ten years of my life to be
there."

"The widow has taken them, Ildico and the horse, into Greece for more
races. They will then go to Constantinople."

Nicolan nodded his head in deep satisfaction. "The war will be over
before they get back," he said.

Roric laid a compelling hand on Nicolan's arm. "Make your peace with our
people and go home when this is finished. I must speak out and tell you
what is in my mind. I want you to marry Ildico. I am frightened of what
I have seen in the eyes of Ranno of the Finninalders. Go back where you
belong, old friend. Gather into your hands the reins that I--I shall
drop tomorrow."

The hunched shoulders of Attila stirred and he began to speak. Roric and
Nicolan clasped hands, each with a lump in his throat, and the former
disappeared in the darkness. Nicolan walked forward to join the group
around Attila, thinking there might be orders for him. But the leader of
the Huns was unaware of anyone about him. He was communing with Them and
demanding guidance for the desperate hours which stretched ahead.


[2]

No one pair of eyes can see much of a great battle. If engaged in the
thick of the fighting, a soldier discerns nothing but those nearest him,
the fierce eyes of the enemy, the swinging axes, the thrusting spears;
if a spectator, there is no more to be seen than a segment of the battle
line, a dust cloud, perhaps, rising from a charge of horses, a frenzied
rush of reinforcements being urged down into the blood and turmoil.

Because of a duty imposed on him by Attila, Nicolan saw only the terrain
immediately in front of him; but here, as chance had it, the fortunes of
the battle were waged and finally decided.

It was in early morning and a mist still clung to the plains, obscuring
all view of the enemy. The sound of the Roman trumpets, blaring thinly
on the heavy air, seemed to come from far off but the voices of the Hun
scouts issuing from the murk made it clear that the enemy lines had not
been changed. Attila, tallowy of face and with smoldering fire in
deep-sunken eyes, held up an importunate finger to Nicolan.

"For you I have orders," he said. "I shall lead the center in person and
I must be kept advised of how the battle goes. From here, where you
stand, you will direct the dispatch riders. There are a hundred of them
and they will patrol the whole field behind the lines. They will bring
you word of what they see and hear, and reports from my generals, and
you will relay everything to me as fast as it comes in. When anything
important is to be sent, give it to a dozen riders, to be sure that one
at least of them will reach me."

Attila's servant Giso, as greasy and truculent as ever, appeared on a
small and shaggy horse. He spoke to Nicolan out of the corner of his
mouth. "Send some of them to me. I'll always be there. I won't be in the
fighting. But _he_," motioning at Attila, "will be in the thick of it.
The messages will be sure to reach me."

Attila heard and glared over his shoulder at Giso. "Has it come to
this," he demanded, "that I need the help of half-witted servants?" Then
he paused and ran a finger over the tiptilted bridge of his squat nose.
He turned to Nicolan. "It is an idea, Togalatus. When the news is
important and pressing, send one message to this imbecile. He will be
looking after the safety of his skin and so he'll be alive to receive
it. He may find ways of getting the messages to me which the dispatch
riders wouldn't know."

Attila rode down to the front of the lines and his voice could be heard
raised in exhortation to his followers. Nicolan kept his head turned in
that direction but could hear no more than an occasional word. After a
time there was silence, an almost complete lack of sound, and then
suddenly a great roar rose from the ranks. The voices of troop
commanders were heard, the trumpets blared forth with shrill excitement.

The battle was beginning.


[3]

The first message to reach Nicolan came from the left flank where the
three princely brothers were in command, having roused themselves from
the stupor induced by the night's heavy debauch. The face of the rider
who brought it was covered with blood. He reined in his horse.

"Roric of the Roymarcks has been ordered to lead his horsemen up the
northern slope to dislodge the Goths from the hilltop."

Nicolan found it hard to believe what he had heard. "Who gave such an
insane order?" he demanded.

"Prince Tallimundi."

"Ivar!" cried Nicolan. "You were with me when I made a survey last night
of the approaches. Am I mistaken in saying that the northern slope is
the steepest of all?"

"It's impossible to get to the top there. The slope on the east is where
the attack should be made. It's more gradual and it's well screened with
trees."

"That is the information we gave to Attila and he agreed that the attack
should be made on the east. He said also that it was work for foot
soldiers. How can horsemen be expected to ride up such a steep slope? Go
back," he said to the rider, "to the Prince Tallimundi and beseech him
to countermand the order at once." Then he paused. A disturbing thought
had become lodged in his mind. After the battle there would be inquiries
made as to why certain things had been done or not done. He asked the
rider, "What is your name?"

"Somutu."

"Somutu, keep in your mind everything which happens today. Remember what
you say to the princes and what they say to you. It may be of great
importance. And now lose no time in getting back. The fine horsemen
under Roric are being sent to their deaths. Tell the princes I am
advising the emperor of what has been done."

Nicolan turned then to a second rider. "Your name?"

"Passilis."

"Ride down to where the emperor has taken his station. Tell him of this
order and of the steps I have taken. Tell him that this goes completely
against the report I made to him last night and that the princes are
making a fatal error. Say that I beg him to direct an attack by foot
soldiers. Off! There isn't a moment to be lost."

Nicolan leaned over and spoke to Ivar in low tones. "We must keep an
accurate memory of all the orders which pass through our hands and of
the reports which reach us. The names of the riders, the exact orders
they bring, the times when they are delivered."

Ivar nodded. "I'll attend to it. I have a good memory."

In a matter of perhaps ten minutes the man Somutu was back. His wounded
cheek was still bleeding. He seemed very much disturbed.

"The charge had begun," he said breathlessly. "Roric was leading his men
up the slope. They were finding it hard. The accursed Goths were sending
arrows down on them like hailstones. The losses will be heavy, whether
they carry the hill or not."

Nicolan felt sick of heart. "All of my friends are fighting up that
hill. Somutu, what chance have they?"

"None who watch believe they have any chance at all." The rider
continued with a puzzled frown. "And yet it's said that one of your own
leaders came to the tent of the Tallimundis and suggested the charge."

Nicolan looked up. "When was this?"

"A few minutes before dawn, O Togalatus."

"Which of the leaders was it?"

"The name I heard was----" The rider hesitated. Then memory came to his
assistance. "It was Ranno."

"Somutu!" cried Nicolan. "By the memory of your father and all of _his_
fathers, by your fear of the vengeance of the gods, never let that name
go out of your mind! You may be called upon later to tell what you know.
You must be honest and tell then what you have told me. Ranno! Ranno of
the Finninalders! Keep that firmly in your memory."

"That I will."

In a very few minutes a fresh dispatch rider brought the news that the
attack on the hill had failed. Most of the horsemen had been killed in
their futile effort to reach the top.

"How many died?" asked Nicolan, grimly.

"My lord Togalatus, I find it hard to tell you. Very few came back. None
of the leaders. Roric went down among the first with an arrow in his
eye."

There was a long silence, Nicolan finding nothing he could say. Then he
asked, "What of Ranno?"

"There is no word of him."

A rider came up the slope from the extended position where Attila had
drawn up the center. He put his horse in one leap over the earthworks
and approached Nicolan.

"Orders from the emperor," he said. "To be sent Prince Tallimundi. These
are his words: 'Withdraw horsemen from the attack and repair this
disastrous mistake by sending foot soldiers to attack on the east. Lose
not an instant in carrying out these instructions.'"

Nicolan gave his head a despairing shake. "Too late. The attack has been
made and has failed. Few of the horsemen have returned." He looked at
the rider, who had lost his cap in the heat of his gallop up the slope.
"What is your name?"

"Allagrin."

"Make certain, Allagrin, that you remember the time when you delivered
this message. Return now to the emperor and tell him his orders have
been conveyed. Tell him also that the disastrous mistake of the three
princes has cost him most of the attacking force." He motioned to a
fresh rider. "Carry the emperor's message to Prince Tallimundi. Ride
like the wind!"

"Foot soldiers are now attacking on the north slope," was the next
report brought back. "The princes say there is not time now to mount an
attack on the east."

"They'll find the time when they get that order from the emperor," said
Nicolan, grimly. "How many of the horsemen came back?"

"Who can tell yet? A score perhaps. Not more. They were doomed before
they moved out from the lines."

Nicolan felt the sympathetic hand of Ivar on his shoulder. "We'll find
things are not as bad as they say. It's always the way, old friend. They
exaggerate the losses."


[4]

The air was filled now with the excitement of an advance all along the
line as Attila led his men into action. Ahead of the Hun leader was the
weakest part of the army of Aetius, the Alani, commanded by a
pusillanimous king named Sangiban. Aetius, with his Roman horsemen, was
opposite the Hun right and he was showing an unexpected lack of
activity. Nicolan tried to see what was happening there but the distance
was too great. The first dispatch rider to arrive from that quarter had
nothing to report. What was the Roman fox planning? Nicolan propounded
this question to Onegesius, who was passing on his way to his own
station on the right.

The latter shook his head scornfully. "Does it matter? Our Great Tanjou
will win by breaking Sangiban like a dry twig. We will cut their army in
two."

The strategy of Attila was now developing and the opinion of Onegesius
seemed likely to be borne out. The emperor was counting on a quick
breakthrough in the center and an enveloping movement to the left to
drive Sangiban back on the soldiers of Theodoric, the gallant old
Visigoth king, back of the hilltop, and so roll up that whole side of
the field. The plan was succeeding so well that already a gap had opened
between the panicky Sangiban and the Roman cohorts.

"Do you see?" chuckled Onegesius, who still lingered to watch. "The
enemy center is broken. The battle is won."

But Nicolan was not convinced. "Aetius hasn't made a move yet. Do you
think he will let himself be beaten as easily as this?"

Another chuckle from the confident Onegesius. "What can the stag do when
the tiger breaks his back with one leap and sinks his teeth into the
soft flesh of the neck?"

A dispatch rider galloped up from the left flank. "Good news!" he cried.
"Old Theodoric is dead. He was wounded and fell out of his saddle. The
hoofs of his own horse cut him to tattered shreds of bone."

"Do his own men know?"

"Yes. They seem to have lost heart. They're making no move to help
Sangiban."

Nicolan's hand fell on the rump of the nearest horse. "In there!" he
cried to the rider. "Get this word to the emperor!"

"The stone walls on the seven hills of Rome are shaking!" shouted
Onegesius.

Nicolan did not share to the fullest the optimism which was showing in
the Hun ranks. He expected to hear something from the Romans at any
moment. There was danger, he felt, in the rapidity of Attila's success.
If the Hun leader pursued the broken center of the enemy too far, the
Romans would be left with nothing to oppose their advance. They could
then in turn cut Attila's army in two. Nicolan was so conscious of the
dire consequences of this possible turn of events that he took it on
himself to send a rider to the emperor with word that the gap was
becoming dangerously wide. Then he sent a second, a third, a fourth. The
gap continued to widen and he dispatched horseman after horseman to warn
Attila of the danger.

Aetius struck before anything was done to correct the situation. The
Roman eagles came suddenly to life and moved forward. A battle song
sounded exultantly from thousands of Roman throats as the armored
horsemen charged up the slope to the earthworks. Then the move that
Nicolan had feared was made. Part of the Roman forces were diverted to
strike into Attila's unprotected flank.

None of the riders had returned and there was no way of telling if any
of them had delivered his message. He continued to send them down into
the murderous maelstrom where Attila was now desperately in danger of
encirclement. Even Onegesius realized the seriousness of the situation
which had developed. His piglike eyes glittering with fear, he clutched
at Nicolan's shoulder.

"The tiger sprang too far!" he croaked. "The tusks are now goring his
own ribs!"

But it was soon apparent that the Hun leader had not been carried so
completely away by his easy success against Sangiban as to be unaware of
the danger which now threatened. He checked his exultant, screeching
horsemen from their eager pursuit of the Alani and swung them about to
meet the new danger. The light Hun horsemen, clad in hardened leather
and armed with their crescent-shaped swords, found themselves countering
the armored Romans with their heavy metal swords and spears. It looked
an uneven contest but the men from the East were agile and swift. They
maneuvered their horses with the pressure of their knees and let the
murderous blows of the Roman swords glance off their round shields while
awaiting the chance to strike themselves. The legion lost as many men as
the Huns in this struggle.

Nicolan could see that Attila had one purpose only now, to battle his
way back to the position he had held when the struggle began and so
consolidate his lines. If he could do this, the Roman advance would be
stopped and the two armies would reach a stalemate. But this was not the
kind of battle that the wild horsemen from the steppes liked to fight.
No room here for mass maneuvering, for the hit-and-run tactics they
could play so well. Instead they must fight their way through an ever
lessening strip of ground, with the Romans pressing in on one side and
the Goths on the other.

The battle had reached its climactic stage. The two armies had come into
close conflict along the whole of the three-mile front. The air was
filled with outpourings of hate and rage and anguish, the clash of arms,
the screams of wounded horses. Men fell and were trampled underfoot, for
the living and the whole were too busily engaged with bloodstained
weapons to give ear to the agonized pleas of the wounded. Half a million
men on one side of the Catalaunian Plains sought to kill the half
million on the other side, and not a minute passed but the last breath
ebbed from hundreds of broken bodies. Never before had the sun looked
down on such a scene of mass murder as on this tragic day.

"Can Attila still be alive?" asked Nicolan, as he and Ivar stared with
horror at this loosing of the forces of evil.

"I can still see his flag," was the answer. "The top shows over there.
Can you make it out? That small patch of black and gold."

"I'm sure no messages can reach him." Nicolan shaded his eyes with one
hand and studied the field. He then turned to his companion. "There's no
use wasting the lives of any more of our riders. But I'm going down."

Despite Ivar's remonstrances, he vaulted his horse over the earthworks
and began to make his way through the Hun ranks. It was hard work and
highly dangerous. The first thought of the surly soldiery he was trying
to pass was to strike. He lost his cap, the hoof of a bucking horse
caught him on one leg, a swinging scimitar cut through his sleeve and
left a long wound on his arm. His demands to be taken to Attila met with
no response; none of the fighting men had any idea of what was happening
beyond the range of a few yards. The ground was encumbered with bodies,
the grass was slippery with blood. The farther he rode into the press,
the slower his progress became. Finally, convinced that the stage had
been reached where nothing but brute force counted, he turned back.

Perhaps his struggles had carried him close to the Roman lines. Or it
may have been that the armored legions, in their efforts to cut the Hun
army in two, had been gaining ground. Whatever the reason, Nicolan
suddenly found himself confronted by a tall Roman who showed little more
than a pair of angry fighting eyes over the top of his great shield. A
powerful arm was raised in the air and a sword fell with the force and
weight of a landslide on the small shield which Nicolan carried on his
left arm. His arm seemed to wilt and the brunt of the blow was borne by
his shoulder. Twice more the deadening weight of that mighty sword fell
upon him and Nicolan had no recourse but to yield ground, expecting each
moment to be his last. A fourth blow slipped off the surface of the
shield, which had been turned sideways by the weight of the previous
one. This gave him an inkling of the defense to be used against this
kind of attack; he must hold his shield at an angle and thus deflect the
blows.

The Roman was pressing hard to finish him and paying small heed to
defense himself. This provided Nicolan with a chance. A quick jab with
the point of his crescent sword found its target in the bronzed neck of
his antagonist. Blood spurted from the wound like a fountain in play.
The tall figure seemed to pause, and then it swayed and fell backward
out of the saddle.

A clump of dispatch riders were sitting their horses in anticipation of
orders when Nicolan got back within the lines. Ivar was among them.

"You're wounded!" he cried.

The hand with which Nicolan dabbed at his cheeks came away red with
blood. He had felt no pain. The tall Briton examined his face with
anxious hands.

"A cut over the left eye," he said. "Not deep, fortunately. It's been
bleeding freely. How did you get it?"

"I don't know."

While Nicolan talked to the riders, finding that they had no reports to
be relayed, Ivar vanished in the rear. He came back in a few minutes
with a rib bone of beef which he pressed into Nicolan's hands. "Black
Scyles is behind there," he said. "He has enough food prepared for a
score or so. The country behind us is stripped bare and there will be no
more food as long as we stay here. The army will have to rest on empty
stomachs."

Nicolan tore the meat from the bone with his teeth, realizing suddenly
that he was ravenously hungry. After consuming half of it, he handed the
bone back to Ivar, who began to gnaw at it eagerly.

"You picked the wrong horse, brave Togalatus," said a voice from behind
them.

Nicolan turned and saw that Ranno had ridden up in the rear. There was a
mocking light on the sallow face of the head of the Finninalders.

"The effete Romans seem to be winning themselves a battle."

"A battle," declared Nicolan, taking in his unstained riding jacket and
his ease of manner, "in which you appear to have taken no part."

"On the contrary. I have just returned from scouting around their right
flank. There was a fear that the Goths might be extending their lines to
outflank us."

Nicolan said quickly, "Who gave you the order?"

"My commander, Roric."

"Then you started before the battle began. How fortunate for you. You
have escaped all this bloody mess. Have you heard that nearly all our
brothers and friends were killed in the first few minutes of the
fighting?"

"I have been told the losses were heavy."

Nicolan wheeled his horse about and rode over to confront the seemingly
unconcerned Ranno. "It is being said that it was on your advice that
this insane attack on the northern slope was ordered."

"That is a lie!"

"I have reason to believe it is true. About this other order, the one
which sent you out on an excursion into the quiet countryside, it's
unfortunate Roric is dead and his testimony can't be had. I don't
believe he gave it."

Ranno's hand was gripping the handle of his dagger. "A time will come
when you will pay for these charges you are making!" he exclaimed.

"I have no doubt, gallant Ranno, that you will find ways of stealing the
lands of those who have fallen today. Perhaps you had that in mind when
you contrived to have our people sent to their deaths!"

The angry exchange of words ended at this point, for more riders arrived
and Nicolan found it necessary to listen to their reports. By the time
he was through with them, Ranno had disappeared.

Nicolan leaned over to speak to Ivar. "You heard what he said? He's
prepared to deny that he spoke with Tallimundi. Can proofs of it be
obtained?"

Ivar looked up with a worried frown. "If there is an investigation after
the battle is over, there will be bitter recriminations. Will that
fellow try to lay the blame on you?"

"I think it certain that he will."

"We have the word of the riders. I'll see if more proof of it can be
found...."

Ivar, who had been on foot all day, borrowed a horse and rode off on
this quest.

                 *        *        *        *        *

In the meantime the tide of battle had turned. The pincers which had
been closing on the Hun army of the center had been broken. The grim
fighting men from the steppes were pouring back into the lines they had
occupied before the fighting began. The Romans did not seem disposed to
dispute the issue any further and the Goths, having no stomach for more
fighting, had already fallen back.

"A drawn battle," thought Nicolan, standing in his stirrups to get a
better view of the field.

Somutu had ridden up beside him. "It's being said, O Togalatus, that one
man in every four has been killed. Never before has such a bloody battle
been fought." He looked anxiously at Nicolan. "Will it be called a
defeat for us?"

"This drive into the country of the Gauls was planned to stop any
possibility of an attack from them when the march on Rome began. Their
losses are so heavy that they won't be able to try anything of the kind;
so that much has been accomplished. But will Attila now be able to
recruit his forces sufficiently after this to attack Rome?"

"I am weary of war," sighed Somutu.

The tired Hun warriors were pouring over the embankment and crying
loudly for food and drink. The legions of Rome were withdrawing into
their former position. From all points of the bloodstained field rose
the beseeching cries of the wounded. The wind had fallen and the
standards on both sides of the line hung limply as though discouraged
with this lack of result after a day of carnage.


[5]

Black Scyles saw the last morsel of food vanish and waved a black arm at
the company of officers. "No more," he said, cheerfully. "You've done
better than the poor devils out there. Not a bite for them." No single
appetite had been satisfied but the grumbling men who wearily wiped
their greasy hands on their leather jackets had one consolation. None of
the generals or top advisers of the Hun leader had shared in the meal.
They had been called into consultation and the debate still dragged on,
Attila sitting his horse like a bronze statue with his aides grouped
about him.

Nicolan had refused to eat. He sat on the ground with his hands pressed
tightly against both ears to spare himself the anguished cries of the
wounded. Ivar, sitting beside him, with his belt drawn tight to ease the
pangs of hunger, tried to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind.

"I hear there are as many as fifty thousand out there," he said. "All of
them will be left to die. And there's nothing you can do about it. Even
if we dragged a few of them in, it would do no good. Attila makes no
provision for the care of the wounded. They would die of neglect
anyway."

"I was eager for this war," said Nicolan. "I never acknowledged it--but
I was. I thought it would give me the chance I've waited for. To render
Attila such services he could no longer refuse to restore my lands. Yes,
Ivar, that's how selfish I was." He shook his head bitterly. "Listen to
them! Dying out there in torment and not a hand raised to help them! I
feel that I'm as guilty as Attila himself."

A short silence fell between them. "Ivar!" said Nicolan, suddenly. "Do
you suppose any of my people are lying wounded on that hillside? The men
from my own country?"

"Like enough," answered the Briton. "It was the archers who stopped
them; and arrows don't always kill." He looked compassionately at his
companion. "You can't go. There will be orders for you any minute now.
But I'll go and search the ground." He rose stiffly to his feet. "It may
be too late. But I'll do my best."

The tall form of Ivar had hardly vanished in the darkness when the group
about Attila broke up. The decision they had arrived at spread through
the weary ranks with almost unbelievable speed. A retreat had been
ordered. The bone-weary men sprang to their feet, accepting with
gladness the prospect of interminable hours on the march in preference
to another day of carnage on the terrible plains below.

Nicolan heard his name called and saw Attila's servant Giso weaving his
way toward him through the darkness. "He wants you," said the servant.

Attila was alone when Nicolan approached him. The Hun leader was in the
saddle still and he did not turn his head. There was a long moment of
silence before he spoke.

"I've ordered a retreat."

"Yes, Great Tanjou."

"I want an opinion, an honest one. None of these others has the sense to
speak up and tell me the truth. What will be said about this battle?
Will it be said I was defeated?"

"How can it be? If you fight another day, both armies will be totally
destroyed."

"That is true."

"And you cannot remain here because all our food supplies are
exhausted."

"That also is true."

"Then how can it be regarded as anything but a drawn battle?"

Attila nodded his head. "A drawn battle it is. But those who fear me,
and those who hate me--and who doesn't do one or the other?--will lift
up their calflike faces to whatever gods they worship and sing praises
because I have been defeated." He paused and then added in an angry
voice, "They will say that the hated Aetius has won a victory!"

Under ordinary circumstances Nicolan would have said nothing more. He
sensed, however, that Attila was hungry for reassurance. "The Goths," he
said, "are still mourning their dead king. There are rumors that they
are withdrawing."

"Yes, they are pulling back."

Nicolan ventured on an opinion. "Torismond, the oldest son, will want to
get back and establish himself on the throne. It may be that the silence
from his lines means he has already left the field. If that's true, can
Aetius meet you on equal terms tomorrow?"

"My men can't fight on empty stomachs." Attila continued to stare into
the dark but it was clear that his spirits had lifted. He began on an
explanation of the battle. "As soon as I saw that Sangiban, that weak
peacock, was in command of their center, I knew that Aetius had set a
trap for me. He expected me to smash through Sangiban's lines and pursue
him too far. At the right moment he would drive his legions behind me
and cut my army in two. Well, I decided to gamble, to seem to play his
game. I struck at Sangiban but I didn't intend to pursue him far. As
soon as I had him on the run, I planned to wheel about and throw all the
strength of my center and right against the Romans." He gave his head a
somber shake. "But I was giving Aetius too much credit. In order to beat
me thoroughly he should have waited longer to counterattack, but he did
not wait. He moved first." Another shake of the head. "If one of us
caught the perfect time to wheel on the other he would become the
conqueror of the world." Suddenly he raised both of his arms in the air.
"The fate of the earth hung as close in the balance as that!

"Three of the riders got through to me with your messages," he went on.
"I said to myself, 'The little bat has sharp eyes. He sees it.' All the
time I was watching the gap in the line widen and grow. I needed an
extra quarter hour and then the next thing I would be tearing down the
walls of Rome. I said to myself, 'Aetius will wait long enough to be
sure.' But he didn't. He has the soul of a hyena which lives on the
leavings of nobler beasts. He wasn't as bold as the gods are when they
sit down to gamble. A draw was all he asked. He struck too soon; and it
wasn't a great resounding blow, it was no more than a pounce. If he had
been bold and decisive, I would have beaten him. But instead he was like
a mouse nibbling at a cheese."

There was not a single star in the blackness of the sky. The cries of
the doomed thousands who were dying on the plains filled their ears. All
other sounds had ceased.

"We'll begin the retreat as soon as you can get out the marching
orders," said Attila.

Nicolan's heart sank. He was so weary that he found it hard to sit up
straight. Was he capable of many hours of concentrated effort? He flexed
his hands, wondering if they would be equal to the strain.

Attila was peering intently into the darkness and listening, as well as
he could. "The Romans are quiet," he said. "There are few fires lighted.
What does that mean?" He turned again to Nicolan. "Send the three
princes first. I don't want to see their drunken faces again. The Baltic
tribes should go next, and then the Thuringians. You'll have to work out
different routes for all of us. We destroyed the country we used in
coming in. There won't be a head of cattle or a field of grain up that
way."

"You burned everything to the ground," affirmed Nicolan. "There wasn't
enough food left for a flock of crows."

"Don't lose any time about it," urged the Hun leader. "We must be well
on our way before dawn. With good foraging in sight. I'll be the last to
leave. I won't trust any but my own men to hold the rear."

Nicolan settled down to his task. A captured saddle, with high pommel
and back, had to serve as his table and a small fire of sheep dung
provided a light for the maps. He regretted the absence of Ivar, who
always took in hand the task of deciphering the maps.

As he started work, he knew that he faced a crisis in his life. Could he
serve any longer this master who, in order to conquer the world, was
willing to destroy everything in it? Aetius lacked the power and vision
to stop him. The road to Rome would soon lie straight ahead. But he,
Nicolan, had the power in his hands to ruin Attila, if he dared use it.

"He has confidence in me and doesn't go over the orders," he said to
himself. Attila had turned his horse and was directing the loading of
the pack wagons. "I could send the armies up through that burned-over
stretch. What chance would hundreds of thousands of starving men have,
crossing a country which can't feed a single company? Attila is coming
last and it wouldn't be discovered until it was too late. The first
armies would have scattered to forage in all directions. Few of them
would get back. The horses would starve and the pack wagons would have
to be abandoned. Attila would have no army left. The world would be
safe."

What would his punishment be if he were caught? The most dreadful death
that Attila could devise.

The idea filled him with waves of conflicting emotion. He would be
playing the role of a traitor and men would spit at his name. He would
always thereafter carry a blood guilt as great as Attila's own, for he
would condemn whole armies to death by starvation. On the other hand, he
might save civilization. He would be remembered in history for what he
had done.

He dropped his pen and stood up. He must be willing to try, he told
himself, and to pay the price. Never had a man been offered such a
chance before. He must not let it slip by.

He heard footsteps approaching in the dark and a voice, saying, "Where
are you, Coated One?" He recognized the voice. It belonged to Baldar,
one of Attila's younger aides.

"Here!" he said.

Baldar came into the light east by the fire. "I am to help you," he
said. "I can write. You give the directions and I will set them down.
The Lord of All the Earth is afraid you won't be able to do it alone in
time."

Was it that, or had the sly mind of Attila perceived the danger and
provided against it? Whichever reason it was, the chance had been lost.
The armies would have to be sent out along southerly roads. Nicolan
said, "Sit here, then, Baldar. We must begin at once."


[6]

Shortly after midnight a great fire blazed up at the eastern end of the
Hun lines. Nicolan's assistant lifted his head from his work. "What's
that?" he asked. "Are they going to attack us?"

Two armies had already been started on their march to the Rhine and the
orders for the two to follow had been prepared and delivered. Not a
sound had come from the enemy on the other side of the bloodstained
field, not a hint of interference or pursuit. Nicolan felt free to lay
his labors aside for a few moments. He stood up and gazed at the sudden
light.

"A funeral pyre, I think," he said. "It is a custom of my people. The
bodies of brave men must not be left to rot in the field or to be eaten
by beasts." A deep sense of sadness showed in his voice. "It's a large
fire. That means there were many bodies to be burned."

Ivar brought confirmation of this when he joined them a few minutes
later. It was the funeral pyre of the Bakony dead. The tall Briton
seated himself on the ground and stared at Nicolan with a strained
expression.

"A terrible thing to watch," he said. "I stayed as long as I could."

"Its been the custom of my people since the beginning of time," declared
Nicolan.

"There were a dozen or more women. They were thrown into the fire with
the bodies of the men."

Nicolan asked sharply: "Who ordered that? It was a custom centuries ago
but it has not been done for as long as anyone can remember."

"The order came from Ranno. He's in command of what's left of them."

"Ranno!" This was what Nicolan had expected to hear but the announcement
came, nevertheless, as a severe blow. "Then it means Roric is dead."

Ivar nodded unwillingly. "I fear so. I searched the slope from top to
bottom but I found no trace of him. Of course it was dark and the bodies
had all been stripped for the fine garments and the bits of finery they
wore. I had seen Roric a few times only and so I could have been
deceived. But many others had been looking for him and with no better
luck."

Nicolan was finding it hard to hold back the tears which filled his
eyes. "He knew he was going to die, my poor Roric," he whispered. "Last
night he told me he had seen the signs. The Voices had spoken to him."

"There was a brief moment when we had hopes," said Ivar. "A girl who had
accompanied him had a Christian cross he had worn under his breastplate.
But one of the camp followers had found it and had given it to her. That
was accepted as the final proof."

"The girl would be little Minah. She belonged to the Roymarcks and she
was in love with him; so he brought her with him. What has happened to
her?"

"She was burned with the rest. It was clear she wanted to die. She
walked into the fire with her arms stretched out as though she expected
to join him."

"Someday Ranno will pay for this!" declared Nicolan, bitterly.

There was a moment or two of silence. Then Nicolan shrugged hopelessly
and returned to his work. The scratch of Baldar's pen went along
unceasingly as he took down the instructions. The fire climbed still
higher against the eastern sky.

"Was there an election for leader?" asked Nicolan, after a time.

Ivar shook his head. "Ranno was the only chief left. He took it on
himself to issue the orders."

"Macio is an old man. He hasn't long to live. When he dies, Ranno will
step into his shoes. Unless we can let the people know the truth about
what happened here today."

"Somutu and Passilis are both alive. I've talked to them. They stand by
what they told us."

"The witness we'll need most is Tallimundi. But he and his brothers are
well on their way by this time." Nicolan paused. "I don't believe Roric
gave instructions for Ranno to take that long and useless ride around
the Goth wing. Ranno's a coward and he took that way of avoiding the
fighting. But Roric is dead and the truth has been burned with him."

"There's still a chance. A slim one. Roric's servant, Bathgar, hasn't
been seen. There was no trace of his body. If he turns up alive, he
might remember what passed between the two men."

Nicolan nodded. "A staunch little fellow. What could have become of him?
I'm certain, Ivar, he would be useful to us if we could find him. Keep
your ears open."

Ivar had nothing more to say for several minutes. "The hilltop has been
vacated," he said. "The Goths seem to have vanished."

"Has Ranno started back?"

"He left half an hour ago."

Nicolan said to himself: "There is one consolation in all this. Ildico
is safe. We must make sure she doesn't return until Ranno's influence
has been removed."




BOOK II




CHAPTER I


[1]

Attila, immersed in the work of assembling his armies for the march on
Rome, heard a sound which caused him to stiffen to attention. He made no
move. His eyes remained fixed on the document in front of him. But every
sense was on the alert.

This room in his wooden palace, where he worked not less than sixteen
hours a day, was supposed to be too well guarded for anyone to gain
access secretly; and yet the emperor knew instinctively that the sound
had not been made by any creature which crawled or flew on wings.

He heard the sound again and he knew that it was the cautious shuffle of
a naked foot. Without pausing to look up, Attila threw himself full
length on the floor. As he did so, he felt a metal edge pass the muscles
of his neck like the black wings of warning which played so frequently
about his couch of nights. The knife had missed by the smallest fraction
of space and he heard the point imbed itself in the wooden partition
behind him. As he fell, he kicked with one foot at the bell which always
stood under his covered table, and the sharp clang it gave forth filled
the room. Almost immediately (so carefully had his safety from attack
been planned) there were guards about him, frightened, puzzled,
murderously angry. The would-be assassin screeched as he sought the only
escape left him by falling on the point of the long dagger he had
carried in his belt.

Attila rose to his feet. The knife in the wall still quivered from the
force with which it had been thrown. His assailant was no more than a
lifeless bundle of gray cloak and turban, stained red with blood.

One of the guards gave the head a twist with his foot in order to see
the bearded face under the turban. "It is Ala Sartuk," he said. "Never
before has he missed his mark."

"How did this deadly cobra crawl in here?" demanded Attila, whose face
was flushed and whose eyes darted fire.

No one could answer. The truth would never be known now, for Ala Sartuk
himself was as dead as a skinned rat and would not be able to tell.

"I shall talk to Micca the Mede about this," declared the khan in
dangerously calm tones. "Bring him to me."

The great trader was brought in soon thereafter. He was smiling, and as
cool as the emeralds on his fingers and the clustered pearls in his
belt.

"I am here at your command, O King of the World," he said, bowing
obsequiously.

Attila motioned him to a cushion. The trader squatted with crossed
shins, awaiting the purpose of the summons.

"You have heard of one Ala Sartuk?"

"He put a knife between my shoulder blades once and only a miracle kept
me alive," answered Micca. "The man's trade is murder."

"He tried to kill me. An hour ago. I was saved by my own quickness and
not by the vigilance of my slow-footed guards."

Micca the Mede could not entirely conceal the intensity of the interest
with which he asked the question, "He has been caught, I trust?"

"He's dead. It's most unfortunate he was able to disembowel himself
before the very eyes of my sluggish protectors." Attila swung his head
around sharply in the direction of Micca. "He was in your pay!"

The trader answered with unruffled calm. "He was not in my pay, Mighty
Khan. I haven't seen him since he tried to kill me."

Attila brushed the denial aside impatiently. "I have never been deceived
about you, my glib teller of tales. You have brought me much useful
information but I've always known you were in the pay of Aetius also.
There's nothing new or strange about that. Rats who traffic in secrets
can always be bought. But your treachery, Micca the Mede, has been
particularly black. As long as you were useful to me, I winked at it but
I said to myself that when your usefulness was over I would make you pay
the price." His voice rose with a hint of triumph. "You are no longer of
service to me. And there you sit!"

"Are you sure, Great Tanjou, that I can't be of use to you?"

"So sure, my smooth-tongued friend, that I shall now tell you how I plan
to rid myself of you. You are to die the Death of the Inches."

The trader's eyebrows seemed to quiver slightly. "A method of
execution," he said, "that your people brought from the Far East. I have
heard it is very slow and painful."

"Judge for yourself. The first day the executioner cuts off the top
joints of your fingers and toes. The second day he chops away the second
joints. The third day he severs what is left. The fourth day the stumps
of your hands and feet are removed. The fifth day you lose your arms at
your elbows and your legs at the knees. Need I go on? Each day, as long
as there is life left in you, something is cut away. Some of the victims
are lucky and die of the agony in four or five days. Some last twice as
long and do not expire until the neck itself is threatened. It is an
ingenious method, don't you think? I may allow my people to pay for the
privilege of watching you."

"No doubt the revenue from such a spectacle would be considerable," said
Micca, with a not completely successful attempt at unconcern. "But you
have not heard yet of the matters in which I can be of service to you."

"That you will waste your own time in telling me is of no concern save
that you have little of it left," declared Attila. "But I can't afford
to throw mine away. I think I shall arrange for the process of your
dismemberment to begin tomorrow."

Micca shifted on his cushion, in evidence of the inner terror which
possessed him. "You have been making continuous efforts to learn the
whereabouts of the Princess Honoria. Without success. I can tell you
where she is being held. I can even promise that such emissaries as you
may appoint will have the chance to speak with her."

"So? I have given up all thought of approaching the Princess Honoria.
The issue is now clearly drawn. I shall lead my armies against Rome in
my own good time. The princess can be of no help to me."

"Not even as a pretext for declaring war on the empire?"

"Not even as a pretext. I need none. I shall plant the sword in the
ground. The Sword of Mars which the great powers of earth and sky placed
in my hands before I became the ruler of my people."

"I know that the princess, if made free, will proclaim to the world the
justice of your cause."

"I thought she might be of use to me once but now I see no reason to
spare you in order to reach her." Attila shook his head. "You will have
to do better than that, my crafty seller of secrets. Much better. I am
setting the price of your life very high. As high as the gallows I would
raise for a lesser criminal than you."

"Then what think you of this?" asked the trader. "You have made no
secret of your desire for a wife with hair of pure gold. I have been
told that a score of candidates have been brought you and that you
refused them all. It may be that you don't believe the gods will smile
on your arms unless you have the right queen to share your throne in
Rome. One with a head like the sun itself. This may or may not be true.
But the rumor has reached my ears that you are making inquiries about a
certain maiden who has traveled from city to city in the East, and who
rides a great black horse. This I do know: that so far your agents have
had no success."

Attila kept his head down to conceal the intense emotion which had been
roused in him.

"Go on," said Attila.

"I can tell you the name of the girl and where she comes from," declared
the trader, who now saw with inner relief that he had on his hook the
most powerful fish in all the waters of the world. "I can tell you with
whom she travels. I can even tell you where they now are."

"Is this girl married?"

"No, Great Tanjou."

The silence fell again over the room and remained unbroken for several
more moments. "How can I know," demanded Attila, finally, "if you are in
a position to supply this information? You may be playing for time."

"I have learned from long experience," said Micca, "that your word, once
pledged, will not be broken. Keep me here, then, until such time as your
agents have followed up the dues I shall give you. When you find I have
told you the truth, I am to go free and I am to receive a suitable
reward as well. After all, I live by the sale of what I know."

Attila felt under the table with his foot and produced two sharp rings
of the bell. When Giso answered the summons, he was ordered to produce a
flagon of wine. "Dealing with you is dry work," the Hun leader said,
scowling at Micca. "I am thirsty."

When the wine was placed in front of him, he drank deeply. He would then
have wiped his lips with the back of his hand but, feeling the eyes of
the immaculate trader on him, he made use of a cloth instead.

"It is agreed," he said.


[2]

When the room had emptied, Giso returned and stood in the doorway,
fixing his master with a demanding eye.

"What is it now?" asked Attila.

"She is dead," was the answer.

The emperor's complete attention was captured at once. He tossed aside
the documents, to which he had returned, and got to his feet.

"Cerca is dead?"

"An hour ago. She kept asking for you to the end. When they couldn't get
your ear, her servants told her you had left for the East. I don't think
she believed it."

"Was my son with her?"

The servant shook his head. "Not at the finish."

"Where has Ellac gone?"

"Hunting," answered Giso. He raised both hands in front of him, the
palms turned upward. "What can you expect, O King? A death chamber is
not a pleasant place for a youth of his years."

"She deserved no better than this," declared Attila. He fell deeply into
thought and did not speak again for some moments. "If she had lived to a
hundred, I would not have gone to her. Could she expect me to forgive
her the part she played in the death of Swanhilde? Those grasping
brothers of hers did it. One of them shot the arrow that killed the
girl. I should have hanged them both. But I let them live for Cerca's
sake. Was she told that?"

"Yes, Great Tanjou."

"Then," in a grumbling tone, "what more could she expect?"

"She too was ambitious," said Giso, after a pause. "She wanted to sit
beside you on the throne. She asked you many times."

"Every time I went to her. She talked of nothing else! She demanded it
of me."

"She was not asking for herself, O King. She wanted it that way so Ellac
would be acknowledged as your successor and heir."

"I must see to it," said Attila, after giving the situation further
thought, "that Ellac is taken away from those lying, belly-crawling
uncles. They will be teaching him treason. They will be whispering in
his ear, 'You will be emperor someday, so why wait?' I know them, those
black traitors. If he has anything of them in him, he will listen. Giso,
go at once and send Onegesius to me. I'll have both uncles sent to posts
on the northern frontier." The thought was in his mind that Cerca's
brothers would be exposed to all the fighting in the forest country
until they got themselves killed. He could have no feeling of security
about his son as long as they were alive. "I must have Ellac here with
me now. He must be taught what it is to be a king's son, so he will make
a strong king when his turn comes. Have the boy brought to me at once.
And I rely on you to see that he doesn't go to his mother's burying. He
must never speak to those uncles again."

"Yes, Tanjou. I leave at once to obey your orders." He did not go at
once, however. "Ellac is a good boy."

"He is my son. But all I can be sure of yet is that he promises to grow
tall," declared Attila. He gave his head a proud shake. "He has straight
legs."

A moment later he added, "Bring the Coated One."




CHAPTER II


[1]

Nicolan had ridden out that morning beyond the line of the tents. The
most momentous decision of his life had to be made, and made at once. He
rode with a loose rein, allowing his horse to go where it pleased, and
for hours they had ridden far afield. When he finally turned back, he
was as tired as though he had been through another battle. The decision
had been reached and it would be adhered to, he told himself, without
any regard for, or fear of, consequences.

There was a distinct change in the city since Attila had brought his
army back. The men no longer swaggered like lords of the earth. The
beady-eyed women did not stand in the doors and spit at alien
passers-by. There even seemed to be a less jeering note in the cries of
the children at play. There could be no doubt about it: the result of
the battle of Chlons had sobered the Huns.

Nicolan was thinking of this as he passed in through the gates. He had
been too intent to drop a coin for the lepers and their shrill
imprecations assailed his ears as he rode in under the tall frame
structure. "Something has happened," he said to himself, conscious of a
change in the crowded streets. He had to dismount in order to make his
way through. A bearded chief laid a hand on his shoulder and said in the
mixture of tongues which had been evolved for general use, "An inch
closer and there would be no emperor."

Nicolan looked around at him. "What are you saying?"

"You haven't heard then? About the attempt on Attila's life?"

"Again? It has been tried many times."

"But this was different. Perhaps there was help from inside. A black
tribesman from beyond the paynim country got into the palace. The great
khan was quick or he would be a dead man now."

"Did they catch the fellow?"

The chief shook his head. "He killed himself. It was a great pity. The
execution would have been worth watching."

Nicolan was thinking: "I wondered when I saw the wagons of Micca the
Mede outside. Can there be any connection?"

Giso came in great haste through the crowd, holding one hand above his
head and demanding that everyone step back. His eyes were fixed on
Nicolan.

"Togalatus!" he cried. "I have been looking for you. The Giver of All
Light is demanding your presence. Where have you been?"

Nicolan waved an arm in the direction of the plains to the south of the
tented city. "I have been riding."

"He will think that a poor excuse."

"What is his mood at the moment?"

"What would you expect?" Giso was aware that the gabble in the Street
had stopped to hear what he had to say and that all eyes were on him. He
puffed out his chest and proceeded to make the most of it.

"He has gone back to work. Nothing can ever shake him. He is a man of
iron."

"What of Micca the Mede?" asked an eager voice.

Giso looked sternly about him. "I cannot answer any questions."

"Here's another for you. Answer us this. What is being done with the
brothers of Cerca?"

Giso raised his chin to an imperious angle and stared severely about
him. "You know it is against all the rules to discuss the life of the
palace."

The questioners were not to be put off. "It's said," cried one, "that
Cerca is dead."

"Come with me, Togalatus," said Giso, in an effort to bring the
questioning to an end.

They made their way to the palace entrance where a servant took charge
of Nicolan's horse. "What a time we have had!" whispered Giso, conscious
that there were ears close about him to hear every word said. They
crossed a dark hall and began to descend the steps. Attila's servant
placed his lips close to Nicolan's ear. "The guards are all under arrest
and a new lot put in their places. He may hang them all. It doesn't seem
possible that Ala Sartuk could get inside unless one of them had been
bribed."

"Ala Sartuk!" exclaimed Nicolan. He was recalling something he had heard
on the occasion of Micca's previous visit. It had been rumored then that
this skilled knife thrower had been seen in the company of the trader.

"There was much talk," confided Giso. "And Micca was summoned to the
presence. He has been placed under guard but it is my opinion that he
won't die. A wily one, that. He is never at a loss."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Attila was making no pretense at working when Nicolan was ushered in. He
grunted once, sought among the papers in front of him, and selected one
which he held out to his visitor.

"You had my promise," he said.

It was a legal transfer to Nicolan of the lands which had belonged to
his father! The latter raised it with trembling hands and at first the
words seemed blurred and indistinct. It was what he had worked for, the
goal of all his plans and efforts, the reward for his willingness to bow
before the dictates of a despotic master.

"Great Tanjou," he said, "I am so overwhelmed by your generosity that I
can't find words to tell you how I feel."

"You earned it," said Attila.

It was strange, thought Nicolan, that this should happen immediately
after his decision had been reached. He read the document a second time
and then returned it to the donor.

"Great Khan," he said, "I repeat that it is most generous. But I--I
cannot accept it."

Attila stared at him as though unable to believe the evidence of his
ears.

"Are you mad?"

"No, Great Tanjou. It's because I realize the land is given me in the
expectation that I will continue to be useful to you."

"You will always be useful to me," declared Attila. "You know what my
plans are and the part I expect you to take."

"But," said Nicolan, "it is impossible for me to serve you longer."

The man who wanted the world stared at this member of his staff who had
dared utter such words. "Don't you know," he demanded, "that no one
leaves my service as long as he lives?"

"Great King, I would not be of use to you. I have discovered in myself
what you will consider a great weakness. I've found that I hate war and
can no longer have any part in it."

"Not even if I strip you of all rank and send you in to battle with my
foot soldiers?"

"If it came to that," declared Nicolan, "I still would not fight. I
would refuse to raise my spear and would let the first foeman I
encountered slit my throat without raising an arm to defend myself."

Attila shoved away the documents in front of him with an impatient hand.
"You have turned to religion," he charged. "To some sniveling form of
belief in impotent gods."

"In one God, O King. There is only One."

"There are many gods and they are all alike."

"Will you allow me to explain what--what has happened?' asked Nicolan.

"Make it brief then. The subject sickens me."

Nicolan could see through the one narrow window a small square of blue,
warm from the afternoon sun. This might be, he realized, his last chance
to see men's greatest benefactor, the sky under which they lived and had
their being.

"I can still hear the piteous cries of the wounded we left to die at
Chlons," he said. "After all these months, it's hard for me to sleep.
Whenever I speak of it, I get the same answer, 'Are they not well dead
and rotting in the sun?' unless it is a Christian I ask. The answer then
shows compassion."

"Christians!" cried Attila, his face showing a purplish tinge. "I might
have known. Those womanish cowards, whining to a god who offers them
nothing but a harp and a song! Don't you know, you fool, that it's only
because the Romans have turned Christian that they can be beaten?"

"Christians are not cowards! Haven't you heard how bravely they suffered
in the arena at Rome? They died under the tortures of Nero with sublime
courage."

Attila, it was clear, was bitterly angry and yet a little mystified that
one who had always seemed to him a cool thinker should now hold such
views.

"Will their courage be equal to defending the walls of Rome against my
armies?" he demanded.

Then he subsided into silence while he studied the face of his young
aide with a somber concentration. Finally he said: "I don't want my
armies straggling down the wrong roads and getting in each other's
tracks. I have no one to take your place and so I have no intention of
losing you. Where would you go? To Rome? Aetius, that cold and cruel
demon, would have you nailed to a cross. I saw it in his eyes."

"There is only one place I want to go," declared Nicolan. "To the city
where I can learn the true teachings of the man Jesus. To Jerusalem."

Attila was still suffering from an inability to believe what his aide
was saying. "You would go all that distance to learn what a dead peasant
said? You fool, you are suffering from a fit of madness! And yet there
is no madness in your eyes. They are cool. Can it be you mean what you
are saying?"

Attila got to his feet and stumped on his crooked legs about the room.
Nicolan noticed that he seemed unsteady. His face was the color of
tallow. Thick beads of perspiration covered his brow. It was certain,
however, that his condition had nothing to do with the experiences he
had been through earlier in the day. The same symptoms had been
noticeable in him, in a lesser degree, for some time.

"I can't move against Rome for five months," he said. "Go, then, to this
hot stone city, where the Christians fester in holes in the walls, and
satisfy that prying mind of yours. Then come back. In two months!"

Nicolan shook his head. "No. I am through with war. With the treachery
and the cruelty, and the butchery."

Attila allowed his anger to gain control of him. "Do you think you can
leave me and escape punishment? There's no corner of the world small
enough to hide you from my anger. Not even the lands which may lie
beyond the Pillars."

"I am fully aware of the penalty I face. But could I live at peace with
myself if I changed my mind?"

It became apparent at this point that a new thought had taken possession
of Attila. He stood still and frowned at the muddy tips of his cowhide
boots. Then he returned to his chair and sat down heavily. From there he
studied Nicolan with a closer attention than he had yet bestowed on him.

"There is a mission which must be performed for me at once," he said.
"It is highly dangerous and only a brave and resourceful man would
undertake it. It wouldn't conflict with these tender scruples of yours.
Will you go?"

"What would I be called on to do?"

"You would go into Roman territory. Do I need to remind you again that
you would die a cruel death if you fell into the hands of Aetius?"
Attila paused, not to give Nicolan an opportunity to reply but to
consider more fully what he himself had in mind to propose. "If you took
this bold venture in hand for me, you might get over these womanish
ideas. You would probably come back cured, and that would be a good
thing for both of us. I'll come straight to the point. I want you to see
the Princess Honoria and discuss a plan with her. You might have to
contrive her escape and bring her back with you. There will be a rich
reward if you succeed. I might make you the governor of Jerusalem, where
you could improve the lot of these Christians you love so much. I would
fill your lap with the spoils of Rome." Suddenly the emperor threw back
his head and laughed loudly. "I might even give you the princess. As
your wife. I don't want her myself. I--I have other plans which I am
already proceeding with. And from what I hear of that beautiful daughter
of imperial Rome, she might prefer you to a barbarian like me.

"Don't give your answer yet," added Attila, when he saw that Nicolan was
prepared to speak. "This will bear thinking over. We will talk of it
again. Tomorrow morning. If you agree, you will be on your way south by
noon."


[2]

Attila took one quick glance at him when he appeared the next morning
and nodded his head with satisfaction.

"You are going," he said.

"Yes, Great Tanjou. I am going."

"That is good. I am glad you have come to your senses. Partly, at least.
The rest will follow."

He picked up a knife with a short blade and began to trace a route on a
map of the north of Italy which hung on the wall. "Here," he said,
pointing to the pass in the mountains above the city of Aquileia which
perched at the head of the Adriatic Sea. "This is the road to the plains
of Lombardy. Here, on the east, we have a nest of islands which have
collected where the great rivers of the north, the Po, the Brenta, and
the Adige, empty into the sea. They are busy rivers and they bring much
with them from the mountains to deposit at their mouths--rich earth and
stones and wood. The islands have been formed from this silt. What do
you know about these islands?"

"There is nothing to know," answered Nicolan.

"Ha!" exclaimed the emperor, triumphantly. "You do not know everything,
then, my sharp young man. You think them uninhabited, no doubt?"

"I've always believed so."

"These islands," declared Attila, "are covered with tall pine trees. And
in the shadow of the pines live many people. Fishermen who sell their
catch to the mainland cities closest to hand. People who have salt pans
and make a living from that. Fugitives. Malefactors, fleeing from
justice, who take to the islands in these lagoons, where they drop out
of sight like stones tossed into the sea. There are political runaways
as well, men of rank and property who manage to live quite well in
houses that are built for them. If Aetius spread a net around these
islands, his catch would be a rich one!

"Now take this island," he went on, pointing to the center of the
archipelago. "This is one of the oldest and it now has a solid
foundation. Its trees are taller than any of the others. On this island,
hidden away in the trees, is a palace of stone. It is built so low that
no glimpse can be had of it from the water. No one knows it is there
except the fishermen and the fugitives who skulk in the cover and dare
not go ashore. And in that palace, with a large household, lives the
Princess Honoria. A boat calls once a week with supplies. Visitors are
never allowed to land. She sees no one with the exception of her
personal servants. The beautiful old demon, her mother, decided to keep
her there for the rest of her life. The mother is dead now, but the
emperor is of the same mind."

Nicolan studied the map closely. "And that is where I am to go?"

"Yes. All the details have been arranged. You will take with you one of
Micca's wagons, filled with goods. Three of his trained men, one a
juggler and maker of magic, will accompany you as well as a few of my
most reliable fighting men. I think it will be wise for you yourself to
pose as a political refugee, looking for sanctuary. No suspicion must be
aroused in the minds of the island guards or they will refuse to let you
put foot ashore."

"Suppose they do refuse permission to land?"

"It's improbable. They have a dull existence and the chance to look over
the goods and watch the juggler will be hard to resist. Micca has sent a
wagon through the islands several times and found a welcome everywhere.
If the guards remain stubborn, you will have to slip ashore at night and
find some way of talking to the prisoner. That is a detail I leave to
you."

Nicolan considered the matter carefully. "I think it will prove more
difficult than you suppose," he said, finally.

Attila gestured casually. "No obstacle is ever great enough to stop a
resourceful man."

"How will we get to the island?"

"Micca has a boat at Alimium which will be at your disposal."

"And what message do I carry to the princess?"

"I have made a list of the things I want you to say. You will read it
now and commit all the points to memory. Then the list will be
destroyed.

"And now," continued the emperor, "we come to the hardest part. When the
princess has agreed to my terms, you must get her off the island at
once. The fighting may start earlier than I first planned."

Nicolan looked at him with surprise when he heard this announcement.
There was an air of suppressed excitement about Attila. His small eyes,
sunk deep under brows which seemed shaggier than ever, were alive with
it. He nodded his head several times.

"I have had confirmation from my scouts of rumors which reached me
earlier," he said in a tone little above a whisper. "Aetius will have
none of the allies who helped him at Chlons. He must fight alone this
time. It's said he has little stomach for it and I've heard he can't
sleep, this man who was once your master. Fear rides his shoulder like
an evil spirit." His voice rose. "Now, now, we shall come to grips for
the last time!"

Attila seated himself in his chair. He was silent for several moments
and Nicolan was surprised to see that the outburst had drawn heavily on
his reserves of strength. His hand trembled perceptibly as he brushed
aside the documents on the table.

"When the Roman princess has agreed to my terms, you must bring her to
me. That will mean men, boats, and money. You must go to Scalpius."

This was a completely new name and Nicolan looked his surprise at the
reference. "In the city of Aquileia," went on Attila, you will go to the
market place. It will be full of beggars. Scalpius is one of them and
he's the shrewdest knave of all. He's a coward and a hypocrite and a
liar but he has more influence than anyone in the Lombardy country. I
know. Because, you see, Scalpius is my man.

"Go to him," continued the emperor, "and he will supply you with
whatever you need."


[3]

This is not the story of Nicolan's conversion. It may be taken for
granted that, through all the time he thus found himself tangled in the
web of circumstance, in the double-dealing, the treachery, and the
cruelty, the germ planted in his mind by what he had lived through at
Chlons was growing steadily, and that it finally reached the maturity
of a steadfast faith. There was nothing unusual in his spiritual
awakening. The message of Christ was spreading far and wide throughout
the world. The missionaries were carrying the Word even to the savage
lands which lay beyond the bounds of what was called civilization.

It may be permissible to cast forward and say that Attila never found
himself with the power in his hands to make Nicolan, or anyone else for
that matter, the governor of Jerusalem. It fell out also that Nicolan
was not to find an opportunity to tramp the hot and dusty roads to the
Holy City with the staff of a pilgrim in his hand. Thus he was deprived
of the chance to sit at the feet of the fathers of the parent church. He
had at all times, however, the privilege of meeting men of simple faith
who expounded to him the teachings of Christ; and it may be that this
was the truer path. Once a very poor man, who made his living as a
scrivener in Aquileia, said to him: "There is much being said and done
these days which people like me do not understand. There is a great man
named Nestorius who preaches his own idea of what we should believe. And
then there is another learned man in Egypt who says that Nestorius is
wicked and wrong. I close my ears to all this clamor. I know what Jesus
preached to us on the Mount. There is room for nothing else in my
heart."

The Christian people, he had found, could be divided into two classes.
There were the militant ones who proclaimed their faith to the skies and
wanted to convert the whole world. And there were the silent ones,
content to believe in what the man Jesus had taught and to live
accordingly. Nicolan was one of the latter class because he realized how
much he had to learn. He needed time to accustom himself to this change
of heart. It was quite clear to him that he could obtain the time only
by agreeing to the wishes of the great khan and it was this which led to
his acceptance of the role of emissary to the Princess Honoria, rather
than any fear of the consequences of refusal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Nicolan and Ivar shared a small shed in the yard which enclosed Attila's
palace. It had been used at first for the emperor's special horses but
the smells and the flies had become such a nuisance that the four-legged
tenants had been removed to stables at a greater distance. Briefly
thereafter the building had contained chickens and then doves but it had
been vacant for some time when the two friends were given possession.
Despite their determined efforts to clean the place, some of the odors
of former occupancy still manifested themselves. The walls had been
covered with souvenirs and spoils of war--a battle flag, a cluster of
pennons in many colors, weapons of various kinds, a Roman shield, a
halter of silver, and a cloak from the very far East made of the crests
of birds.

After his talk with Attila, Nicolan ran across the yard and opened the
door with a hasty hand, having a short time only to prepare for his
journey down into the Adriatic. He found Ivar seated in a corner.

"I'm going away!" he said, before he noticed that a stranger was sitting
on the floor.

"I am from the country which was once yours," said the stranger, getting
to his feet. "I belong to Macio of the Roymarcks and my name is Hursta."

This identification of himself was accepted at once. He had the thin
bowed legs which come from a life in the saddle and his eyes, which he
was using to stare at Nicolan from under his three-cornered brown cap,
were dusky and heavily fringed with black lashes. He was quite young.

"What brings you here?"

"I come on orders from my master. He is not well. Since he heard of his
son's death, he hasn't stirred from his couch. He lies there and
broods."

"Does he still preside in the weekly courts of the Ferma?"

The man Hursta shook his head. "Not any more. He lacks the strength."

"Who has taken his place?"

"Ranno of the Finninalders."

Nicolan asked sharply, "Was he chosen by the Inner Council of the
Ferma?"

The visitor shook his head a second time. "No meeting of the Council was
called. Ranno assumed the duties, saying there could be no other
choice." After a moment Hursta added, "There are so few of our chiefs
left since the battle."

Nicolan remained silent for several moments. Then he asked, in an abrupt
tone, "Is Ranno in good favor with the people?"

The visitor nodded affirmatively. "He is thought to be very' wise for
his years. Now that Roric is dead"--his eyes showed a hint of moisture
which he brushed away--"Ranno is certain to succeed when my master
dies."

"What is the news you have for me?"

The man lowered his voice. "A messenger reached my master. He was from
the train of the lady of Tergeste and he had come a long distance. From
the East."

"What word did he bring?" asked Nicolan, eagerly.

"It may be about the king--our great Harthager. Or it may be that some
danger hangs over the Lady Ildico. My master gave me not so much as a
hint and I could get nothing out of the messenger. All I know is that
it's the desire of my master to tell you of it."

"Has he no one around him who can be trusted?"

"My lord, the servants of Macio would all gladly die for him. He knows
that; but it must be that it is a matter not to be confided to slaves."

"In two hours I must leave on a mission for the emperor." Nicolan
gestured helplessly as he turned to Ivar. "It is a matter of such
importance and the need for secrecy is so great that it was Attila's
orders you were not to go with me. He thought your size would be
remarked and perhaps lead to trouble."

"Is there no chance of getting out of it?" asked Ivar.

"Two lives depend on my going. One is the life of Micca, who is a
greater rascal than anyone suspected. He will die a cruel and lingering
death if I don't succeed. I feel freer about the other life because it
happens to be my own."

"I think I see a way out of the difficulty," declared Ivar, at once. "I
could ride back with Hursta and talk with my lord Macio. He might be
willing to entrust me with a message. Then I could join you as soon as
you had completed your mission."

Nicolan turned the matter over in his mind. "It should not take me long
to carry out the emperor's orders. We could meet in the mountain pass
above Aquileia."

Ivar was giving the matter much careful thought. "Suppose you found it
impossible to join me? What would I do?"

"Wait. Wait for me as long as you dared."

"And if you did not come?"

"You would proceed then with whatever it was my lord Macio desired us to
do. By yourself."

"But would he have sufficient confidence in me for that? I am not of
your blood. I am a stranger from a far land."

"That is true. But he knows you are honest and strong. I think he would
be ready to leave it in your hands."

"Even if the message has to do with the safety of his daughter?"

"It is because I think it does concern Ildico that I can't sacrifice my
life by refusing to do Attila's bidding," declared Nicolan. "I must
contrive somehow to reach her. It occurs to me, Ivar, that Macio might
agree to allow Hursta to accompany you. If you had to start before I
arrived, you could leave him behind with the necessary directions. There
is an inn in a cover of trees about fifteen miles above Aquileia. He
could await me there. It is easy to find because there is a cross above
the door."

"Is there no possibility of postponing your mission?"

"Every moment of delay in starting on it lessens my chance of meeting
you in the pass."




CHAPTER III


[1]

A tight-lipped Neapolitan, whose name was Priscius, was in charge of the
trade wagon which set out that morning. A juggler was second in command
but it was to the third member of the party that Nicolan paid the most
attention. This was a tall young Arab who went attentively about his
work and had nothing to say. He had features like chiseled marble and
eyes which seemed to have fires banked behind them.

"This fellow Hussein," asked Nicolan, drawing the Neapolitan to one
side. "What is he? The son of a long line of desert monarchs?"

"Exactly, Illustrious One. He was captured in a foray when he was a
young boy. He has never said a word about himself since. But the other
slaves from the desert countries tread lightly when he is about and
speak in tones of respect. They know something but they refuse to tell."

Ten days later they followed the creaking wagon through the pass of
Mount Ocra and saw ahead of them the tall Roman battlements which
surrounded the city of Aquileia. Priscius, who rode beside Nicolan,
sighed gustily with relief. "When I see those walls," he said, pointing
with his whip, "I know I'm on Roman soil--and safe once more. They did a
lot of loose talking back there about the ease with which they would
capture this place. Ho, ho! I dare laugh at them now. This is a city
which will never be captured. Not even by the mighty Attila." He added,
as an additional reason for his increased ease of mind, "They have the
best wines in the world here."

As they walked their horses under the northern gate, Nicolan was
impressed by the size of the walls but even more so by the cleanness of
the streets and the air of brisk prosperity. There had been no lepers at
the gate and even the humblest water carrier wore his cape with
self-respect and his blue Phrygian cap with the jaunty conviction that
all was well with the world.

"They don't seem to know," he remarked to Priscius, "that war is going
to break."

"They know," asserted Micca's assistant, "but they trust their walls."

The party found their way to the market place, which offered the first
evidence of crowding and poverty. Nicolan dismounted and looked about
him. The place teemed with noisy bargainers and along the walls were
beggars, holding out their hands and intoning their monotonous cries. He
looked the latter over carefully but at first found no one to meet the
description supplied by Attila. Finally his eye encountered that of an
occupant of a corner post. There was an air of humility about this
particular bidder for baksheesh which made him look a second time.

He was surprised to hear the mysterious Hussein say at his shoulder,
"When your master comes, the blood of these people will fill all the
gutters."

"I'm afraid that's true," he answered, turning to study the fiercely
proud profile. "I am told you came from the East."

"From a faraway land. I was young when they took me away but I seem to
remember there was a city built in a great cleft in the desert. Its
towers were higher than these"--motioning about him--"but some of them
had been carved out of the rock walls."

"Petra," said Nicolan, who had heard of that strange city.

"I am not sure. But this I know: its temples are as finely carved as
lace and in the walls are enamels as blue as the desert sky. I shall see
it again someday, O Reader of Maps."

There was a moment's silence and then the young slave turned with sudden
resolution. "It has been said you were sold into slavery as a boy."

"That is true. My father was killed and all our lands and stock were
seized. My mother and I were sold into slavery. I served in the
household of Aetius. In Rome."

"I have been told all that. It must be then that you can feel sympathy
for me. I, O Togalatus, am the son of a king. I was captured and sold to
Micca the Mede. I was young, perhaps as young as you were. Never since
have I found the chance to let my father know where I am. He is an old
man now and I fear he hasn't much longer to live. Soon it will be too
late for anything to be done." He raised his eyes to meet the gaze of
Nicolan. The latter could sense the deep emotion which filled this son
of a proud race. "O Togalatus, give your aid to one who is in the same
position you were! Help me break these bonds!"

There was a moment of silence between them and then Nicolan spoke in
cautious tones. "It may be I can help you. Do you know that your master
is in trouble?"

Hussein gave his head a discreet nod. "We heard something of that. I
think it's because of it that I found the courage to speak to you."

"The outcome is still in doubt. I know that Attila believes Micca paid
the assassin to attack him. In the end he may kill your master. In that
case his belongings will be seized. I might arrange for you to be
transferred to me. The chief obstacle is that I myself may not stand
high in the emperor's favor. I may even share the fate of Micca."

The young slave now made it apparent that he had been giving close study
to the prospect of escape. "Some of the ships from the ports of the East
come to Ravenna," he said. "That is not far from here."

"Four days of stiff tramping," declared Nicolan, who thought in terms of
armies on the march. "Longer, if you have to do all the traveling by
night."

Hussein began to speak in impassioned whispers. "Help me, O Togalatus.
You have broken your bonds: aid me to shake from my limbs these hateful
chains which bind me in servitude. I, a king's son! If you help me, I
make you a promise. Someday rewards will reach you. Precious stones,
rich rugs, all the things we have in my land which will enrich you here.
And above all else, you will have my gratitude for the rest of your
life."

They had been crossing the square as they talked and they now stood
directly in front of the corner where the humble beggar plied his trade.
The latter looked up and Nicolan was amazed at the pathos of his face.
His eyes beseeched help in the most piteous way. They were timid and
honest and they seemed to say, "I am a forlorn creature, beaten down by
the slings of misfortune; help me or I perish." He was sitting
cross-legged on the ground and on one thin shank was a large and ugly
sore, prominently displayed. The tunic he wore was ragged and
threadbare, and far from clean.

Convinced that he had found his man, Nicolan dropped a coin in the
beggar's dirty outstretched hand, saying in a whisper, "_The wings of
the twelfth!_"

"May the gods bless you, noble stranger," whined the beggar. Then he
added, in a whisper so low that it was hard to hear what he said: "In
ten minutes I leave. Follow me. At a distance."

After stalking the stooped figure through the poorer quarter of the
city, Nicolan saw Scalpius vanish into the shadows beside a small house.
The house itself was mean and unobtrusive, and built against the stone
of the outer wall. He approached with care and applied his knuckles
lightly to the door. It opened immediately and he was summoned inside.
The interior was so dark that he could see nothing at first. Scalpius
addressed him in a cautious tone. "Stand where you are. I return at
once." He was back almost immediately, carrying a lamp in which a small
wick burned feebly. The light thus provided was enough to demonstrate
two things: that the tiny room in which they stood was almost devoid of
furnishings but spotlessly clean, and that the beggar himself had
accomplished a quick transformation. He was now wearing a white tunic
and his face and hands were clean. A still more startling change was
soon apparent; the face which peered over the flickering flame had lost
its professional air of entreaty and wore instead a sharp and sly
expression.

"Sit down," said Scalpius.

There were no chairs or benches in the room so Nicolan squatted on the
floor, an example which his host followed. In doing so, Scalpius bared
both legs and the visitor was astonished to see no trace of the sore
which had been so publicly displayed on the market place.

"A miraculous cure," said Nicolan, pointing to the healthy surface of
the mendicant's shin.

The latter cackled. "Part of my stock in trade," he said. "I paint it on
each morning. I am clever with the brush. It was my purpose to become an
artist until I found I had a gift for winning sympathy. Since then I
have not worked." There was a pause. "What brings you to me?"

Nicolan held out his hand with a small lozenge of tin cupped in the
palm. Scalpius looked at it and then said in an urgent voice: "Put it
away. Give me your message quickly and then begone. As long as you sit
in my house, I can feel the rasp of the hangman's rope on my neck!"

Nicolan explained briefly the mission on which he was engaged. Scalpius
listened attentively, nodding his bald head. The thick mane of hair
which he had worn into the house had been a wig.

"You will have to act quickly," he said. "This is a city of fools. When
they hear that Attila is going to strike soon, they laugh and point to
the walls. But their hearts will change to water when they hear his
armies are coming through the pass and they will scatter like frightened
mice. Those who can afford it will cross the water and find shelter in
Dalmatia. Those who can't will take refuge in the islands. The islands
will be overrun with them and that is why I advise you to act quickly.
Your princess will be in a sorry plight if she's left there until those
starving rats come swarming ashore."

"Do you expect the hand of Attila to fall heavily on the city?"

"Aquileia will be destroyed," asserted Scalpius in a matter-of-fact
tone.

"It's lucky then that you have no property to lose."

The mendicant's pride asserted itself in a scoffing ejaculation. "By the
bolts of Jupiter, young man, you have no conception of the profits made
in this trade. I know what is going to happen and for the past four
months I have been selling everything I own. My houses, my shops, my
farm with its fine fig trees, my ships, my camels. I shall leave very
soon for the safety that only Dalmatia offers."

"You will take your household with you?"

"I have no household," asserted Scalpius. "I have neither wife nor
child. Families are costly things. Since I clutched in my hand the first
coin I ever earned, I have shared with no one. What is mine is mine. I
never spend. I trade and, when needs must, I steal."

"But sooner or later you must die."

"I shall be buried beside my gold. That has been arranged: there it will
be, at my side, in an iron box and so close my arm can touch it. The
only regret I'll feel, when my time comes and they gird my bones in,
will be that my arm will lack the power to touch the box, to open it, to
fondle the coins."

Nicolan was astonished at the greed in the eyes which had seemed at
first so honest and appealing. His interest lay, however, in the
carrying out of his mission and he proceeded now to ask questions.

"You say the poor people of the city will take refuge on the islands.
How will they subsist there?"

"They will starve," declared Scalpius, in a tone which seemed to carry a
note of satisfaction. "It will do them little good to run away. What
betters it to escape the sword of Attila and die of hunger on a stinking
island? They will steal everything on the islands first; and that is why
you must get this woman of Rome off before the trouble starts."

"We will need a larger boat than the one Micca has put at our disposal."

The beggar nodded. "I can provide for that. There is a trading ship
which plies between the ports of Palestine and the Adriatic. It comes as
far north as Ravenna. I can arrange to have it lie off the islands until
the princess can be taken aboard." He paused to consider the plan in
detail. "It will be too late to take her up through the pass into Hun
country. Soon the roads will be black with the horsemen of Attila. It
will be done this way instead. The princess will be left in a Dalmatian
port and lodged in the household of a wine and oil merchant. He is
rich--but he takes his orders from me. The woman can be delivered to
Attila later. At Rome, or his own capital, or at any city where he makes
his headquarters."

"I must see her first and gain her consent to what the emperor has
planned."

"That," declared Scalpius, "will not be hard to get. She has nothing to
lose, that wanton."


[2]

The party started that same afternoon down the Via Emilia, the great
Roman road which would merge farther south with the Via Flaminia. The
Lombardy Plain loomed ahead of them, that fabulously rich land which was
sometimes called the breadbasket of Rome. The plain had been the first
objective of all the planning done when Attila sat with his generals
about him. To capture the cities which guarded it, to seize control of
its great rivers and its broad and sunny acres, had been the purpose of
all their scheming. When his armies held the plain, he might well feel
assured that the fall of the city on the seven hills, which had once
ruled the world, was the inevitable next step.

Nicolan was puzzled at the aspect of the countryside. The ground was
hard, the fields brown instead of green. The cattle were finding it hard
to get sustenance from the parched land. He remembered now that some of
the reports he had seen from the observers kept by Attila in all parts
of the Roman Empire had mentioned that the previous autumn had been a
dry one and that the crops were likely to be sparse. There had been
nothing, however, to prepare him for this. He kept his eyes busy as they
rode down the broad highway, and was shocked at the ill favor Mother
Nature was showing the usually fertile plain.

"It's going to be a lean year," he said to himself. "These brown
pastures and sickly cattle will never feed the half million men that
Attila will lead to the storming of Rome. Is he being misled?"

The farther south they rode, the more desolate the country became. The
sun was growing stronger. The hillsides and the meadows turned a deeper
yellow and the usually fast rivers, racing down from the mountains to
the sea, were dwindling into mere trickles.

"This is all wrong," he thought. "Either the truth is being held back or
Attila has made himself believe he can conquer famine as well as the
armies of Aetius."

The herdsmen and the shepherds seemed to lack in vigor as much as the
animals they tended. They appeared to watch endlessly, their eyes fixed
on the north as though they expected to see at any moment the red hats
of Attila's dreaded horsemen on the horizon. When questioned they all
had the same thing to say. "Why doesn't he come?" they would ask. "That
great man, that brave Aetius, who beat the Huns once! Is he going to
leave us unprotected? Does he not know of our danger?"

For two days Nicolan rode in an almost complete silence, trying to make
up his mind to the course he should take. If he turned back and
convinced Attila of the danger of an invasion under such adverse
conditions, he might succeed in bringing about a delay in the emperor's
plans. Postponements, he knew, were dangerous things. It might prove
impossible for Attila to keep his men under arms for another year; or,
if he dispersed them, he might not succeed in assembling his strength
again for the drive south. In that way civilization might be saved. On
the other hand, if nothing was done to lay the true facts before him,
the emperor would undoubtedly proceed with his campaign. It would almost
certainly fail, and the Christian world would be saved. But at a
terrible cost. The cities of the plain would be stormed and reduced to
rubble, and the people of this rich and happy land would die in tens of
thousands by the pagan sword.

Every mile they rode made it seem more certain that Attila's agents had
failed to convey to him a proper picture of the conditions in Lombardy;
but Nicolan could not persuade himself that his duty lay in turning
back.




CHAPTER IV


[1]

The boat which Micca maintained at Alimium was spacious enough to carry
a large cargo. Nicolan went aboard in the disguise that Attila had
suggested. Under a cape of gray cloth, which was as plain as the garb of
the lowliest citizen, he allowed a glimpse to show of a once handsome
toga, a little tarnished now and with rents in its golden embroidery. He
could not be mistaken for anything but what he professed to be, a man of
some position who sought a hiding place under the pines of the islands.

A damp breeze blew from the south across the green water and Nicolan
watched the break of the waves about the prow with the fascination of a
new beholder. He was sorry when Priscius joined him to point out that
their destination lay straight ahead, a stone wharf on an island of some
size. It was the largest in the group and, if either Nicolan or his
companion had been gifted with the power to look ahead into the
centuries to come, they would have been amazed to see a huge city built
on this deposit of alluvial soil: a city with castellated buildings of
stone and brick, of a strange beauty, and canals stretching in all
directions with hump-backed bridges over them and pleasant craft plying
along them in endless number. The conception of this city, which would
be known to the world as Venice, would date back to something which was
soon to happen and which Nicolan would witness with his own eyes, a
frenzied rush of refugees from the mainland, fleeing the approach of the
Hun armies, and an inclination later to remain where they were rather
than return to the towns and villages which Attila had destroyed.

Nicolan's first glimpse of the island showed it to be flat and with no
outward signs of life. It was amazing, however, how suddenly the landing
pier swarmed with people when they turned in there. A vociferous
individual, with a sword hanging at one side of his belt and the keys of
authority at the other, motioned to them angrily to keep off.

"No strangers allowed here!" he bellowed. "It is an order of the
strictest. Be on your way."

Paying no attention to these protests, Priscius steered in to a landing.

"Is it you, O Criplian?" he called, in a cheerful tone. "I have been
here twice before and have not been refused. We have goods to offer you
and our juggler is a veritable artist. You must see his magic." He
whispered to Nicolan. "This man is in Micca's pay. He will help you.
Swing over your shoulder this bag of goods I have made up for you. It
will be necessary to go before the princess in the guise of a trader."

The island Cerberus gave no indication of friendliness. He scowled when
the boat touched the landing place and regarded Nicolan with a sullen
eye. "And who," he demanded, "is this fine gentleman? Who does not seem
so fine at a second glance."

Nicolan took it on himself to answer. "I seek quiet and peace for a
short time. And I have the means to pay for what I desire."

"They all have that," said the man carelessly. "Did you dip into the
public funds or are you sought for trickery in private affairs? Do not
give me an answer; it is better for me not to know. If these others are
allowed ashore for a brief hour, you at least will remain where you are,
my fine runaway patrician."

Nicolan stepped out on the wharf in spite of this injunction. He drew
the man Criplian to one side. "'Though his feet may turn to the west,
the head of a wise man inclines always to the east,'" he whispered.

The guard's manner lost some of its surliness. "So, you are the one," he
muttered. "I will deal with you later."

When the cases of goods had been opened and the wares spread temptingly
about for the inspection of the people of the island, female as well as
male, and the juggler was testing his knives and other props, the man
Criplian sought Nicolan, who had stationed himself at some distance.

"You are expected and all the arrangements are made," he said. "But, my
fine swindler or thief, or whatever you may be, the money first."

Nicolan surreptitiously dropped a bag into his palm. It was heavy and it
gave forth a musical jingle.

"You are sure it is all there?"

"It has not been opened since it was handed to me."

"I wouldn't trust you not to dip a hand in for yourself. I'll count it
later. If it isn't right, I'll see to it that you don't leave the island
alive." The bag vanished inside the man's loose and far from clean
tunic. "Now you will listen. Stay in the cover of the trees while I pass
on the word that you are here. There may be some delay; although I saw
all of her maids feasting their eyes on the goods back there."

"I don't expect to complete my mission to your royal mistress----"

Criplian interrupted by hissing furiously through his teeth. "Be more
careful, you fool. There is never talk of royalty here. She, the one we
guard, is said to be an invalid. She is never seen by outside eyes. Put
a guard on your tongue."

"Of course. I did not realize the care you have to take. What I meant to
say was that I can't complete my mission with one conversation."

"I can keep you on the island for one night, if necessary. You will be
hidden in a damp hole in the boat sheds. And you will obey my
instructions to the letter."

In a very few minutes Criplian returned and beckoned to Nicolan. The
latter followed him along a narrow path through the trees. They reached
the palace, which was a low structure of white stone with barred windows
high in the walls and copper-covered doors. A cool dark passage brought
them to an inner court.

"Gracious lady," said Criplian, "this is the man. The messenger of whom
I spoke."

A slender woman was reclining on a low couch, her eyes fixed on a barred
gate which opened on a path to the water. She turned her dark eyes,
languid under long black lashes, and Nicolan recognized her at once.

The princess had not changed much since the day when he had knelt before
her with one of the gifts from the ambitious Aetius. She had, he
thought, become more slender, which had the effect of making her eyes
seem larger and of lending a fallacious note of nobility to her broad
white brow. She was attired in a loose blue gown which obviously had
seen much wear.

"Spread your goods out on the floor," instructed the guard, in an urgent
whisper. "If anyone comes, play the part of the trader. And be prepared
for rough handling in the manner of your going."

Nicolan obeyed instructions by emptying the bag and placing the contents
in a semicircle about him. He was conscious of the interested scrutiny
of the princess as he went about these precautions.

"This is a surprise," she said, when Criplian had left them alone. "You
are different from what I expected--much, much different. I was prepared
to receive a fierce Eastern warrior in a round red hat and with a curved
scimitar." She looked at him more closely and her eyes opened wider. "I
have seen you before. Where could it have been? And when?" She sat up
straight on the couch and wrapped a bare arm around her knees. "I know!
You were one of the slaves who brought me the gifts from my lord Aetius
on my last visit to Rome. Such a long time ago!" She smiled and nodded
her head. "I'm sure I can't be mistaken. I remarked you quite closely at
the time."

"You are not mistaken, gracious lady. I presented you with a container
of nard on a green velvet cushion."

"I never liked nard but I was much impressed with the bearer. Your
station in life seems to have changed for the better. I have been
hearing much about you. Rather remarkable things. But of course I did
not connect the able lieutenant of Attila with the slave who waited on
me that day."

"After I made my escape from Rome," said Nicolan, speaking in carefully
low tones, "I found favor in the eyes of my lord Attila. He has thought
well enough of me to entrust me with this most delicate mission."

The deep dark eyes of this princess, who had so offended her family by
her indiscretion, were watching him intently. She toyed with a jeweled
fan. "Are you not taking a great risk," she asked, "in venturing thus
into Roman territory? What if you were caught? My lord Aetius is not of
a forgiving nature."

"I realize the danger."

"We must see that your secret is well kept," said the princess,
spreading the fan and watching him above it. "I am beginning to recall
memories of that day in Rome. You seemed so very young as you knelt
before me. I hoped you would look up. Some of the others had been bold
enough to do that but you kept your eyes on the floor. Perhaps that was
why I was guilty of a great indiscretion. I whispered to you."

"Yes, Your Highness. I shall always remember it."

The princess laughed lightly. "How indiscreet I was!" The archness of
her manner was replaced by a more serious note. "I am always curious
about my slaves. They come from all parts of the world and there is so
often a deep mystery in their eyes as they serve me. I could not see
your eyes that time but I could read that same mystery in the line of
your brow and in your fine hands; and now I realize that I was right.

"You bring me, perhaps," she resumed, "another present? The one I desire
most of everything in life--my liberty?"

"Yes, gracious lady. The Emperor Attila is prepared to gather his great
armies and march on Rome in your behalf. But he must be sure he acts
with your consent and understanding. There must be an alliance, a
joining of interests."

He produced a small box from under his belt and raised the lid,
revealing the gold ring which Hyacinthus had carried to Attila. "When
you sent your trusted servant to the emperor with this token, you were
of a mind to join him in the most sacred of all alliances."

The pale cheeks of the princess flushed. "May I speak freely to you?
Will you regard what I tell you as given in confidence and not to be
repeated?"

Nicolan bowed. "Yes, my lady."

The eyes of the princess had displayed a languishing softness under
artfully employed lashes at the opening of their talk. Now her
expression changed, suddenly and completely. She became direct and even
realistic.

"My mother keeps me a prisoner. I can't move from this dull place. I'm
sure she means to keep me here for the rest of my life. I am watched and
spied upon. Oh, it is shameful! I was desperate when I wrote to Attila
and ready to take any means of breaking my bonds. They keep me in the
dark about everything. One of my maids heard that my mother is dead. Can
you tell me if it's true?"

Nicolan did not feel free to tell her what he had heard. He shook his
head.

"But," she went on, "his answer has been a long time in reaching me. May
I ask you some questions?"

"If it is understood," said Nicolan, "that any answers I may give will
also be treated in confidence."

"Naturally." The princess hesitated before proceeding. She closed the
fan and then opened it again, seeming much interested in the pattern of
the ivory. "What is the emperor like? Tell me of his appearance, of his
habits and manners, of the court he keeps. I've heard so many stories
about him that I don't know what to believe."

"In appearance he is a typical Hun. Need I say more on that point?"

She shook her head. "But is it possible one could like him?"

"I find it possible to admire him, my lady."

"Is he cruel?"

"He takes no pleasure in cruelty, as so many despots do. I am told he
never sees an execution. But he has no hesitation in wiping out all the
inhabitants of a city, even of a whole province, if he believes it will
further his plans. He can decree the annihilation of thousands and still
sleep well of nights."

"If I married him, what would my life be?"

"You would share the throne with him. If he took Rome, you would be
crowned there. By this I mean you would occupy a chair beside him. He
would never consult you about affairs of state. Sometimes he consults a
lieutenant but it is always on matters of detail. Policy he decides
himself."

"What would my position be as--as a wife?"

"Gracious lady, I must be completely frank. As a wife you would be one
of forty. You would rank as his number-one wife but, on marrying you, he
wouldn't put the others aside."

"Forty!" cried the princess, her face a picture of consternation.

"There have been nearly one hundred of them altogether. He is rather
indulgent to them. Sometimes they have to be punished but I can't
believe he would have one of them put to death. Still, they come and go.
Some die. Some disappear."

"Do they have music? Plays? Do they read? To what extent are the
gracious sides of life practiced?"

"There are no gracious sides to the life they live. There is music. Of a
kind--strange, barbaric. I find it very hard on the ears. The race from
which I spring happens to be quite a musical people."

"Well, what else? Do they use perfumes?"

"It's frowned upon as weak and degenerate. I believe it has to be
brought in and sold secretly by traders like Micca the Mede. The Hun
women are partial to one kind only. It has a thick, musky odor."

"What kind of baths do they have?"

"The only answer I can give to that," answered Nicolan, smiling, "is
that I have heard there is a marble bath belonging to Attila and that
it's the only one there."

"This is worse than I thought!" Honoria seemed thoroughly shocked. "What
are his habits with this large harem?"

"His rule is to visit each day the inner city where they live together
behind a high enclosing wall. He does this always in the morning and he
selects his wife for the day. She is sent over to his palace and remains
there. She sits beside him at the evening meal."

"And does she sleep with him?"

Nicolan nodded his head. "That is the rule. Occasionally he falls out
with his wife for the day or she does something he doesn't like. In that
case he sends her back and has her replaced."

"A different wife every night!" The princess was finding all this hard
to believe. "You don't think he would change his way of living if he
married me?"

"My lady, he never changes."

The manner of the princess altered perceptibly at this point. She sat up
still straighter on the couch and a small spot of color showed in each
cheek. An imperious note manifested itself in her voice.

"But if I, a princess of imperial Rome, became his wife, wouldn't
everything be changed? Would it not be possible for me to set new
fashions? To introduce all the gracious ways of living we have here? To
have proper palaces and public baths built? To have civilized cooks and
fine wines and the perfumes of the East? After all, I would be the
mistress."

"Such things would be possible only," was the answer, "if Attila
conquered Rome and established himself there. In that event, he and his
people would try to adapt themselves to the new ways. You would be, in
name at least, the empress of the world. Perhaps Attila would listen to
you then in domestic matters. But only a soothsayer can tell whether
this change would be permanent or how soon the conquering race would
revert. It's my opinion that in less than a generation they would turn
the palaces into pig byres and use the temples for their pagan rites,
and stable their horses in the great arenas. If you went to him now as
his queen, you would have to accept things as they are. You would live
as the others do. It would not be--shall we say, a pleasant or brilliant
life?"

The princess shuddered slightly and fell into a silence.


[2]

"Will you permit me now," asked Nicolan, "to tell you what the emperor
proposes? He desires me to say first that he would be proud to have you
as his wife but that from the standpoint of policy it might not be a
wise solution. I am to tell you that he desires your open support. To
make this possible, he will contrive to free you and settle you where
the Roman power does not reach. He will provide for you extensive
estates with an income adequate to maintain a court of your own. A match
will be arranged with some king or ruler of a dependent State. A German,
perhaps. Or a high-placed Dacian or Sarmatian. Even, a prince of the
Eastern Empire. In making war on Rome he would openly espouse your right
to a fair share of all the dominions of Rome and your interests would be
watched closely in any treaty settlements which might become necessary.
You would submit yourself to his protection and forgo any communications
with your brother, the emperor of Rome, or any member of your family."

The princess had followed his explanation with a close and shrewd
interest. She nodded her head at this point. "It seems to me this plan
has much to commend it. But my brother, the emperor, will refuse to
sanction any marriage which he has not made for me. We must expect
that."

"He has made no effort to select a husband for you. That is the answer
Attila will make if the question arises."

"Where will I live?"

"As far away from the Roman boundaries as possible. There must be no
opportunity allowed them to get possession of your person again."

"My brother will be prepared to state that I am dead if you succeed in
getting me out of their hands."

"That," declared Nicolan, "is one of the chief reasons why Attila feels
you should be removed at once from the custody of your family. When he
has set you up in state, it will be useless for them to claim you have
died. It is highly desirable that you marry at once and have children to
carry on your claims."

She remained in silent thought for several moments. "If Attila doesn't
conquer Rome, what will my position be?" she asked, finally. "Will he
discard me then as being of no further use? Will he brush my claims
aside? Will he allow me to go on living on the scale you promise or will
he confiscate my properties and send me into exile?"

"Who can say what a man with despotic powers will do under any given
circumstances?" Nicolan was selecting his words carefully. "In matters
of statecraft he is sly and devious. He makes use of any pretext and he
seizes every advantage. But I believe that, once he has pledged his
word, he will keep it. I have known him to fulfill promises where his
inclination has been to evade them. In any event, what have you to lose
in trusting yourself into his hands? At the worst, you will be
exchanging one form of captivity for another."

"That is true. If my mother is still alive, I can expect nothing. And
the emperor is equally unforgiving." The princess proceeded then to ask
for more information on the point which, quite obviously, interested her
most, her marriage. "Will I have any voice in the matter?" she asked.
"Or will I be expected to accept any man the emperor may choose
himself?"

"I raised that question and his answer was that he would consult your
wishes and be agreeable to any decision you made, provided the man of
your choice was the head of a state acknowledging his rule. Needless to
state, he can't have you aligning yourself on the other side."

"Supposing," began the princess, looking up into his eyes for a full
moment before allowing her own to fall, "that I prefer to follow the
dictates of a romantic disposition? Would I be allowed to marry for love
instead of reasons of state?"

"The emperor would have no objection if you married for love.
Provided"--with a dry smile--"that you fell in love with the right
king."

"Then I could not marry a man of lower station? Such as--a man of your
rank?"

"I assure you, gracious lady, that is quite out of the question."

The Roman instinct for a proper bargain showed for a moment in the
princess. "He is asking much of me. I must desert my family, my own
race, to join him. Can I be certain he will be as generous as he
promises? Will I live in proper dignity and luxury?"

Nicolan glanced around the little court. The walls were of plain stone
with no trace of sculpture or adornment of any kind. There were no
flowers growing and no plashing fountain, without which a Roman garden
was a very shabby thing indeed. The couch on which the daughter of
imperial Rome sat, or reposed or twisted according to her mood, and the
chair which he occupied were of peasant design and workmanship. There
was no hint of richness about the clothes she wore.

"A prisoner within four walls is hardly in a position to drive a close
bargain," he reminded her.

The mercurial disposition of the prisoner showed itself then in a quick
change of mood. The completely feminine and somewhat flirtatious
attitude she had adopted at first was again reflected.

"If the life among the Huns is so crude, how can you bear it?" she
asked.

"I am kept too hard at work to care much about how I live."

"They say the women are quite lively. Have you found them that way?"

"They are dark and squat. I keep far away from all of them."

"What a virtuous young man! All Romans sent to outpost work are supposed
to console themselves. Even those who have wives and families. Are you
wise to be so--so very strict?" Then she returned abruptly to more
serious points of discussion. "Well. What is the next step?"

"Your decision," answered Nicolan. "What word am I to take back? Its
possible I could manage to remain on the island if you desired the night
to think it over and reach your conclusion. Criplian says he can hide me
for that length of time."

The princess looked about her, at the plain stone walls, the clumsy
furnishings, the path, so narrow and empty, leading down to the water.
Not a sound reached them from any direction.

"This dreadful quiet!" she exclaimed. "It is always the same. No one
comes near me except my servants. I never have a chance to talk. I
sometimes hear voices in the distance but they are always rough and
unfriendly. I shall go mad!" She dropped both feet to the ground and
seemed on the point of rising. "I agree!" she cried. "It is a bitter
thing to sell oneself to the enemy. But what can I do? Yes, I agree. I
am prepared to sign."

Nicolan drew out the papers and handed them to her. "You are wise to
decide at once. Every hour counts. At almost any time now you will be
swamped by refugees. It will be a struggle for survival then."

The princess looked helplessly at the papers in her hands. "How am I to
sign them? All the servants are out." Then she smiled briefly and rose
to her feet. "I seem to remember seeing a reed pen somewhere about. I
will look for it."

She left the room and returned in a few minutes with a triumphant smile.
"They keep pens hidden from me since that one letter I wrote. But I was
right! It was where I remembered seeing it. And here are the papers.
Properly signed, I trust."

Nicolan accepted the documents with a low bow. "You have made a wise
decision, great and gracious lady. I hope you will never have reason to
regret it."

"When are we to leave?"

"It will be necessary to take the boat back and return with a larger
one. And with more men. But it's a short sail. I think it possible to
arrange it so we can get away before daybreak."

The beautiful eyes of the princess seemed to grow larger and darker with
excitement. "So soon!" she exclaimed. "Ah, how happy I am to find you a
leader of so much decision." She reached out and took one of his hands
in both of hers. "Oh, tell me, is this just a wonderful dream? Or am I
really going to be free? But, my kindest of captains, you will stay
here. I don't believe I can bear to be left alone now."

Nicolan frowned with indecision. "It would be better if I went with them
and saw to it that all the arrangements are properly carried out.
Priscius is hard and shrewd. But----" He paused and studied her
intently. "I can understand your desire not to face this alone. But can
I make all necessary plans with your man Criplian before I leave?"

The princess gave her head an emphatic shake. "I will need you. This is
a desperate step I am taking and I must have your support. If I am left
alone, in the midst of these people who have always been so cruel and
unfriendly, I may lose my courage."

After a moment of careful consideration, Nicolan nodded in agreement.
"Very well, gracious lady. I can arrange everything with Priscius before
he leaves. I would feel safer the other way. But, after all, your state
of mind is important to us."

Her eyes were fixed on his as they reached this decision. The years
seemed to have rolled from her shoulders, for she looked very much
younger. Color was showing again in her cheeks.

"I think I feel some happiness for the first time since I was brought
here."

A sound reached them from the gardens outside and her glance went to the
gate through which the view of the grounds could be had. They remained
fixed on something she had seen. One hand was raised to her mouth.

"Who is that?" she asked.

Nicolan stepped forward to get a view of the outside. A man was standing
on the path and looking in at them. As soon as he realized that his
presence had been detected, he turned quickly and vanished into the
cover of the pine trees.

"Who was it?" she asked, again.

"A member of my party. A slave belonging to Micca the Mede. His name is
Hussein."

"Can he be trusted not to tell?"

"Most certainly. I have no fear on that score."

"He was staring at me so intently. I turned in that direction because I
could feel his eyes on me. Does he know who I am?"

"I don't believe so. Of course something may have been said. Hussein is
a man of high honor. You spoke of feeling a mystery about so many
slaves. There is a mystery about him. His father is a king. The ruler of
a desert State. He was captured as a boy and he doesn't remember much
about his early life."

"I knew it." The princess turned away and seemed to be striving to
penetrate the green blanket on each side of the path. "He had a strange
effect on me. How proud and stern he looked! I think he is the most
beautiful man I have ever seen. More beautiful even than you."




CHAPTER V


[1]

Nicolan was escorted by Criplian to a very small and dark room with one
window, cut in the form of a crescent and immediately under the ceiling.

"Make no sound," he was cautioned. "Those chattering little fools will
be coming back soon."

They sat for a few moments on the edge of a couch and discussed the
arrangements for the escape.

"Our part may not be hard," said the major-domo. "Word has come to
expect a rush of refugees from the mainland at any moment. Most of the
guards will be kept all night at the wharves." He motioned over his
shoulder with a thumb. "There's a cove on the other side. I've sent a
man with Priscius to guide the boat in there. If they arrive before
dawn, it will be a simple matter." He had a pronounced droop in one
eyelid and Nicolan had noticed that it twitched whenever there was talk
of money. At this point it seemed almost to flutter. "This is more than
I bargained for. I'll have to be paid well."

"I know the arrangement made with you. The sum promised will be paid
before we leave."

"It will not be enough."

"I was told you were hard to deal with. But the bargain has been made
and you have said yourself that it will be a simple matter. I see no
reason to give you more."

The villainous appearance loaned to the major-domo's face by his
drooping lid seemed to become intensified. His fingers, long and crooked
and covered with dark hair, clutched his belt with a tensile grip.
"There is one reason. Priscius has left with your men. What is to
prevent me from calling up the guards and ordering them to slit your
throat?"

Nicolan did not show much concern. "What is to prevent you from doing
that? Your greed, Master Criplian. You would be throwing away the reward
promised you. I have an empty purse. Priscius will bring your money with
him." He indulged in a short and unfriendly laugh. "Only one whose head
was filled with mutton fat would put himself in _your_ power."

"But you cannot afford to fail."

A long silence fell between them. Finally Nicolan rose to his feet.
"This much I promise you," he said. "When the princess is safely aboard
and there is no danger of armed interruption, I shall toss--from the
side of the boat--a purse with something additional for you."

The drooping eyelid winked furiously. "How much?"

"That," said Nicolan, "is a point for me to decide. I shall give it some
thought."

The major-domo made his way grumblingly to the door. "Don't expect much
to eat. I'll have to slip by all those curious creatures with what I can
get."


[2]

The establishment filled with much clatter of feet and confusion of
talk, proof that the trading boat had left and the servants had
returned. Criplian stepped inside and locked the door after him.

"She wants a talk with you," he said. "A long talk. It's not going to be
easy. There's a staff of twenty-five here and all of them spies for
Mother Rat-Tooth, the matron. Except two. The personal maids of the
princess. Tina and Zasca. A faithful pair. She insists on taking them
with her."

"Why is it necessary to keep so close a watch on an island like this?"

"To satisfy the court. The matron is under orders to visit the royal
chamber at least twice every night. To see if she is there--and alone.
Mother Rat-Tooth always goes at midnight and then sets her other visits
at different times." The major-domo indulged in a grin which displayed a
diminishing supply of his own teeth. "There are three baths in the house
but none in the royal chamber. The princess has to walk down a long
hall. The doors are locked at eleven and by half after the hour the
household is sound asleep. She will come then and be back before
midnight. If that doesn't suffice----"

Nicolan frowned uncertainly. "There will be chances to talk on the boat
surely. Wouldn't that be better?"

"She says not. The boat will be crowded. There will be too many ears and
eyes around you. What she has to say calls for strict secrecy."

"But remember this. The smallest slip, a careless footfall, a raised
voice, an unexpected appearance of one of the staff, may cost us our
lives. That of the princess also."

"I have said all that to her. She still insists." The major-domo removed
his rod of office, the silver of which had turned to yellow from lack of
polishing, from under his belt. He produced a sheet of parchment. "Wait.
This is a plan of the building. Here is the room we're in. It is kept
locked and is only used when there are visitors. I have the only key.
And here, just a few doors down the hall, is the bath. She can pretend
to visit the bath and slip in here instead.

"The matron," he went on, tucking the plan away from sight, "keeps a
model of the place beside her bed with small clay figures to show where
each servant sleeps and each guard is stationed. If she suspects
anything, she can reach for a rope hanging over her bed and ring a bell
loud enough to be heard all over the house, inside and out. That shows
how careful we must be."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was half after eleven when a key grated in the lock again. The
princess came in with noiseless steps, followed by a plump little woman
with a kind, round face. Honoria was still in the tunic she had worn in
the afternoon but the addition of a few small pieces of jewelry lent a
slight distinction to it. The languor of the afternoon had given place
to an air of decision.

"My little Zasca knows only her own language," she said. "We may speak
freely."

Nicolan remained standing while the princess seated herself on the edge
of his couch. The maid sought the farthest corner and turned her back.

There was a brief pause. "I am going to place my fate in your hands,"
whispered Honoria. Another pause followed, a longer one. "If you have
listened to all that has been said of me, you think me an idle and
foolish woman. Perhaps that is what I am. But I still have friends in
high places and I keep in contact with them, in spite of this sly and
detestable matron, and all the unfriendly eyes around me. I am kept
advised in affairs of State. When the threat from the Huns is
removed----"

"That," he said, "will depend on military considerations."

"The cloud will lift. I am certain of it. And when that happens, there
will be"--she paused--"there will be great changes in Rome."

Nicolan was still feeling surprise at the difference in her. The
lackadaisical and flirtatious mood of the afternoon was gone. She
appeared coolly intelligent and, certainly, well informed.

"My brother, the emperor, is an imbecile and a coward. The people of
Rome will rid themselves of him without any delay."

To test her views further, Nicolan asked, "What of Aetius?"

"Ah, I am sorry for him. That unfortunate Aetius will lose, no matter
what happens."

"If you are so certain Attila will be beaten, why are you going over to
him?"

The princess replied promptly. "To save myself. If the emperor realizes
the danger he faces, he will take steps to get rid of me. He will want
one of his children to succeed. I must get myself out of his hands at
once. And, of course, I have no intention of letting Attila select a
husband for me. He will be in no position to keep his promises to me."

Nicolan could not refrain from smiling. "But, my lady," he said, "I am
here as the emissary of Attila. What you are telling me is that you have
no intention of living up to your share in this agreement."

She leaned forward and addressed him in the most serious of tones.
"Don't you see that this agreement can be carried out only if Attila
conquers Rome? Is he going to win? His chances get thinner every day.
And if he retreats a second time, he will never lead another army
against us. And don't you see also that what I am proposing to do will
suit his own plans? I will be helping to destroy the confidence of the
Roman people in their present leaders."

The same thought repeated itself in Nicolan's mind. "She has been
listening to discreet counsel. I wonder who it is?"

"There is only one clause in the agreement which I intend to disregard.
I am going to choose my own husband without consulting him. You think it
strange that I tell you all this? I have no fear that you will go back
to Attila and repeat everything to him. In your heart you fear him and
hate him."

"In my heart I fear and hate Rome."

"With good cause, no doubt. But listen with an open mind to what I am
going to say." She leaned still closer to him and took possession of one
of his hands. "My reputation is tarnished. They will turn to me only if
I have a man of great strength with me. At one time I thought of Aetius.
But not now. I have a better candidate in my mind. You!"

Nicolan's face was a study in emotions, with amazement uppermost. "I am
a nobody. A barbarian. An obscure member of Attila's staff. What is
more, I am young and untried."

"No," said the princess. "Not untried. Don't you know that the march of
the armies of Attila into Gaul was a masterpiece of direction? The
officers of Aetius knew that Attila had someone with genius back of him.
They discovered who it was. There has been much talk of you among the
Roman leaders. You stand high in their esteem."

The mood of the princess changed completely. She looked up at him as he
towered over her with a return of warmth in her beautiful eyes.

"And high in my esteem, my friend and captain. Ah, how weak a word I
have used! What we have been saying must be our secret, shared with no
other living soul. If we are careful and wise in everything, and daring
when the need arises, I can become empress and I can make you the
dictator of Rome. You can step into the place of Aetius."

Perceiving that he was still too startled to make any suitable response,
Honoria smiled with even greater warmth. "You are modest. Rome has been
ruled by many men of alien blood. None of them, not even the great
Stilicho, as able as you. Nor as honorable."

The door opened and the other maid put her head inside with apparent
hesitation. "My mistress," she said, in a low mumble of foreign words,
"the clepsydra has stopped." This referred to the water clock which was
to be found in all large households. "I do not know the time. I think it
may be close to the hour."

Honoria rose slowly to her feet. She glanced up into his eyes at close
range. "Do you remember what I said?" she asked. "That day when you
knelt before me."

Nicolan reflected for a moment. "Yes. I remember what you said. It was
this: 'What a pity you are a slave--and not _my_ slave.'"

The face of the princess lighted up and she clapped her hands
noiselessly. "You do remember it. Every word. I am pleased. I am
delighted. Well, my Nicolan, you are no longer a slave. You are now a
master. You may become with me the master of the world. And you are
already the master of my heart."

Again Nicolan found himself speechless with surprise.

"Yes, you will marry me. That is my plan. Don't look at me as though you
think I speak of impossibilities. It is true I am Augusta and so raised
above all men, save those of equal birth. But didn't my mother marry
Adolphus of the Goths? And isn't Pulcheria sharing the throne in the
East with Marcian, who was a common soldier? It can be done again and I
will have it no other way."

"I am overwhelmed, gracious lady," said Nicolan.

She glanced at the two maids to be sure their backs were turned. Then
she clasped her arms about his neck and placed her cheek against his.
"It was my hope we would part on sweeter terms. I fell in love almost
from the moment you came to me this afternoon. It has never been like
this before. Ah, how greatly I will love you! But--you see, don't you,
that I can't risk the faintest whisper of scandal? Never again must
there be cause for gossip about me. The stakes, my beautiful and brave
captain, are too great."

Her arms tightened for a moment about him and then fell to her sides.
"So now I must go. It is needful for me to be in my bed when that
hateful old woman comes, prying and looking everywhere, and asking
questions. In a few hours"--her eyes lighted up and became as bright as
the few stars he could glimpse through the crescent window above--"I
will be free. And with you. My life, I think, is just beginning."


[3]

Nicolan was wakened by the loud clangor of a bell. It rang so loudly
that it seemed to fill the house. His first thought was that the matron
had discovered what was afoot. If that were the case, he was caught in a
trap. The door was too strong for the shoulder of a Goliath to force
open and the window was not large enough to allow the passage of
anything larger than a cat.

He sprang to his feet and slipped into his sandals. Then he clasped his
sword belt about his waist. For a moment he listened and became
conscious of voices at some distance in the house and the clatter of
hurried feet. The room was in complete darkness and so it was clear that
dawn had not yet come.

"Our only hope," he said to himself, "is that the boat will be early and
that they can overcome the guards."

He had noticed when brought to the room that there was a pitcher of
water in a corner. He sloshed his face in the water, which aroused his
senses fully.

A hurried but furtive footstep came down the hall and halted outside the
door. The key was turned and Criplian put his head inside. "The place is
afire!" he said. "The princess is already out. Everyone is fighting the
flames."

When Nicolan reached the hall he found it filled with smoke. It was
impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.

"What caused it?" he asked.

"Mother Rat-Tooth went early to the chamber of the princess and found
one of the maids packing clothes. She hurried back to her own room and,
in reaching up to pull the rope, she upset a candle which set fire to
the model. The flames are spreading fast."

"Where is the princess?"

They had passed out through a rear door and Nicolan saw with relief that
a faint touch of gray was lightening the sky in the east.

"She's with her two maids. Everyone else is helping to fight the
flames."

"Bring them to the cove," Nicolan instructed. "Our only hope is that the
boat will be coming in to take us. Are any there now?"

"Two small ones."

"I'll stand guard and try to hold up any pursuit. You smash one of the
boats and take the princess and her maids off in the other. I'm a strong
swimmer and may be able to overtake you. If I can hold the guards off
long enough."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Standing back in a fringe of trees, Nicolan saw that the flames seemed
confined to the interior. Clouds of smoke were pouring out of the doors
and windows. Pandemonium had taken possession of the place. Hoarse
voices shouted orders and hysterical ones screamed in fear and
supplication. Belongings were being carried out and deposited on the
grass. Nicolan's hopes rose. In this emergency the princess might be
left unwatched.

Some time later, one of the maids, hurrying down a path with frantic
speed, saw him standing in the cover of the trees and motioned him to
follow. They reached a path and in a few moments they were in sight of
the sandy shore of the cove. Here the major-domo was breaking the ribs
of one of the boats while the princess and her second maid crouched in
the other.

When Criplian gave the ax a final swing, Nicolan said to him: "Get in.
I'll shove the boat off."

The sky seemed noticeably lighter and he stole a moment to gaze into the
east. Yes, dawn was breaking. If the vessel came in on time, they could
now get away. As he plunged through the waves with a hand on the stern
of the boat, he risked a glance into the north. He detected something
there more substantial than either sky or water.

"They're coming!" he said.

The two men began to row with every ounce of strength they possessed.
The waves were running high and, with each plunge forward, an icy shower
splashed over the boat, soaking the occupants thoroughly. The gray-black
of the sky began to fade and a trace of pink showed in the east. The
shadow to the north was taking positive form.

"I am free!" cried the princess. "I am free! I am free!"


[4]

The vessel provided for their escape was an ancient warship which had
been converted to commercial uses. No oars protruded from the double row
of banks, and reliance was placed entirely on sails for navigation.
Three masts, no less, with square rigging, stood up against the damp
clouds. The hull, from which all ornamentation had peeled long since,
preserved a certain dignity by its castlelike proportions fore and aft.

The wind had freshened and the ship pitched and tossed. The two maids
disappeared early, to suffer in some corner. The princess, wrapped in a
soiled length of sailcloth over her wet garments, stood beside Nicolan
on the upper deck.

"Have we far to go?" she asked, in an urgent tone.

"One hundred miles, I'm afraid. It's unusual for the _bora_ to blow at
this season but it gives us one advantage. There can be no pursuit."

To avoid falling on the slippery deck, she slipped an arm through his.
"Will you go ashore with me?" she asked.

"Only long enough to see you delivered into the right hands. A wealthy
Dalmatian merchant will be waiting for you. I must then return and
report to Attila. I want to make certain, as far as I can, that the
promises in the agreement are carried out."

"Yes," she said, in a weak tone which suggested that she was finding it
necessary to keep her lips closed tightly together. "I suppose it is
necessary. But I shall regret it. How can I trust anyone but you?"

"You will be in the best of hands."

"Oh, these dreadful waves! I am desperately ill. You will return as soon
as possible?"

Nicolan hesitated. Then, keeping his eyes resolutely on the tossing gray
of the sea, he answered, "No."

"No!" The surprise she felt at this answer seemed to revive her
momentarily. "You must. I--I insist. I will not agree to anything else.
What might keep you away?"

"There are other duties I must attend to."

"Has this been nothing but duty, then?"

"It has been a great honor," he protested.

"Have you given thought to what I said last night?"

"Yes, Princess. I lay awake for hours and thought of nothing else. But I
realized in the end that I have one ambition only in life. To see my
country free. Free of the shackles of Rome as well as the cruel chains
of Attila. And, after that, to take back the lands which were stolen
from me and raise fine horses as my forefathers did."

"No!" exclaimed Honoria, looking up at him with furious eyes. "You are
not speaking the truth. No man could refuse the great chance I have
offered you. Not to spend his life raising a few scrawny horses in some
hidden corner in the hills!" She gave his arm an angry tug. "No, no! It
is not that! There must be another woman. Answer me, is it not so?"

Nicolan hesitated for a second time. "I am not sure," he said, finally.

"Why can't you be sure?"

"There is one I knew as a small girl. I have seen her only once in the
last fifteen years. How can I be sure about my feeling for her? And I
have no reason to suppose she has any romantic attachment for me."

She had been watching him closely as he spoke. "I believe you are
telling the truth. This, surely, is something you can toss aside. You
will soon forget her if you stay with me now. I do not need the support
of Attila any more. I am free. I have powerful friends where I am going.
Come with me. I am running away. You must run away with me."

"Gracious lady, you will be well looked after. There will be many honest
and brave men to see that no harm befalls you."

"I am not interested in honest and brave men. I might not like any of
them. I _do_ like you. And that counts more than all the honesty and
bravery in the world."

"My lady, I am a soldier, a man of no rank. It is a sense of gratitude
which makes you overlook my unworthiness." In an almost desperate effort
to convince her, he added: "After you have enjoyed your freedom for a
short time, you won't even remember me. You will be surrounded by men of
suitable rank, admiring you, begging your favor. You will be a princess
again, with your own household, your own court. You won't even see
Hussein, who is one of those chosen to accompany you. At his own
request."

Honoria was silent for a moment. "Do you mean that wonderful creature
who stood on the path and stared in at me? The one you said was the son
of a desert king?"

"Yes. I agreed to let him go with you in the hope that very soon you
would give him his freedom."

There was a brief silence and then the princess indulged in a laugh of
such faintness that it was clear she was succumbing again to the power
of the angry sea. "I suspect you of craftiness. Is it possible you are
offering me this young slave as--shall we say, a substitute?"

"Your Highness, I had no such thought. It was arranged before we came.
Hussein is a prince in his own right. He has every good quality."

"And," she added, "he has eyes that burn like the sun and the face of a
god! There is no use denying what you have in mind. It is all very
transparent."

"I want him to have his freedom, so he may return to his own land before
the old king dies. That was my sole reason. I beg you to be kind to
him."

The princess suddenly recovered her energy sufficiently to pound at his
chest with angrily doubled fists. "You are throwing away the world!" she
cried. "I have come to you on my knees and you are casting me aside like
a woman of the water front! You fool! You fool! You fool!"

The effort involved in this outburst was too great in her weak
condition. She turned hurriedly and stumbled back into the shelter of
the waling-pieces about the stern of the vessel.


[5]

If Nicolan had entertained any doubts as to what he should do, they were
quickly resolved on his solitary ride up the broad highway to Aquileia.
In spite of his sense of the need for haste, he made a few excursions
inland to satisfy himself about the condition of the countryside. What
he saw appalled him, for things were getting rapidly worse. The sun no
longer rose with the benign smile of a benefactor but with a glaring
intensity of heat which baked the fertile earth to clay. The crops were
withering. The cherry trees were plagued with cobwebs and the apples and
pears had wilted away. Even the olive trees looked sickly. The cattle
suffered so much that their flanks had fallen in, and high in the sheep
runs the piteous bleating never ceased.

He knew now that he must hurry to Attila's headquarters with warning of
the true state of affairs. Perhaps there was still time to stop the
slaughter and suffering of an indecisive war. The mission which Macio
had wanted him to undertake would have to wait. The steady stream
southward of pale-faced civilians, on horseback, astride mules and on
laboring feet, had hurried his decision.

The walls of Aquileia still raised their confident turrets to the sky
but the streets were empty and quiet. When Nicolan paid a visit to the
house of Scalpius he found the shutters closed and the doors barred. The
captain of the guard on the northern gate was the only one to volunteer
him any information. "The first of the Huns have been seen in the pass,"
he whispered, with a shake of his head.

Nicolan could not believe that the armies of Attila were already on the
move. He began to question the captain. "Who saw them?"

"All this morning people have been streaming down the road and begging
to be let in. They think they'll be safe behind the walls."

"It was a patrol party they saw."

The captain shook his head. "The pass is filled with them. They were
whooping and screeching with delight because there was no sign of a
Roman army to dispute the pass with them. Most of them had human heads
on their spear points and some of them were tossing them back and
forth."

Nicolan touched a heel to his horse's flank. He nodded his thanks to the
captain. "I'm too late!" he said to himself. "But I must do what I can."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The inn with the cross above the door was closed tight. Nicolan stood at
the front entrance and shouted loudly without getting any immediate
response. "They must be Christian," he said to himself, "and yet they
too have flown the wrath to come." Then he heard a cautious hail from
the cover of the trees and saw the head of the man Hursta peering around
one of the trunks.

"Come out!" he called. "There's nothing to fear."

Hursta obeyed slowly. "The shadow of evil fills the pass," he said. "One
more day and you would not have found me."

"My friend has gone, then, about my lord Macio's affairs?" Hursta
nodded. "It was a matter of much urgency. He left at once, striking for
the east and not coming here to await your arrival."

"Tell me about it."

They betook themselves into the shelter of the woods and Hursta
proceeded to tell what he knew. "First," he said, "one of Attila's men
came into our country. He pried about and asked questions and made loud
threats. He was there, he said, on the direct orders of the emperor who,
it seemed, had heard stories about a girl with golden hair. And about a
black horse. He soon got at the truth, of course, for among our people
are many who can't keep their tongues from wagging. The man himself let
a hint drop that was brought quickly to my lord Macio: that Attila knew
they were in Constantinople and he had already dispatched a party to
demand that the girl and the horse be handed over to him. My master saw
one chance only to save the Lady Ildico. Someone must reach
Constantinople first and get her away in time."

Nicolan listened to this explanation with a sinking of the heart. It was
not only that Ildico was in grave danger, there was his deep regret also
that he had lost this chance to serve her. When would such an
opportunity rise again to display his devotion?

"I am not surprised that Ivar left without a moments delay," he said.
"If I had only been free to go!"

Hursta then went into an explanation of the plan which Macio had made
for the rescue of his daughter, the execution of which had been
entrusted to the tall Briton. The mountains which rose back of the
fertile plains of Dalmatia could be crossed at various points, for the
most part by roads which followed the rivers. The rivers were in such a
hurry to reach the sea that many of them dropped out of sight in places
and went underground, to emerge far below. Once, a long time before, a
river lost itself in this way for many miles, using a deep and cavernous
gorge through the roots of one of the tallest peaks. In course of time,
however, there had been a diversion and the water had found a better way
which wound around the base of the peak, and so the underground opening
had not been used for many centuries.

"Have you heard of the Garizonda?" asked Hursta, in an awed tone of
voice.

Nicolan shook his head. He had never heard of the Garizonda.

"It's the name of the underground route which the river once took. It is
still there, they say, though few know where it begins or where it ends.
It runs for mile after mile and it's said there are strange animals down
there and sights to curdle the blood. There are high places, so high
that the human eye can't see to the top. Great winds sweep through from
one end to the other and it's impossible to keep torches lighted. It's
said that strange sounds fill the place, as though the gods in the earth
are enraged when mere mortals dare to set foot there.

"The Lady Elstrassa, long since dead, who was wife to Macio," went on
Hursta, "was a native of Dalmatia and her family owned all the land
around the Southern exit of the Garizonda. She left my lord Macio a map
which showed how to find both entrances. A copy of this map was given to
the tall one."

Nicolan's face had become white with apprehension. "Do they intend to
try it?" he asked. "It would be sure death for all of them. There
wouldn't be air to breathe in the depths under a mountain."

"There are other openings," Hursta said. "Air gets in through cracks in
the rock above."

"How can you be sure, since no one has attempted it for generations?"
Nicolan was still unable to see any wisdom in the plan. "The old man
must be mad! If they go in, they will never come out."

Hursta gave his head a shake. "It's the only way. They can't stay in
Constantinople. The cowardly emperor would turn them over to Attila's
men; he has pulp instead of a heart, that one. How else can they escape?
The passes will be guarded. But this way, they vanish at the foot of the
mountain and come out on the other side."

"But suppose they don't come out? What kind of a death would it be,
trapped underground like that?"

"There are worse things than death, my lord Nicolan. Do you suppose my
master would suggest this if he could see any other way?"

There was no possibility now, at any rate, of changing plans. "I never
expect to see them again," declared Nicolan. He mounted his horse and
turned its head toward the pass.




CHAPTER VI


[1]

The Hun armies were pouring through the pass in utter confusion. Horse
and foot were inextricably mixed. Towheaded Teutons marched in the
company of swarthy Sarmatians. There was not a supply wagon in sight. It
was Babel on foot; the air was filled with the clamor of countless
tongues.

Drawing off to one side of the road, Nicolan studied the jeering
procession streaming down the grade with some alarm. It had been
impossible for him to carry any identification with him. The first
officer he saw, fortunately, was one he knew, a slant-eyed Oriental
named Monesus. The latter rode over to him, wearing a look of surprise.

"You here!" he said. "The talk around the campfires is that you are no
longer in favor with the Great One."

"I am returning from a--a special mission. My report should be in the
emperor's hands as soon as possible."

"You have been missed," declared the officer, in a grumbling tone. "This
is the second day we've been without food. My men are scattering to
forage and I can't hold up the troops behind us to wait for them. We've
had only one thing in our favor since the march began. Not a drop of
rain has fallen."

Nicolan waved a hand in the direction of the south. "Nor has a drop
fallen on the plains. Do you count the sun an ally? Think twice,
Monesus. The heat will be more deadly than a hundred legions."

The officer laughed easily. "A hundred legions? There won't be one.
Don't you know they have dropped back to the shelter of their mountains?
We will cross those plains so fast that nothing will matter. We won't
even pause to forage."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Attila's black and white felt tent was set up on a plateau from which he
could watch the endless procession of his men riding or tramping by, on
their way to the descent of the unguarded pass, to spread out then like
a great black fan over the plains, and finally to march triumphantly to
the sack of Rome, with the feathers of the twelfth vulture in their
teeth. The procession never stopped and it might have been thought that
the troops were passing and repassing in a perpetual circle, for they
all looked the same: black-bearded, dusty, ragged, with drums rattling,
flags flapping, horses snorting, and wheels screeching. Sometimes they
cheered when they saw the tent above but mostly they went heavily on,
never raising their weary eyes from the trail ahead.

The tent was larger and of a more elaborate type than anything the
emperor had ever used before, which made Nicolan wonder as he climbed up
the steep approach. Was Attila becoming extravagant with such rich
spoils within reach? Or was he finding it wise to dazzle his subjects a
little so they might forget in his new grandeur the less than glorious
results at Chlons? It probably was the latter, for the thickset figure
of the Lord of Earth and Sky, standing in front of the pavilion, was
arrayed in a glistening red and gold tunic of silk which fell well below
his knees. His cap was of oriental design, his boots of shining pigskin.
A youthful figure stood near him: his son Ellac, taller already than his
sire, straight of leg, and with a solid bridge to his nose.

"I did not expect you so soon," said Attila, waving to Nicolan to draw
closer.

"I have information for you that cannot wait."

Attila grunted. "Then you found the princess?"

"I found her, my lord. The information you had from Micca was correct.
But I left as soon as I saw her safely on the Dalmatian coast. She has
been taken to the sanctuary provided." He drew a document from under his
belt and proffered it to the emperor. "Here is her signed agreement. She
accepted every condition."

Attila did not look at the document. "Ellac," he said to his son, "there
will be no Roman princess presiding over the marble palace we will use
when we reach Rome."

"That is good, my father," said the youth, soberly.

"This will be cheerful hearing for the false one who gave me the
information," declared the emperor, folding the document. "Half of his
life has been redeemed. The other half still hangs in the balance.
Ellac, listen closely to everything I say. You will learn much. You will
learn how a king deals with traitors and spies."

"Yes, my father."

"And now, Togalatus, what is this information you bring me?"

Nicolan spoke slowly. "That you are here and sending your armies down
into the pass makes me doubt if the reports you've had are full and
honest."

Attila responded quickly. "It has been told me that the crops are not
good."

"Great Tanjou, there is a drought on the land. It began in the autumn
and not a drop of rain has fallen since. The fields have dried up and
the livestock is dying. Your armies can't live off the parched country I
have been riding through."

There was a long moment of silence. Attila's eyes had been watching the
steady march of his battalions. As Nicolan spoke, however, he lost
interest in everything else.

"How much of the country have you seen?"

"I have been nearly as far south as Ravenna and I have taken rides off
the Via Emilia in many directions. Also I have talked to men who had
been west to Genoa. They said it was the same everywhere."

"Are there not food supplies stored up in the cities?"

"Yes, my lord. But is it likely they would capitulate without destroying
everything first?"

"How much stock did you see in the fields?"

"Very little. The best of it has been driven off. The roads were black
with people fleeing south. Most of them had domestic stock with them."

"I have close to four hundred thousand men," declared the emperor. "How
long can such an army exist on the food we will find?"

Nicolan hesitated. "I have little knowledge of supply. I can do no more
than guess."

"Then guess!"

"A week."

"No more?"

"No more, O Noble Lord! In two weeks they would be killing their horses
for food."

Attila scrutinized Nicolan's face with an angry intensity. "I was aware
of a food shortage. But there was nothing in the reports that reached me
to justify what you are saying. Why should I believe you?"

Attila began to pace about the small piece of level ground in front of
the pavilion, paying no heed now to the constant drama provided by the
marching files below. After several moments, he stopped in front of
Nicolan.

"Why should I bestir myself to explain things to you?" he demanded, with
a suggestion of anger in his tone. "You are a bright little officer with
a good eye for roads and a sense of marching time. Why is it necessary
for me to tell you that I have decided to go on in spite of everything?
Things are not as bad as you believe, although Aetius, that man of no
scruples, has been driving off the stock. Better the people starve, he
thinks, if the enemy starve with them. But," he cried with a sudden
gesture of his arms, "the sword is in the earth! I have driven it there
and nothing must stand in the way!

"I advanced my marching time," he went on, in a tone little above a
whisper, "because I found that Aetius did not intend to guard the
mountain passes. This has now been confirmed by my scouts. There isn't a
Roman eagle within a hundred miles of us. Is it a trap? No doubt he
thinks so. And yet why should he abandon his strong defense here and
allow me to lead my armies down to the Lombardy Plain where my horsemen
can fight so much better? I can tell you the reason because I know what
passes in the mind of this man.

"He was given credit for beating me at Chlons and it has made his pride
blow up like a pig's bladder. He will take no chance of losing now,
particularly as his allies in Gaul will not be with him. All through the
winter he has had that fine long nose of his buried in books. He has
been reading about Fabius, who delayed the Carthaginians by what he
called his 'masterly inactivity.' That is what Aetius will try to
imitate. Masterly inactivity! No daring, no risking of all on the throw
of the dice like the warriors who are welcomed by the gods when they
die. I think he intends to let the plains fall into my hands and confine
his defense to the high mountains in front of Rome. I shall take this
first easy prize into my two hands!"

Fire flared up in his eyes. "Ellac!" he cried. "Ellac, my son! Listen
closely. A great king is subject to no laws, man-made or god-made. He
makes his own laws. If the elements combine to thwart him, he laughs at
them and dares them to do their worst. If obstacles arise in his way, he
surmounts them. If one plan becomes impossible, he thinks of others."

His eldest son was listening with avid attention. Watching the youth,
Nicolan said to himself: "He will remember every word but, if he
attempts to follow this advice, he will fail. The stuff of real princes
is not in him."

"Ellac! Keep your ears open, for I have more to say to you. Have you
noticed how badly the march is going? How much confusion there is in the
ranks? When I took my armies into Gaul, this man before me saw to it
that everything went smoothly. My armies arrived on time and never once
was there such confusion as we see here. But he refused to serve me
further because he has a womanish dislike for bloodletting. What would
you have done with him?"

The son looked sullenly at Nicolan. "I would have turned him over to the
executioner," he declared.

"And you would have been wrong, my Ellac. Hearken to me! A great king
never gets rid of a man who can still be of use to him. I sent him
instead on a mission of some danger and delicacy. And now he is back.
What am I to do with him? Set him to curing the confusion we see below
us? Give him the task of getting my great armies through the neck of
this mighty stone bottle?"

"Yes, my father," was the prompt response.

"And again, my Ellac, you are wrong. All this trouble I shall correct
myself when we assemble on the plains. A king, my son, must be capable
of doing anything that other men can do. Nay, he must do it better. If
he leaves decisions to other minds and great tasks to other hands, the
time will come when he will feel those other hands reaching for his
scepter and those other minds coveting the crown on his head.

"And so," he added, "I have other work for this clever master of troop
movements. I shall send him on another mission. He is going back into
the heart of the enemy country, to demand audience of a man he once
served as slave. I am sending him with a message for the ear of the
dictator of Rome. None other than Aetius, my lifelong friend and most
hated enemy!"


[2]

In the confusion of tents and wagons behind the imperial pavilion,
Nicolan was halted by the sound of his own name, spoken in a hollow
whisper. The voice came from one of the wagons of Micca the Mede which
stood unhitched among the multiple camp carts. Over the shoulder of a
guard standing in front, he saw the face of the onetime great trader,
and a hand beckoning to him.

"You are back, then," said Micca, when he moved closer to the vehicle.
"You saw the lady?"

"Yes. She was on the island you named."

"And did she come to terms?"

Nicolan nodded but gave no further information, not feeling free to
discuss the situation.

"That is good. I am much relieved to hear of your success."

Nicolan noticed that the head which nodded to express this satisfaction
was pale and gaunt and that the neck attaching it to the once
well-tended and luxuriously attired body was as thin and tense as
whipcord. "I cannot move closer," declared Micca, from the obscurity of
his seat in the wagon, "because I am chained to the side. When I move,
the sharp edges of the iron cut into my ankles. You see, O Togalatus, my
fate has depended partly on your mission. Soon I hope to be free of the
shadow of the sword of punishment hanging over me. But there is still
another condition to be fulfilled."

Nicolan moved as close as he could get to the prisoner in the wagon. He
could see then that the trader had fallen away to skin and bones. In his
sunken face his nose looked longer and sharper than the beak of any kite
which ever floated in the sky; a good simile, he realized, for Micca had
often been called the Kite. His raiment was no longer of snowy white. It
carried the dust of a month of travel and he was without any head
covering.

"I am making a guess," said Nicolan, "that it was you who told the
emperor about the girl and the black horse."

"That is true. There are few things that escape my notice in the course
of my travels."

"The secret was held closely. I am curious to know how it came to your
ears."

"A man from your own country came to see me----"

"Whose name, I think, was Ranno?"

The head of the prisoner nodded on its thin stalk of neck. "His name was
Ranno. A young man of great pride and determination. It was before the
armies left for Gaul and he told me he was very much in love with a lady
of tender years whose hair was like spun gold. It was his desire to
leave her a gift of such value that she would learn to love him while he
was away at the wars. He must have loved her very much, for he bought a
ring with a _diamant_ as well as other precious stones. When the armies
returned, he came to me again and wanted to return the ring. The lady,
he said, had gone away and he might never see her again. I questioned
him and he talked freely enough. The name of the beautiful girl was
Ildico and she was the second daughter of Macio of the Roymarcks. She
had gone away with the widow of Tergeste. This I told to Attila and he
had inquiries made in your country which proved the accuracy of the
story."

"Did you take back the ring?"

Even in his weakened condition, Micca could be emphatic on a point of
trade. "I did not! A sale is a sale. I pointed out that he would find
another wife and present the ring to her. He said no, he did not care
enough for the lady who would be his second choice----"

"My poor Laudio!" said Nicolan to himself.

"--to make her such an expensive gift. He was very angry with me and
made threats when I refused to return the money."

"But how did you learn of the girl's present whereabouts?"

"It is always easy to keep track of the movements of the widow of
Tergeste. She is not, as you must know, like the chameleon which strives
to remain unseen. Particularly when she has in her train one so very
noticeable as a beautiful girl with golden hair and a great horse which
throws dust in the faces of the fleetest steeds. I have correspondents
everywhere and from their reports I traced the course of the party. They
arrived in Constantinople in considerable state, for the widow had been
winning large sums in wagers on the black horse and was inclined to
spend freely.

"It so happened that my correspondent in Constantinople has many fast
horses of his own and the widow paid him a visit. They reached a distant
meadow where the yearlings were kept; and there a strange sight met
their eyes. The girl with the golden hair had preceded them to the
meadow and they could see that all the yearlings had galloped over to
greet her. They stood about her in a circle and their muzzles seemed to
make a solid ring. There was so much tossing of manes and shaking of
heads and much neighing that it looked--or so stated my credulous
friend--as though they were gossiping with her."

"Naturally."

"You believe it?"

"Why not? Don't dogs talk to each other and don't they understand what
their masters say to them?"

"But this was different. Do you suppose she was telling them about the
great black horse she had ridden in so many races? My correspondent had
the best of his three-year-olds race for her entertainment. The girl
told them in advance which one would win. How do you account for that?"

"She had heard about it from the yearlings. Horses always know how races
will end."

"When she is brought back to be the wife of Attila, I shall get my
freedom," said Micca, groaning as he strove to move from his cramped
position. "I have not been able to lie down since I was chained here. A
full month ago. Can I survive much longer?"


[3]

Nicolan encountered Giso as he left the wagon where the unhappy Micca
was confined. The royal attendant stopped him and motioned with his
thumb in the direction of the black and white pavilion. "Have you seen
him?" he asked.

"For a few minutes. I am to have a longer talk later in the day."

"He has changed," declared Giso, shaking his head doubtfully. "I thought
I knew what went on in that head of his but lately I ask myself, 'Is
this Attila?' I ask myself all manner of questions about him but I get
no answers. My friend Togalatus, he has become a spendthrift. Did you
observe his rich raiment? He has two other tunics just as fine. He has
another pair of riding boots. He demands that Black Scyles find him new
food for his meals. If Selech himself was seasoning the royal pot, there
would be complaints. Fruit, no less. Fresh fruit. Fish from the deep
sea. I think he is preparing himself for the day when he will be the
ruler of the world." The attendant paused. "And listen to this. It is
very secret and you must not repeat a word of it. He is in bad health.
He falls asleep in the daytime. He nods in the saddle. Sometimes he has
dropped off during a council of war. He declares that he hears bells
ringing in his ears. The men of medicine say he must watch himself if he
is to keep the foul wings of death from brushing his shoulder. They have
many reasons but there is no sense in any of them. I know the reason."
Giso frowned darkly and sank his voice to a low pitch. "Too many wives!"

"Then why does he seek more?" demanded Nicolan. "He should give up this
eternal search for a wife with golden hair.

"He has refused to see me for three days," said Giso, shaking his head.
"Do you know why? Because I told him that. I said he should get rid of
the lot of them. I said to him, when he was giving orders about finding
this girl, that she would make a good wife for his son Ellac. He turned
all colors. He foamed at the mouth. He got me by the throat and shook
me. 'My son will have my throne someday but not the wife I have sought
for so long!' He gave orders that I was to be taken out and beheaded and
that Ellac was to be sent home at once. Later he changed his mind and
let me live but he frowns whenever he looks at the boy."

Nicolan had been experiencing a change of feeling as he listened to the
confidences of the royal attendant. "You are making me sorry for him,"
he said.

"Togalatus, I have been sorry for him a long time. That battle at
Chlons tore his pride to shreds. He sits for hours at a time, staring
at nothing, and with misery in his eyes. He talks of this wife as though
she's the one desirable object in the world. He has planned a great
entry for her into the city of Rome. She is to ride in a chariot made of
ivory and gold. It will be drawn by the great black horse. She will wear
blue and gold and purple, the colors he likes. A dead and plucked
vulture will lie at her feet. A thousand prisoners of war will march in
chains behind her chariot. He himself will ride behind them, very
humbly, on his horse. That," finished Giso, "is the way he is planning
it."




BOOK III




CHAPTER I


[1]

The Lady Eugenia had found this particular day one of great
satisfaction. She had gone to the royal palace by express command, she
had walked through the entrance hall, called the Chalk, where the
golden shields and red aigrettes of a thousand scholarians had formed a
picture not soon to be forgotten, she had reached the Consistorium where
the Empress Pulcheria and her elderly husband Marcian sat together under
a golden dome, she had received bows and smiles from each of them. Like
everyone else, she had worn the stiff brocade gown provided for visitors
before they were allowed to enter. It had been altogether a memorable
experience; and as she made her way out to the disrobing room, she
thought how foolish Ildico had been not to come with her. The empress
had asked about "the girl who rides the black horse" and had seemed
displeased at her non-appearance.

The day was made complete when a young man in a spotless white robe, and
with red cloth bound many times around his head, approached her. She
knew who he was because he had stood close to the imperial throne: a
king from a corner of the desert called Davieda. He had come on a visit
to Constantinople and had brought with him a string of fine-blooded
Arabian horses.

He had a thin passionate face and eyes which glittered like the opulent
stones in his headdress.

"Gracious lady," said the king, in perfect Latin, "I know you live close
at hand. You may perhaps allow me to walk beside your litter. I have
things to speak of."

The awe which the widow had felt when he presented himself faded. He was
going to speak of horses, of his own string and, of course, of
Harthager. Perhaps he would suggest a race. She was now completely at
ease.

"It will be an honor, my lord king," she said.

It developed that Yussuff of Davieda was accompanied by a score or more
of attendants. They were tall men in white, with long whiskers and long
noses and smoldering eyes set in dark-skinned faces. They arranged
themselves silently about the litter in two lines.

"Are you always accompanied, O King, by so many of your men?" asked the
widow.

The young ruler nodded. "It is our custom. They hear and see everything,
but tell nothing. And they keep assassins away."

"But aren't there times when you don't want them? Suppose you were going
to see a lady and did not desire it known? Could you get away from
them?"

"No, my lady. I would not try. If I see a woman under any circumstances,
I am always ready to have it known. I have no interest in women. My
interest," he added, "is confined to horses. I even leave affairs of
state to my ministers."

It was a matter of a few minutes only to reach the widow's palace. The
ruler's attendants followed him through the gate and lined up on each
side of the entrance. Two of them, who had longer beards and more facial
wrinkles than the rest, accompanied him through the hall with its high
columns into a large square room facing the east. The king began then to
discuss the matters which had brought him to see her.

"I have with me a few good horses," he said. "I brought, in fact, my
favorite. Sulieman. You have heard of him?"

"Of course. Everyone has heard of Sulieman."

The man from the East adopted a more cautious tone. "He is--he is quite
fast. It was an astonishment to me that the objections of two bands of
the populace, composed of the lowest, poorest, and most vulgar, made it
impossible for me to have my horses stabled in the Hippodrome. They are
called the Greens and the Blues. You have heard of them?"

"Yes, my lord king."

"They believe the Hippodrome belongs to them and they will not allow
anything but chariot racing. We would know how to deal with such loud
clamor and foolish pretensions in _my_ country. Here the rulers are
afraid of them. What follows? My horses are at a breeding farm many
miles beyond the gates. It is most inconvenient and I resent it
bitterly. You must feel the same, for I am told you have a horse there
also. A black stallion."

Eugenia nodded her head indifferently. "He is called Harthager."

"There have been only two horse races since you came and he has won them
both."

"You will believe me, I am sure, when I tell you he ran in weak fields.
Many of the Greens and Blues went to the first race. They laughed and
scoffed. But there were more of them at the second. The attendance had
doubled."

The Eastern king gave his head a patronizing shake. "They have been
sound asleep here. About matters of state and the maintenance of armies
and, it seems, about horses as well."

"It would be a great pleasure to see your Arabians in action.

"They are slender and trim and very sensitive. I am fond of them. They
have good hearts and they are fast. I think well of Sulieman. Quite
well."

"Perhaps it is in your mind that a match might be arranged."

The Easterner frowned. The servants had placed wine and fruit beside him
and he was enjoying the coolness of the drink in his gold flagon. The
wine at the Augusteon, where economies were being introduced by Marcian,
had been most indifferently iced.

"The thought occurred to me. But I must explain that I am against
matched races. I prefer a number of entries. It is always more
exciting."

The lady from Tergeste thought this over. "It may be so," she said, with
some reluctance. "I see no particular objection." She paused and studied
his handsome dark face cautiously. "Is it your custom to lay wagers on
your horses?"

The king gestured indifferently. "The race is what counts. To match my
fine fellows against horses as fast, or faster. To see a close and hard
finish. That is what provides the thrill. But when there is a desire on
the part of others to make wagers, I am ready to meet them."

"I have little doubt that your Sulieman is fast enough to show his heels
to Harthager but I would be disposed in spite of that to back the black.
What odds would you give me?"

The king put down his flagon and turned to face her. "Odds!" he cried.
"When Sargon, King of Kings, went to war with little Samaria, did he
expect odds? You have a great black stallion who has never been beaten
and is the talk of all Constantinople. Yet you ask odds for him. Gentle
lady, gracious lady, you demand not only the impossible but the absurd!"

The widow did not answer at once. "Well," she said, finally, "we can
settle that later. I think you will come to see that the scales should
be tipped in my favor. May I ask what you are prepared to wager, my lord
king?"

Yussuff again displayed indifference in a gesture. "I leave that to you.
I am prepared to match you evenly for any sum you care to mention."

Harthager's winnings had been colossal. Eugenia totaled them in her mind
and then named the amount. It represented a fortune, even for an
absolute monarch from a rich corner of the desert country. Watching her
visitor closely, she observed that his color changed slightly and that
his hand seemed to tremble; but in eagerness, not fear. She knew that he
was pleased and excited.

"A large wager, my lady," declared the young monarch. "You must think
very well indeed of your great black. Perhaps I should reconsider and
ask for odds myself."

"Harthager is fast enough. And he belongs to the family of my little
Ildico. I would rather lose heavily than hurt his fine reputation with a
cowardly wager."

"I saw your black--at a distance. I cannot believe you will let this
slender child whose name you mention take him into a race of this
magnitude."

"Oh, yes." The widow spoke lightly. "Harthager was raised by her father.
They get along together. Ildico will ride him as usual."

"I confess," said the king, "to a curiosity about this child who can
manage such a huge and strong animal."

The widow clapped her palms together and ordered a servant to request
the girl's presence in the room. Up to this point the desert ruler had
been lounging in his chair while his hostess stood beside him. He sat
very straight when Ildico entered in a few minutes, wearing a light
green tunic and with her hair wound into braids on the top of her head.
He did not rise but his eyes opened wide and from that first moment
never left her face. There was a feeling of tensity, of drama, in the
room.

"My lord king, I desire to present to you my ward, Ildico, daughter of
Macio of the Roymarcks," said Eugenia. "Ildico, you have the honor of
standing in the presence of the King of Davieda."

The girl bowed, keeping her eyes lowered in a proper manner. For several
moments there was silence in the room. There was the look on the face of
the imperious king of one who has unexpectedly encountered something of
unimaginable beauty. He had boasted of his lack of interest in women but
now his head was filled, quite obviously, with thoughts and speculations
about this slender girl in green, standing so quietly before him.

"His August Majesty," said the widow, addressing Ildico, "has spoken of
a match between his great Sulieman and our Harthager but he has doubts
about the advisability of having you ride in such a race."

Yussuff was not listening. His mind had gone far away from the world of
horses and racing. His eyes were on the face of the girl and, when he
spoke finally, it was to display the intensity of the interest she had
aroused in him.

"There is a brief moment each spring in my country," he began, "when the
desert lands are covered with flowers of a beautiful and elusive shade
of blue. Overnight the bare sands are transformed. For a few days we
live with beauty all about us--and then the sun becomes so strong that
the flowers fade and die. All year we live in the memory and in the
expectation of more springs.... Your eyes, my lovely child, remind me
of those moments on the desert. How perfectly they set off the gold in
your hair!" He dragged his gaze away from Ildico and turned to his
hostess. "My lady, you will understand now my reluctance about allowing
her to race. The black is so huge and so strong! As the maker of the
match, I would feel responsible if this delicate child sustained any
injury."

"Harthager and I are friends," said Ildico, taking it on herself to
answer. "From the moment he was foaled, he belonged to me. As a colt, he
followed me everywhere. He would come and rub his ears against my arm.
Anything I wanted him to do, he would understand; and off he would
gallop in a hurry to obey me. Now that he has reached his top in
strength and speed, he still knows what I want him to do and he is
always quick to respond."

"You are planting the first doubts in my mind about the outcome of this
race."

"My august lord," said Eugenia, "there will be no race if my ward does
not ride him. Harthager will allow no one else on his back."

The Easterner nodded his head reluctantly. "Then we must accept the
condition. But my zest in the race will be lacking. My anxiety will rob
me of all pleasure in the contest."


[2]

The widow of Tergeste had little liking for her home in Constantinople.
It stood almost in the shadow of the Column of Claudius and so was among
the finest houses in the city, even being tall enough to yield over the
sea wall a view of the blue surface of Marmora. But she found the
grounds cramped and the fine mosaics and frescoes on the walls too
minute. She had a preference for bold and solid colors.

"No purple bath!" she complained to Ildico, twisting back on her
forehead a curling strand of hair. "You _must_ have one if you are going
to become a queen or an empress. Suppose that rich young king from the
desert notices that we lack one? He'll be sure you were not born in the
purple and that it's fated you are not to marry him."

"Why do you think he wants to marry me?" asked Ildico, in an indifferent
tone. She was standing in a window where the steady breeze from the sea
could be felt, and was thinking of Harthager. Was the king happy in the
rich pastures? Or did he miss her?

"Why?" The Lady Eugenia sniffed scornfully. "He sends you a gift every
day and, because he's of royal blood, insists you have nothing to do but
accept. You've had a costly ruby ring, a gold necklace as old as
Nebuchadnezzar, a bag coated with precious stones, and all these
_wonderful_ oriental perfumes. Doesn't he always write, 'Today I send
you--'? That means it is going to be a habit, a daily habit." She paused
and her brown eyes glistened with delight. "I wonder what it will be
today? It's time for it to arrive."

It came almost immediately thereafter. Ildico read the note and opened
the rich leather bag which accompanied it. Then she emitted a stifled
shriek of horror and dropped the bag on the tiled floor. She continued
to stare down at it as though expecting to see the head of a snake
emerge from the opening.

"What is wrong?" asked the widow.

The girl moved far away from the bag. "What does he mean?" she gasped.
"Is it a threat?"

Eugenia called to a servant to bring her the bag and then, with some
caution, looked inside. She raised her eyebrows as she studied the gift.
"No, not a threat," she commented. "I'm sure he meant them as a great
compliment. There's a note inside. Shall I read it to you?"

"I won't take it out myself," declared Ildico, shuddering.

"He says these are the ears of a great king on the desert who opposed
his father and lost his ears and his nose for doing so. They've brought
him much luck, he says, and he hopes they will do the same for you."

Ildico crossed to the other side of the room, with the desire, no doubt,
of putting as much space as possible between her and the gruesome
trophies. It was a very warm day and she carried her sandals in her
hand, in order to enjoy the coolness of the tiles on her feet. "I will
tell Yussuff he is to take them back," she said. "I must not deprive him
of such a source of luck."

"But he doesn't need them," said the widow. "He kept the nose for
himself."

The donor of the dried but still bloodstained mementos of his father's
triumph was announced a short time later. Ildico had to scramble to get
the sandals on her feet before the king appeared in the room.

"My greetings, fair lady," he said, bowing to the chatelaine of the
palace. "And to you, our lovely visitor from the sacred Mount of the
Gods. You have had my gift today?"

"Yes, O King. But it would be wrong of me to rob you of so potent a
talisman. I beseech you to receive it back."

The young ruler studied her face intently. "Perhaps it was ill advised.
A display of too much confidence," he said. "I am going to need all the
luck the gods can be persuaded to shower upon me." He turned briefly to
the widow. "Gracious lady, may I have the opportunity of a few minutes
alone with your fair charge?"

When the widow had withdrawn, wearing a smile from which she could not
banish a sense of triumph, the young monarch began to speak with an
earnest air.

"Lovely little Ildico!" he said. The gold of her hair intoxicated him.
It sent forth a perfume far finer than all the varieties he had given
her from the glamorous East. "Something very serious has come to pass.
At first I was frightened, for it concerns you. Then I began to realize
I should be happy. I could see that now you will no longer be able to
dally and delay in giving me an answer. Only by marrying me can you hope
to escape the danger that hangs over you." He paused, fixing his
gleaming dark eyes on her face with a hungry determination. It was so
silent in the room for a few moments that they could hear the faint
splash as the ball fell in the water clock in the hall. It seemed as
though the heat increased with every moment. Outside the sun struck
fiercely on the white marble walls. "This morning," he then explained,
"messengers arrived at court from Attila. It has come to his ears that
you are here and he is demanding that the emperor find you and deliver
you into the hands of his men. I do not understand quite what this is
about. Had he selected you as a wife?"

"I don't know," whispered Ildico, whose cheeks had grown white. "He must
have heard about me--and the horse. I think," she added, after a pause,
"it is because of my hair. It's said he has a partiality for fair
women."

The imperious young man from the desert nodded and then folded his arms
with decision, the spotless sleeves falling back and revealing his fine
muscles.

"This is fortunate," he said. He seemed on the point of explaining why
he considered it fortunate that Ildico found herself in this dangerous
situation but, reconsidering, he stopped short. After a moment he
indulged in something between a laugh and a scornful snort. "This is all
wrong, sweet child. I have told you my will in this matter. Should that
not be enough? Is there anything you can do but bow your head in
grateful assent?" Another pause. Then, with somber bitterness: "It seems
there is something else you can do. You can refuse."

"I am afraid," said Ildico, "that I must."

The finely chiseled brown nostrils quivered. "It is not to be believed!
I am a king. I must be obeyed. No one has ever crossed me or said no.
Not even my father. Listen to me, my pretty child. I have a palace in
the hills where it is cool. There is always snow and ice for the wine.
There will be hundreds of servants to wait on us--none of them with a
thought save of obedience. I am rich enough to cover your whole body
with precious stones. It seems hard to believe but I--I have a feeling
of love for you. Is it not enough that I, who never need do more than
clap my hands, have made a long speech to you, giving you reasons--like
a mangy court officer?"

"But--I am the daughter of the head of a proud race. My father is now an
old man and not active but he too can bring servants with a mere clap of
his hands."

"Then," declared the Eastern king, "I must tell you my plan. You will
marry me. At once. Within the hour. Then the emperor can say to the
agents of the infamous Attila, 'Yes, the Lady Ildico is here but she is
the wife of Yussuff of Davieda.' That," he added, "is the only way you
can be saved. Would the emperor refuse them otherwise? He wouldn't dare.
He is a stout old soldier, this Marcian, but why would he let the
disposal of a young woman involve him with this terrible Hun? No, he
would be sensible and hand you over."

A line appeared in the middle of the girl's broad white brow. She did
not doubt that what he said was true. Her presence in the city, in the
company of the always conspicuous widow, was known generally. The
Eastern Empire had been dancing for years to the crack of the Hun's
whip. She could expect no other treatment than to be handed over to
Attila's men. Marriage with this handsome young ruler from the desert
would be infinitely better than to be carried off into captivity by the
Huns; and yet she found it impossible to accept the alternative. Her
mind was filled with doubts and strange fears. How could she face either
fate?

The heat of the day was growing so intense that the thick marble walls
of the palace offered small resistance. She had never experienced
anything like it before. It was becoming hard to think.

"Is there a man?" The voice of Yussuff was sharp, inquisitive,
demanding. "Have you some silly fancy in your head?"

"I--I am not sure."

"You must be sure. If there is a man, I must be told of him."

"I was thinking of a boy who grew up with my brother and me." Ildico was
speaking in hesitant tones. "I have seen him only once since. There are
reasons why I should never think of him again."

The king had taken to pacing up and down. His eyes were fixed on the
intricately tiled floor and he was frowning. It was clear he was trying
to adjust himself to the absurdities which the situation held for him.
He stopped and drew a ring from his finger, holding it up in the light
of the sun where it sparkled fabulously. Then, suddenly impatient with
his purpose in displaying it, he tossed it in the air and did not look
to see where it fell.

"I thought of offering it to you. The ransom of an emperor or the price
of hundreds of pretty girls. Let it go. I shall offer no more bribes."
He was holding himself up very straight. "I have one last thing to say
to you, my stubborn daughter of the sun. We shall make a wager."

Ildico raised her eyes at this. A wager?

"This race we have been talking of holding--between the beautiful, slim
horses of the desert and this great black stallion. It must be held at
once. Quietly, so no one will know until it is over. Tomorrow, if that
course out beyond the walls is ready. Or the day after, at the latest.
If one of my horses wins the race--and I would be unfair if I did not
tell you that I can conceive of no other outcome--you will marry me. If
the black wins, I pledge myself to arrange your escape from the city. I
pledge the lives of all the men in my train to getting you safely away;
all twenty of them. Is that fair enough to suit you?"

"Why do you think you can arrange my escape?"

"I have a plan. A clever plan. If there is any danger in it, the risk is
for those who remain and not for you." He glanced at her shrewdly. "Are
you asking yourself, 'If this plan is so good, why does he not get me
away at once?' If you _are_ thinking that, my answer is that I am not
generous enough. I love you too much. I must have my chance."

A feeling of relief had begun to chase the despair from her mind. She
had no more doubt of the outcome of the race than he had. Harthager
could not be beaten by any of the handsome but spindly horses from the
desert, even though it was said they could run like the wind. She knew
he would win. And because the king was equally sure that his graceful
Arabians could outrun her great king, it was a fair match.

"Well?" He was regarding her with impatience. "Is it still so hard to
make up your mind?"

"I accept," she said.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The weather changed early in the evening and the breeze which came in
from the Sea of Marmora was strong enough to set the silver oil lamp
over the table to swinging slowly back and forth on its chain.

"I have had two notes," said the widow, looking with anticipation at the
fish on her plate and covering it with a garum sauce. "One was from the
man who aspires to be your husband, dear child, our proud and handsome
young king. He informs me that the course needs attention and that the
race cannot be run for two days."

Ildico was not displaying much appetite. "I'm glad of that," she said.
"I'll be able to take Harthager over it at least once again. It's rather
tricky."

"How does he feel about it?"

"Who? Harthager? My dear Aunt, you are making fun of me again. You don't
believe I can understand what is going on in that beautiful long head of
his. Well, let me tell you this, he is as sure of winning as we are. He
doesn't like the Arabians at all. They stand around together and whisper
about him. They are all unfriendly. Sulieman tosses his mane. Dear Aunt,
he has made up his mind to run his very best in order to beat them
easily."

"I hope," said the widow, "you told him how much I stand to lose if he
doesn't win."

"No, money is one of the things he does not understand."

Eugenia glanced sympathetically at her ward. "Suppose something goes
wrong and he doesn't win?"

Ildico looked up with sudden gravity. "If he doesn't win, I will--I will
spend the rest of my life on a hot desert as one of the wives of a proud
and quick-tempered Eastern king. He has other wives, I am sure."

The Lady Eugenia reached across the table and patted her companion's
hands. "Two. I have made inquiries. But he pays no attention to them.
You will be his favorite, of course."

"Until he marries again. I'm afraid I shall have to wear the veil."

The widow nodded. "There will be no changes made in the customs if I
have judged the young man correctly. I have watched him and I'm sure he
is angry because these two old men who come with him have seen your
face. It would not surprise me if he had their heads lopped off as soon
as they get back."

Ildico was silent for a few moments. "Harthager must win," she said,
finally. "He _must_."

"He will, dear child. Just whisper in his ear how important it is for
you."

"I have done that already."

The widow had begun on her fish. "Now for the other note I received. It
seems that I--that I really am a widow now."

Ildico looked up quickly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I was not a widow before. My third husband, who was a mean
and stupid old man, disappeared and later it got around that he was
dead. By that time I was beginning to see advantages in being a widow
and I was quite willing to accept the news as true. But I was never sure
of it. He was full of crafty tricks and I thought he might be trying to
tempt me into marrying again. Then he would come back and try to recover
all of the property he had transferred to me. I let people think I was a
widow but I put all thoughts of marriage out of my mind."

"Are you sure that he _is_ dead?"

The newly made widow nodded her head. "He's as dead as great Caesar. The
letter gave full particulars. It seems he has been living a secretive
existence in Antioch with only half a dozen slaves and a plump young
mistress. If you ask me for my opinion, I suspect the mistress had stood
as much of him as she could and put some poison in his soup." She eyed a
spitted dove with a ginger dressing and decided to try it. "It's a great
relief to know for certain. Now I am free to do as I please. I think
perhaps I _shall_ marry again."

"I hope," said Ildico, earnestly, "that you won't marry an old man with
money this time."

"The man I marry," answered the widow, "must not be older than I am and
he must be handsome. He must be patrician and have a little money of his
own. Not too much. If he is wealthy, he will give me orders and perhaps
look down on me. On the other hand, if he has no property I will get to
despise him in time.

"Must he be from Rome?"

The feeling which prevailed in the provinces manifested itself in the
promptness of the widow's reply. "From Rome, I trust. But he must not be
in politics. I must manage to keep this one longer. To have four
husbands is not wise, even if one has been the victim of circumstances.
To have five would be a calamity. They would begin to tell jokes about
me. People would say of a man, 'Well, at any rate he has never been
married to that woman from Tergeste.'" The widow sighed. "I don't know
why I married that last one. He was a scrubby little creature with a
sparse red beard. Of course, he was _very_ rich.

"My first husband," she went on, "was the _praefectus urbis_ of Rome and
you can imagine the endless opportunities he had to gather fees and make
profits. My second husband was a most amusing man. He made witty and
biting remarks about everyone. Unfortunately some of the ill-natured
things he said about prominent men in the Senate and even in the army
came back to their ears. They decided his wit was too fine a thing for
this life and should be employed instead for the amusement of the gods.
As he was such a very distinguished man, he was executed in the most
genteel way. Which is to pour molten gold down the throat.

"My third husband was a mistake," she continued. "I knew it at the time
but he gave me no peace until I said yes in desperation. You see, he was
a plebe and he was always treated with scorn by the patricians. He tried
so hard! I think there was always a hint of hot pipes and steam about
him. He had found a way of carrying very hot water to the baths and all
who used them had to pay him a certain fee each year. Can you conceive
of what this meant? Think of the hundreds of public baths alone!

"And, of course, all the wealthy people wanted the hot water in their
houses. They had to pay so much a year. There was one great senator who
found hot baths so comforting that he fell into the habit of taking
seven every day. It was said at the time of his death that too much
bathing had killed him. My husband denied this bitterly. He claimed no
one could take too many baths a day."

"How many did _he_ take?"

"Well," she answered, "he was rather averse to bathing himself. I
suppose he was so busy collecting his fees all day that he liked to put
them out of his mind at home. And, of course, all the wits of Rome were
having things to say about him. Calling him the Caesar of Cleanliness
and suggesting he be given the right, although he was a civilian, to
carry a shield with a towel stamped on it. It was this which drove him
into retirement. He settled down in the East. I didn't go with him and,
in fact, I had no word from him for years before his death. I did hear
it said that during his last years he never took a bath. It was his way
of expressing bitterness for the cause of his lack of social success."
She sighed ruefully. "Now that he's dead legally, I'm afraid the Senate
will refuse to pay me any of the hot-water tax."




CHAPTER II


[1]

It was early on the following morning. The tall Briton, standing where
the fishing boat had landed him on the stone steps, looked about him at
the high peaks of Constantinople in wonder. He had expected it would be
much like Rome but at his first glance as they heaved and tossed on the
Sea of Marmora, he had realized how different it was. The stamp of the
East was on it: the rounded domes, the minarets, the barbaric (they
seemed so to him) colors. And now sounds were reaching his ears to
complete the sensation of change, voices speaking in Koine, the
commercial Greek which was taking the place of Latin, camels voicing
their snarling complaints, a constant jingle of bells.

It was a very hot day but here again it was different from the humid
heat of Rome; a constant breeze blew down the small sea and cooled his
skin.

A voice from the top of the steps hailed him in a rapid tongue. He
raised his hands and gave his head a shake to indicate his lack of
understanding. The speaker, a stout fellow who found it unnecessary to
protect his bald head from the fierce rays of the sun, was
superintending the landing of netloads of fish from the vessel in which
Ivar had made his crossing. After a moment the man spoke in Latin.

"Who are you?"

Ivar answered: "I was born in a country so far away you may never have
heard of it. I am a Briton and my name is Ivar."

"These fellows are not allowed to take strangers. How did you get
aboard?"

"I paid nothing, if that's what you mean; but if you're the owner, I'll
pay you what you think fair. I spun a tale of great need which your men
believed."

The stout man grunted as he assisted in the landing of a particularly
well-filled net. "You might lend us a hand here," he said.

Ivar took hold of the load at which three of them had been pulling and
hauling, swung it over his shoulder, and carried it up to the cart at
the head of the steps. The owner watched him in wonder.

"A gladiator!" he declared. "Do you want work?"

Ivar shook his head. "I want directions. Perhaps you can help me."

"When we get all this loaded, my man."

The warehouse of the fish merchant was not far from the water front. The
owner drained a mug of wine with a smack of his lips but did not offer
the Briton any share of the refreshment.

"Now," he said.

Ivar spoke in low tones. "I have come in advance--I earnestly trust--of
emissaries of Attila. I must warn two people to be away from here before
they arrive. If not, your own emperor may face a difficult decision--and
perhaps the danger of war."

A scowl had crossed the fish merchant's face at the mention of Attila.
He motioned over his shoulder with a thumb covered with scales. "See
that white palace. It's the Augusteon. Take your story there."

"But I'm not sure it would be wise yet. It may be your emperor would
rather not know about these people I come to see. It's possible also
that Attila's men have already arrived. The safest plan would be to find
where my friends are and speak to them first."

The urgency in the Briton's tone seemed to carry conviction to the
dealer in fish. "My name is Polotius," he said, grudgingly, as though
parting with the secret of his identity was a sacrifice he did not
enjoy. Then he added with a deep scowl, "The Huns wiped out the village
where I come from. They drove all the people into a church and burned it
to the ground. Two brothers of mine were in it." After a pause, he
added, "There's someone I can send you to."

Ivar, his wonder growing with every step he took in the streets of this
bizarre city, passed through three hands and finally found himself at
the gate of a stone house close to the Column of Claudius. It was set in
spacious grounds and bore all the outward marks of wealth. A servant
with a peculiarly villainous expression scowled at him through the close
pattern in an iron gate.

"Who are you?"

"I come with a message for your mistress."

"The like of you? My mistress would have me beaten if I let you in."

Ivar explained patiently. "My name is Ivar. Go and tell your mistress.
She will want to see me."

"Be on your way!" ordered the servant, who had climbed up the gate to
get a better look at the visitor over the top.

Ivar studied the gate and then took hold of it in both hands. Without
much difficulty, he raised it off its hinges and carried it, with the
servant clinging to his hold, inside the grounds.

A high and pleasant voice reached Ivar from the gardens in the rear of
the palace. He heard the owner of it say, "What is this?" It was not
hard for him to identify the slender girl who came into sight; nor, it
seemed, for her to recognize him.

"It cannot be anyone else," she said. "Who else could be so strong?" She
was looking in some wonder at his great height. "You are the one who
came from Britain. Your name is Ivar."

"Yes, I am Ivar," said the Briton. "I bring a message from your father."

Ildico motioned to the servant. "Tell your mistress at once. And send as
many as will be needed to put the gate back in place." The pleased
excitement with which she had greeted him had died out of her face.
"From my father? Is he--is he not well?"

"I saw him briefly. Because of the need for haste, I stayed less than an
hour. He had been ill and it seemed to me he was still weak."

"I must go back at once. If I delay, it may be too late."

"My lady, it is to warn you not to return home that I have come." He
explained what Macio had said and repeated her father's advice to
proceed at once to Tergeste.

Ildico heard him through with a worried frown. "Attila's men are already
here," she said. "They arrived two days ago."

The tall visitor believed there was reproof in what she said, and
hurried to explain. "I came as fast as I could. But the lands I had to
pass through were all strange to me. I couldn't make out a word of what
anyone said. I lost time that way."

"You mustn't think I am blaming you," said the girl. "It is a miracle
that you are here. Was it a very hard journey?"

"Very hot and dusty. I felt suffocated most of the time. I didn't dare
drink any of the water and the innkeepers cheated me when I ordered
wine."

"Did you walk the whole distance?"

The broad sun-browned face of the Briton showed a hint of a smile. "How
else could I get here? You see, I am a poor rider. A horse knows it as
soon as I get in the saddle and takes its own head. I soon find myself
on the wrong road. And, of course, I had to come overland. It would have
taken too long to come around Greece by boat."

"We had better go in now. Eugenia will want to see you. And we must talk
about what's best to be done."


[2]

The widow was very glad to see him. She looked him up and down with a
discerning eye.

"So, it _was_ you," she said. "I saw you in the garden but I couldn't be
sure." She had gone to considerable pains, nevertheless, to look her
best. Her sand-colored palla was worn under a close-fitting gown of rich
blue, a combination of colors which suited her eminently well. When she
took a step it could be seen that the sandals on her small feet were
gold, a luxury generally reserved for the wives of rulers. They were
richly inlaid with precious stones. "Every time I see you, I have to get
acquainted all over again. You keep changing. The last time you were
round and as red-cheeked as a boy; and now you are as brown as an Arab
chief and as thin as a shide of wood."

"I was losing weight with every step I took," explained Ivar.

"You seem to be very strong people, you black singers. Which reminds me
that you never sing. At least, I have never heard you."

"I can't sing," he responded, smiling.

"Nor," she said, "have you ever been black. I was sure you had returned
long ago to your native land."

Ivar frowned. "It has always been in my mind to go. But how can I get
there? No ships sail to Britain since the Romans withdrew. I would have
to make my way through endless forests to reach the Channel. If I got
across, I would be lucky to find anyone I knew alive. I don't know what
I could do to make a living. I have no trade and those who work on the
land are no better than slaves."

"You are talking sense," commented the widow, approvingly. "My advice is
to stay here and forget all about your savage little island."

In order to discuss what was to be done, Eugenia then drew them into a
corner of the room. "I had a message this morning," she said. "From our
desert friend. He says an order is being issued for special guards to be
put on all the city gates. He expects also that the emperor will post
men about our grounds here."

"Then the race can't be held," said Ildico. It was clear that she was
relieved. She would now be free of the consequences of defeat, even
though other dangers had opened up.

The widow shook her head. "The race will be held. Yussuff has seen to
that. He went at once to the emperor and told him what had been planned.
You remember, Ildico, the emperor was at both the races Harthager won
and he went nearly mad with excitement. As soon as he heard about
tomorrow, he insisted there must be no change in the plan. A company of
his scholarians will be stationed around the course, to make sure we
don't get away."

"Then we won't be able to escape!" cried Ildico.

"We'll escape in spite of the emperor and his scholarians. Yussuff told
me not to worry. If we get to the course, nothing will prevent his plan
from succeeding. But he doesn't expect to use it. He's more certain than
ever that Sulieman will win."

Ildico nodded somberly. "We are going to be badly handicapped. They know
Sulieman is the only one who has a chance, and the others in the race
will see to it that Harthager is held back."

"The king is too honorable for that!" exclaimed the widow. "He won't try
to win by foul means. I'm sure he won't let his riders conspire against
us."

"It isn't the riders we have to fear," said Ildico. "It's the horses."

"Do you mean the other horses will see to it that he doesn't have a
chance?" cried Eugenia.

"That is what I mean."

The widow responded to that with one word which meant something on the
order of "rubbish!" People who spoke the Latin tongue had an appropriate
word for it, without a doubt, but the word has long since been lost in
the mists of antiquity. "Are you now going to tell me," she went on,
"that you got this information from Harthager?"

"Dear Aunt, my people have been for centuries the best breeders of
horses in the world. They know many things that no other race has any
conception of. When I was a small girl, our head trainer taught one of
our mares to count. He would say to her, 'Two and three,' and she would
nod her head five times. Don't look at me like that. I am telling the
truth. I saw it with my own eyes."

Eugenia repeated her expression of disbelief and derision. "You will be
saying next that horses can talk."

"No," was the answer. "No horse can talk but they can convey certain
things to you. They always know when there is to be a race. The trainer
who taught the little mare to count used to say that they sometimes
decided among themselves who was to be the winner. The Arab horses don't
like the king. They think he is some kind of strange monster. They don't
intend to let him win the race. Tomorrow they will do their best."

Eugenia asked in a sarcastic tone, "And the king has told you about it?"

"Not exactly. But I saw that, whenever he was in the same pasture with
them, they never let him get near Sulieman. If he made a move, they
would get in his way at once. It was like an army squad. Twice he came
back to me in a puzzled and angry mood." She gave her head an emphatic
nod. "I have no doubt whatever that tomorrow they will run him off to
the side of the course and try to keep him there."

Eugenia got to her feet. "I still say it is all nonsense. I hope it is,
because I stand to lose a fortune if the black isn't allowed to make his
run. And you, dear child, have more reason to fear the outcome than I
have. But _if_ we can get to the course, and _if_ the black wins, I must
be ready to leave immediately with you. That means we must have all our
arrangements made at once. I must get my people to work."

She sauntered in the direction of the door but came to a stop in front
of Ivar. He was wearing a curious conglomeration of garments, including
a tunic of as many colors as the coat of Joseph.

"Is this intended as a disguise?" she asked.

He indulged in a rather shamefaced smile. "All my clothes were stolen
several nights back at a filthy little inn. I had to buy anything I
could find."

His tunic was tied at the neck by a scarlet cord with tassels at both
ends. Eugenia reached out and gave one of the tassels an upward flick.
It struck him on the tip of his nose.

"What a time you chose to come back!" she said.

When she had passed out of the room, Ivar looked at Ildico with a
puzzled frown. "What did she mean?"

Ildico was striving to suppress a smile. "Can't you guess?" she asked.

"I have no idea at all."

"It's a delicate matter to discuss when we are still strangers. But I
think she was serving notice that she has selected you."

"Selected me? For what?"

"For her next husband."

The lower jaw of the tall Briton dropped in an expression of complete
incredulity. He gazed blankly at his companion for a moment and then
indulged in a rueful smile.

"You are laughing at me."

"No, I am not laughing at you. I am very much in earnest. You see, I
know her. And I can tell that she has matrimony in her eye."

"But--but not me! I am a barbarian. An ex-slave. I have no land and no
prospects. There are a few coins left in my purse and that is all I
possess. This is nonsense."

"No, she means it. She's in a marrying mood. I saw how her face lighted
up when she came in and found you here."

The tail visitor was not yet convinced. "Then it won't last. She'll
change her mind quickly enough."

"Don't be too sure. And let me tell you this: when she makes up her
mind, it is impossible to resist her. Yes, she'll get you no matter what
your wishes on the question may be. If you don't want to become her
fourth husband, there's just one thing to do."

"What is that?"

"Leave. At once. Not by the front entrance where you could be seen. You
must go out by the gate in the garden wall. And you must never come
back."




CHAPTER III


[1]

The party was ready to leave the next morning when Eugenia saw the tip
of a bronze helmet above the stone gate. She called to Ildico: "They've
come. Keep out of sight." Then she produced a length of black material
and began to wind it about the girl's head until not so much as a wisp
of golden hair remained in sight.

"You must not be recognized," she said.

Ildico was always uncomfortable when her head was bound up in this way.
She protested that there was no need for such precautions. Attila's men
knew already that she was in Constantinople.

"We can't be sure how much they know, or how little," declared the
widow. "This is the largest city in the world. At court they may have
been sensible enough to keep their mouths closed and, if they have, the
Huns would have a fine time locating you. We must ride now from one end
of the city to the other and it would be the height of folly to--to
flaunt this much-talked-about hair of yours in the face of the whole
population."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The captain at the front gate looked carefully at his written
instructions before allowing the key to be turned. "It says two of you.
And three servants. Two men and one woman. This one," glancing
suspiciously at Ivar, who sat uncomfortably astride a broad-backed
horse. "Is he the one who lifted this gate off its hinges yesterday?
Your servants told me about it."

When she discovered that Ivar had not left, Ildico had smiled at him
slyly, as though to say, "So, you are still with us after all."

"He is the one who lifted the gate," said Eugenia.

The captain studied the broad frame of Ivar. "Didn't the Jews have a
fellow who carried off the gates of a city? Named Samson, I think."

"I have never heard of him," declared the widow. "This is a friend of
mine and his name is not Samson. He is going with us to see a race this
afternoon."

The captain nodded bitterly. "Everyone is going to see this same race.
Except us. We must stand on guard here to satisfy some Huns sent by
Attila." He gestured to them to start. "I am a captain in the imperial
guards. Must I ask questions to satisfy a pair of bloodthirsty Huns? I
have not seen this lifter of gates. Be on your way, ladies. And I
hope"--winking at Ildico--"that the big black wins this afternoon."

They went at a trot past the grounds of the Library and turned on to the
much-used road circling the Baths of Zeuxippes. The mighty Hippodrome
loomed high above them, as impressive as any of the arenas of Rome. Not
a sound reached them from within.

The widow glanced at Ildico. "No chariot races today. That captain must
have been right. The secret is out and the people are going to see our
race."

"The king is never disturbed by crowds," said Ildico. "I suspect he
likes them."

When they turned off the Mese, the great commercial street of the city,
the aspect of things changed. The quiet and emptiness gave way to noise
and bustle and confusion. The thoroughfares leading to the west were
filled with people, some on horseback, some in crowded carts, some
walking in great haste.

No attention was paid to them until they turned on a street which
skirted the Aqueduct. A man who was walking as fast as his bare feet
would carry him stopped suddenly and raised a cry.

"That's her!" pointing a finger at Ildico. "That's the girl who rides
the black horse."

A scoffing voice spoke from the crowd. "I can't see your sleeve but I
know it carries the green stripe! Who but a Green would think that
little bag of bones could ride the stallion?"

"Your words give you away more surely than the blue stripe, that badge
of ignorance, on _your_ sleeve!" cried the first speaker. "I swear she's
the one. I can tell her by the set of her head and the way she sits that
horse."

"By the iron claws of Moloch, we are all ignorant and blind, Blues and
Greens alike," declared the Blue. "By running like sheep to watch this
race we are doing our part to make an end of the chariots--and perhaps
of Blues and Greens as well. Do you know the Hippodrome is empty today?
Do you know the emperor has passed here on his way to watch this race? I
tell you this is the start of something new."

"There will always be chariot races!" cried the Green.

"I would be happy if I could agree. But never have I known a Green to be
right about anything!"

Hearing all this, the party started to ride as rapidly as they could
through the crowded streets. Ivar, lumbering along in the rear, found it
hard to keep up.


[2]

The course was laid out on a flat ledge of land between the hills and
the Aqueduct, a distance in all of something more than a mile and less
than two. Tall posts, which served as markers, carried large flags,
already fluttering in the late morning breeze as though agitated in
advance by the tension of the crowds lining the oval. The thick sod on
which the race would be held stretched away in all directions, as green
and smooth as the Elysian Fields where the gods are stirred sometimes to
the matching of their winged horses. A stand had been erected on the
inner side of the point where the contests began and ended. This was for
the accommodation of the judges and other officials. Behind it were the
horse sheds.

On the opposite side an old palace had been converted into a royal box
by tearing out the marble walls in front. Here, against a background of
purple velvet, Marcian was already seated, looking very stern and
kingly. He was in a white silk tunic embroidered in roundels, over which
was draped a mantle in purple of the type called a chlamys, a Greek
innovation in costume. On his shoulder was the usual Byzantine clasp to
hold everything together, a tablion, decorated with triple strings of
precious stones.

The old emperor sat quietly in the midst of incessant noise and constant
movement. Courtiers came and went. Guards stood in all corners, the sun
glinting on their shields and drawn swords. On the level below an
orchestra provided music of an oriental variety, loud, redundant, and
filled with dissonance. A group of ladies sat behind the veteran
basileus (the title of the emperor) and indulged in much twittering
talk. On the open ground at one side of the building a series of tables
had been set up with food and wine free for the public; for such as were
lucky enough, at least, to get through the throngs surrounding them.
There was a suggestion of meagerness about this gesture. As already
stated, Marcian was not openhanded and he had proclaimed a period of
retrenchment.

Already there was a solid bank of spectators on each side of the course
who could not be tempted from their positions of vantage by the prospect
of imperial largesse. More people were streaming through the gates in
seemingly endless files.

As they rode in through the main gate, the party of three heard a voice
say: "Has the basileus lost his senses? They say he's betting on the
black."

Many voices were raised at once to support the judgment of the emperor.
As they picked their way through the milling crowds, nevertheless, the
trio heard everywhere the name of the Arabian champion, "Sulieman,"
"Sulieman," "Sulieman." It was clear that King Yussuf's thoroughbred had
caught the public fancy.

Yussuff himself met them inside the gate, riding a glossy black mare and
attired in a costume that was barbaric in its sheer splendor. His eyes
glistened as they rested on Ildico with what could be translated as a
proprietary gleam. Nevertheless he contented himself with a deep bow
before beginning to speak to Eugenia in low tones. Then, with a lift of
a jeweled hand in the air, he whisked the little mare about and was
swallowed up in the crowd.

"He says we are to have no fear," said the widow. "All arrangements have
been made."

"He seems confident," said Ildico, in a subdued tone. She was thinking
that marriage with this resplendent potentate might offer moments of
glamour but that it could be no better than slavery. They must win!

The party attracted no attention until it came to the entrance of the
horse sheds. Here Borean, who was in charge of Harthager, came out to
greet them. There were beads of perspiration on his brow.

"My lady, I was afraid you would not be able to get here," he said, his
eyes still rolling with agitation. "They tell me the roads are so filled
with people that it's impossible now to get through."

"Calm yourself," said the widow. "For here we are. How is the Great
One?"

The trainer frowned and rubbed his unshaven chin. "He keeps watching.
For my lady here. I've never known him to be so uneasy. He is rolling
his eyes and swishing his tail."

There were a number of trainers and helpers in the end of the horse
sheds which had been assigned to the Western champion. Ildico's eyes
went at once to the great black bulk of Harthager in the farthest corner
and it seemed to her that he was in a state of nerves to justify the
uneasiness of Borean. If anyone tried to get near him, a heel would lash
out and he would trumpet his displeasure. He gave her no sign of
recognition.

"Has to depend on his eyes at this distance," whispered Borean. "I guess
that black thing on your head puzzles him. Don't go near him until he's
certain it's you."

But Ildico had no fears. "O King!" she cried. "My fine one, I am here."

Without hesitation she walked up to the stallion and laid a caressing
hand on his silky mane. "Didn't you know me? Ah, my great one, I must
wear this hideous thing on my head but I don't like it any more than you
did when they painted a star on your beautiful black nose and made you
wear the blanket of a common pack horse."

Harthager's uneasiness had already left him. He shook his head and
stamped with excited hoofs, emitting at the same time a whinny of
welcome.

"King," whispered Ildico, "today we must ride as we have never ridden
before. We must be fast enough to catch that wind we have chased so
often in the hills but have never caught. These little horses from the
desert are fast, my great king, but you--you should have no trouble with
them."

A trumpet sounded from the judges' stand outside. A slight shiver seemed
to pass over the taut frame of the great horse. Then he raised his head
and prepared to turn about. He knew what the trumpet note meant.

Ildico removed the robe she had worn on the ride down and stood in
silence for several moments, her eyes fixed on a part of the course
visible through a window. She looked very slender and young in a white
tunic which fitted her shoulders and waist snugly and a skirt loose
enough to divide like trousers and thus allow her to ride astride. She
looked down doubtfully at her riding boots. They were masculine, nothing
suitable of the kind having yet been devised for feminine use; and so,
although they were the smallest to be found, they were still loose and
not secure on her small feet. "They will fall off," she thought. "They
always do. And people will scramble and fight for them. Why can't I
discard them now and be comfortable?" But on second thought she decided
to wear them. There had been enough criticism already of a lady riding
thus in public.

She laid a hand on the shoulder of the black and, without any
assistance, vaulted to his back. Borean unsnapped the chains. There was
a loud clatter of hoofs as Harthager backed out from his stall. He
tossed his head high and emitted a shrill note of challenge.

"He knows!" cried the trainer.

Ildico leaned down so that her lips were close to his ear. "My king,"
she whispered, her voice tense and her eyes brimming with tears, "you
must win today or I will be in very great trouble. I will be taken far
off. To a country where they have nothing but Arabian horses. I will
never see you again. I will never see any of the ones I love. And, O
King, I love them so much, so very much! I will soon pine away. Today
you must do your best for your poor lady!"

The eyes of Borean took in the magnificent lines of the black. "He will
run his best!" he cried, his confidence fully restored.

But the grooms and handlers stood about in glum groups. "The odds favor
the Arab," she heard one of them say, as she patted a shiny left ear and
rode out into the fierce sunlight.

Ildico gave one hurried glance at the imperial box. She saw the stocky
form of the emperor straighten up in taut anticipation. She saw the
musicians on the lower level sawing away at the strings and blowing
lustily into their pipes. On a bench some short distance from the
orchestra, she saw three dark-visaged guests who wore the peaked round
hats with red tufts of the Hun army. She was glad now of the dark
headdress and fingered it anxiously. It must not be allowed to tear
loose in the violence of the race.

A silence fell on the great crowd as she guided the black to the
starting point.


[3]

The Arabian horses were streaming out from the other end of the sheds.
There were five of them, Sulieman in the lead. This was an assumption on
Ildico's part, for she had never seen Sulieman. But the rider had a
purple headdress and wide purple bands on his sleeves and that seemed
conclusive enough.

Ildico did not like the look of things at all. It had already been
announced that Sulieman was to have the inside position (for, after all,
he had a royal master) and two outside entries were next, a Turcoman and
a Scythian mare. The remaining Arabians would have Harthager in a
pocket, two on each side.

"I protested," Eugenia had said on the ride through the city, "but
Yussuff contended there was no unfairness about it. With more than a
quarter mile to the first turn, a fast entry could gain the lead, no
matter what position he held."

A boy had been maneuvering about inside the sheds, a small specimen in
shapeless and grubby white, with eyes as sharp as a monkey's; asking
questions, trying to be useful, and full to overflowing about the race.
He was the son of someone connected obscurely with the grounds. Now he
came up to Harthager's side and squinted at Ildico.

"Lady," he said, "my honorable father is wrong. So are all these other
honorable fathers who are afraid of the Arab. Lady, the black is going
to win. He let me edge in beside him this morning. Just for a minute,
lady. I knew he was angry because there were only strangers around him
and he was lonely for you. It wasn't because he was afraid of the race.
He has taken on the edge, lady. Oh, what a fine edge!"

"What is your name, boy?"

"Malhudi, lady."

"You make me feel better, Malhudi."

"But, lady," said the boy, earnestly, "you won't win if you keep that
thing on your head. You've always let your hair loose before. I don't
know just what about it but I think it means something."

"Perhaps you are right, Malhudi."

The horses fell into line and paraded up the track for the emperor to
look them over, Sulieman in the lead and Harthager in sixth position.
When they were brought into line, Ildico looked at the riders on either
side of her and became somewhat reassured. There was no hint of slyness
or villainy about them. They smiled at her, displaying rows of the
finest white teeth. One of them said something in his native tongue and
the other translated in halting Latin.

"He says, 'It will be a fine race, fairest lady.'"

But when the clashing of cymbals from the stand raised a mighty roar
from the spectators and threw the line into furious action, her worst
fears were instantly confirmed. The horse on her right had veered in so
close that the leg of the rider pinned her to Harthager's flank. At the
same instant the Arabian on her left had been brought a full stride
ahead, so that the pair of them formed a triangle. She tapped
Harthager's ear and in response he eased his pace with the intention of
cutting in toward the center. It was apparent instantly that this
maneuver could not succeed. The second horse on her left had fallen back
a stride also and barred all chance of escape there. Two horses on each
side, determined to hold her in confinement! Already Sulieman was out in
front. Well out and running free.

Ildico realized that whatever she did to escape this encirclement must
be done at once. Deciding on her course, therefore, she tapped the right
flank of the black and brought him almost to a walk. The others could
not check their speed in time and she was able to turn sharply out to
the extreme right of the course.

"Fast, fast, fast!" she cried.

She knew that the ground along the outer edge was rough and that a
drainage ditch about four feet wide added to the difficulty of passing
there. But she had not realized the full extent of the handicap she had
assumed. The black had to proceed gingerly and set his feet down at each
stride with great caution. A hostile formation, running slantwise across
the track, made it impossible for her to get back.

Deciding on a mad effort, she waved frantically to the spectators to
stand back from the side of the course. It took many precious seconds
for them to understand what she meant and then they seemed to respond
doubtfully. In sheer desperation she took a chance, turning Harthager
into the first gap that seemed wide enough to admit them. The
spectators, shouting in wild alarm, scattered like pigeons before the
swoop of a hawk. It was necessary to ride slowly at first to avoid
running any of them down and the golden seconds passed inexorably away
before she saw a clear path ahead.

"Now, King, now!"

Word of what had happened sped ahead of them and the path was opened
wider by the urge of self-preservation. The sod was level here and soon
the black was pounding along with great strides of his long legs. On the
track the delaying squadron, which had slowed along the edge of the
ditch to block any attempt at return, now found themselves compelled to
desperate speed to keep pace with the flying Harthager.

At the turn into the wide curve of the course, she saw that a short gap
had opened between her and the pursuing Arabians. Was it wide enough to
get back into action with no danger of further interference? She decided
to try.

"In!" she cried.

The black cleared the ditch at one bound and fell into his even stride
again. The nearest of the opposition was a full length behind.

"We are free of them!" For an exultant instant in time, Ildico was
filled with pride over the success of her maneuver. Harthager was in the
clear and there would be no more interference.


[4]

Eugenia stood in the enclosure in front of the imperial box and wept
openly. The crowd was so thick in front of her that she could not see
the course; but Ivar, standing high up like a flesh-and-blood tower, had
been able to follow what was happening and report to her.

"We've lost," she said, in a piteous tone. "Why did she take the black
into the crowd like that? Oh, I know they had her crowded but that has
happened before. Why didn't she wait for a chance to break out!"

"I don't know anything about racing," said the tall Briton, "but it
seemed to me they had her in a vise. And Sulieman was almost out of
sight."

Suddenly there was a roar from the spectators massed along both sides of
the course. People shouted in violent excitement, waving their arms,
jumping up and down. Eugenia seized Ivar's nearest arm.

"What is it? What has happened?"

The Briton said something in answer but the din about them was so great
that she could not hear a word. "Speak louder!" she cried, her grip on
his arm tightening.

He leaned down until his face almost touched hers. "She's clear!" he
cried.

"She's clear? What a wonderful feat of riding! Ildico, my brave child,
why did I ever doubt you?"

"Harthager came out with a bound and sailed across the ditch
magnificently. He's on the track again and running like mad."

"And I missed it! Ah, this absurd, back-country track where no one can
see what goes on! Why did I agree to hold the race in this miserable
trap? And why, oh, why did I let that smooth, smiling son of Satan talk
me into making it an open race?"

The spectators continued to shout in amazement at the sudden change in
the situation. Someone rushed up to the stand where the white-haired
trio of judges sat and began to address them vehemently. "I know what
that's about," commented Eugenia, bitterly. The heads of the judges were
about all she could see. "He wants the king ruled off for leaving the
track." People who had laid their wagers on Harthager and had been
brought back from the tomb of their hopes to a new span of life saw
danger in the colloquy on the stand. They began to hiss and boo and
scream in fury. Those who had bet on Sulieman were crying out in
righteous wrath that the black must be barred.

"Ivar, Ivar!" cried Eugenia. "Have we a chance?"

He surveyed the field with an intent and rather dubious eye. "It's too
soon to say. But--but the other horse has a great lead. We mustn't get
our hopes too high."

The veteran race-lover in Eugenia asserted itself. "You are never beaten
until they drop the flag."

The owner of Sulieman, so recently and bitterly characterized as a
smooth, smiling son of Satan, came toward them, elbowing his way through
the milling and noisy throng. He might be a king in Davieda but at this
moment he was just another troublesome human being to the excited
watchers. His face carried an air of triumph.

"The race is won," he said to the widow. "Of course our fair lady is of
fighting stock and will make some kind of contest of it."

"The black is gaining," declared Ivar, not taking his eyes from the
distant stretch where, it seemed, toy horses were moving on leaden feet.

"There will be no miracle," asserted the king. "It may be that the
judges will bar your horse for leaving the track."

"There is no rule against it!" cried the widow. "Let me up there and
I'll lay down the whole scroll of the law to them!"

The face of Yussuff lost its look of elation and became grave. "No
matter what they say or do," he declared, "it will not change our
understanding. I shall stand by my pledge."

Another outburst of wild applause arose from the lucky spectators who
were close enough to see what was going on.

"What is it?" asked the king, with sudden anxiety.

Ivar's superior height still made it possible for him to follow
developments. "The black has passed one of the others. I think the one
called the Scythian."

"Is that all?" Yussuff showed an immediate relief. "Gentle lady, I am
afraid your ward cannot win now but we must be ready if--if such a
miracle does happen. To carry out my plan, you must get to horse at
once."

"Must I go before it is over?" The widow asked the question with an
almost pathetic air of entreaty.

"Yes. At once. One of my men will be ready for you at the horse lines."

"If I could have one glimpse!" Eugenia looked about her. In the crowded
space where they stood men were lifting children up in their arms and a
few were breaking convention by doing the same for the ladies with them.
The excitement was so great that no one knew or cared what others were
doing. Eugenia looked up at the Briton who towered above her.

"Are you strong enough?" she asked.

He seemed puzzled for a moment, then stooped and lifted her in his arms
until her head was well above his. To steady herself she gripped a lock
of his hair, but was careful not to tug too hard.

"I didn't realize how large the track is. I can hardly see the horses."
Then she began to wave her free arm with excitement. "I see her! There,
she's passed the Turcoman! Only the Arab is ahead now. And I think--I
think--she's gaining! She's gaining!"

"You must get away at once," protested Yussuff. He did not seem pleased
with the developments on the track.

Ivar lowered his burden to the ground. She looked up at him and smiled.
"Thank you!" she said. "Ah, how very strong you are!"


[5]

The feeling of relief and pride which filled Ildico when she succeeded
in bringing Harthager out on the track again was of short duration. They
were in the clear and there would be no more interference; but in front,
so far that horse and rider seemed almost tiny, was the fast-racing
Sulieman.

"We can never make it up! Never! Never!" she thought, despairingly.
Tears began to stream down her cheeks. Was there anything she could have
done? Should she have forced the black into the interference on their
left and so have broken a path to the center of the track? This, of
course, might have resulted in a general spill and some loss of life.
Should she have slowed down at once and demanded of the judges a new
start? She doubted if this would have done her any good. Horse racing
was still a confused form of competition with few established rules. The
only instruction the presiding judge had given them was, "Start with the
sound of the cymbals and ride your best." She feared she would have had
no more satisfaction from the officers than a sharp admonition to stay
out of a man's sport if she lacked the strength to protect herself.

While these thoughts filled her mind, Ildico had been conscious that
Harthager had settled instantly into his fastest stride. It seemed no
time at all until the spirited little mare from Scythia came into full
view on her left and then slowly receded and disappeared. By the time
they had completed the arch of the course, they had passed with equal
ease the laboring Turcoman, and the fast-flying black was free to take
for himself the path closest to the marking posts. All that remained now
was to overtake Sulieman.

With a sudden surge of hope she realized that the distance between them
was not as great as she had thought. She could even make out the detail
of the riders purple-striped robe and the tightly wrapped bands of his
headdress. When he turned on to the lower arch, the rider swung his head
around to look back at them and it was clear from his expression that he
had suffered an unpleasant surprise. When they turned into the stretch,
she estimated they were not more than half a dozen lengths behind.

Would the handicap prove too great? Could Harthager maintain to the end
the tremendous burst of speed with which he had been closing the gap?
Was his great heart equal to the strain?

What she had been expecting from the start happened as they made the
turn. The pressure of the air caused the bands of her headdress to
loosen and suddenly they were torn away. Her hair, as though happy to be
released from such unusual restraint, streamed out behind her. She was
not alarmed that this proof of her identity had been provided for the
emissaries of Attila; they had known without a doubt before the race
started. Another thought caused her a brief moment of amusement. "That
funny little boy! Perhaps he was right after all. It may be that now we
have a chance to win!"

The freeing of her hair brought consciousness to her, for the first
time, that her feet also were free. Had this occurred when the black
launched himself so magnificently across the ditch and regained his
footing on the track? They had been handsome boots, with gold figures
stamped into the green leather. It was too bad that she would never see
them again.

The rider on Sulieman, shaken into real alarm by their closeness, had
taken to his whip. Ildico heard his voice, high-pitched and tense,
crying for speed and more speed, and she saw a welt on the flank of the
gallantly striving Arabian. Sulieman, like the thoroughbred he was, did
not falter. He responded with even greater efforts.

Ildico leaned still farther forward and patted the heated neck of her
mount. She began to talk to him. "It's now, King!" she said. "Now or
never! Can you pass him? Oh, great King, you must save me!"

It seemed to her that the steady rhythm of his stride became faster. How
wonderful he was! Her father had made no mistake when he judged the
young black fit to succeed the kings of the past. But would his heart
continue to withstand this almost unbearable strain?

There _was_ a chance now. She realized that they had drawn up so close
that she could almost have reached out and touched the sleeve of the
Arabian rider. He was crying madly to the strange gods of the desert
people and plying his whip. They continued to gain. Inch by inch. This
was too slow, they would never close the gap in time. The finishing line
seemed just ahead. Inch by inch. She cried, "King, O King!" and shut her
eyes, fearing to watch through the tense seconds which remained. She
felt her bare feet curl up involuntarily.

A roar rose from the spectators. She opened her eyes. They had crossed
the line. Harthager was a full head in advance of Sulieman but had it
been that way when they flashed by the keen eyes of the judges on the
stand?

It had been close certainly. Her heart had seemed to stand still but now
it began to beat again. She could at least hope. Automatically she
touched the flank of her mount and said: "Easy, King. It is over now."

They fell into a slower pace with Sulieman some lengths behind. She
dreaded swinging about for the return to the judges' stand, fearing that
the verdict might be against her after all. Then she became aware that
another horse was following close behind her and that it was not
Sulieman.

"Don't stop," said a voice which she recognized as that of Yussuff.
"Don't turn your head. You must not be seen speaking to me." There was a
tense pause and then he said: "You won. Did you know?"

"I hoped so," she said, in a whisper. "But I couldn't be sure."

"Say nothing more. Listen closely. Every second counts now." There was a
pause and then the man from the desert continued in a quiet voice. "I
have lost you. I am not happy about it. At first I thought of doing away
with Sulieman, who had failed to win you for me, but I was sure you
would think ill of me if I did."

"He ran such a gallant race!"

"The rider used the whip too much. I am not forgiving enough to let him
go without a touch of the same whip on his ribs--Look ahead of you. Do
you see that break in the line of trees to your right? Turn in there.
There's a road which runs off into a thick wood. Follow it. You'll find
your friends waiting. There will be another horse for you to take. Ride
fast. You must all be well on the road to the west before they discover
that you have disappeared. My men will look after the black. He will be
cooled off and rubbed down and will be taken on to join you during the
night. All these details have been arranged."

There was another, a pregnant pause. "Now look at me. A quick glance.
Ah, how beautiful you are--and I shall never see you again!"




CHAPTER IV


[1]

Nicolan had expected an audience alone with Aetius. But when he was
shown into a long room with marble walls and a raised section at one
end, he discovered that the Roman leader had gathered a large group
about him. There were soldiers whose use of fine material in their
tunics and whose addiction to elegance in the handles of their short
Spanish swords marked them as tribunes in the army. There were men whose
nobility of forehead was in contrast to the harshness of their other
features; and who quite unmistakably, from the purple borders on their
togas, were in political posts. They were all stationed on the raised
portion of the floor and each pair of eyes was fixed with hostility on
Nicolan as he crossed the room.

An official, standing on the steps, indicated that the emissary was to
remain below.

"Your name?" demanded the official.

"Nicolan of the Ildeburghs."

"What brings you here?"

"I bear a message from Attila, Emperor of the World and Supreme Lord of
the Waters and the Skies."

The official shook his head sternly. "He is not known."

Nicolan used, then, the title which he had reason to believe was
preferred by Attila himself to all others.

"I come from Attila, the Scourge of God, who is at war with the empire
of Rome."

The official, receiving a nod from above, bowed in turn to Nicolan. "He
is known. What is the message?"

"I have been instructed to speak to the commander of the Roman armies."

At this point Aetius detached himself from the rest of the group and
descended several of the steps until he was facing the visitor.

"I am Aetius."

They faced each other for a brief moment. "So! You are the aide of
Attila's of whom we have heard so much. It is a matter for surprise that
he has allowed one as valuable as you to place himself in my power." The
stern and handsome features of the Roman leader became more set and
hard. "It is hard to believe that a man of your condition and years
could rise so quickly. Perhaps the ruler of the Huns has sent you, my
former slave, as an expression of his contempt."

"I am acting on his orders, my lord Aetius."

"Have you no fear of the consequences? It is my right to have you taken
out and nailed to a cross as an escaped slave."

"I am aware, my lord, of the danger in which I stand. But I come with
papers of safe-conduct."

Aetius glanced back at the members of his entourage. He frowned
doubtfully. "You display courage. Speak, then."

"The injunction has been placed upon me, my lord Aetius, to state that
the supreme head of the invading armies is aware of the nature of the
defense he will encounter. You have left the plains of Lombardy open to
him but you have stripped the land of livestock. You have destroyed much
of the grain in the hope that no army may live off the land. The
garrisons of the cities will fight desperately behind their stone walls.
There is nothing new in this method. It has been employed before. Even
in the defense of Rome."

He was aware as he spoke of the hatred in every pair of eyes. It
astonished him how much alike they all seemed, these masters of
civilization, their eyes cruel and hard, their faces revealing no
vestige of weakness and no sense of fairness. Would his safe-conduct
protect him from their malice? For the first time the coldness of fear
took hold of him.

"But," he continued, after a moment of silence, forcing himself to put
aside this feeling of panic, "it is the desire of Attila that you
realize the nature of the price he will exact from you. It is his
purpose to burn the forests, to poison the lands, to foul the rivers and
the lakes, until the smoke of a dying land will be seen from the highest
walls of the city on the seven hills. He will capture the cities and
destroy the buildings until not one stone stands on another. The
destruction of these proud cities will be so complete that in future
ages it will be impossible to find where they stood.

"He will put to the sword every man, woman, and child with a
ruthlessness never before practiced on the face of the earth. The cries
of the victims, left to this terrible fate, will fill your ears as you
sit in these hills and wait in imitation of the Roman Fabius. The cries
will reach the ears of the world and will raise wonder and, perhaps,
feelings of scorn.

"Will it be of any avail to save Rome and at the same time deliver to
utter destruction the fertile lands which feed your proud city? Can
discretion save a great empire which was built on courage and daring?"

"These are strong words," said Aetius.

"It is my lord Attila's will that you realize the extremes to which he
is prepared to go. These fertile provinces will be destroyed with a
savagery of which the human mind has had no conception. Pride will
shrivel and great reputations will die as the cries of the victims rise
above the clamor and the roar of the flames."

The face of Aetius, which had flushed with anger as the first words of
the message were delivered, had now changed to a set pallor. He returned
up the steps to confer with his people, and then stepped back after a
few moments.

"I have known from the first," he said, "that to leave the passes open
would lead to the situation which confronts us. I made this clear to all
of you." His eyes went from face to face, finding many of them cold and
hostile. "I am aware that among you are some who disagree with me.
Because of the course I am following, I may go down in history as a
coward who stood by and watched while whole populations perished. But I
know that the course I am taking is the only way to save Rome."

A voice, filled with bitter dissent and deep with passion, spoke from
the group. "You could have destroyed the Hun at Chlons. But you stood
by and let him escape."

Aetius turned on the speaker. "You did not fight at Chlons, Quintus
Cassius," he said. "You are not a soldier. You have never seen action.
If you had been at Chlons, you would have seen why we were powerless to
do more. It was not uncommon in the arena for two gladiators to fight so
furiously that both would sink to the ground, too badly wounded to raise
a weapon again. That was how it was at Chlons."

He moved back toward the steps and raised a hand in the direction of
Nicolan. "We have heard you. There is no answer. You may retire."

As soon as Nicolan had been escorted from the room, Aetius turned to his
advisers. He smiled bleakly.

"This is Attila's last word. It is clear to me that his desperation
shows in every part of it."

"He means what he says," declared the man Quintus Cassius. "He will
destroy the country of the plains."

"Yes," responded Aetius, "and if we venture out to fight him, he will
destroy Rome."

"We defeated him at Chlons! Why can't we do it again?"

"I will tell you why I can't defeat him again as I did at Chlons."
Aetius was keeping his feelings under control with difficulty. "We lost
the pick of our men in that battle and they have been replaced by raw
levies. We lack today the allies who fought beside us there. We are
seriously outnumbered. In a pitched battle the Hun horsemen would
outflank us without opposition. It would be a disaster." Suddenly his
face became livid with rage. He cried in a loud voice: "I saved
civilization at Chlons! And what thanks have I had? The criticism of
little men who have never stained a sword in defense of the empire. The
carping of politicians who resent the power which has come into my
hands. I have one thing only to say to you, my fine citizens, who live
soft and sleep easy of nights. I am prepared to step down and let you
assume the responsibilities and the burdens of defense. I shall be well
content if you can find another general to win you a second great
victory."

It became apparent at once that this was not what they wanted. The glory
of Chlons still clung about the victor. They wanted to control the
policy of defense but they could not dispense with the man who had saved
them once.

"But," declared a senator, "the victims of the savagery of this wild
beast will cry out against us from the blood-soaked ground! Can we stand
idly by and see a large part of our population wiped out?"

"You are repeating what was said in the days of Fabius," said Aetius.
"Yet he saved the empire. If you leave this decision in my hands, I will
save Rome. For the second time."


[2]

Nicolan was summoned back for a second audience with the dictator of
Rome. Aetius had recovered from the emotional scenes in the council
room. Seated at a desk, which was piled high with work, he seemed
composed again and completely absorbed in detail. This was the cool and
hard-working Aetius that Nicolan remembered from his days in Rome.

"Sit down," said the Roman leader, not looking up.

After several moments of absorbed attention to the documents in front of
him, Aetius raised his eyes.

"What other message have you for me from--from your new master?"

"It is true," responded Nicolan, "that he had other points which I was
instructed to raise. But they were for your ears only."

"Naturally."

Aetius leaned back in his chair and watched his visitor with his cool,
hard eyes. Back of him the wall was covered with standards which had
been captured at Chlons, grouped around a sword; probably the weapon he
had carried that day.

"My message is this. Attila would consider a peace by negotiation. If it
could be settled at once. His terms, my lord Aetius, are not light. He
demands certain territorial concessions which I am at liberty to name. A
heavy subsidy in gold must be paid him on a yearly basis until such time
as new terms are reached."

The Roman dictator gave his head a backward toss and smiled scornfully.
"Does he expect to reap the rewards of victory without striking a blow?"

"The northern provinces of Italy and the great Lombardy Plain are at his
feet. He will leave everything untouched. The fine and prosperous cities
will be left standing and not one drop of blood will be spilled. That,
my lord, is what he offers you for the concessions he will demand."

"I have no authority, and no desire, to give away a single foot of the
land won by the might of Rome. We did not beat Attila at Chlons to
throw away any of the fruits of that victory."

Nicolan considered his next words carefully. "Something has occurred
which might serve as a basis for the terms of settlement. It may not
have come to your ears that the Princess Honoria is at liberty and has
cast in her lot with Attila."

Aetius answered in dry tones. "We make it a rule to know everything that
happens," he declared. "We learned of the escape of the princess
immediately after it took place. We knew," he added, giving his visitor
a cold stare, "that the escape was of your contrivance."

Nicolan leaned forward and spoke in lowered tones. "May I say to you, my
lord Aetius, that I was not guilty of the offense for which you had me
punished. It is true that I knew of your desire to marry the princess
but no word of it passed my lips."

Aetius indulged in a somewhat careless gesture. "I became convinced of
your innocence."

"It is in Attila's mind that you might desire to renew your suit. As the
husband of the princess you would have control of such possessions as
might be awarded her in the treaty settlements. You would then have an
even stronger measure of control in the imperial family than is now
possible."

The hint of a smile began with the tight lips of the dictator and spread
slowly up as far as his eyes. Here it struggled briefly for control
before abandoning the effort.

"Your sources of information," he said, "cannot be as quick and reliable
as ours. Is it not known to you that the princess has disappeared from
the household in which she was placed after being removed from the
island?"

Nicolan's face made it clear that he had been taken completely by
surprise.

"I see you had not heard. It occurred two weeks ago. It is believed she
disappeared in the company of a slave belonging to Micca the Mede. There
was some talk that this slave was the son of an Arab ruler. Whatever the
truth of that, they were taken on board a trading vessel which was
leaving for the East." There was a moment's silence. "It seems to me
highly improbable that the princess will ever be heard of again.

"As to the possibility of a negotiated peace," went on the Roman, "I
shall give it consideration. I must tell you that great difficulties
suggest themselves to me at once. We might make peace now and have
Attila come back in greater force another year. Treaties are not sacred
to him. They are made to be torn up. There is this also: the health of
your leader is not good. There is no one else capable of holding all the
conquered races together. When he dies, his empire will burst like a
soap bubble. Time," concluded the Roman, "is our handmaiden."

"But he will carry destruction over the northern provinces in the
meantime," warned Nicolan. "It is not an idle threat. Every man, woman,
and child will perish."

"They will die to save Rome," declared Aetius. "Could they ask a better
fate?

"As for you," he went on, after a moment, "my mind is not made up. My
kindly advisers are clamoring for your life. They do not remember, as I
do, that Attila has many of our people in his hands and would exact a
tenfold return in blood if we killed you. You will probably be allowed
to live but you have seen and heard too much to be sent back. You will
remain here under guard until the situation resolves itself."

He clapped his hands and a tall young officer appeared in the doorway.

"Lutatius Rufus," said Aetius, "I place in your hands this emissary from
Attila the Hun. You will be held responsible if he makes his escape. Or
if any harm befalls him."

The officer looked at Nicolan in a somewhat startled manner. He lacked
completely the mark of the typical Roman soldier, the hard eye, the
resolute jaw, the overweening nose. He was, in fact, of a somewhat bland
cast of countenance; a patrician, clearly, and a sharer in high
privilege.

"I have heard your orders, my lord Aetius," said the officer.


[3]

Nicolan realized quickly that he was to be treated well but that he
would not be allowed to escape. The room to which he was taken was at
the end of a long narrow _aula_ and had securely barred windows which
looked out to the north and east. The door closed with the hollow sound
which warns that only a jailer's key will open it again. There was a
large bed and in one corner a bath. He felt that he had reason to be
content because he had come expecting summary treatment. His one regret
now was that he would be unable to reach the country where the party of
the widow of Tergeste might be expected to put in an appearance, if they
had not already emerged from the difficulties and perils of the tunnel
under the mountain.

He stood at a side window which looked to the east and tried to picture
Ildico perched on the broad back of Harthager, her telltale hair
concealed under some kind of heavy headdress, her eyes dancing with
excitement. Thinking back over the years, he could not recall a single
occasion when he had seen her in repose. She rode, she danced, she sang,
she laughed! How wonderful she was! Had he any right to hope that
someday he could capture her and cage her with selfish bonds? She had
given him little enough reason to expect her favor: a glance or two when
they rode together up into the hills, a few friendly words, a hint that
she understood his reason for serving Attila. This did not give him much
substance to build upon.

"I should be there to greet her," he thought. "I must have the chance to
serve her greatly if I hope to win her lasting favor."

He could not dismiss his fear that the party had already reached the
Dalmatian estates of the widow and that they had seen in the absence of
Attila on his military gamble the opportunity to return Ildico to her
anxious father. "Surely Ivar would convince them of the danger of doing
that," he thought. But he could not be sure that Ivar had succeeded in
joining them. The tall Briton had ventured into strange territory and he
could easily have failed to find them.

Other thoughts came at intervals to occupy his mind and give him
momentary relief from his fears. The gardens outside his window had been
converted into an armed camp. The tents had been pitched with the same
thoroughness shown on a campaign, with a ditch and rampart about them
and each covered with leather extensions. There was a _draco_ floating
in the air, which was seldom the rule except when the legions were in
alien territory; but it was hanging limply as though the large silver
jaws of the dragon were too heavy, and the breeze was not sufficient to
inflate the body. He heard a _decanus_ (the equivalent of a corporal)
drilling a squad of new recruits and here and there about the camp were
soldiers of the legion in marching order, with helmets suspended over
the right shoulder and kits carried in a bundle and slung on a pole over
the left. Aetius might have no intention of marching out against the
Huns but he was seeing to it that his troops were ready to go in case of
necessity.

Beyond the tops of the tents he saw the tall banks made after centuries
of toil by the waters of the river Po. There the camp ended; there was
nothing beyond. "Aetius," thought Nicolan, "is allowing himself a safe
line of retreat if the Huns come this far."

The officer, Lutatius Rufus, put in an appearance with the first meal
served the prisoner. He sprawled out in a chair so low that his knees
came surprisingly close to his chin.

"You have thrown things into a turmoil here," he said. "Opinion was
divided enough before. Now it's split open. The soldiers back Aetius.
The politicians, who won't have to fight, are crying out for immediate
action." He sighed as though he had little stomach for such matters.
"Aetius, of course, is right."

The food had been good enough but the wine was new and quite obviously
cheap. Remembering the strict parsimony in the household of the
dictator, Nicolan took no more than a sip.

"Do you believe you can win another victory like Chlons?" he asked.

"Never!" declared the officer. "My good ex-slave and bold emissary, you
must see how things are. Rome has gone soft. Look at me. I belong to one
of the oldest families and I am only in the army because it seems to be
expected of us. I have no intention of fighting. I'm not going to march
all day in a broiling sun and freeze at night, and be hacked to pieces
by hulking barbarians. There are ways of getting out of it. Ways. Yes,
and means. I know them. My great regret is that I wasn't born centuries
ago before these wretched barbarians came pouring out of the woods. It
could all have been avoided if Aetius had been ready to take the easy
way by buying them off. That's how they do it in Constantinople and we
could have kept the peace too if Aetius hadn't forced himself on us and
decided to do it his way."

"Does that mean," asked Nicolan, "that his rise to power was not due to
a popular demand for him?"

"What a fantastic idea! Of course there was no demand for him. Why, his
father was a barbarian. In Moesia, moreover. A vulgar province. Aetius
connived to get himself into power. Both the emperor and the old woman
hated him. Didn't you know? He's an able general, of course. It needed
an energetic campaign of whispering and lying to keep the howling
population from turning him into a god after Chlons. But we succeeded.
And now things are being reversed. The people will clamor for his head
if he doesn't lead the army out to fight Attila."

Lutatius Rufus then began to display a weakness for gossip. He doubled
up his long calves under him and gave Nicolan the benefit of an amiable
smile.

"The court was furious because Honoria got away," he confided. "I'm glad
she gave them the slip. There was a time," he grinned self-consciously,
"when Honoria had a fancy for me. For once in my life I was sensible. I
took to my heels. I went on a tour--Tunis, Cairo, Antioch,
Constantinople. When I got back she was scattering her favors. I hear
she even fluttered her beautiful lashes at you. When you were a slave in
the household of Aetius."

"How did you hear about that?"

"I have a gift for hearing things. Ways. And means, you know. I get all
the gossip."

Nicolan shot a conversational arrow into the air. "Have you heard of the
widow of Tergeste?"

"I know _everything_ about the widow. I can tell you the exact size of
her girdle and the kind of dye she uses on her hair. I know where she
comes from. She says her father was governor of a province--but what
province she doesn't say--and that she was a fourth daughter, which
makes her full name Eugenia Quartilla. But I know the real story. Her
father was a poverty-struck divinator, a _sortilegus_ who predicts the
future by natural things. You know, the moss on a rock, the ruff of a
wolf, the teeth of a dog, and all that kind of nonsense."

"You don't believe in it?"

"In divination? Listen to me, my friend. I am a poor enough specimen of
a man and I've wasted my life in foolish pastimes. I even suspect that
I'm a coward. But I am _not_ weak enough to think you can tell the
future from the bowels of a slain animal or to read prophecy in the
rustling of the oak leaves at Dodona."

"Is the widow very wealthy?"

"The wealthiest woman in the world. If you go to a moneylender, all you
have to say is that you expect to marry her. All her husbands were old,
rich, and doting. She's found some way of keeping the hands of the law
off what they leave her."

"They say she travels much."

The face of the officer beamed with the pleasure of the raconteur. "She
never stops. It's my opinion she's always on the hunt for husbands.
Here's a story that will interest you. Right now she has a pretty little
creature in her train. Fair, blue-eyed, slender." He blew a kiss into
the air. "Exactly the kind I like. But now that the widow's free again,
this girl will be in the way. Can the widow find a husband for herself
with this lovely detriment beside her? First she'll have to find one for
the girl."

"How do you happen to know all this?"

"Didn't I tell you? I have ways. So, the widow found a real catch for
her somewhere over there: rich, young, not repulsive. The girl said no,
she was already in love. 'Love!' cried the widow. 'What do you know
about love at your age? Wait until you get as old as I am. Who is this
fellow?' 'It's someone I've known all my life.' 'Absurd!' cried the
widow. 'Some hairy savage, with greasy locks and uncombed beard and a
body fashioned like a bear.' The girl protested that he was the
handsomest man in the world."

"Then she wasn't meaning me," thought Nicolan.

"Well, the girl wouldn't change her mind," went on the officer. "So all
the men who came around had eyes only for her. Its even said that Attila
knows about her and would like to add her to his harem."

Nicolan decided to change the subject. "I have been wondering," he said,
"if there are ways and means of getting out of a place like this."

Lutatius Rufus got to his feet at once. His manner had developed a wary
note. "As to that," he declared, "I am able to be quite definite. No,
there is no way."


[4]

Early one morning soon thereafter Nicolan stood at a window in his room
which gave him a view of the north. He realized that something had
happened which was agitating the whole camp. The soldiers of the
legions, which Aetius was holding at this strategic spot, stood about in
noisy groups and talked wildly among themselves. There were priests on
the paved court from which the council room opened, their eyes peering
out with grimness and fear from under the cucullus that each of them
wore. Footsteps passed and repassed outside his door. Several times
Nicolan heard sounds of weeping.

Rufus brought him the answer. That doughty officer came in slowly,
looking pale and shaken.

"Aquileia has fallen," he announced. "The garrison fought stoutly but
the Huns were like the sands of the desert." He swallowed hard. "The
city has been destroyed and the people butchered without mercy or
discrimination. The men were herded into the market place and literally
chopped to pieces. The dead bodies were mutilated. Every Hun will ride
now with a rotting head on the point of his spear. The women were spared
the first day while the Huns feasted on the food supplies and enjoyed
themselves, then they were all beheaded. It took the better part of the
day to get rid of them all. The children had been killed first by
dashing their heads against the walls."

"They were so confident the walls couldn't be stormed," said Nicolan,
feeling stunned by the horror of the story.

"The same thing will happen to the other cities," declared Rufus, in a
strained voice. "They are all in easy reach. Alimium, Concordia, Padua,
Vicenza, Verona, Bergamo. Perhaps even Milan and Pavia. There's no
safety anywhere with this fiend loose in the world."

Realizing how this disaster might affect his own fate, Nicolan walked to
a window and stared to the north. It was a beautiful day. Birds sang
along the banks of the great river and cheerful sounds of neighing came
from the horse lines. The sky was bright and benign; but beneath it, not
many miles away, these incredible things were happening.

"There will be no getting out of it." Rufus seemed on the point of
whimpering. "No possibility of staying home now. I'll have to go. And I
won't come back. I'll die a miserable death."

"No, there will be no fighting," declared Nicolan. "I know Aetius. He
won't change his mind. He will sit here and let Attila destroy one city
after another."

"If that is true," said the officer, "you are in a bad position
yourself. The people will demand the chance to retaliate. _You_, my poor
friend, will be one of the first victims. In fact, I heard talk about it
this morning."

Nicolan nodded his head grimly. "I know. I sensed it this morning when I
looked out and saw those grim faces. I've been expecting it."

"You seem to take it calmly," said Rufus, regarding him curiously.

"If I seem calm, it's not because I am reconciled to such an end. I've
known myself to be under sentence of death ever since I refused to serve
any longer in Attila's armies. You get to a numbed state of acceptance
after a time."

"But why did you refuse to serve?"

"I became concerned about the state of my soul. You see, I had been
converted to the Christian view of things."

"I'm a Christian myself," affirmed the officer. "But I'm not one of the
kind who take such things seriously."

"Attila threatened to have me executed and then began instead to find
missions for me. Each time I face death if caught."

"But"--in a puzzled tone--"you've had chances to run away. Why did you
come here?"

"What chance is there to escape? These two empires have the earth
divided between them. Sooner or later you are caught. I thought there
was a chance this way at least. But now the chance is gone." After a
moments silence, he asked, "What brings so many priests here?"

"Pope Leo is coming from Rome. As a last resort."

Nicolan frowned uncertainly. "What can he do? Save Rome by a miracle?
Can he command the waters of the Adriatic to roll in and destroy the
invaders, like the Red Sea swallowing the Egyptians?"

Rufus seemed to share his doubts. "Is the pope of Rome a god or a mere
man? Anyway it's too late for miracles now."

Nicolan had seated himself on a marble bench beside the bath, which was
filled with water.

"They say Leo is a strong pope," said Rufus. "He and Aetius are the only
leaders we have. The emperor is a weak idiot." The young officer began
to pace up and down the room with lack of spirit in every line of his
tail limp frame. "We are going to be cut off in the flower of our youth,
you and I. Why not make it as easy for yourself as possible by
stretching out in that bath and quietly drowning yourself?"

Nicolan shook his head. "No, friend Rufus. I prefer to face the issue.
Suicide is the most doubtful road to choose if you hope to reach the
kingdom of heaven."

Rufus frowned doubtfully. "Is that what the Christians preach? My
grandfather changed over when it became the state religion but only
because everyone did. None of us has gone into it seriously."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The symptoms of suppressed excitement were noticeable at all hours of
the day. Nicolan stood at his window and watched, expecting to be
summoned at any moment. When the sun went down, he thought desperately,
"I will never see it again."

It had become dark when footsteps were heard in the hall, coming to a
stop at his door. Nicolan rose. "This is the word," he said aloud.

Aetius entered the room, followed by a servant with a lighted lamp. The
illumination thus provided gave Nicolan a chance to study the dictator's
face. It seemed quite calm and collected.

"Have you heard?" asked Aetius.

"I have been told of the capture of Aquileia."

"Your master was as thorough in his extermination of the townspeople as
you declared he would be. I haven't changed my mind, nor do I intend to,
even if he destroys city after city. But the people are smoldering and
demanding retaliation. You are the first victim they want." He paused
and then said in even tones, "I am not going to deliver you over to
them."

When Nicolan started to speak, to voice his gratitude, the Roman leader
silenced him with an impatient gesture. "You must not think I do this
because of any concern for you. I am doing it for my own peace of mind.
I made you the victim of a great injustice once. Perhaps this will erase
from your mind any feeling you may be holding against me. And there is
another point." His voice suddenly became almost explosive in its
violence. "I am still the master of Rome! Why should I yield to the
demands of hypocritical senators and weak-spined generals? I have told
them they may go as individuals and help in the defense of the cities
which remain if they feel the situation so keenly. Instead they want to
stay safely here and wallow in the blood of helpless victims.

"I can spare a few moments only," he went on, his voice sinking to a
normal tone, "so listen carefully. This end of the palace has been
cleared. I will not lock the door when I leave. Follow soon after me,
closing the door and turning to the right. One of my servants is
stationed at the end of the _aula_. Follow him to the horse lines. Your
horse is saddled and ready. There are supplies for a week in the
saddlebags."

"What of the members of my party?" asked Nicolan.

Aetius gave an indifferent gesture. "They will be turned loose later.
You don't need to feel concern about them." He gave Nicolan a curious
glance before starting back to the door. "Do you think it a sign of
weakness that I am disturbed over the verdict of future generations? I
am sure of this: that I, who will save the empire by my prudence as
surely as the sun will continue to shine on the eagles flying over Rome,
will be set down in the pages of history as a coward. What is more the
great Roman public, the unwashed multitude who bellow and scream over
things they do not understand, will never believe I am taking the only
way of saving them. They will not give me credit when Attila retreats
with his starving army. They will probably clamor to have me punished. I
have no illusions." He paused for a moment at the door. "Now, at least,
I won't be charged in history with the murder of military envoys."

He turned after a few steps in the direction of the door.

"Do you still hope to see the Huns in possession of Rome?"

"No, my lord Aetius."

"But you felt that way once."

"That is true."

"I believe you were the only one of your nation to feel that way. The
rest retained their allegiance to Rome."

"No, my lord. They preferred Rome to Attila; but it was nothing more
than a choice of evils. When a conquered nation is strong of heart, the
allegiance of the people is to their own traditions and memories. My
people, my lord, are strong."

Aetius paused, rubbing a hand over his chin, which was like finely
carved marble. "When I said you were to go free, I should have added
that I must make two conditions. First. You are not to return to the
service of Attila."

"I pledge you my word."

"Your eyes are sharp and shrewd. You have seen much while here which
would be useful to him. If you should fall into his hands, you must tell
him nothing. No matter what form of persuasion he may use."

"I swear, my lord, to say nothing."

"Second. Go first to Ravenna. It will not be an easy route. The highway
through the marshlands to Ravenna has become the Road of Cowards. All
good Romans who have the fear of the Hun in their hearts and heels are
racing down it, hoping to reach the sea. They are in such a hurry that
there is danger in joining such a mad scramble. Nevertheless, I am
instructing you to go that way and cross to Tergeste as soon as
possible. There is a letter I desire placed in the hands of a man in
that city. It may not surprise you to know that there is a conspiracy on
foot among my enemies to have me removed from the command and charged
with treason. My safety may depend on the delivery of this letter. Are
you prepared to take it?"

"Yes, my lord."

"I trust you," said the Roman commander. He handed the letter to
Nicolan. "Be discreet in everything. No one must know you are acting for
me. It is a matter of such importance that I dare not entrust it to
anyone about me." He walked to the door, saying over his shoulder,
"There is not a moment to be lost."




CHAPTER V


[1]

Nicolan was escorted through a dilapidated entrance, along a maze of
halls, which reeked of oil and tar and strange smells of the East, up
and down steps and around many turns; and finally reached a small room
where a clear view of the harbor was possible. It was a room of mean
proportions and the same might be said of the occupant, a dried-up
little man with features of ferret-like sharpness.

His name, he conceded, was Q. Caius Roscius, and he read the
communication from Aetius twice, grunting to himself as he did so and
allowing Nicolan to remain standing. "He says you are to be trusted," he
declared, finally. His face had taken on an angry flush. "It is a
disgrace that the man who saved the world from the barbarians at Chlons
should find it necessary to plot--yea, _plot_!--for his own welfare and
even his safety when the fighting is over! These politicians at Rome,
these designing men with soft bellies and fat purses! I spit with the
scorn I feel for them!"

For several moments the deep-set eyes of the master merchant of Tergeste
were fixed on the gray outline of the Karst hills. Then he swung back to
his visitor.

"What have you noticed about this great city?" he asked.

"There are holes in the walls through which six Hun horsemen could ride
abreast."

"What else?"

"I saw no armed men."

"All the legions in Illyria were withdrawn when Aetius was assembling
his army. It was a necessary step. I am not a soldier but it was clear
even to me that the defense of Rome came first. What else?"

"I saw no sentries, either at the gates or on the walls."

"Did you have an eye to the conditions in the province?"

"The country is green and the crops seem bountiful. And yet across the
head of the sea the country is yellow and bare. Attila's army will
starve."

"You have an observant eye, young man. How long do you think Attila can
remain on the Lombardy Plain?"

"Until he has captured all the northern cities and has used up their
stores of food. Not a day longer."

"Word reached us that all the cities of northern Italy are now in his
hands." Q. Caius Roscius was regarding his visitor with a smoldering
eye. "Our governor is an open enemy of Aetius," he went on. "He
complained to the Senate when the legions were taken away. It is
whispered about that he scraped every coin out of the treasury here in
Tergeste and sent a heavy subsidy to Attila in return for a promise to
pass us by. It was an act of treachery and, of course, he denies it. But
since Attila swung his forces down against Aquileia, this smug fool
struts about and smiles as though to say, 'I did it. I saved the city.'
But will Attila continue to keep his promise?"

"Only as long as he can afford to do so," declared Nicolan, with an
emphatic shake of his head. "He will keep his word until all his food
supplies are exhausted."

"And then?"

"Then you will see dust on the northern horizon and the horsemen of
Attila swooping down to destroy this province."

The shipping merchant nodded in agreement. "I have tried to convince the
men of Tergeste that this will happen. They will not believe it. They
should be repairing the walls and arming themselves for a siege. But
instead they laugh. I say to them: 'Where is Aquileia today? Where will
Tergeste be tomorrow?' It does no good. They are fat and content with
things as they are." He tore the communication into small pieces and set
them afire in a brazier in one corner of the room. "Why is it, young
man, that stupidity feeds on success? We are prosperous here in Tergeste
and our wealth makes us blind. And now may I ask what your plans are?"

Nicolan decided to give a frank answer in the hope of gleaning some
needed information. "I may go farther south. I am seeking the widow of
Tergeste."

The old merchant snorted. "The widow of Tergeste! Don't you know she
wasn't a widow until a few weeks ago? Her third husband ran away from
her. He was a dull, grasping fellow. Perhaps he couldn't stand her
tempers. Whatever it was, he disappeared and after a time it was assumed
he had died. He was in the East, it has come out, and he has finally
dropped his lids. Now that she is legally free, she will be much sought
after. Her wealth is almost beyond belief and she owns much property
here in Tergeste." He paused and permitted some relaxation of the
perpetual scowl into which his features were drawn. "If I could take ten
years off my life, I would marry her myself."

Nicolan bowed and began to back in the direction of the door. "If you
have no commands, I should be on my way," he said.

The communication he had brought had turned to charred wisps in the
brazier. Roscius stirred the ashes with a questing finger.

"I think it would be well to stay over the night," he said, looking up
at Nicolan. "A teller of tales is here and they say he has something
strange for our ears."


[2]

Nicolan acted on this hint and, when the sun began to sink and darkness
settled over the ruinous fortifications of the city, he made his way in
company with most of the men of Tergeste to one of the largest breaches
in the outer masonry. There was an adequate cleared space immediately
inside the walls at this point and the storyteller had elected to gather
his audience here. He was a little man, wearing a curious round felt hat
and with an undertunic of sharply contrasting colors showing at
intervals under the pale gray of his outer robe. Torches on long poles
had been set up in the breach and the entertainer had stationed himself
between them, so that his face was plainly visible to the crowds below.
When he took off his hat it was seen that his round head was as
completely bald as the egg of some huge extinct bird. His eyes, under
hairless brows, were singularly alert.

"Citizens of Tergeste," he began, and it caused much wonder that such a
slight frame could contain so deep and resonant a voice, "you are all of
the Christian Church. I am not. I come from a land beyond where the sun
rises and so the humble carpenter who has inspired your faith has never
been heard of there. We have a faith of our own. An old one. So very old
that my people live by it and die by it in an easy content."

He let his deep-set eyes wander over the people standing close-packed
beneath him. "Look at the shape of my nose, the line of my brow, the
color of my skin. Care you to guess from where I come?" He directed
another glance about him and, when no voice was raised in response, his
aged face revealed an infinity of new wrinkles in an attempt to smile.
"The land from which I come is far beyond the great rivers and the high
mountains and my people have many strange legends which I could tell
you. But, my good friends, it so happens that I have a wondrous tale to
relate which transcends anything I have heard in the land of my birth.

"Listen to me. Listen carefully. I, Tarmanza, a humble teller of tales,
stood close to Attila and the great father from Rome, who is called the
pope, when they met on the banks of the Mincius. How did it come about
that a footloose alien was allowed to see and listen at this great
moment? I will tell you. When it became known that the great father from
Rome would ride to meet Attila without a single armed guard, there were
some among those selected to go who said to themselves, 'Truly, I am not
feeling well enough for such a long ride, nor do I think my head would
make a suitable ornament for the tip of a Hun lance.' Now I am an old
man and I shall have very little further use for this head of mine, so I
went to one of these dubious priests and said I would wear his robe and
go in his place, and that I would keep the cowl down low over my face,
so none would know the difference. It was agreed.

"When we came to the crossing of the Mincius and we saw the Hun forces
on the other side, the pace of my fellows grew slower and slower. No one
protested when I passed, and gradually I progressed from my humble place
in the rear until I stood close to the shoulder of supreme holiness.

"The waters of the river ran sluggish and thin, for there still had been
no rain. I could see that the tents of the Huns were as many as the
sands of the riverbank and that the sky was red with their banners. But
I could see also that their bellies were hollow and that the ribs of
their horses could be counted. Behind us there was nothing but a grim
and fearsome emptiness. No Roman eagle flew there to give us courage."

There was a pause of several moments and then the voice of the narrator
rose to a higher note as he propounded a question. "Of whom shall I
speak first? Of Attila, the Scourge of God? Or of Pope Leo, who rode
without fear to tell the Hun that he must never set foot in Rome?"

The response was immediate and unanimous. Voices rose from all corners
of the cleared space. "Attila! Attila! Tell us of the Scourge of God!"

The narrator smiled bleakly. "It is always so. It is the villain of a
story who commands attention. Never the kind, the godly, the brave. It
shall be as you say, good friends of Tergeste, I shall tell you first of
Attila.

"Peering out from under my cowl," he went on, "I could see these two
great men more clearly than I see any of you below me tonight. I saw at
once that the body of Attila was old. His back was bent as he sat his
horse in front of the clump of advisers and guards. But his eyes were
not old! I could see them glitter as he studied the face of the pope. It
came to me as I watched that here was a man who would set loose all the
evil in the world to accomplish his ends and still believe that the end
was good. I saw him then as a man filled with contrast. There was death
in the fierceness of his glance but to the observant eye a hint of
compassion in his hands. He wore precious stones of a value beyond
compare but the tunic on which they clustered was old and stained. The
men behind him were ready to spring at the throats of the priests but
they fell silent and still when Attila moved a finger. They carried
rotting human heads on the tips of their lances but he had about him no
trophy of the wars.

"The pope was also a man of contrasts," he continued. "He was a Roman of
Romans, with the high courage, the pride, and the arrogance of his race
in the curve of his nose and the set of his jaw. And yet there was
gentleness and compassion to be read in him also, and a faith that
nothing could shake. He wore the rich vestments of his office but only
to impress the barbarian foe. Looking at them, listening to the words
they spoke, it came to me that the priest on his plainly caparisoned
mule would be the harder man to convince and the slower to change.

"The pope reached out a hand to the Hun leader. Attila edged his horse a
pace or two nearer and bowed over it. He did not kiss it as the pope had
expected. The Hun leader said: 'This salute is not for you, who have
great power in Rome which you use against me, but is in honor of the God
you serve. Of whom I have heard good things said.'

"The pope's eyes grew even more stern and he said in a threatening
voice: 'Form no hasty opinion of the God I serve, O Attila. He is a
stern God. He will strike you down if you set foot in His holy city of
Rome, even as He did the savage Alaric.'

"They talked for a long time. At least, Pope Leo talked. Attila said
little. The Huns who sat their sturdy little beasts behind him could not
understand what was being said; but they fingered the handles of their
swords, to make it clear that this was the only argument they knew."

There was another pause. Then the teller of tales began to speak in a
voice which made it clear that the bemusement into which he had been
plunged at the time still had him in its grip.

"Listen now to what befell. The pope raised an arm in the air and cried
out in a voice that could be heard up and down the bare banks of the
Mincius for great distances. 'Take not my word for the punishment which
the God of Israel will mete out to you if you set your heathen foot on
the holy stones of Rome. I beseech Him now to send messengers of His own
to warn you of your fate. I beg, O God on high, the aid of St. Peter and
St. Paul in this hour of great moment!'

"As he spoke, the skies seemed to open and two nebulous figures appeared
through the cleft clouds and came flying down to earth on swift wings. I
saw them with my own eyes, even though the light was so great that it
came near to blinding me. They were tall, these spirits who came at the
call of the pope, and they wore circlets of light above their heads and
the wings on their backs were as white as fleece. When they came to
earth, I could not gaze on their faces, so fierce was the light
surrounding them. I covered my face with my hands. But I could hear
their voices, even though I could not tell what they said."

The narrator paused. "I have already told you that I am not of the
Christian faith. And yet I say to you now that what I saw was not due to
any conjuring or magic trickery. I saw the skies open and I saw those
two awesome figures come down on their great wings through the path
which had opened for them like a stairway of gold. I saw their feet
touch earth and I knew they came in the guise of men but that no mortal
man who ever strode this earth was such as they.

"I kept my eyes closed until the sound of their wings began again. I
looked up then and they were gone. The clouds had closed and there was
no trace left of these strange visitors. And then I saw that all of
Attila's men had disappeared too. What I had mistaken for the rolling of
thunder had been the beat of their horses' hoofs as they rode away in a
panic. Attila alone had not moved. He had reined in his horse to keep it
from following the others and now had it under control. There was the
hint of a smile on his face.

"'My men,' he said, 'have seen enough of your angels, O Pope.'

"The panic had not been confined to the followers of Attila. The three
priests who had carried a tall cross before the pope had let it fall
from their hands and they were still on their knees, with their cowls
pulled down over their faces. 'It is not strange that you stand alone, O
Attila,' said the pope. 'The light from heaven is too fierce for mortal
eyes.' 'I shall ask no questions,' declared the Hun leader, 'although I
have been told that one Simon Magus could cause figures to appear and
disappear at his will. I do not speak of this in mockery nor to cast
doubt on the powers of your God. I have seen Him spread famine before my
advancing horsemen and so cause them to halt. And this is something the
legions of Rome could not do.' After a long and pregnant moment, Attila
added, 'I shall give thought to what I have seen and heard.'"

The teller of tales extinguished one of the torches beside him and
stepped down to the level of the ground. He placed a large bowl of base
silver on one of the upturned stones.

"I have one word to add. An hour after the train of the pope turned back
across the Mincius, there was a sound of great preparations in the camp
of the Huns. The tents were lowered, the horse lines were emptied, the
clatter of receding hoofs filled the night air. By morning the camp of
the enemy had been deserted."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Nicolan set a good example by depositing in the bowl a coin which gave
out a solid ring. The man from the East, standing beside the bowl, gave
him a smile of approving thanks. Tellers of stories are always poor men
and there was reason to think, in this instance, that a good reward had
been earned.

Nicolan, accepting an invitation from Roscius to pay him a second call,
found the old merchant in another tiny room in the countinghouse
overlooking the harbor. The latter was enjoying a sparse supper, in
which Nicolan refused to join, alleging lack of appetite. It consisted
of a jug of wine and a few shellfish which Roscius picked out with the
point of his pen.

"Are you surprised at the success of the pope?" asked the merchant.

Nicolan pondered over his reply. "The story that little man told keeps
going around and around in my head," he said. "It is not hard for me to
believe that the spirits of the two great saints came back to earth
again. If the God of Israel felt that the feet of the barbarian should
be stayed, He could destroy the whole Hun army at a nod. Perhaps,
instead, He chose to listen to the voice of Leo. And yet there is this
to be considered. It is impossible for me to believe Attila was
frightened into returning. He was in a desperate position. His men were
starving. Aetius refused to be drawn out to fight a decisive battle.
What would men say of a leader who led his army into such a hopeless
position? To retreat would be to acknowledge the enormity of his
mistake. But here an excuse was offered him. Do you suppose he said to
his generals, as soon as he could overtake them, 'We could have crushed
the Roman army but we cannot stand before the wrath of this mighty God
of the Christians'?"

Through the open windows they could hear the shouts of the townspeople,
exulting over the retreat of the Hun armies. The whole city was filled
with the sound.

"This wonderful news," said the old merchant, "has not yet reached Rome.
Ah, how they will rejoice when they hear! The people will flock to the
public squares and arenas. Every Hun prisoner, unlucky enough to be held
there in prison, will be dragged out and butchered in the streets. Ah,
how I wish I could see it!"

Nicolan rose to his feet. "What I have heard tonight makes it necessary
for me to change my plans. I had intended to go south along the coast to
where the widow lives." He looked sharply at the merchant, wondering how
much he dared tell. "The retreat of the Huns will mean the end of the
war. Attila thinks he can collect another army and march against Rome.
But he's wrong. He won't be able to keep his divisions together. Nothing
he can say or do will prevent them from returning to the countries from
which they come. It's even possible the Hun empire will fall to pieces."

"It's more than possible," declared Q. Caius Roscius, in a quiet voice.
"It's as certain as the rising and setting of the sun."

"My countrymen," went on Nicolan, "will have the chance at last to
regain their freedom. I must be there. Macio is very old and very sick.
Did you know that?"

The merchant smiled slyly. "I know everything about Macio. He has
written me every week for many years. You see, young man, I have been
his agent. I sell his horses in the markets of Rome and Constantinople.
You did not know that?"

"No," affirmed Nicolan. "I did not know that."

"I will tell you the latest word I have had about him. He is dying. He
may be dead, even as we speak together here tonight. The flames of his
funeral pyre may be lighting up the skies."

Nicolan shook his head despairingly. "I must get home before he dies.
You, who know so much, must be aware that his only son was killed at
Chlons. Nearly all the sons of the leading families died there. The
only one of them alive today is Ranno of the Finninalders."

"Ranno," declared the old man, in bitter tones, "is a traitor, a coward,
a liar, and a thief! It will be a sad thing for this country of yours if
he becomes leader."

"That's why I must go back. It isn't going to be easy. I shall have to
ride fast to get through the pass before it's filled with the retreating
armies. I must start at once. Can you give me a fresh horse? And
well-filled saddlebags?"

"I can give you everything you need. For, young man, I'm as anxious to
have you back as you are to be there. I want to see your country
prosperous again, so there will always be plenty of your fine horses for
me to sell."

Nicolan had been aware for some minutes of activity throughout the
dilapidated building, a closing of doors and slamming of bolts, of the
calling of voices from one part to another. An interruption was now
provided by the arrival of a wizened man in a far from clean tunic,
carrying a metal lamp of curious design in one hand.

"Master," said the new arrival, "all the doors are locked. The guards
are in their places."

"Are the doors to the wharfs double-locked? Are they bolted from
within?"

"Yes, master. I made the rounds and questioned each man on duty."

"Did you inspect the food laid out for their supper?"

"Yes, master."

"Are there still any complaints from them?"

The man took enough time to scratch himself under both arms before
replying. "They complain still. They complain about everything. They say
there are bugs in their bedding."

"Who are they to complain of such things?" cried the merchant in a tone
of exasperation. "There are bugs in my bedding. Do I complain? Are the
lights out?"

"All, master, save this one you are using." As he spoke the servant
raised the candle and set a light going in the lamp he had brought. It
gave out such a feeble illumination that he took it up and shook it
impatiently, muttering to himself: "They are no good, these lamps. They
are made for appearances only. That cheat in Antioch who peddles them
should be told what we think."

"He sells them to us cheap!" snapped Q. Caius Roscius. He smiled in mild
apology to Nicolan. "One has to be careful, for there are thieves
everywhere. This has been a wearisome day and I must now get to my
rest."

There were two small cots in the room. The grumbling servant had already
stretched himself out on one of them.

"Get up, you wallowing hog!" exclaimed the master. "I pay you to watch
over me and not to sleep yourself. Take this man to the main gate and
turn him over to Carlac." He had been scribbling a note which he now
handed to his guest. "This will get you what supplies you need. Carlac
will see to it."

"May I ask a favor? If the widow arrives back safely from the East, send
her word of me. And if anything is seen in the city of a very tall and
strong man who goes by the name of Ivar, have him brought to you. He
will be seeking word of me. Tell him of my plans."

Q. Caius Roscius had already stretched himself out on his meager bed.
"It shall be done," he promised, closing his eyes.




CHAPTER VI


[1]

The streets of Tergeste were littered next morning with broached wine
casks and broken flagons as well as the inert forms of snoring citizens,
stretched out drunkenly in the mud, after celebrating the retreat of the
Huns. Nicolan had to pick his way carefully in seeking again the
warehouses of Q. Caius Roscius.

"I leave for the north at once," he informed that most influential of
citizens. "The passes will soon be filled with Attila's men, so I must
go in disguise."

The merchant sent out for a man from the East to attend to this need. He
proved to be small with a dark skin and a huge nose which seemed heavy
enough to keep his head bent forward. After looking Nicolan over, he
untied a bundle and produced a variety of tiny containers. These were
filled with dyes and secret concoctions from the East. It took a very
short time to stain the traveler's head and neck, and his arms and hands
and legs, to a soft brown which glowed in the light. Then his hair and
eyebrows were changed to solid black. With a skilled forefinger the man
of disguises made lines on his skin which started at the nostrils and
circled down around the corners of his mouth.

"It is good?" asked the changer of faces, stepping back to inspect his
work.

"It is good," agreed the merchant.

Nicolan studied himself in a small mirror and saw the face of a complete
stranger, at least twenty years older, staring back at him.

The discussion then turned to the occupation he was to assume. Roscius
thought he should carry a bundle of trade goods and pose as an itinerant
merchant. Nicolan shook his head in dissent. "If you carry goods for
sale and never try to sell them, people get suspicious. It will be
better to go as a Christian missionary."

"To what country?"

Nicolan pointed due north. "To the lands of the Alamanni. That way takes
me first to my own country. I may find this disguise necessary there. It
lies, as you must know, in a corner between Noricum and the great
river."

He started out, therefore, on a staid horse and wearing a cross on the
sad gray of a threadbare tunic. The passage of the mountains offered no
difficulty, for the retreating armies were as yet represented only by
food commissioners who were stripping the land of food and building up
depots for the use of the troops following them. Turning due north, he
found himself on the roads to Noricum and thus avoided the fertile
Pannonian plains which had been Hun headquarters for two generations.

Wherever he stopped, he asked the same question: "Have you seen aught of
the widow of Tergeste? She travels north with a long train. Many horses
and tents of silk and carts loaded with food."

On the third night out from the pass, the keeper of a small inn nodded
his head in response. "Widow T'gest pass this morning," he said, in a
broken mixture of tongues. "But no longer widow. She wife. Find new
husband."

"Again!" cried the supposed missionary. On second thoughts, however, he
did not consider this information surprising, in view of what he had
heard while a prisoner in the hands of Aetius. "She can afford many
husbands, for she is a fine woman and the possessor of much wealth," he
commented.

The publican nodded in agreement. "She have much of everything. Land and
houses and horses and cattle. And slaves. Also much of high temper." He
giggled. "Ah, what temper! But under everything much kindness of heart."

"What direction did they take?"

The innkeeper pointed into the north. "To land of fine horses," he said.

"Was there another lady with her? Young and beautiful?"

After rubbing his nose in reflection, the owner of the inn nodded.
"Small," he said. "Nice in thin way."

"With golden hair?"

The owner made a circular motion around his head. "Wrapped in black," he
said. "Hair not show."


[2]

Pleased beyond measure by the information he had received, Nicolan
stirred his patient steed into action and overtook his friends as they
were setting up camp for the night. Tents were being put up and the
horses were being staked out while a most enticing odor of food radiated
from the campfires. He was amazed to see a tall and commanding figure in
white, with a heavy gold chain around his neck and silk cords on his
sandals, and to recognize this spectacle of magnificence as Ivar. The
tall Briton was superintending the work of the camp with great
briskness. The widow (for he could not yet call her anything else) was
seated in comfort in a chair. A slender and travel-weary figure crouched
on the ground beside her. Nicolan's heart turned over with joy. If he
had seriously entertained doubts as to his love for Ildico, they flew
away into the rapidly darkening sky. He wanted to pick the tired figure
up and cradle her head on his shoulder.

Nicolan turned his horse in toward the camp. "There is much danger on
these roads for solitary travelers," he said. "Might a humble servant of
the Lord set up his tent on the edge of your camp for the protection it
will give?"

Ivar came forward and gave him a glance of inspection. "We will be happy
if you join us, Father," he said. "You will be welcome to share in the
supper which is being prepared."

"Your kindness is far beyond my deserts. But I have not broken fast
since morning and I confess to an appetite."

The slender figure beside the widow had risen and walked over to take
part in the discussion. She stationed herself close by the head of his
horse and stared up at him with close interest.

"Take the pebble from under your tongue, Nicolan of the Ildeburghs," she
said.

Nicolan, completely taken aback, stared down at her, while the light of
recognition grew in her face. She gave a laugh of sheer delight and
relief. "You are back!" she said. "You are safe. How kind the Lord has
been to you. And to all of us."

Ivar had been watching with an incredulous frown. "Are you mad, Ildico?"
he asked. "This is an old man. I see no resemblance in him at all."

Eugenia left her chair and joined the group, passing an arm under Ivar's
elbow and leaning her head against his shoulder. She also studied the
dark and deeply lined face of the stranger on the passive horse.

"It's an old face," she said. "And yet--and yet----"

"I knew his voice at once!" cried Ildico. "And now I see behind that
clever mask someone who--who has been much in my thoughts."

Ildico had been right about the pebble. Nicolan removed it from his
mouth and sprang down to the ground. He reached out and claimed both of
her hands.

"I have been in your thoughts!" he cried. "How happy that makes me! I am
proud that you recognized me."

They were so concerned with one another that they were paying no
attention to the others. Ivar, who had recognized him as soon as he
resumed his own voice, was dismayed over the slowness with which he had
identified his friend. Eugenia murmured to him: "Be not concerned, my
husband. It is right they should think of each other first."

Nicolan, refusing to release her hands, was saying to Ildico: "I would
never fail to recognize you because I have always been able to keep a
full picture of you in my mind. Once when I sat in the inner cabinet of
Aetius, an artist paid him a visit. I heard him say that there is in
every face one feature so distinctive that it serves as a sure root of
recognition. If you can keep that one point clearly in your mind, the
whole face stays with you and never fades away."

She asked, "And what is there in my face?"

"Chiefly the line of your brows. Instead of being straight or tilting up
at the ends, they turn down. Whenever I think of the sweetness of
expression this gives you, I can see your whole face as clearly as
though you are with me. In addition"--he released one hand to lay a
finger on his nostril--"there is the beauty with which the divine
sculptor fashioned the tip of your nose."

"We also are glad to see you, dear Nicolan," said the new bride.

He walked over and took a hand of each in his. "It is not hard to reach
the conclusion you are married. I passed an inn early this morning where
the owner told me you had ceased to be a widow. But I had no suspicion
that the man you had selected was this Goliath from the islands." He
turned to Ivar. "My old friend! I am pleased beyond words. The
impression grows in me that you are both going to be very happy."

Ivar, who seldom smiled, indulged in a somewhat self-conscious grin.
"Yes, I am happy. And proud. And now I am doubly happy because you have
returned safely."

"It is true," said the bride, with a slight toss of the head, "that I
selected him. I could see it was the only way. I went about nine tenths
of the distance and then my pride compelled me to stop. I waited. He
came the rest of the way, stumbling and hesitating and hardly able to
speak. But now we are married. I have him, my strong, my fourth, my last
husband. He is worth more than all the others put together."

"I had made up my mind from the beginning," protested Ivar. "I had seen
the sweetness in your eyes."

The wife turned to look at Ildico and Nicolan, with eyes which had
opened wide. "I swear this is the nicest thing he has ever said about
me!" she declared.

Ivar became quite loquacious. "I am being given a free hand to guide our
lives in everything that counts."

"Well..." began Eugenia. Then she smiled. "Go on and tell them about
it."

"My wife accepts my beliefs, my views of life, my opinions. I decide
where we are to go, and when. I even take it on myself at times to
decide what my wife is to wear."

"But," said Eugenia, "he never shows any interest in what lands I own
and the horses and cattle I have. He has never asked how much gold I
have laid away. As long as he does not bother me about such matters, I
am content to have him control these other trifles which he thinks are
so important. So, it may be that our marriage will prove a perfect one."

Nicolan had heard much of the luxury which prevailed at the tables of
the great families of Rome but he was not prepared for the succession of
dishes which the cooks, laboring over the blazing campfires, had been
able to prepare and which were now served on a commodious table set up
for them. The ladies had changed to more suitable clothes, Ildico a
light blue robe and Eugenia a tunica of modest white and a palla worn
over it of a quiet green without a single jewel and no more than a
modest showing of embroidery. Nicolan asked himself in wonder when he
saw her, "Did Ivar have a hand in choosing this most becoming costume?"

The meal began with a white fish caught that morning in a lake they had
passed. Roast shoulder of hare followed, which caused the hostess to
smile at her husband. "My dear Fourth," she said, "this is supposed to
enhance one's charms. Perhaps I should take a large portion."

"No," said Ivar, firmly. "It is more likely to enhance your waistline."

The main dish was white sausages nestling in mounds of white meal, with
sliced figs. With each course a light and sparkling wine was served.


[3]

"And now," said Nicolan, when the meal was over and only a flagon of the
wine was left on the table, "I have a preference to declare. I want to
hear all that has happened to you before I tell you anything of the
rather sorry adventures I have encountered."

So he was told how Ivar had found them in Constantinople, with special
emphasis on his emulation of the great Samson, how Ildico won the race,
how generous the desert king had been, and how the wedding ceremony was
performed in a small Christian chapel on the banks of the Danube. It
developed that Ivar had worn for the occasion a tunic of cloth of gold
with a belt of the deepest blue, his own selection.

Ivar began then to tell of their journey back from Constantinople. "We
found that Macio had been right. There was too much danger on the
regular routes to Rome. The mountain passes were closely watched. So we
had to come through the Garizonda."

"The tunnel under the mountain?"

Ivar nodded. "I had my doubts about trying it, with two such lovely
ladies. But they wouldn't listen to any other plan. Ildico even offered
to take a pair of our men and make a trial venture into it. I wouldn't
agree to that, so finally we provided ourselves with plenty of torches
and saddlebags well stocked with food--in case the getting out didn't
prove as easy as the going in--and down into it we went.

"It was a great adventure," he went on. "The floor of stone had been
worn level and smooth during the centuries that the water flowed over
it. It was slippery also and we had to keep our horses on a tight rein.
I rode first and I promise you we went at a sedate pace."

"Did you encounter anything alive?" asked Nicolan, recalling the stories
he had heard about the passage.

"There were snakes near the entrance. But after that--nothing. Nothing
but continuous sound. Each hoofbeat was taken up and echoed through the
caverns in the rock above us. When one of us spoke, the words were
repeated over and over until they died away in a mere whisper. Ildico
sang and shouted for the pleasure of hearing her voice come back from
all around us."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing but the light of the torches. There were twenty of us and each
carried a torch. When I looked back, it was like a long line of large
fireflies in the dark. Ildico's eagerness not to miss anything had
brought her up beside me and she insisted she could see things. She said
there were inscriptions on the walls. Ancient letters and rough sketches
of men and animals. She has rare powers of sight and sometimes we called
her Little Mistress with the Eyes of a Cat. But when she began talking
about the inscriptions, we laughed at her and said she was imagining it.
But perhaps she was right. She gave us one proof before we reached the
other end of the tunnel."

Nicolan's interest had been roused to a high point. He said, "Tell me
all about it and what she really saw."

"She said that there was a deeper channel at one side and that she had
seen the body of a man lying at the bottom of it. When I got off my
horse to investigate, she was determined to go with me but I insisted
she stay where she was. Well, it turned out she was right. There was a
deeper channel and there _was_ a body in it. But it had been there a
long time. Only a skeleton was left."

"Did you find anything to show what kind of man he had been?"

Ivar shook his head. "He had been there so long that even the bones were
crumbling to dust."


[4]

Nicolan's recital of his two missions into Roman territory took a long
time, for his friends were eager to hear everything. Eugenia laughed
when he mentioned Lutatius Rufus. "That foolish fellow, that great
piping loon!" she said. "Will you believe that I considered him once as
a possible husband? Because his blood was of the purest patrician
strain. But he was younger than I--well, a year or so, perhaps--and he
babbled all the time. I quickly gave up the idea."

"He told me," said Nicolan, "that the Princess Honoria had her eye on
him once."

Ildico sat up straight at the mention of the princess. She plied him
with a score of questions which he answered briefly and without any
embellishment. Was she beautiful? Yes. Did he like her? Well--yes. Did
she like him? Yes. The affirmative nature of his responses finally
reduced her to silence, after an explosive summing up: "I think
everything they say about her is true. And I feel very sorry for that
handsome slave from the East. She will treat him badly."

When the newly married pair had retired to the silken pavilion, with
which the Lady Eugenia had hallmarked her wealth and prominence, Ildico
removed the black bands which covered her hair. She ran her fingers
through the long golden tresses and sighed with relief.

"And now," she said, "we have much to talk about. Particularly your
reason for going home. You know, of course, the danger you will face?"

Nicolan nodded his head. "We'll undoubtedly find that Ranno of the
Finninalders has established himself in a position of power. I'm sure he
has been spreading lies about the part I played in the battle of
Chlons. Sooner or later I expect to be summoned before the Ferma. For
that reason, I'm going to keep this disguise until I feel it safe to
come out into the open."

"But why return now?" She hesitated before continuing. "Suppose the
verdict of the Ferma went against you? Ranno is clever as well as sly.
He'll stop at nothing to destroy you."

"He has many reasons for hating me. For one thing he still holds the
lands which belong to me." Thinking how large and lovely her eyes were
in the fading light from the campfires, he added to himself: "But
chiefly he hates me because of you. He's afraid you may have retained
some of the liking you had for me once."

"But you haven't said why you feel you must go back," said Ildico,
wrapping her hands about her knees and leaning closer. "Do you think
there's a possibility that our people can strike for their independence
now?"

"Attila is retreating from the plains," answered Nicolan. "It may lead
to the breaking up of the Hun empire. If that comes about"--he paused
and his eyes began to glow--"I must be there to help. I've learned
something of army organization which would be useful." After a moment's
silence he added, "I happen to know that Attila is a sick man."

"My father's too old to command any more," said the girl, in a
despairing voice, "and my brother is dead. The Roymarcks will have no
part in the great day. How fine it would be if you could lead us when
the time comes!" She was silent again and he could see that anxiety had
taken possession of her thoughts. While he waited to hear what more she
had to say, a loud neigh reached them from the direction of the horse
lines. Her face lighted up. "That is the king. He is wishing me good
night." Another thought had crossed her mind, apparently, for she seemed
to be considering some course of action. "Nicolan, something seems to
tell me a time may come when you will need a horse to carry you far and
fast. I wonder if--well, why not try? The king might take it into that
haughty head of his to like you. He might let you ride him. Let us get
up with the dawn and see how he will respond."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Harthager lifted his head and trumpeted a greeting. He reared up on his
hind legs and pawed at the air in his pleasure at seeing his mistress.

"Ah, my fine one!" said Ildico. "You have missed me, then, O King?"

From a proper distance, Nicolan gave full rein to the delight he felt in
watching her. She had matured since that morning when he had seen her
ride away in the widow's train. The slight hollows of youth under her
cheekbones had filled out and the slender lines of her early years had
merged into a more rounded figure. Her carriage, as a result, was surer
and more graceful. Even her golden hair seemed to shine with a more
vital glint in the morning sun.

Constantinople had left its mark on her. Her dress was red and cut
straight across the neck but with a V in the back. There was an arrow
embroidered in gold thread on each shoulder, pointing outward. Her belt
was of leather and richly encrusted with silver. Styles were much
simpler in the plateau country but he realized how very much the costume
became her.

The affinity between the girl and the great black race horse was a
surprising thing to see. Harthager was as gentle as a colt. He stood at
ease as she spoke into his ear and occasionally he would raise his head
as though affirming what she was saying. It seemed to the watcher that
something of the origin of their race could be learned from this
handsome specimen. It was clear enough that he owed much to the Arabian
strain, his glossy skin and his speed, but his length and the smallness
of his head suggested that he had something of the Turcoman in him as
well. It might even be that his obvious strength of bone came from the
rugged horses of the Eastern steppes. Had the race come originally from
the cold barrens?

After a few moments, Ildico turned her head. "I am telling the king that
you are a friend. That he can trust you and that someday soon you may
ride on his back. Have you seen how he watches you? He has a mind of his
own, you know, and it is usual for him to make it up quickly. Sometimes
it is instant. There's a spark, a flash in his eye. He will show his
likes or dislikes as quickly as that. I have seen him take the most
violent dislike, a hate almost, and when that happens it is well for
whoever it is to stay at a distance. I can't be sure about him now, for
he seems to be taking his time. But I think he's going to like you."

"I haven't noticed any trace of antagonism," said Nicolan.

"Well, you are one of us and he knows it. The only point is whether he
will like you well enough to let you ride him. I'm the only one he has
allowed on his back since we left home. He knows he's the king and he
won't permit liberties.

"He's getting a little out of temper lately," she went on. "I think he
wants to go home. I've seen him many times, standing very still and
gazing into the north. I think he's homesick for the coolness in the air
and the richness of the grass, and the brothers he left in the Roymarck
pastures. Sometimes I believe he thinks of Roric. You know, he and my
brother were great friends. Do you suppose he knows that Roric is dead?"

"Yes, he would know," said Nicolan. "If Roric _is_ dead."

Ildico left her position at the horse's head and ran a few steps toward
him, her hands outstretched. "_If_ he is dead!" she cried. "Nicolan,
what do you mean? Is there any doubt? Do you know something you haven't
told me? You mustn't hold it back if there is any reason at all to
hope."

"It's cruel to rouse false hopes, so I haven't said anything to you.
But, Ildico, his body was never found. The slope of the hill was
searched from top to bottom, so I was told, because it would have been
to Ranno's advantage to display the body. It was not there. Early the
next morning, before leaving with the rear guard, I went all over that
part of the battlefield. Many bodies were still on the ground but not
Roric's."

"But, Nicolan!" cried the girl, in a voice breaking with emotion. "If he
wasn't dead, what became of him? And he was so terribly wounded. An
arrow in his eye!" She shuddered with the horror this aroused in her.
"Had he been carried off? Who could have done it?"

"I have asked myself those questions a thousand times. And I have never
been able to see any light."

"If he is alive, where has he been all this time? Why haven't we heard
from him? It's a terrifying thought! Was he taken prisoner? By those
savage people who were holding the top of the hill? Has he been sold as
a slave?"

"I am sorry now that I spoke. I have raised these questions in your mind
and you won't be able to put them aside."

"I know that the chance is so very, very small. And yet it is sweet to
have hope."

She turned back to Harthager, who had continued to stand quietly by. She
laid a gentle hand on his muzzle. "Do you remember Roric?" she asked.
"Of course you do. You were friends, you and my dear Roric. He was the
first to ride on your back. He rode you that morning when you ran so
fast and my father selected you as the new king."

Nicolan was watching the black. When Ildico stepped aside, he took her
place at the horse's head.

"Harthager," he said, "you are a king in your own right. You can choose
the few on whom you bestow your favors. I may not be one of them. But a
lady for whom we both have a very great affection hopes that we can be
friends. Perhaps you will accept me for her sake."

He laid a hand on the horse's withers. Harthager remained perfectly
still. His skin did not shrink from the alien touch.

"It is a grand day for a gallop in the hills." Nicolan moved closer
slowly and then, tightening his grip, sprang up on the horse's back.
Harthager tossed his head and lifted his front feet from the ground as
though to rid himself of this sudden burden. For a moment it was touch
and go; he might give in or he might exert his great strength to remove
this presumptuous human from his back. Nicolan waited and then exerted
the pressure of his right knee on the heaving flank. Harthager turned
instinctively and began to gallop up the road.

"Faster," said Nicolan, in a tone free of all incitement or urgency.
"Lengthen your stride, O King. The wind will fill our lungs. It is a day
when the sound of your hoofbeat should come down from the hills like a
rumble of distant thunder."

In a very short space of time, Ildico, listening and watching eagerly,
heard a sound like the coming of a storm from the road winding up above
her.




CHAPTER VII


[1]

It was around midnight when the party reached the long and rambling
house of the Roymarcks. The gate in the palisade was strongly barred
against the Devil or other nocturnal visitors of ill intent, and not a
light was showing. The leader of the horse troop sounded a high note on
a shell trumpet but had to repeat it twice before a voice behind the
sharply pointed logs demanded to know who was there. A quaver in the
tone indicated that the worst was feared.

"It's Bustato!" said Ildico to Nicolan, in a delighted whisper. "Being
disturbed at night doesn't please him at all. I expect he's twitching
his nose as a cat does its tail."

Old Blurki, the clown and jack-of-all-trades, was holding a torch behind
Bustato and, by the light it cast, it was easy to see that the
major-domo was indeed in a bad humor. "Who is it, who is it?" he asked
in a querulous voice. "Is this a time for decent people to be demanding
shelter?"

"A fine welcome you're giving me, Bustato!" cried Ildico, stepping
forward into the circle of light.

The ancient servant peered out incredulously. Then he recognized her and
raised his voice in a welcoming screech. "It is the Lady Ildico! Get
everyone up, Blurki, and have food prepared at once. Let the Lady Laudio
know, Brynno. The daughter of the house has returned!"

The clown indulged in a grotesque step which was supposed to express
delight and then vanished into the darkness of the house, shouting in
hoarse tones: "Up, knuckleheads! Get the sleep out of your eyes,
stinking sons of swine!"

All members of the party had entered the courtyard when the older
daughter of the house appeared. Laudio had hastily wrapped a blue robe
about her and it was clear from the slightly disheveled state of her
fine dark hair that she had been sleeping. She gave a questing glance at
Ildico and then said, without much warmth in her voice: "So, it is you
at last, my sister. You have been long away."

The younger daughter ran forward and threw herself into her sister's
arms. "Laudio!" she cried. "How happy I am to see you. Are you well? And
content?"

Laudio's welcome took the form of a cool kiss on one cheek. "I am quite
well. But I've had little reason to be content."

Ildico drew back far enough to study her sister's face. "Laudio, my
father! Is he--is he...?"

"He's still alive if that is what you are asking, but we can't expect
much. It's a matter of time now. Of days. Perhaps of hours."

"Oh, God, I thank Thee that I have arrived in time to see him," said
Ildico, stifling her tears.

She proceeded after a moment of intense silence to introduce the members
of the party. Laudio had undoubtedly expected to hear that the lady
muffled up in a light blue cloak of the richest material from the East
was Eugenia of Tergeste. The fame of the once fabulous widow was
widespread. Despite the tension created by Ildico's grief over her
father's condition, the deep brown eyes of the older sister made a
thorough survey of the becoming apparel of the guest from the south. She
then looked at the huge form of Ivar with a suggestion of recognition
but did no more than bow to him.

"My new husband," said Eugenia. "The fourth."

The voice of Blurki was heard to mutter in the background, "Who can say
it doesn't pay to travel?"

"There are sixteen of us in all," explained Ildico. "Can you find room
for us?"

"Certainly," declared Laudio, proudly. "Are there limits to the
hospitality of the Roymarcks? Have you been so long away that you have
forgotten your home?"

Servants were pouring out through the main door of the house, their eyes
heavy with sleep but their delight in the return of the younger sister
manifest in the fervor with which they came forward to kneel before her
and kiss her hand. Old Blurki was still rousing the laggards, for they
could hear him declaiming from within about malt-horses and gig-geese
and slobberchops.

"I will tell Father that you have arrived, Ildico," said Laudio.
"Perhaps he will feel well enough to see you. He is in a weakened
condition."

The younger sister was a picture of surprise and dismay. "But, Laudio, I
will go with you!" she exclaimed. "Am I not a daughter of the house
also? I can't wait a moment to see my beloved father."

"As you wish. But it may prove too much for him."

Nicolan was thinking to himself, "If this woman marries Ranno, they will
be a well-matched pair!"


[2]

Nicolan had been one of the last to enter the courtyard and he had kept
himself inconspicuously in the rear. But standing a full head above
everyone in the crowded yard, over which two torches had been raised on
the points of spears, Ivar was the cause of much comment. Was he not the
tall man who had come once before in the company of Nicolan of the
Ildeburghs? If so, where was Nicolan? Was he again with the armies of
Attila?

Food was laid out in the hall, which monopolized most of the space on
the ground floor, and there was a subdued clatter as the travelers
applied themselves to cold meat and the rich red barley beer. Nicolan
excused himself from joining the company by raising the cross from his
breast as a sign that he was fasting. He was waiting anxiously for
Ildico's return and the report she would bring of her father's
condition. Standing wearily in the vestibule, he was rewarded finally by
the sound of her voice from somewhere back in the shadows of the house.
If her tone lacked hope, it did not suggest that a crisis had been
reached. Macio, then, was still alive.

Retreating still farther back in the shadows, he saw her emerge from the
room where her father lay. She looked, he thought, like the bud of a
flower which has been carelessly crushed; but there was on her features,
in spite of this, the merest hint of a smile. He heard her say to her
sister, "How fortunate that I have come in time," and Laudio's composed
rejoinder, "We have carried a heavy burden since you went away."

The two sisters faced each other in silence for several moments. It was
as though they were seeking to understand the terms on which they might
stand. Nicolan read this in the stiffness with which they held
themselves and in the intentness of their eyes. He said to himself: "My
poor Ildico! She was expecting so much happiness in being with Laudio
again. She's puzzled, that lovely child, and very unhappy."

The conversation which followed was conducted in such low tones that he
could not hear any of it at first. Laudio's features never changed and
her eyes, cool and removed, did not leave her sister's face. Ildico was
close to the point of tears.

Finally he heard the latter ask about their brother. "You have told me
nothing of Roric," she said. "That means, I fear, that no word has been
heard of him."

Laudio shook her head. "Roric is dead. We have been reconciled to that
for a long time. All we can hope for now is to establish in the Ferma
the guilt of those who were responsible for his death. And to see them
punished."

"Who will take Father's place?"

Laudio turned her cold and set face toward her sister. "Who else but
Ranno? Why should it be necessary for you to ask? He is the only son of
the first families to survive that terrible battle."

"Has it been voted on, then?"

"There has been no meeting called. When there is only Ranno, why should
the Ferma be summoned to vote?"

"But, Sister, it has always been done by the vote of the people. Have
you forgotten the story of how the head of our family was chosen
centuries ago? A meeting was held on the banks of the Volga and it took
a full day to reach a decision. There has been a Roymarck at the head of
the Ferma ever since."

Laudio said stiffly, "Times have changed since then."

Ildico hesitated. "Will you marry Ranno soon?"

A flush took possession of the older sister's face. "Why do you think I
would know? My marriage is in my father's hands. He has told me nothing.
It's not his way to let me share his confidence. That privilege has
always been reserved for you. Perhaps"--with a hint of bitter antagonism
in her voice--"he will tell you what plans he has for _me_."

"Dear Sister, you are so cold and hard," exclaimed Ildico. "I have
always loved you so much! I was hoping you would be glad to see me but
now it's clear you are not."

"You didn't come back to see me. But as you are here, I have a word of
advice for you. Keep your hair under that black wrap. Our men will be
less concerned about you if you don't flaunt your yellow tresses in
their faces. And you must know that the armies of Attila are retreating.
You may have delivered yourself into his hands by coming back like
this."

With a gesture which said, I have been letting you have the benefit of
the truth, Laudio turned and walked through the vestibule where Nicolan
was standing. She frowned as though she had just realized something
about him, and paused to stare for a moment. Then she passed on.

"I'm afraid she's beginning to suspect who I am," thought Nicolan.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Bustato sought him out to explain that it would be necessary for him, in
spite of his cloth, to share one of the small cubicles which stretched
across the rear of the house, with two other members of the Lady
Eugenia's train.

"The Abbot of Furle arrived early in the evening with eight in his
party," explained the major-domo. "Ten of our own people will have to
sleep under the table. The maids may go to the stables and sleep in the
hay."

Bustato watched Nicolan closely as he talked and it seemed possible he
had some inkling of the latter's identity. If he had, he was keeping the
knowledge to himself. Perhaps Ildico had warned him.

The two horsemen with whom he was to share one of the tiny sleeping
rooms were already curled up on the reed-strewn floor, and were filling
the place with the rhythm of their snoring. A length of tree trunk had
been provided for a pillow. He lay down but for a long time was
forbidden the solace of sleep.


[3]

A lane led back from the pasture lands which, after a steep climb, ended
in a clump of high trees. Nicolan had been perched on a limb of the
tallest of the trees since dawn. From where he sat he could see much of
the land which was rightfully his and his eyes had shone as they rested
on the green of the low hills and the sweetness of the fields where the
Ildeburgh horses had once grazed. "I'll never get it back unless I take
the bold course," was the thought which ran through his mind. "Why have
I returned home disguised, like a thief in the night?"

Bracing one leg around the trunk of the tree, he drew a small bottle
from his belt. It had been given him as a means of removing the stain
and he proceeded to apply the contents to his face and neck with a rough
vigor. By the time he exhausted the lotion, the soft rain, which had
been falling for hours, had turned into a cold and ice-tipped downpour.
The canopy of the clouds changed from a black as opaque as a panther's
coat to a sodden gray, and the tops of the trees pitched and tossed and
threatened to precipitate him to the ground.

He became aware at this point that a slender figure, muffled to the neck
in a dark blue cloak and wearing one of the rough cloth caps which
peasants used in the fields, was hurrying up the slope. A second glance
revealed that it was Ildico.

The girl paused breathlessly in the far from adequate cover of the trees
and glanced up at him. "I thought you might be here," she said.

Nicolan was taken by surprise. "There wasn't a sound in the house when I
left except a footstep in the kitchens. How did you guess?"

Her eyes followed the flight of some bedraggled crows on their way to
the Ildeburgh woods. "When I was a small girl I used to climb that tree
often. I would sit there and pray that someday you would escape and come
back. Then I would go home and beg my father to buy your freedom. But he
said no one knew where you were." Then she cried out in amazement.
"You've removed that ugly stain! I'm glad, although it may betray you to
Ranno." She continued to stare up at him. "I'm happy to see you haven't
really changed at all from the long-lost friend who came back that one
day and thought he could catch me when I was riding Harthager. From the
way you were disguised, I couldn't be sure." She indulged in a light
laugh. "You looked like a sad and lonely monkey, pining for the
jungles!"

Nicolan descended to the ground by swinging himself from limb to limb,
after the order of the hairy tribe she had said he resembled. He faced
her for a moment in a tense silence.

"I have loved you all my life!" he declared.

Ildico displayed her surprise at the unexpectedness of this declaration.
A pink Hush spread over her cheeks and brow.

"It began the first time I saw you," he went on. "That was when you were
so young that you couldn't possibly remember."

"But I do," she insisted.

"My father took me along on a visit he was paying to _your_ father. I
was quite young myself and he was sure I was the best rider for my age
that ever sat a horse. He was planning to have me show what I could do.
But when we rode down this slope and came out on the flatlands, we saw a
very small figure riding a black colt."

Ildico nodded her head, with excited recollections. "That was the king's
grandsire. We thought he would become king but it was soon clear that he
hadn't the speed."

"My father said to me, 'That must be the second daughter.' Then he drew
in his horse to watch. You couldn't have been more than five years old
and yet you were performing feats I had never dreamed of trying. You
were taking the high hurdles and not hesitating at any of the ditches.
My father said, 'She's hardly out of the cradle.' Then he turned to me
with a black look on his face. 'My son,' he said, 'when we arrive, you
will get off your horse and not mount again until we are ready to leave.
When we get home, I shall take your training in hand myself.' I wasn't
too young to realize that he was deeply mortified. 'There will always be
a whip in my hands. You are going to learn to ride.' Between my father
and his whip, I _did_ learn." He paused. "You don't remember anything of
this."

"Yes, I do. I remember everything. I saw you coming in the distance and
I decided to show you I was worth some attention, even if I was so
small. I remember thinking, 'It's the Ildeburgh boy. Does he think he
can ride like a Roymarck?' But you looked very big and grown up to me.
_How_ you must have hated me!"

"No!" cried Nicolan. "I had never seen a girl with golden hair before.
And you were wearing red shoes and they were small enough for a kitten.
You have no idea how easy it was for me to fall in love with you.

"From that time on," he continued, "you were never out of my mind. I
thought of you all day and I dreamed about you at night. Are you
interested in all this?"

"Oh, I am! I am very much interested. I want to hear everything."

"When you were not in my dreams, they were vague and meaningless and
soon forgotten. But I remember everything that happened when you came
into them. Do you ever dream in color?"

Ildico frowned uncertainly. "In color? I don't know. I've never thought
about it. As far as I can tell, my dreams are always gray in tone and
not very clear."

"I heard the point discussed in Rome many times. The young patricians,
looking for favors, would come to the cabinet of Aetius and try to
impress him with their learning. Sitting in my corner, I heard
everything they said. This was one of their favorite topics and they all
seemed to think that it was due to sleeping late--all Romans slept late
except Aetius--and having the sunshine on their faces. I knew they were
wrong because I dreamed of you constantly and you always appeared in the
most gorgeous of colors. I tried to write poems about it but I only
succeeded in getting one line: 'Your hair is like the dust of fire
opals.' That convinced me that I would never be able to finish a verse."

"But it was _good_," she insisted.

"In the summer, you would get a few freckles on the bridge of your nose.
That delighted me because it proved you were human after all. One night
I saw you much more clearly than I had ever been able to do in sunlight,
and I counted them. The next day I asked you to take a mirror and count
them yourself. You answered----"

"Seven," responded Ildico, promptly.

"And that was the number I had seen in my dream." He paused for a
moment. "Even then I realized how presumptuous it was of me to fall in
love with you. And now--well, you have rejected the hand of an Eastern
king and you've been running away for years from the prospect of
becoming the empress of the Huns."

"One in forty," she reminded him. "Doesn't it occur to you that there
may be someone else I prefer?"

The rain was gaining in volume with each passing moment. They huddled
close to the trunk of the tree for shelter and he saw that her cloak had
been a poor protection against the downpour. He wrapped a veil about her
throat, his fingers trembling when they came near the dimple in her
cheek or touched her small chin. To break the spell, she reminded him
that he had not told her why he had thrown away so soon the protection
of his disguise.

"For many reasons. How could I expect to win any favor in your eyes
while I looked like that sad-faced monkey from Africa? Could I hope to
play any part in the preparations we should be making for the day when
the Hun empire breaks up? There must be no delay about that because we
can't leave the leadership in the incompetent hands of Ranno. How could
I wait any longer in removing the stain from my honor by proving I had
no part in the plot which sent your brother to his death?"

She looked up quickly at that. "I never believed you did! Never!"

Nicolan took possession of her hands and pressed them with a fervor
which could be traced in only a small degree to gratitude. "I didn't
intend to declare my love so soon," he said. "But, presumptuous or not,
I found I couldn't be silent about it any longer."

"But are you being fair? A woman prefers to hear a declaration of love
when she looks her best. She must be wearing the finest of silk which
rustles with every move she makes. Her hair must be beautifully tired.
She must be pomaded and perfumed. Certainly she must not look as I do at
this moment--like a poor little half-drowned mouse."

"You look more beautiful as you are than Cleopatra in her cloth of gold
and all the royal jewels of Egypt in her hair."

This won a flashing smile from her. "What a gallant speech! I shall
never forget it. But, please, let me tell you first of my reason for
following you here." She was able to find a dry spot close to the trunk
of the tree and, seating herself there, began to speak in a low tone of
voice which indicated a sudden drop of spirits. "I am certain many
things are going to happen. Strange and perhaps dreadful things. I came
here to meet you because I thought we should talk alone about what we
are to do."

Nicolan seated himself beside her. The rain had become almost autumnal
in its fury. It was as though the spirits of the air had opened all the
spigots from the celestial cisterns which held the supplies stored up
for winter use.

"That day at Epirus," she said, "when I rode Harthager back from the
race, I found a little black man sitting against the woven fence of the
enclosure, tossing gold coins in his hands. He was incredibly ugly and
wicked-looking. But, when he spoke to me, it was in a friendly and
persuasive voice. He said he had won the gold by betting on me and the
black, and he wanted to repay me with a word of advice.

"It seems he was from Africa and was in some small way a trainer of
racing horses, so that he came in touch with all manner of people. He
had heard much talk. 'Go away,' he said. 'Go away at once. That Attila,
that bad man, he has spies here. They will lose no time in letting him
know about you.' I said to him that Attila couldn't do me any harm so
far away from his borders but the little black man shook his head. 'He
will catch all your people and your friends and he will threaten to kill
them by slow torture unless you go to him. But he can't do that if you
vanish from sight. Listen to me, my lady. Go over to Athens. Take boat
there for the East. Go as far as Cathay. There only will you he safe
from this very bad man.'

"I told the widow about it. She knew the trainer. 'He's an honest little
whipster,' she said. 'If he says Attila has agents here, then it's the
truth he's telling. We had better leave at once.' So we left that night
when it was dark. The little man came to see us go. He told me, 'Agent
of bad man has had picture of you painted to send to him. You better
ride fast.' We rode fast until we reached Athens but we didn't take ship
there. As you know, we rode north to Constantinople instead.

"I talked to my father last night," she continued, "and he gave me the
same advice as my little friend from Africa. We must all leave at once.
The only safe plan would be to cross into Gaul by the route north of the
great mountains and take ship for the East from Marseilles. He said
Eugenia and Ivar must go with me, and Laudio, if she could be persuaded
to leave."

"Did he know about me?" asked Nicolan.

"I told him you were with us. He sank into a long silence and then said,
'He will be needed here when Attila's empire breaks into pieces like a
ripe nut under a blacksmith's hammer.' I said that was your reason for
taking the risk of coming back, and he said, 'He will fill the place of
my poor Roric.' I told him then that I did not intend to run away."

"But you must!" said Nicolan, vehemently.

Ildico kept her eyes fixed on the path which had been baked so hard that
the rain rebounded when it struck the earth.

"No," she said. "I will persuade the others to go. There is no reason
for them to risk their lives. But my place is here."

"What did my lord Macio say to that?"

"He asked me if it was because of you that I wanted to stay. I said----"
She seemed to find it impossible to go on. Her face, which had been pale
and tense, was suffused suddenly with color.

"Please. Tell me the answer you gave him."

She looked up then and her lips quivered slightly as she said, "I told
him, 'Yes.'"

They looked steadily into each other's eyes for some moments without
saying anything more. Words were no longer necessary. He had received
his answer and a great wave of joy swept over him, even though he knew
that the future held out small hope of happiness for them.

Finally he said, leaning forward and gathering her hands into his, "Do
you agree that it's my duty to remain?"

She did not hesitate. "We will probably lose our lives. But there is no
other course."

Nicolan nodded somberly. "Ranno will lose no time in laying charges
against me in the Ferma. It's just as certain that Attila has spies who
will get word to him that you are here. Do you still want to face the
risk?"

"I will stay with you."

"Then," said Nicolan, "we must take such precautions as we may. I will
see Father Simon at once and ask him to marry us. Perhaps he will agree
to share the sanctuary of his cave in the Belden Hill."

"As long as my father remains alive, I must stay with him. Then--if
nothing has come about to prevent it--I will join you. There will be
room for both of us in the cave. Father Simon told me once it was large
and not _very_ damp."

Nicolan shook his head with grave misgivings. "I've brought you to a
sorry pass. To have refused two thrones and then come to _this_!"

The tendency her eyes had to crinkle slightly at the corners when she
smiled showed itself for a moment. "I am content," she said. "I think we
should go back now. I haven't seen my father this morning and he may be
asking for me."

She stooped to remove her shoes. "I'll go barefooted on the grass," she
decided. The shoes were so small that they seemed to have no weight when
Nicolan held them in his hand. He put them in an inside pocket of his
thoroughly soaked tunic. Then he placed a hand on each of her shoulders
and drew her around to face him. "Our great Lord on high, by whose
command all things are done, was not fair when He decided to have you
cast in such a beautiful form. Not fair, I mean, to other women, and to
the unfortunate men who see you and fall madly and hopelessly in love."
He drew her close to him and kissed her for the first time. It was a
fervid kiss and it seemed as though he meant it to last forever. If such
were his intent, she gave no hint of dissent but nestled happily into
the support of his shoulder. "I can believe now that you really belong
to me. And I am the happiest mortal on earth!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

As they stepped out, hand in hand, from the shelter of the trees, the
rain seemed to be diminishing in volume. The sky grew less dark and
forbidding. They began to run nevertheless on the wet grass, paying no
heed to the pools of water through which they splashed. Before they
reached the level ground, it was clear that the storm had passed. A cold
wind reached them from the north and the clouds began to break into
fantastic shapes. Shafts of light appeared dramatically through the
rents in the black canopy above.

Nicolan pressed the hand she had confided to his care when they began
their return. "I believe you can run as fast as I can," he said. "And
yet I saw no trace of wings on your ankles."

Ildico stopped when they reached the hedge which marked off the pasture
grounds, although she was trembling from the discomfort of her wet
garments.

"This will be worth seeing," she said to him. "I am curious to find
if--if the kingship of Harthager is still recognized."

All the horses had sought shelter in the sheds but, as soon as it was
clear that the downpour was over, a black muzzle appeared in the
opening. Its owner, apparently, was giving the situation a careful
appraisal, for it was a minute before the full head could be seen.

"I knew it!" cried Ildico, in a voice filled with delight. "They've
waited for him to give them the word of command. Now watch."

Harthager emerged slowly from the shed. He walked a little distance into
the open space, then stopped and raised his head to study the clouds
above him. A swish of his tail seemed to be intended as a signal, for
the rest of the horses began at once to follow him out, the older ones
coming first. They were careful to remain in a close group behind him,
the effect being of a general surveying a field of battle with his staff
remaining respectfully in the rear. The youngsters then ventured out,
the "baws" and the two-year-olds. They dashed madly for the far reaches
of the pasture, where they frisked and caracoled and kicked their heels,
racing in small groups in an exhibition of wild spirits.

Ildico crouched down below the level of the hedge and motioned to
Nicolan to do the same. "I mustn't disappoint him," she said, in a low
tone. "I have nothing for him and he'll be expecting apples and lumps of
saccharum. I think we should get away at once."

They began to follow the hedge in the direction of the house. "You rate
the powers of the great Harthager very high," said Nicolan. "Sometimes
it seems you think him born with human intelligence."

It was hard to believe that anything resembling the unmannerly sound
generally described as a snort could issue from a nose as delicately
made as Ildico's. But her response to his remark fell most certainly
into some such category.

"He's wiser than most people," she declared. "He always knows how to
conduct himself and what to do. He keeps himself in good condition and
never eats too much. He commands respect and holds his followers in
their places. And what a wonderful heart he has!"

"You know much more about horses than I do," conceded Nicolan, humbly.

"My dear one, you've lacked the chance. You were so young when the
slavers took you away. Besides, your father and most of the other large
landowners had cattle and sheep as well as horses. The Roymarcks have
confined themselves to breeding horses for generations and generations.
Perhaps for centuries. I'm sure we've learned things about them that
isn't known to anyone else." After a thoughtful pause she added, "I'm
afraid there will be a break in the family line someday and that all the
things we know will be lost and forgotten forever."

"You believe they know what you say?"

"In a way. Oh, they don't know the meaning of many words but they can
read the tones of your voice. They know if you are pleased or angry.
They can tell when you are happy and when you are sad. They watch you
out of the corners of their eyes and can tell what you intend to do."
She paused. "Did you talk to your horses much?"

"No. Not much."

"But you should. They love it more than anything else. Make no mistake,
horses don't like to be left alone and they are happiest when someone is
working around them and _talking_. Let me tell you a story about
Harthager. In the race at Constantinople, when we came back on the
course, I knew it was almost impossible to make up the lost ground.
There were two other horses ahead of us as well as the Arab who was far
in front. I leaned close to the king's ear and talked about how
necessary it was to beat that fast little fellow. I beseeched him to do
his best, over and over, because the thunder of the hoofs made it hard
for him to hear. But finally he seemed to understand. Nicolan, he
nodded! A cool, matter-of-fact shake of his handsome head. And
immediately he lengthened his stride. He took charge of the race from
that moment on and I was happy to leave it all to him.

"Well, when we flashed by the post so close to the Arab that I wasn't
certain we had won, Harthager turned his head. For the briefest moment.
He looked back at me and caught my eye. He gave me a deliberate nod. It
was as though he said to me: 'You asked me to beat him, my lady. And
I've done so.'

"But I wasn't sure. It had been so close that the judges might give the
victory to the Arab. I said: 'Oh, King, are you sure? Were we really
ahead? Did we win?' He turned again. There was just a hint of amusement
for human frailties, a trace of impatience even in the lift of his head.
I felt he was chiding me, as though he were saying, 'You should take my
word for it. I _know_ when I have won.'"

A voice reached them from the direction of the house. They could not see
the owner of it but it was evident that extreme urgency was back of the
summons. Ildico straightened up.

"It's for me!" she said, in a tone breathless with apprehension. "It
must be about Father. Nicolan, I'm afraid! We must lose no time."

She did not pause to replace her shoes but began to run down the road.
It was rough and deeply rutted and must have pained her bare feet. But,
with fear lending her speed, she was able to keep pace with Nicolan's
long legs.

She said, when they reached the entrance, "This may be the first of the
blows of fate I have been expecting!"


[4]

The summons, it developed, was for Nicolan and not for Ildico. The
crotchety Bustato took one look at him and said to himself, "It is as I
thought," before leading the way through the curtains of rough cloth
which served as door to Macio's bedroom. The major-domo threw open the
wooden shutters which kept the darkness in and the Devil out.

The room was bare of furnishings, save for the bed, which had the rare
distinction of being raised from the floor on legs. There was a crucifix
on one wall and the sword of the old warrior stood in a corner.

The eyes of the dying man, feverishly large in his wasted face, turned
to the visitor. "You are Nicolan, son of Saladar of the Ildeburghs," he
said in a slow whisper. "I have something for your ears alone."

Nicolan knelt on one knee beside the couch. "I am at your service, my
Lord Macio."

Each word spoken by the old man had left him breathless. Now, however,
he seemed to call on some reserve of strength, for he began to talk
without any hesitations or delays. "I can trust you. My son Roric, once
your friend, is not dead. He is alive and on his way here. But he was
sorely wounded and he has not yet much strength."

"God be praised!" said Nicolan, fervently. "This is what I have prayed
for so often. It will be the answer to all our difficulties and our
troubles." He added after a moment, "I think we were as close as David
and Jonathan."

The head of Macio, over which the skin was stretched so tautly that it
resembled a skull, turned slowly in the cane frame which served him as a
pillow. "Son of my old friend," he whispered, "believe what I am going
to tell you. I saw Roric and talked with him during the night. It was in
a dream and yet I know that what I saw and heard was real."

The old man proceeded to tell his story in low whispers and with long
pauses for rest between sentences. It was clear to him that he had
remained in his own bed, because he could see the glint of moonlight on
the handle of his sword. The side of the room which faced him, however,
had been removed so that he could stare out into open space without
moving. The extraordinary thing was that his tired eyes had not rested
on the ground about the house. What he saw was foreign terrain which,
although strange in most respects, still impressed him with a sense of
familiarity. There was a ridge of hills in the background, the peaks
standing up tall and gaunt against the sky. A stream issued out from
this rocky curtain and meandered slowly across the flat land, coming
close to the open end of the room before swinging abruptly and vanishing
from sight. On the far side of the water stood a circular stone house of
considerable size. From somewhere in the distance came a continuous and
mournful sound which he identified as the lowing of cattle.

It was as though the bedroom had been lifted up on magic wings and
transported to a far country before being set down so that he could look
out over the new scene like a spectator at a play.

Then he heard his son's voice say, "You have come at last, my father."

"Have you been expecting me, Roric?"

"Yes, my father. I have needed you."

Macio was certain at this point that he had died and that his son had
come to greet him and help him on his way over the mountains and on his
path far up into the skies. This impression, however, was not of long
duration. Roric, he perceived, had been so badly wounded that an ugly
scar had taken the place of one eye. He was very weak and seemed to have
found the few steps it had been necessary for him to take a drain on his
small store of strength. Macio knew that men do not take their
mutilations with them when they climb up to the kingdom of heaven and
that all their physical infirmities vanish when their souls take wing.
He was sure, therefore, that it was Roric in the flesh who came into the
room and stationed himself beside the couch.

The talk between father and son had not been a protracted one. Roric
explained how he had remained alive after being so badly wounded in the
great battle. Another survivor had carried him off the field and for
several months he had existed in constant pain and distress in the hut
of a Frankish peasant. Finally he had gained enough strength to begin
the long journey homeward. He had traveled alone and had found it
necessary to take long periods of rest, depending on the charity of the
poor people in the lands through which he was making his way.

There was complete understanding between father and son. Each was
capable of reading what was in the mind of the other. Roric knew how
close his father lay to death. He was aware also that Ildico had
returned and that Nicolan had come with her.

"I will not get back in time unless I have help," Roric repeated several
times. His father realized that he was referring to the peril which hung
over his sister and his friend. "Send Nicolan to me here. At once."

At this point in his story the old man was so exhausted that Nicolan saw
the heavy lids close over his eyes and realized he lacked the power to
continue. After several moments of anxious watching, he asked, "Where
must I go to find him?"

Not for a moment had he doubted what he had been told. The land of
dreams was a dim and mysterious region where things came to pass which
soothsayers alone could understand, or perhaps the Selloi who slept
under the whispering branches of Dodona. It was easy for him to believe
that the minds of father and son had been brought together in this
strange way.

It was some time before Macio answered. "I--I cannot tell. My mind
refuses to guide my tongue."

Nicolan had been recalling, as the old man spoke, that during his
boyhood his own father had often journeyed into Raetia, which lay just
beyond the borders of the small corner of Noricum where the plateau
people lived. He remembered also his sire's report of that province as a
place of high foothills where the people devoted themselves to the
raising of cattle.

"Is he in Raetia?" he asked.

Macio's eyes opened again at this point but it was clear to Nicolan that
now the vision of the chain of hills against the sky had left him and
that all he saw was the bare wall of the room and the one window with
its opened shutters.

"Raetia," the old man repeated in a whisper. He moved painfully on his
couch and the cane rest creaked under his head. "I cannot remember."

"It lies in the path Roric would take in coming home," said Nicolan. "He
would strike south between the mountains and the great river and so his
path would lead through Raetia. But it's large and thinly settled."

The sick man succeeded in shaking his head with a suggestion of
impatience with his own weakness. "Names have left me. A woman came
after I wakened. She said she was my daughter."

"Was it Laudio?"

The name apparently meant nothing. "She was a stranger."

Nicolan began to question the old man with a sense of desperation. He
was now taking it for granted that Roric's temporary sanctuary was in
Raetia. He phrased his queries slowly and carefully. Was it far away?
Was it close to the river? By which spur of the foothills was it
located? By which road could it be reached? Macio, it was clear, was
striving just as desperately to draw together the faint wisps of
recollection which were left to him but with little success. The only
due he could give was a word which conveyed no meaning at first to his
questioner. "Rukh," he whispered. He repeated it several times before
sinking into a state of partial coma.

"Rukh?" said Nicolan, to himself. The word seemed to stir some
recollection in him but it was so vague that it kept eluding him.
Finally he gave up the effort.

Macio's breathing had become light and fitful. The hand of Bustato
touched Nicolan's arm. "Come," said the major-domo, looking down at the
face of his master. "It will be of no use to ask more questions now.
Perhaps when he has rested he will be able to talk. But I don't know. He
may never rouse now."

As they left the room Nicolan asked, "Did your master go often to
Raetia?"

"Not of recent years, my lord. There was a time when he went frequently.
To buy cattle. Or to trade horses for cows."

"Did you go with him?"

"Never. My duties kept me here. My lord Roric often rode with his father
and half a dozen of his best horsemen always went. The border between
this country and Raetia was full of bandits."

"Did he deal with more than one breeder of cattle?"

"I think not, my lord."

"Can you tell me the dealer's name?"

Bustato frowned in concentration and then gave his head a shake. "I knew
it once. I think he must have come from the Alamanni, for it was a
heathenish name. Perhaps it will come back to me but at the moment it
has gone out of my mind."

"I could get the information from one of the horsemen who served as
guards."

But Bustato gave his head a second shake. "No, my lord. They were all
killed in the great battle."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The wide-spreading red house of the Roymarcks was lacking in many
respects; but above all else it lacked privacy. It swarmed with people
of high and low degree at all times of the day. They filled the halls,
they squatted in corners, they talked and disputed and declaimed. When
Nicolan emerged from the room of the head of the household, he found
that the space between the main entrance and the high wooden framework
closing off the great hall was pre-empted by Ildico, supported by the
Lady Eugenia and surrounded by the female servants of the establishment.
Having no better place to go, they had gathered here. The floor was
heaped high with feminine attire, all in the multicolored magnificence
of Byzantium, and articles of oriental derivation. There was much talk
going on and exclamations of wonder and even some laughter.

Ildico, quite clearly, had received a good report of her father's
condition from Bustato, for there was no trace of immediate strain on
her face. She had changed from her wet clothes to something graceful and
becoming in green and yellow, with a portrait of her father done with
golden thread and small semiprecious stones on the tablion which drew
her tunica in snugly at the waist. Her old dog Bozark lay at her feet,
or more properly under her feet, and was snoring happily. In her arms
she held a silver-toned kitten with long hair and a very bushy tail.

The servants scattered on noiseless feet when Nicolan appeared in the
hall, taking with them the presents which the daughter of the house had
brought with her. The purpose of the gathering, apparently, had been to
distribute them.

Eugenia looked up at him and then glanced quickly at Ildico. This
transfer of her interest was repeated several times and then she began
to smile. "How wise of you, Nicolan," she said, "to get rid of that
absurd disguise! It has come about at last. Ah, the sweetness of young
love! It is written all over your faces. And I am reminded that my
presence here is no longer necessary or desirable. I shall join my
husband and the good churchmen who are breaking their fast on boiled
mutton and duck's eggs. A rather more substantial meal than I seem to
require at the moment."

Ildico's hair was hanging down her back and overflowing on the oak bench
where she sat. One of the maids had been combing it, and several toilet
articles, of purpose unknown to Nicolan, still lay at one end of the
seat.

Not once during the days that they journeyed together had he seen her
without a dark covering on her head, and her face had not escaped its
due share of the dust of the road. Now this glorious creature took his
breath away. Even his capacity for vivid recollection had failed to
supply him with any indication of the burnished beauty of her hair. In
the richly colored robes from Constantinople, she had seemed a little
more mature and her face had carried a faint hint of bronze from the
sun; but this girl who smiled up at him was slender and white, her eyes
a dazzling blue, her nose and brows of such beauty that the finest
sculptor in the years of Grecian glory would have thrown his chisels
down in despair.

"Now I _know_ it was a dream!" said Nicolan.

"A dream? What are you talking about in that most doleful voice?"

"What happened out there in the rain."

"No," she said, smiling at him. "It was not a dream. You told me you
loved me. And I, with a proper degree of maidenly reserve, I trust, made
it clear that I--that I felt the same way about you. We decided, in
fact, to be married. And I have no intention of allowing all this to be
considered a dream."

While he continued to study her with worshipful eyes, she raised her
skirt a few inches to show that the feet which rested on the furry back
of Bozark were bare. "Perhaps you will be good enough," she said, "to
restore my shoes."

Nicolan drew them hastily from a pocket in his tunic. They were so
completely Grecian and different that, even in his bemused condition, he
gave them a moment's study. In Rome the sandal was still worn almost
exclusively but these were of the variety known as _calcei_, made of
very soft skin, with a thin reinforcement on the soles and with tops
which were bound with silk cords to cover the ankles.

He allowed the delicate green footwear to fall on the floor and looked
up with sudden gravity.

"The sight of you has driven everything out of my mind," he declared.
"Your father told me that Roric is alive."

Ildico was at first overcome with astonishment. Then her face lighted up
in a manifestation of uncontrollable joy. "O, Nicolan, Nicolan! Do you
mean it? Are you sure you heard him aright? It seems too wonderful to be
true!" She leaned forward then and it was apparent that she was
experiencing some doubts, for she began to pour out questions without
waiting for answers. "When did the word come? It must have been this
morning because I was with my father late last night and he said nothing
of it. Why was I not told? What messenger brought the word?"

"The messenger," he said, "was too lacking in substance to be visible to
the human eye." He proceeded to report in full detail what Macio had
told him. Ildico listened in a State of changing moods, determined to
believe the story yet afraid to accept it, lifted up with hopes but cast
down quickly by the doubts which refused to be put aside.

By the time he was through, she seemed to have been convinced. "The
power is often given to see into the future when one stands close on the
threshold of death," she declared. "What is your feeling?"

"I think I should begin to search for him at once, whether I believe it
or not."

"But where will you go? Where will you begin to look?"

"I'll cross the border into Raetia. From what your father said, I am
certain he is somewhere in that province. But Raetia is large and it has
few roads."

"Did he say why he was telling you?"

"Because he wants me to lead a party in to find Roric. It may prove a
tough adventure, with hard riding and some riffling with the sword. If
Ranno hears a whisper of what is afoot, he will do everything in his
power to prevent your brother from getting through. Roric holds the fate
of that coward and traitor in his hands." He paused for a moment.
"Laudio was in to see your father this morning. She seems to have been
questioning him."

Ildico's face displayed alarm. "She left early this morning and no one
knows where she has gone."

"I think it's clear enough she has gone to see Ranno. She looked at me
closely last night and I felt sure she recognized me."

"That means Ranno will proceed at once to lay charges before the Ferma.
He will see the need to get a decision before Roric can get back. You
must go to Oslaw at once and tell him everything."

"Oslaw! Is he still alive?"

"Fortunately, yes. Alive and active. He still conducts all trials before
the Ferma."

The strained look on Nicolan's face was replaced by one of hope. "Oslaw
has always been fair. I can depend on a thorough hearing with him in
charge. But the first thing is to locate Roric and bring him home. I
have one small clue. Your father repeated a word several times as though
he hoped it would help me. Do you recall a gift someone brought you from
the East, a collection of figures carved out of ivory? It was when you
were very young. I saw it once and I thought the figures were most
beautifully wrought."

"It was a game," said Ildico, thoughtfully. "I haven't seen it for years
so I suppose it was put away. I will ask Bustato." Then she changed her
mind. "No, his memory is getting very short. I'll ask old Blurki."

Old Blurki, accordingly, was summoned. He nodded his head, vanished for
a few minutes, and then returned with a low table of teakwood on which
stood a variety of pieces most elaborately carved out of ivory.

"The sport of kings and wise men," said the old jester. "But sometimes
fools usurp the functions of the great. I, for instance, the most
ignorant of all fools, can play the game. I have never played against a
king but I've caused the faces of bishops and abbots and learned men of
the law to burn with mortification on some occasions."

Nicolan was studying the exquisitely designed pieces with a thoughtful
air. Finally he reached out and lifted one which resembled a slender
tower with turrets. "What is this one called?" he asked.

"The rukh," replied Blurki.

"That's it!" cried Nicolan, starting up so abruptly that he overturned
the table and sent the pieces rolling in all directions. "That's the
word your father repeated. What he wanted me to take from it was that
this cattle breeder has always used a sign on his stock which resembles
a tower. The rukh. That's the key!" He asked the clown who was down on
his knees collecting the pieces, "What breeder in Raetia burns the sign
of a tower on his cattle so they can't be stolen or claimed?"

"Victorex of the Foothills."

"Victorex!" exclaimed Nicolan, triumphantly. "That's the name I've been
trying to remember."

Old Blurki left and Ildico rose to her feet. With a deft movement of one
arm she caught her hair up and wound it around her head.

"Now we know what we must do," she said. "If Roric is alive--and somehow
I am certain he is!--we must get to him at once. First, you must see
Oslaw and tell him your story. I want to be with you when you do. How
far are the lands of Victorex from here?"

"Something over one hundred miles. Six days, there and back. Perhaps it
can be done before the crisis. Do you mean that you intend to go with
me?"

"Of course! I shall speak to my father first. But I'm certain he counts
on the return of Roric above everything else."

Neither of them had given any thought, it was clear, to the question of
personal safety. In less than an hour's time Ildico could be off in the
train of Eugenia and on the road which would take her north of the Alps
and free for all time of the danger from Attila. Two brisk days in the
saddle would carry Nicolan far beyond any trouble from the machinations
of Ranno. But they were both convinced that they must bring Roric back
and then face the charges which Ranno would lay before the Ferma.

Ildico, after pressing his hand with a sudden fierce possessiveness,
left him to visit her father. It was half an hour before she returned
and the pallor of her face told him the story.

"He is dead!" she said. "He knew me at the end but he could not speak.
Come, my love, we must be on our way."




CHAPTER VIII


[1]

In the plateau country, where men loved the sunshine, there were no
prisons. It was customary for those against whom charges were laid to
remain, pending the hearings, in a small building at the center of the
space set for the sessions of the Ferma. Here, under the eye of the
Orator of that body, they were allowed a certain degree of freedom. They
could receive their families and friends and they could go where they
pleased within a radius of five miles. They were under oath to remain
and to abide by the decisions of the court, even when the death penalty
was involved. This attitude had become ingrained in the people of the
plateau by continuous application of the rule and by centuries of
tradition. Not once within the memory of the oldest inhabitant had a
defendant taken advantage of this partial freedom to run away.

When the two lovers came within sight of the bowl in the foothills, they
reined in and considered the prospect. Ildico, who had wept at intervals
during the ride, applied a square of linen firmly to her eyes and said,
"I must keep my grief to myself now."

"My father talked of bringing me here," said Nicolan, studying the space
within the bowl, which seemed because of its geometrical accuracy to
have been scooped out by the hand of man. "But he never did."

"I was brought to see a trial once. It took my breath away. The slopes
were filled with people, sitting close together. I don't remember much
about the case except that it had to do with a murder. When the verdict
was announced, everyone stood up with their right arms extended. A sign
of their agreement with the decision of the court."

"Was he found guilty?"

"Yes." Her manner had suddenly become subdued. "But it wasn't a man. It
was a woman."

"Was she put to death?"

Ildico nodded silently. For several moments nothing more was said, then
she sighed deeply. "I've been trying to keep that part of it out of my
mind."

"I wouldn't dare look you in the face if I took the easy way."

"It keeps going around and around in my head. Deep down inside me, I
know that there is only one course for us. You are an Ildeburgh and I am
of the Roymarcks. We can do nothing else. But I can't help thinking
of--of consequences." She pressed his hand suddenly and then smiled. "It
can't happen. Not to you. Your innocence will be so--so apparent. If the
verdict should be wrong, the people will show their disapproval. They
won't raise a hand. It happened once that way."

"What did the judges do?"

"They didn't change the verdict but they made the sentence a mild one.
It was found later that he was innocent."

"But in my case, the voice of the people will be against me. Ranno has
seen to that." He paused and allowed his gaze to roam over the natural
amphitheater beneath them. "You said, my sweet and beautiful one, that
when you saw that trial the people filled all the slopes. How could they
hear?"

"Do you see those small raised platforms at regular intervals?
Announcers stand on each of them. The Orator has a staff of clerks who
write down the important questions and answers and send them up to the
men on the platforms to be read aloud."

In the center of the bowl there was a small level space (at least it
seemed small from where they were), containing on one side a rather
pretentious building and on the other a raised row of seats for the
members of the Ferma. It was on the space between that the trials were
enacted. They turned their horses onto one of four paths which led
downward, Nicolan riding first. He looked back over his shoulder and saw
that her courage had returned in full measure. Her eyes were shining.

"My brave one," he said.

An elderly man met them on the level space below. He was dressed plainly
in a gray tunic with a cord around his waist, from which were suspended
two keys of ancient design. He came forward as soon as his eyes rested
on Ildico and laid a hand on the mane of her horse.

"I heard of your return," he said. "How happy a chance that you came in
time to see your father alive."

Nicolan said to himself: "Ranno has been here already. The news could
not have been had in any other way. He could not avoid a sense of alarm.
Ranno was moving fast.

"There is sorrow in your eyes, my child," the Orator was saying. "Does
it mean he has gone at last, my good old friend?"

"Yes, my lord Oslaw. He died this morning."

The dark eyes of the old man, under the heavy white thatch of his brows,
showed how deeply he felt. "We must all go when our time comes. But this
is a grievous blow. How shall we get along without him? He and I faced
many troubles together. He was brave and wise, and as firm as a rock. We
stood out many times against the clamor of the people and it was always
found later that we were right. I have missed him sadly since the ills
of old age have been upon him."

He shifted his gaze to Nicolan. "I heard at the same time of your
return. Ranno has just left. He rode over in a great lather, having been
told the news himself this morning." The manner of the old man displayed
an increased gravity. "Your father was one of my best friends and so I
am deeply concerned. Ranno has laid charges against you and is demanding
an immediate hearing before the Ferma. Had you any reason for suspecting
this?"

Nicolan nodded his head. "I've known of his activities. It was partly to
clear my name of the lies he has been spreading that I came."

"It is treason he lays at your door. And a conspiracy which resulted in
the deaths of so many of our young men."

"There _was_ a conspiracy," declared Nicolan. "If I can get my witnesses
here, I am prepared to lay countercharges. Placing the blame for the
tragedy at Chlons where it belongs: on Ranno's own shoulders."

"We have reason to believe," said Ildico, "that my brother is alive."

The old man turned back to her with an eagerness of manner which
indicated where his personal sympathies lay.

"Roric is alive! Ah, what a stroke of good fortune! To have him return,
seemingly from the grave, and at such an opportune moment! When did this
most welcome word reach you?"

"Perhaps," said Ildico, "we are too prone to believe the story. My
father saw him in his dreams last night and talked with him."

Oslaw looked up with openly sharpened interest. "He appeared to his
father in a dream? I am an old man, my child, but never have the dead
come to me in my sleep and talked with me. It is against the laws of
nature. I think this may mean that Roric is indeed alive." He frowned
uneasily. "How far away is he supposed to be?"

"In Raetia. With Victorex, the cattle breeder. To get there and back
will take a week."

The old man turned to Nicolan. "You know the laws of the Ferma. Since
charges have been laid against you, you may not go farther away than
five miles. But it is part of my responsibility to see that the
witnesses for both sides are in attendance. I'm prepared to send out a
party of horsemen in search of Roric."

"It was my father's wish to have Nicolan lead the party," declared
Ildico.

Oslaw shook his head firmly. "I am sorry. But this rule is one that
cannot be broken."

"My brother is still suffering from his wound. Someone he will recognize
and trust must be with the party. If Nicolan cannot go, I shall take his
place."

Oslaw gave the matter several moments of close consideration. "This must
be handled with the greatest secrecy. Ranno will go to any lengths to
prevent Roric from appearing at the trial. If he gets wind of what is
afoot, he will not stop at anything. At least half a dozen good horsemen
will be needed, honest fellows, ready to risk their skins in a rough and
perhaps desperate adventure. Is it necessary, my child, for you to take
a share in such risks?"

"I am sure it would be my father's wish if he were alive." Her eyes,
which had been so filled with doubt and distress, had suddenly come to
life. To Nicolan they seemed more vividly blue than he had ever seen
them. "I am certain that Roric is alive. I must not lose a moment in
setting out to find him."

                 *        *        *        *        *

An hour later a party of eight took off on the road to Raetia. Riding in
the midst of the horsemen, in a robe of the roughest cloth, Ildico was
sufficiently well disguised to escape recognition. Nicolan walked his
horse beside her on the climb to the top of the slope.

"If we had been a half hour earlier!" he said. "We would have been off
to find Roric before Ranno could lay his charges. If we were lucky
enough to bring your brother back with us, Ranno would have been in a
sorry position; for Roric's evidence would destroy him."

"We will ride like the wind!" declared Ildico. She reached out and drew
him near enough for her head to rest against his shoulder. "Roric is
alive. Something inside me says that it is so...."

"You must promise me to be discreet, my loved one. See that the utmost
care is taken on the journey back. Word of what you are doing will reach
Ranno and he will have the roads watched. Ride as much as possible at
night."

They paused on the crest for a brief moment. "I don't consider myself
the victim of ill luck," he said. "This morning you said that you love
me. What more can a man ask of life? I shall be happy if you bring Roric
back. But come home safely yourself."


[2]

Oslaw led the way to a room in the house which faced the stand of the
judges. Here he had lived for the forty years during which he had held
the post of Orator. Here also during that period the defendants had been
lodged, pending the hearing of their cases.

When they were seated, the old man knitted his thin scholarly fingers
back of his head as he settled himself to listen. There was an autumnal
nip in the air following the heavy downpour, and the position he assumed
revealed the fact that he had already donned the long woolen garments
that Roman soldiers wore when campaigning in cold climates.

"Your father was a brave man," he said. "Too brave for his own good. You
have given evidence of an equal share of courage. And of unusual
capacity. Now we must get to the core of things and determine how wise
you have been in the matters which must be discussed before the judges."

Nicolan had found his attention drawn to the old man's hands, which he
employed to accent what he said. If fingers can be eloquent, these spoke
in Ciceronian measures. Later it would be demonstrated how dramatically
they could be used to drive a point home.

"I have a sincere desire," continued Oslaw, "to be helpful to you within
the bounds of my official duties. I must have the whole truth. There
must be no hiding of facts, no juggling with words. I promise that I
shall use every resource to extract the truth also from those who will
testify against you. That, as you know, is my function."

Nicolan told his story in full detail, beginning with the tour he had
made on the evening before the battle to study the slopes of the hill
occupied by the Goths. He explained the report he had carried back to
Attila, recommending an attack by foot troops on the eastern face; of
the visit Roric had paid him during the night and the things they had
said; of the station he had been assigned on the morning of the battle
and how he had directed the work of the dispatch riders; of his efforts
to countermand the orders of Prince Tallimundi which had sent Roric with
his horsemen up the steep northern slope; and finally of his meeting
with Ranno in the closing phases of the battle.

Oslaw of the Solvars listened with deep absorption. Once or twice he
nodded and at intervals he interjected questions. At the finish he
remained in thought for several moments.

"You have given me a clear picture of the battle," he said.

With the unsteadiness of ancient muscles, Oslaw shuffled to a window.
Resting one knee on a marble bench, he gazed out in the direction that
Ildico's party had taken. He began to speak in low tones. "I have not
been content with the explanations Ranno has made to me," he said. "As
each of you is the sole surviving member of a leading family, it will
become a case of one man's word against the other; and I may tell you
that Ranno has worked day and night to poison the people against you. If
Roric is alive, his word should be sufficient to dictate the decision.
But let us suppose he is not alive. What I said to his sister may not
apply in this case, for it is also true that in the last extremity men
are like to become vague and confused in their minds, to talk wildly and
without sense or substance. If there is no help to be obtained from
Roric, then we must depend on other evidence. What witnesses can you
bring?"

"The Huns are already streaming up through the passes," said Nicolan.
"Attila will probably disband at once. If I could be on hand, it might
be possible to bring Prince Tallimundi back with me or, at the worst, a
statement from him. There are also the two dispatch riders who carried
the messages back and forth. Somutu and Passilis. They were bitterly
concerned over the mistake made in sending our troops up the slope and
they promised to support me if it came to a hearing later."

"As I have already explained, the law prevents you from going. Could
anyone act in your behalf?"

"My friend, Ivar the Briton. He was with me all day at Chlons and was
familiar with the dispatches which were exchanged. We might send him to
headquarters to find Somutu and Passilis."

"There will be time enough," declared the old man, after a mental
calculation. "Where is the Briton to be found?"

"He is married to the lady once called the widow of Tergeste and is with
her at the house of the Roymarcks."

A smile brought a host of wrinkles around the shrewd eyes of the Orator.
"It is generally the case that the evidence of an alien does little to
convince our judges," he said. "Still, as the husband of the wealthiest
woman in the world, his word may carry some weight. I will send him out
at once. If he fails to find any of your friends, he must come back in
great haste, for what he knows will prove of some help to us."

The discussion between them went on for another hour. Nicolan was
encouraged to talk about his reasons for the course he had followed, in
particular of his service on Attila's staff. While he talked, the Orator
got to his feet again and paced about the room. Sometimes he would halt
and ask an abrupt question. On a few occasions, he prefaced a query by
raising his hand and pointing a long index finger at the testator.
Whenever he did this, Nicolan felt an impact as though a current had
been projected from the tip in his direction. On points of special
importance, they went over the ground again and again, seeking further
light or striving for information not previously recalled.

At the end, Nicolan was exhausted. His appearance must have made this
evident, for the elderly inquisitor, who seemed still quite fresh,
paused in his questioning. He walked to the chair where the younger man
sat and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I am convinced," he said, "that you have been striving to tell me
everything you remember. In the matter of veracity--well, I must say
nothing about that. But I feel I should leave you with a word of
warning. Son of my old friend, the case against you is strong. Ranno is
leaving nothing undone to get a conviction against you. He is clever and
he has friends, and much influence. He has unseated some of the older
members of the Ferma and replaced them with younger men, all his own
adherents.

"Do not allow yourself," he went on, earnestly, "to feel too confident
of the outcome. Unless you can bring the witnesses you have named, it
may be hard for you to contest the testimony of Ranno and those who will
come forward to support him. I am a Christian and I believe that truth
will win if God in His wisdom so wills. And yet I must add that I have
served as Orator for many long years and I have known cases where,
because too little was known of the circumstances, the truth did not
prevail.

"Bear this in mind also," he concluded. "I am well disposed to you
personally but duty imposes a strict impartiality on me. I must do
everything possible to obtain for the members of the Ferma a convincing
picture of the case. And in the end the decision rests with them."




CHAPTER IX


[1]

Nicolan looked up at the sky where a few stars showed. Well above the
dark shadow of hill and forest, the clouds were lighted with a reddish
glow. He knew what this meant and he wished it had been possible for him
to look once again on the face of Macio of the Roymarcks before they
wrapped his body in its velvet robes and committed it to the flames.

The next morning the guard, who shadowed his movements when he left the
grounds, brought out one of the light but deadly whips used in dueling.
He gave it a preliminary swish. "More practice today?" he asked.

Nicolan took the whip into his hands. "I have been improving," he said.

"Yes, you are better," conceded the guard, whose name was Jackla. "But I
hear Ranno always has a whip in his hands these days. What do you
suppose he's planning to do? Challenge you if you win the verdict?"

"I was never afraid of Ranno. When we were boys, I was sure I could beat
him at anything. I still feel that way. He can practice as much as he
likes." Nicolan returned the whip. "In the meantime I must see some of
the older families today. I'm going to need all the support they can
give me."

"Few of them left," answered the guard, who seemed to take a friendly
interest in his welfare. "The old ones are dying. Many of the young are
gone too. Wiped out in the battle."

"Well, Jackla, I must see those who remember my father and mother.
Particularly those who will recall how the Finninalders stole our land
after my father was killed."

Jackla pulled reflectively at the end of his long red nose. "Most of
them dead now. Do you want a word of advice? Have a care about that word
'steal.' Young Ranno's been working hard to get feeling on his side. Far
as I'm concerned, it's the word to use but--you've got enough to stand
against as it is." An expression of deep dislike had settled on Jackla's
face. "Young Ranno! He got me ten lashes once with his lying tongue when
I was a boy. He seems to think I don't remember it and expects me to act
as a spy for him. He gets me aside when you're not looking and asks me
questions. Where have you been and who have you seen? What did you ask?
What were you told? What did this one say and what did that one tell
you? Are any of them friendly to you? He's a sneaking hound, that
Ranno!"

Nicolan encountered many disappointments during the hours which followed
but the result was as favorable, perhaps, as he might have anticipated.
The feeling in the plateau country did not run wholly against him. A few
of the old friends of his parents had even promised to appear in his
behalf before the Ferma.

He was silent, however, when he reached his room in the council house
that night. Too many women had rushed out as he passed to cry that the
blood of their husbands and brothers was on his hands. Some had taken to
throwing stones. One old crone had hidden herself in the brush and had
sprung at him with a knife in her hand, screaming maledictions on his
head as the murderer of her son.

"Ranno has been thorough," he said to Jackla. "The Finninalders were
never well liked in the old days. Why do so many people take his word
now?"

"There has been another change in the Ferma," said Jackla, giving his
head a shake. "That Ranno, he is a cunning one! He has persuaded old
Furla of the Manderecks to give his seat to his son, young Furla, who is
a friend of Ranno's."

Nicolan's forehead drew into new wrinkles of apprehension. His enemy was
leaving nothing to chance. As a boy young Furla had tagged at Ranno's
heels and had done his bidding in all things. There could be no question
at all about the stand he would take. He would vote at Ranno's nod.

"Only four of the old ones left now," said the guard. "The other five
are young. I know little of any of them, except that I'm sure Ranno has
selected them carefully." He named the new members one by one and shook
his head doubtfully at each. The last was Hasca, who owned lands on the
great river, where the hillsides offered pasturage for sheep. Hasca
owned few horses and was considered almost an alien.

"What of Hasca?" asked Nicolan.

Jackla's forehead wrinkled up in thought. "I hear he's a sulky fellow.
He makes no friends. But Ranno has been north to see him. Master, I
would not count on Hasca."

"If the older men are favorable, it will be five to four against me; and
a majority is all that Ranno needs," thought Nicolan. "And I can't even
be sure of the four."

He went to the window and cast an eye down the road by which Ivar would
return. There was no one in sight on it--no horseman urging a tired
steed, no cloud of dust in the distance.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Hearing his name called in a cautious undertone, Nicolan turned to the
window and saw a shadowy face staring in at him. A week had passed since
the visit of Oslaw, during which time nothing had happened, and his
first thought was that it might be Ivar. On brushing aside the insect
curtain, however, he found it was one of the Lady Eugenia's servants.

"Master, is your man asleep?" asked the visitor.

Nicolan looked back over his shoulder at the inert figure of Jackla
stretched out on a low couch at the foot of his bed. A steady snoring
filled the room.

"He won't waken until the morning sun strikes his face," he said.

"Then come with me, if you please, master. My mistress is waiting for
you."

Eugenia wasted no time in preliminaries but came straight to the point
of her visit.

"Nicolan," she said, in a cautious but intense whisper, "you must not
stay for the trial. The horses are ready. You can start at once and ride
all night. By the morning you will be safely beyond their reach."

"But I have sworn not to leave. I can't be guilty of breaking a vow."

"That has been said to me so often," declared Eugenia, in grim tones,
"that I am sick to death of the silly sentiment back of it. If you don't
come now, they will cut off your head or kill you in some other terrible
way. Now listen to me. There's a conspiracy to deny you a fair trial. I
heard all about it today. Straight from the lips of the base rascal who
has planned it, this black Ranno, with blood on his hands and murder in
his heart. He came to see us. He was so sure of himself that he boasted
about the success of his conniving. Oh, you'll be chained to the
chariot, if you stay here! The old men on the Council have been shoved
aside and their places taken by sons. All of them friends of Ranno's.
And that's not all. He took me aside and whispered that it's not Laudio
he intends to marry but Ildico. He said that Macio had agreed."

Nicolan made no comment for several moments. He looked about him and
felt for the first time that the dark trees, which had always seemed
friendly, now held menace and a whisper of danger in the rustle of their
leaves. He did not want to die on false charges trumped up against him
by his worst enemy. But he had taken the customary vow and there had
never been a prisoner, held in open custody, who had run away.

Eugenia sensed what was running through his mind. "When a hyena in the
guise of a man has you in his power, is it any time to think of honor?
Don't you see any advantage in keeping a head on your shoulders? A head
to plan for others, to find ways of meeting this conspiracy? My dear
little man, don't let this nonsense make you selfish. Do you want all
your friends to suffer? Remember this. One terrible moment and it's all
over for you; you will be dead and free of everything. But your friends
will suffer grief all the rest of their lives."

"If I run away, I will have no friends left."

"We will respect you for your courage and good sense," she protested.

"The time would come when no one would remember anything about me,
except that I broke my word."

"Perhaps it takes a higher kind of courage to do that than to stay here
and submit to Ranno's will. The truth will come out sooner or later and
you will be vindicated."


[2]

As the first shadows of night began to fall there was a loud rap on the
door. Nicolan had been making an effort to eat his evening meal but
finding that he lacked all appetite. A steaming joint of venison, almost
untouched, lay on a platter in front of him.

Jackla went to the door and ushered in Lonado, the clerk of the Ferma.
The latter gave Nicolan a stiff inclination of the head.

"Your friend, the Briton, has returned," he said. "He asks leave to see
you."

Nicolan got to his feet, a wave of exultation sweeping over him. Things
could not be so black with Ivar beside him. "I thank Thee, O Lord!" he
said to himself. "Thou hast seen the greatness of my need and sent my
friend to stand beside me."

"I can admit no one, save with the sanction of a member of the Council,"
said Lonado, in a crisp tone which gave no indication of friendliness.
"They have gone for the night, all save Hasca. He was not at all sure
your friend should be admitted to see you. He grumbled and shook his
head. Then he said, 'After all, why not? It can have no bearing on what
will happen tomorrow.' So he has given his consent. But only the Briton
may be admitted. The other, who has come with him, must remain without."

"He is a witness, the other one!" cried Nicolan. "I am allowed one talk
with each of my witnesses. It is the rule."

"It is the rule," admitted Lonado. "But how am I to judge about this
stranger?"

"Bring him as far as the door. I will be able to convince you then of my
right to see him."

Ivar came in, looking dusty and very weary, for he was not yet at ease
in the saddle. He beamed at Nicolan and said: "We have ridden hard to
get here. It is lucky we did, for I heard, as I came up the road, that
the hearing starts tomorrow."

"No man ever had greater need of a friend than I have of you!" cried
Nicolan.

"I bring Somutu with me," said Ivar.

The dispatch rider appeared in the door, his flat cap in his hands and a
smile on his face. He bowed several times to Nicolan.

"Somutu, you are thrice welcome," said Nicolan. "Tell this officer who
you are."

"I am a rider on the staff of Attila, Lord of the Earth and the Seas,"
declared Somutu, bowing deeply. "I have come to tell what I know of the
great battle when the dead lay in heaps on the ground and three horses
were killed under me with arrows in their flanks. It was a bloody day
and few of us were left at the finish. Over thirty of Attila's dispatch
riders were killed. I was lucky to live."

Nicolan looked at Lonado. The latter nodded his head and said: "A
quarter hour. No more. It is the rule."

When the clerk had withdrawn, Nicolan invited the new arrivals to share
the supper he had left untouched. The conversation among the trio,
therefore, was carried on to the accompaniment of a hungry chomping of
jaws and long, thirsty pulls at the flagon of wine.

Somutu, who was of a deep chocolate color, his face enlivened with a
pair of deep black eyes, looked at Nicolan over the bone he was
stripping of its meat and smiled cordially.

"My lord, I am happy to be here," he said. "And to be of service."

"With you here, I will no longer be standing alone against lies and
inventions." Nicolan turned to Ivar. "What of the others?"

Ivar spread his hands in a gesture of futility. "Only Somutu could come.
There had been a rebellion in the country of the three princes. The
people, it seems, were tired of the drunkenness and cruelty of the
brothers. Two of the princes got away. One was taken. Tallimundi. They
turned him over to the women, who beat him to death with sticks. Very
slowly. And so, being well dead indeed, Tallimundi could neither be seen
nor brought to give testimony."

"And the others?"

"Allagrin went foraging after the capture of Concordia. The peasantry
were in an ugly mood. One great strong fellow killed Allagrin with a
pitchfork."

"And Passilis?"

"I talked with Passilis and he was ready to come with us. But the day
before we left, he took some little disease. It was a child's disease, I
think; but his jaws swelled up and his face became red and he was too
weak to get up. I was much disturbed about time and did not think it
wise to wait any longer. We left him groaning in his hammock, and came."

Nicolan had not forgotten what Oslaw had said about the small value of
alien testimony. If it had been possible to bring all four witnesses,
the members of the Ferma might have been convinced. But would they pay
much attention to the evidence of one only? He had little hopes of that.
Still, it was the best they could do and his case looked better now than
it had earlier in the day.




CHAPTER X


[1]

All through the night Nicolan had been aware of activities on the
outside: the neighing of horses, the tramping of feet, the clack of
tongues raised in greeting or dispute. When dawn came he went to a
window and was amazed at what he saw. The amphitheater was already
filled with humanity from base to crest. The spectators, who had
gathered this early to witness his ordeal, sat chockablock on the
ground, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder; men, women, and children, in
their best attire, fashioned in the rich colors which the plateau people
had brought with them from the East so long before. They were already
beginning to finger the contents of the baskets of food and even to
sample the stout bread, the cold meats, the rich cakes dripping with
honey. Between the crest and the fringe of trees back of it many
hundreds of horses were tethered, the fine spirited stock of the
plateau, alert and interested, their tails swishing, their ears perked
up.

Nicolan felt a deep sense of oppression take possession of him. "Most of
these people, these heads of sheep, believe the lies that Ranno has
spread," he thought. "They are here, hoping to see me convicted,
sentenced, and put to death."

It was going to be a beautiful day. The sky was cloudless, the air
still. The heads of sheep would sit there all day in perfect comfort.

Jackla, bringing in some breakfast dishes, said: "The equal of
this"--thumbing back over his shoulder--"has never been seen. The
plateau must be as bare as a beggar's dish."

"Have you heard any news?" Nicolan asked.

"Nothing much," was the answer, delivered with more cheerfulness than
the circumstances seemed to warrant. "Nought has been seen or heard of
your lady--though there is a rumor spreading around. Ranno has just
arrived. He looks black and he has been snarling at everyone. He has had
some hot words with my lord Oslaw. Perhaps he's heard this rumor."

"What is it?"

Jackla had been arranging the dishes as he talked. He now motioned to
Nicolan to take his place but received a negative shake of the head.

"This is what is being whispered: that Roric is alive and is to be
produced as a witness. They're talking of nothing else up there on the
slopes."

Nicolan felt his spirits rise. More cheerful thoughts began to race
through his head. Could it be that Macio's dream was coming true? He had
tried to believe in it but doubts had persisted in the back of his mind.
A full week had passed since Ildico had set out. This, he had been
forced to conclude, was proof that she had not been able to find her
brother. Still, why was the rumor spreading now?

Some minutes later Ivar was admitted. He looked glum and unhappy as he
confirmed what Jackla had said. It was apparent that he had lost faith
in Ildico's mission. In one hand he carried a sword which he tendered to
Nicolan.

"This was your father's," he said.

Nicolan took it into his hands with eagerness. It was a short-bladed
weapon with a jeweled handle of curious design. His eyes rested on the
sign of the Ildeburghs stamped on the hilt, a tree with spreading
branches. The minute workmanship of the East showed in every detail.

Nicolan nodded. "It was my father's most prized possession. It has been
in the family for many generations. How did you get it?"

"A sympathizer brought it in. He was a neighbor at the time when your
father was killed. He didn't explain how he got it but he thought you
would like to have it now."

Nicolan attached the sword to his belt with unsteady fingers. "The feel
of it against my thigh will bolster my courage," he said. "If you see
this neighbor again, convey my thanks to him."

Ivar took him to one side. "Because of this story that's going around,
Ranno is determined to rush the hearings through," he whispered. "I
spoke to Oslaw and he said, 'The conduct of the case is in _my_ hands.'"

As he spoke, the Orator of the Ferma entered the room. He had donned the
costume of his office, an outer garment of reddish brown which resembled
the Roman _tunica talaris_ rather than the toga. It fitted closely at
the neck, the sleeves, which were long and full, were embroidered
elaborately in gold and blue. In the front of the belt was a large
tablion containing a horse's head modeled in gold.

He was an imposing figure with his bare head and his white hair falling
in profusion to his shoulders.

"My son," he said, "we must begin in a few minutes. Have you any final
words for me?"

Nicolan was overtaken suddenly by a wave of angry emotions. "I have much
to say, my lord Oslaw. Why do these people out there, my own people,
hold so much hatred for me? On that black morning when my father was
murdered they did not come to our aid. They made no effort to trace what
had happened to my mother and me. One of our neighbors made a bargain
with the murderers which brought our lands into his possession. His
infamous son still holds the land but not the smallest copper coin has
found its way into my hands. The other neighbors seem to have shared our
household goods between them."

"Yes," said Oslaw, with a grave nod. "All this is true."

"And now," went on the defendant, his voice rising, "they have come in
their thousands to hear me charged with foul, black lies which have been
spread by one ambitious and cowardly man. The same man who holds my
lands. They believe what he says and they have come in the hope of
seeing me convicted."

There was a moment's silence. "Nicolan of the Ildeburghs," said the
Orator, "it has been in my mind that all this should be made clear
today. I shall so devise my questions that you will have a chance to say
to them what you have said to me. But a word of advice, son of my old
friend. Do not gird at them with too much bitterness. Say what you have
to say with dignity and conviction rather than rancor."

"Your advice is good," agreed Nicolan, after some thought. "And I have a
question to ask. I know that the penalty of guilt is death. If the
decision is against me, have I any choice as to the--the means?"

The old man's expression became even more grave. "In that event," he
replied, "you have the right to fall upon the point of your sword."

A bell, located on the roof, struck once loudly. Nicolan straightened
and took a step forward. "I am ready," he said.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A dramatic silence fell over the crowded slopes as Nicolan followed
Oslaw out into the sunlight. Then, simultaneously, everyone began to
speak. The sound came down to the main characters like the beating waves
of an unruly sea.

Nicolan looked about him. In the center of the open space was a small
round table with a single chair beside it. This, obviously, was for the
use of the Orator. Beside it was a long bench at which a score of clerks
sat with reed pens in their hands and an air of expectancy about them.
There was another bench behind the inscribers of notes, with a chair;
this might be for his use.

The seats of the judges were raised about six feet above the level, with
one in the center which was more ornate than the others. Here Macio had
sat year after year, dispensing honest judgment, until Ranno had usurped
his place. All the judges wore robes of ermine with deep red collars.
The recent additions, who had taken over their fathers' right to vote,
seemed to shrink a little within these majestic trappings, and to feel,
perhaps, out of place. None of them seemed willing, at least, to look
the defendant in the eye.

On the table before Ranno was a gavel with a gold handle.

Nicolan's eyes went at once, however, to a grim reminder of the possible
outcome. At one side a block, about two feet in cubic measurement, had
been placed on the sod. Beside it stood a tall figure, brown and sinewy
and sinister, naked except for a loin-cloth. A black mask covered the
upper part of his face and in his hands was a sword of extraordinary
proportions. The blade was at least six feet long. The grinding to which
it had been subjected by the long succession of insensitive executioners
who had wielded it had worn the steel down to a width of less than three
inches. Nicolan had never seen this instrument of official punishment
before but he knew it was called the Stroke of Expiation.

Looking at the taut dark hand clutching the handle and at the bend of
the thin figure, which suggested a degree of eagerness, he could not
help wondering how many unwilling necks had been severed with one
expiatory blow on orders from judges who had filled these carved and
gilded chairs.

His fingers sought the handle of his father's sword. It was like
encountering the hand of a friend.


[2]

After studying the setting in which he must wage his desperate fight for
life, Nicolan turned to study the new judges. He knew them well and had
a poor opinion of each man there. They had been weaklings when they were
boys and now in manhood they seemed to show the same lack of strength
and integrity. He was surprised to observe a marked change in Ranno. The
latter was heavier in figure and somewhat red and puffy of face. When
their eyes happened to meet, it was Ranno who turned away.

Oslaw in the mean time had stepped into the center of the open space and
was addressing himself to the spectators. The clerks were putting his
statements down with flying quills.

"The theory of justice in which we of the plateau people believe," he
declared, in a voice which carried far, "has been evolved gradually over
the centuries and it is different in form and usage from that of all
other lands. It is based on the belief that justice is the concern of
everyone and that trials should be held in the hearing of all and not in
small rooms by cruel old men in black cloaks. As the human voice is
incapable of reaching all of you who make up this large audience, our
system for the relaying of questions and answers will be followed more
fully than perhaps ever before. This will cause a certain amount of
delay and I must ask you to assist us by saving us any interruptions and
other evidences of impatience."

The Orator then returned to his table and spoke to the defendant.
"Nicolan of the Ildeburghs, is there anything you desire to say before
the hearing begins?"

Nicolan advanced a step into the open space. "There is something which
disturbs me deeply," he said, and was pleased to find that his voice was
steady and natural. "I am surprised at the composition of the Ferma. The
nine chairs have been, from time immemorial, occupied by the heads of
the nine leading families. No limit has ever been placed on the time a
man may serve; nay, it has been understood that each occupant acts for
the period of his lifetime and is succeeded on his death by his eldest
son. And yet I see that some of the chairs are occupied today by young
men. I suppose it is understood they are acting for their sires. But, my
lord Orator, all of the legal occupants are alive and well able to
continue their duties. May I ask the reason for this arbitrary change?"

Oslaw considered his answer carefully. "I am informed that the changes
have been made in each case with the consent of the member who has
retired."

"But, my lord, it must be well known to you that any change is made in
open meeting and that anyone who attends is free to express an opinion.
This clearly has not been done. Are we departing from the customs,
sanctioned and hallowed by time, which our forefathers evolved?" When no
response was made, Nicolan addressed another question to the Orator.
"You, my lord, have performed the duties of your office for a great many
years, I believe."

"For forty years."

"In all that time have you known of any other case where the rightful
occupant of a chair surrendered his place before being summoned by death
to a higher court?"

Oslaw shook his head. "There have been no other resignations in my
time."

"Is there any record of resignations at any time in the past?"

"Not that I know of, Nicolan of the Ildeburghs."

"For many generations the post of chief judge has been held by the head
of the family of the Roymarcks. It has been handed down from father to
son and I am sure all in this gathering will agree that they have proven
themselves worthy of that trust. It now seems to have been taken over by
Ranno of the Finninalders. May I ask how this change came about?"

A deep silence had fallen over the thickly packed slopes. A hasty glance
about him made it clear to Nicolan that the spectators were leaning
forward and following the proceedings with an intensity of interest.
Most of them had transferred their gaze to Ranno. The latter seemed
little concerned.

"Macio is dead," said Oslaw. "His only son is believed to have been
killed in the battle at Chlons."

Nicolan's voice rose to a peremptory pitch. "And who made this most
important of all decisions?"

"It was discussed among the other members and a decision reached."

"Were the people of the plateau consulted first? Was a vote taken?"

"It may have been that an expression of opinion was secured from a
certain number of individuals. But no vote was taken."

"I was told by my father, long since dead under tragic circumstances
familiar to everyone here, that the first Roymarck to occupy the post
was selected at a meeting in the open on the banks of the Volga River.
It was by the voice of the people that he was elevated to the chair. It
was an occasion of great joy. Now it seems that three or four heads put
together in a corner can decide in whispers on points which should be
left to the massed voice of the plateau people.

"It is necessary, also, to raise a point which concerns me personally.
Since the murder of my father and the illegal seizure of our lands, the
chair of the Ildeburghs has been kept open, as I, a minor at the time of
my father's death, had been sold into slavery to a Roman master. Today I
find to my astonishment that the chair has been filled. I demand to know
on what authority this has been done."

The voice of Ranno interrupted at this stage. He leaned forward with
both elbows placed on the small table in front of him. One hand grasped
the mace of office. His voice was hoarse with anger.

"This has gone far enough," he declared. "I propose to have these
matters understood now and for all time."

Nicolan advanced a further step into the open square of space and the
two protagonists faced each other for a moment in silence.

"This man," said Ranno, discarding the mace and pointing a forefinger at
Nicolan, "this traitor to his own people, is charged with an offense so
great that there can be no longer any delay in dealing with him. He is
making an effort to obscure the issue by complaining about matters of
procedure."

"I am claiming," said Nicolan, "that the Council which proposes to try
me has not been legally elected and has no right to pass upon this, or
any other, case."

"And I am claiming," cried Ranno, thumping the table with a hand which
seemed fat and white for a man who lived in the saddle, "that no one,
saving the defendant in this case, has any objection to the measures
which have been necessary to assemble a court."

The clerks had been hurrying with great zeal to write down the questions
and answers and to send the slips to the officials in the raised spaces.
The voices of the latter came back faintly, as well as the murmuring of
the listeners.

"I propose," continued Ranno, "to take a general vote. Are you content,
my good friends, to have the Ferma as it stands today proceed with the
hearing? All in favor will stand up."

There were a few moments when the issue of this direct appeal seemed to
be in doubt. There was shaking of heads and much talking back and forth,
as though the people realized the arbitrary course which Ranno was
taking. It was not until a few of the more aggressive spirits got to
their feet and thus set an example that any considerable number answered
Ranno's suggestion. There is something contagious, however, about the
mere act of rising; and gradually the slower members began to stand up
also.

Ranno looked about him with a satisfied air. "The people of the plateau
are with me," he declared. "Are you content to proceed now, Master
Orator?"

"It is my duty," said Oslaw, after bowing in response to the question,
"to call attention to the fact that the new head of the judges has laid
this charge. It has been customary in the past for members of the Ferma
to withdraw when cases are called in which they are to give evidence.
May I ask if Ranno of the Finninalders proposes to vacate his chair
until a decision is reached?"

Ranno indulged in a short and scornful laugh. "Master Orator," he said,
"I have no such intention."

"There is no law to compel you. Save perhaps the sense of fairness which
is strong in our race."

"Permit me to say that my sense of fairness compels me to retain my
chair. To make certain that the bereaved families of the men who died on
the field of Chlons will see full justice done!"

This expression of opinion drew an instant round of applause from the
spectators, as, of course, it could not fail to do. Ranno nodded in the
direction of Oslaw. "The people have spoken!" he said. "Now perhaps you
will open the case."

The Orator was unhappy over the course events were taking. He remained
silent for several moments before responding. When he did, it was in a
voice which manifested his dissent.

"I am sure, my lord Ranno, that you know you are upsetting all the rules
of procedure in this court. Any verdict obtained under these
circumstances will be subject to appeal."

Ranno leaned as far over the table as he could. Raising an arm clothed
in the white ermine of the court, he glowered at Oslaw. "Your duties end
with the presentation of the evidence. The reaching of the verdict is
the function of the Council. Is that clear?" A heavy scowl spread across
his dark countenance. "Proceed, Master Orator! Proceed at once!"

There was no doubt in any mind that Ranno had won in the first clash.


[3]

When Ranno had taken the witness chair at the table beside the Orator,
he plunged easily and confidently into his story. "An hour after dawn
the mists began to clear. Roric, our commander, sent for me and said I
was to take my men out on a scouting expedition. It was feared the enemy
might attempt an encircling movement by sending horsemen around our left
flank."

Oslaw nodded his head. "A wise precaution. But had not scouts been
covering this open country to the left of our army during the night?"

"I do not know."

"Would you not consider it absolutely essential to keep watch on the
flanks through the hours of darkness?"

Ranno gave his questioner a suspicious and unfriendly stare. "I was not
in command. I was there to obey orders."

"Are we to assume that you were being sent out because this necessary,
nay, this elementary, precaution had not been taken?"

Ranno demanded in surly tones, "Is it your intention to turn this into a
military inquiry?"

"It is necessary," declared Oslaw, in a voice which had suddenly become
high and even peremptory, "to probe into all phases of a case, so that
the Council, and back of them the people, may be convinced that the
truth has been obtained. May I point out to you, my lord Ranno, that
this hearing is now in my hands and that my decisions on points of
evidence are final?"

When Ranno made no response, the Orator continued: "What I am trying to
establish is that there would have been no need to send you out on this
scouting mission if the open land had been patrolled during the night.
It may be that I shall have a witness later to prove that the usual
precautions _had_ been taken."

"As to that, I have nothing to say. I received the orders, as I have
told you. I was to report to the three princes who were in command of
the left army for any additional instructions."

"And you went to see them?"

"I did. I saw one of them only. The others had not recovered from their
drinking debauch of the night."

"Which one did you see?"

"Prince Tallimundi. He told me he had just received an order to send the
plateau troops under Roric in an attack up the northern slopes of the
high ground held by the enemy."

"Did this order come from the Emperor Attila himself?"

"It was alleged to come from him. But it was Nicolan of the Ildeburghs
who sent it."

"In sending it, was he obeying instructions from Attila?"

There was a pause. "I do not know."

"You used the word 'alleged.' Do you mean to imply that Tallimundi had
any doubts that the order came from the emperor?"

"How could I tell what was in his mind?"

"But he ordered the attack. Is that not proof that he had no doubts?"

"It may be."

"In that case you must withdraw the word 'alleged' as improperly used."

"He said"--Ranno looked about him with a sly sense of anticipation of
the effect his statement would have--"that he did not trust Nicolan.
That he was sure Nicolan was anxious to see the troops under Roric
assigned this dangerous duty."

"What reason did he have for making such a dangerous accusation?"

Ranno paused before answering this. "He, the prince, told me that
Nicolan discussed the situation with him the evening before. He told the
prince then that he believed the best place for the attack was on the
northern slope."

"Did any of the plateau leaders share this belief?"

"None. We had discussed it together the evening before. We were all in
favor of an attack on the east."

Oslaw placed before the witness a large map. "This," he explained,
"shows the part of the battlefield of Chlons which was occupied by the
army of the left. Will you look at it, please, and tell me if you think
it is correct?"

Ranno studied the map and nodded finally. "It seems correct."

Oslaw drew a forefinger through the map. "This is the front of our line.
Here is the raised ground held by the enemy and this dotted line is the
course taken by the plateau horsemen in the attack led by Roric. Here,
farther east, is the open country which you were under orders to patrol.
When you returned from the tent of Tallimundi you must have ridden
straight through the line."

"I did."

"You rode then within a very few yards of the position held by our
troops."

"Yes."

"Did you see Roric?"

"No."

"But did it not occur to you that he was unaware of the order he would
receive from Tallimundi? Surely it was clear to you that, if you _did_
let him know, there might be time for him to protest and get the order
changed."

"I had received my instructions. I was carrying them out."

The voice of the Orator was raised to a higher pitch as he asked the
next question.

"Did it not occur to you that the situation would be changed when Roric
did receive the order?"

"In what way?"

"Roric might decide under the circumstances that he could not afford to
send you out with so large a force. He might think you would be needed
for the attack on the hill."

"When you are acting on orders, it is your duty to proceed without any
delay."

There was a long pause. Oslaw lifted the map again and studied it.

"You had a strip of land to cover which was roughly twelve miles in
width and half of that in depth. At what hour did you set out?"

"About six. I am not sure of the exact time."

"When did you return?"

Ranno hesitated. "I am not sure."

"But it was in the afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Was it not close to four when you came back?"

"I have told you I am not sure."

Oslaw tossed the map to the table with a dramatic gesture. "You were
away, roughly, nine hours. The battle was in its final stages when you
returned. And most of your comrades lay dead on the slope of the hill."

Ranno placed both hands on the table and leaned forward toward his
questioner. His features were contorted with anger.

"Master Oslaw!" he cried. "Is Nicolan on trial here or am I? I resent
the suspicions you are trying to create. I refuse to answer any more
questions."

This was one of the occasions when, as Nicolan had noticed in his first
talk with Oslaw, the voice of the old man became vibrant and compelling.

"You are forgetting that my duty is to reach the truth for the guidance
of the Ferma by questioning both parties to a case, as well as the
witnesses. It is my duty, moreover, to sum up the evidence on each point
as the case proceeds. I am compelled by the answers you have given me to
say this: that no other captain of plateau horsemen would have ridden
away to scout through country which probably was bare of the enemy
without offering to serve with his comrades in the desperate duty
assigned them.

"You have made the charge. Nicolan sits here in court to answer it. But
over the years I have found that sometimes things come to light which
are fully as revealing as the facts of a case. It should be clear to you
that the reasons and motives of the accuser must be probed as well as
the actions of the accused. The role of the accuser is often one of
unsuspected difficulties, even of peril. He must stand with the man he
has accused under the strong white light of scrutiny.

"And so," he summed up, "it happens that, in a sense, you also are on
trial. With this difference: your honor alone is at stake, with him it
is his life."

Ranno had won in the first clash but he had been badly worsted in the
second.


[4]

Ranno returned to his elevated chair and it became apparent at once that
he had decided on a change of tactics. He had attempted the role of the
bully in the court and had been so severely dealt with that his pride,
for the moment, lay in shreds. No longer would he try to carry off
things with a high hand. Instead he called his witnesses in a restrained
voice and he neither offered comment nor allowed his feelings to show as
the Orator of the Ferma questioned them.

The first one called was Rustrum, son of Illelac, son of Gorlaw, son of
Telf. His full name was used in summoning him to the stand in order to
establish his unquestioned plateau descent. He began by saying he had
ridden beside Ranno all through the day of the battle and by confirming
what the latter had told of his movements. Although he had been on hand
when the visit was paid to the tent of Tallimundi, he had not heard the
conversation which ensued between the two men.

"Did you know," asked Oslaw, "that the forces from the plateau country
were to attack the hill?"

"Yes, master."

"Did your captain tell you?"

"No, master. But we heard about it soon."

"Did you think you should have turned back to have a part in the
attack?"

The man's brow wrinkled in a bewildered frown. "Turn back? No orders
were given to turn back, master."

The second witness was another of Ranno's troop. His name was Radgel,
son of Sulmen, son of Rashgo, son of Culkan. The point of his testimony
was that he had heard his captain receive the order from Roric earlier
in the morning. He had accompanied Ranno to the well-screened spot where
all that was left of the fire, before which Roric had slept during the
night, was a pile of ashes, and had heard the conversation there.

When Oslaw began to question him in detail, he became a little vague
about many things. Nothing shook him, however, on the main part of his
testimony; he had heard the order delivered by Roric to take a party out
and scout through the land to the east.

A more voluble witness was Vollena, son of no known father and,
therefore, referred to always as Alph Vollena. He testified to having
heard a conversation between Nicolan and Ivar on the day when they
visited the Roymarck lands to complete the report for Attila on the man
power and the horse supplies of the country. They had been standing
apart when he, Alph Vollena, had been influenced by curiosity to hear
what was being said. Nicolan, he declared, had told Ivar he must have
back his lands which Ranno held, and that, in order to get them, he must
contrive to get Ranno out of the way.

"Where were the two men when this talk went on?" asked Oslaw.

"At one side, of course, master."

"Did they speak in low tones?"

"Ay, indeed, master. They had their heads together and they whispered,
one to other."

"How close were you to them?"

"As close as one dared." The witness measured the open square in the
room with his eyes and then said, with a gesture as though dividing the
distance in half, "About as close as that, master."

"Then you were about twenty feet away from them?"

Ranno tried to get his man's eye at this point but Alph Vollena was too
busy to pay attention.

"Yes, master," he said. "Yes, twenty feet."

Oslaw paced off twenty feet from where the witness was standing. Then he
summoned a guard and said something in his ear.

"Now," he said, turning back to the witness. "What did I say to him? And
what answer did he make?"

The witness did not yet sense the pitfall. "Why, master," he answered,
"I heard nothing. How could I? It was whispering you were."

"You heard nothing at all?"

"No, master."

The Orator turned to look up at the elevated chair of Ranno. "I am
compelled to inform the Council that the word of this witness is not to
be believed. He could not have heard what was said that day. His
evidence must be set aside."

The spectators were now seen to be wearing smiles. Nicolan was to learn
later that Alph Vollena had the reputation of being a great liar. Ranno
had shown poor judgment in his selection of this particular witness.

It was not likely that anyone present believed that this illegitimate
son of a maidservant had heard the statements he imputed to Nicolan. The
latter, however, sensed that the witnesses called to corroborate Ranno's
story had convinced most of the spectators of the truth of the story
told by the head of the Finninalders. Their faith in Ranno may have been
shaken by Oslaw's vigorous outburst but this had no effect on the main
point at issue.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The appearance of the next witness created such surprise that all
whispering stopped and all eyes were turned in his direction. It was
clear that he was not recognized by any save Nicolan, who had seen him
last shackled to the side of one of his trade wagons, a very sick and
very frightened man. It was Micca the Mede.

The once great merchant from the East was attired in a plain robe of the
cheapest material. The heavy gold chain he had always worn around his
neck was missing. His fingers were bare of rings. His face was almost
skull-like in its emaciation and he tottered as he stepped to the
witness chair.

"Micca the Mede!" said Oslaw. "It is a long time since your face was
seen among us."

The witness nodded with extreme gravity. "A long time," he said. "And
now you are seeing me for the last time. I am returning to Damascus
where I was born and where I shall close my eyes for the final sleep."

"Have you evidence to give us?"

"Yes, my lord Orator. I have something to tell of the relations between
the emperor and the defendant."

"Proceed, then."

"The emperor had such opinion of his ability that he entrusted to him
the preparation of marching orders. Often, also, he sought his advice. I
saw Nicolan of the Ildeburghs when he paid a visit to the headquarters
of the emperor above the mountain pass, when the army was marching
through to the Lombardy Plain. He had not been entrusted with the
preparation of the marching orders for the attack on Rome. Attila had
found reasons for distrusting him."

"But how were you in a position to know this? It is my understanding
that you were being held a prisoner."

"That is true. I had been wrongly accused of paying one Sartuk to kill
the emperor and was being held under sentence of death. Nicolan had
returned from a mission which proved the truth of certain information I
had supplied. Because of that, my life was to be spared."

"There has been a persistent rumor that you acted as a spy for the
emperor. What you have now told us would seem a proof of it."

"Why should I deny it? My days are numbered. Yes, I sold information to
him."

"Why had Attila begun to distrust Nicolan?"

"He suspected, my lord, that Nicolan was not loyal. He had given the
emperor bad advice on the night before the battle of Chlons."

"Can you speak plainer?"

"Yes, my lord. Nicolan had advised that the attack be made on the
northern face of the hill. The emperor had followed his advice and the
attack had been a failure."

Oslaw seemed disturbed by the unexpectedness of this evidence. He
remained silent for several moments, his brow creased in thought,
seeking perhaps for the weak link to attack.

"Do you expect us to believe," he said, finally, "that you learned this
while you were held in chains and under sentence of death?"

"The emperor spoke with me at some length when he came to tell me that
my life was to be spared. He was bitterly distrustful of Nicolan and did
not hesitate to speak of it."

Nicolan's confidence was sinking lower with each word spoken by the old
merchant. The way the latter was twisting the facts was diabolically
clever and it might be impossible to wring the truth from him. But why
should Micca come forward with such a story?

"What was the nature of the mission from which Nicolan was returning?"
asked the questioner.

"He had been sent behind the Roman lines to find and speak with the
Princess Honoria. He had been successful."

"Attila then sent him on a much more important mission. To deliver an
open message of warning to Aetius. Why would he do this if he distrusted
Nicolan?"

"It was more hazardous than the first. The emperor expected that the
Romans would put him to death. It was, in a sense, a punishment."

"But is it not true that Nicolan was the means of saving your life?"

Micca gestured indifferently. "I was released from my chains, yes. But
perhaps it would have been better if I had not been pardoned. All my
property was confiscated and I am now no better than a beggar. I return
to the home of my fathers with an empty purse."

"Knowing you, and understanding you thoroughly, I am wondering why you
have come so far out of your way to give this evidence unless there is
some advantage in it for you." Oslaw was silent for a moment. "Nicolan
performed this mission successfully and at the risk of his life. In
doing so, he saved your life. Why then do you come here? Why are you
repaying him by swearing to evidence against him?"

Micca raised both hands in the air and displayed his teeth in the
semblance of a smile. "Shall we say that I feel it my duty to put this
court in possession of what I know about the case?"

"You are known to the world as a purveyor of lies, Micca the Mede. I
find it hard to believe what you have told us."

But nothing, Nicolan realized, could disturb the fact that the merchant
had succeeded in lending weight to the story previously told by Ranno.

There was a stir when Nicolan rose and took his position on the opposite
side of the witness table. Necks were craned to get a better view of him
and there was much shoving and scuffling among the spectators.

"Nicolan of the Ildeburghs," said the Orator, "it has been charged that
you were responsible for the order which sent the men of the plateau on
a mounted charge up the northern slope. Is this true?"

"It is utterly untrue."

"Did you discuss the matter with Prince Tallimundi?"

"No. I have never set eyes on Prince Tallimundi in my life."

Oslaw looked somewhat surprised. "But in the post you held you must have
been in contact with all the army leaders."

"My lord Oslaw, the army that Attila led to the battle of Chlons was
half a million strong. There were scores of army commanders. There were
many I did not see, and the prince was one of them."

"But communications were exchanged between you?"

"On the day of the battle, yes. The emperor had placed me in control of
the dispatch riders."

"Did you have any part in reaching the decision?"

"Not the terrible decision to attack on the north slope. Allow me to
tell you briefly what occurred."

"Take all the time you need. Tell us everything."

"When the staff reached the battle positions at Chlons the night before
the battle, the emperor was enraged to find that the enemy had been
allowed to secure possession of the high ground on the left. He sent
three of the staff to look the situation over. I was one of them. I
returned and reported that in my opinion it was extremely dangerous to
leave them in possession. I was sure, however, that the position could
be captured by an attack from the east where the ascent was gradual. I
urged that an attack be launched at dawn before the Ostrogoths, who had
taken the hillside, would be ready."

"What did the emperor say?"

"He said he would wait until the other reports reached him before making
a decision. But he sent an order at once that the enemy must be
dislodged before the main battle began."

"Did you suggest to him that the attack should be carried out by the
plateau troops?"

"Most certainly not. That decision would rest with the three brothers
who commanded the left."

"What happened then?"

"Early the next morning the emperor told me I was to direct the dispatch
riders during the battle. He sent off a message at once to the three
princes that the position of the Ostrogoths on the hill was to be
challenged and that the attack was to be made on the eastern slope."

"Was the order conveyed in writing?"

Nicolan shook his head. "All of the orders during the battle were by
word of mouth. There was no time to write them. The report reached us
after the battle that this message was not delivered. The rider was
thrown from his horse and badly injured. The first message, ordering the
attack, had been received."

"Did Tallimundi take it on himself to make his own decisions about the
attack?"

There was a pause before Nicolan made any answer. "My lord Orator, it is
my belief," he said, "that he had the benefit of advice."

"Do you mean advice from someone other than you? Or the emperor?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Have you evidence to submit on the point?"

"One of the dispatch riders, who carried instructions later to the
prince, heard how it came about that the plateau troops were selected
and that the attack was launched in the north. He told me what he had
heard."

"You understand, I am sure, that evidence based on hearsay is not well
regarded in the courts of the Ferma. It is no better than gossip.
Sometimes it carries even the stamp of slander. But if the rider in
question could be brought into court, that would be a different matter."

"He is here, my lord."

This statement, when announced to the spectators, created a sensation.
People turned to stare at their neighbors and to exchange opinions. A
murmur of surprised comment came from all sides.

Ranno had been whispering to the Council member at his right. He stopped
in the middle of a sentence and looked up, his face suddenly set and
hard. After a moment of reflection, he snapped a finger to one of his
personal servants who sat on the grass beneath his elevated post. The
latter listened and then left.

"We will want to hear what your witness has to say," declared Oslaw. "In
the meantime, you might continue with what happened after the battle
began."

"The emperor led the center in person and made an early attack on the
Alani forces which opposed him. I received all the reports brought by
the riders and, when the information warranted it, I sent the message
down into the zone of conflict to be delivered to the emperor. One of
the first messages transmitted that way came from the left, with the
report that Prince Tallimundi had ordered the plateau horsemen to attack
the hill, using the northern slope. I--I found it impossible at first to
believe this. What a disastrous mistake! Not only would the attack fail
but the attacking force would be wiped out. An early report had reached
us that the three princes had spent the night drinking and I was sure
this was the result, that Tallimundi was not sober enough to know what
he was doing. But Somutu, the rider, gave me some information which
was--quite different."

"Is this man Somutu your witness?"

"Yes, my lord."

"What steps did you take?"

"I sent a rider down into the lines to inform Attila of the grave error
which had been made and to beg that he countermand Tallimundi's
instructions. Then I sent Somutu back to the prince to demand that the
charge be delayed until the emperor's answer could be received."

"What answer did the emperor send?"

"A peremptory order to the prince to stop the charge and to attack from
the east instead, using foot soldiers for the work. Before this order
reached Tallimundi, the charge up the steep slope had been made. And had
failed."

Oslaw began to question the defendant closely, eliciting from him all
the information about the messages which had passed back and forth with
Tallimundi. He did not ask anything further, however, about the advice
to the prince of which Somutu had spoken; that, clearly, was being left
for Somutu himself to tell.

"And now," said Oslaw, "let us go still further back into the past."

There was in his manner a hint of confidence which he had lacked
earlier. Nicolan, who was watching and listening with the closest
attention, detected it at once. He said to himself, "He is better
satisfied, I think, with the way it is going."

"I consider it important," went on the Orator, "for the judges to hear
your reasons for choosing to serve Attila. Our men of military age were
forced to serve in the emperor's army but you chose to follow him of
your own free will."

"My answer to that," said Nicolan, in a clear voice, "is that for many
years I was a slave in Rome."

Oslaw commented quietly: "A good answer. But I hope you will now go on
and explain your feelings more fully to us."

"Yes, my lord Oslaw. I don't suppose anyone here has shared this
experience. How can I make you understand then what it means to exist
under the feet of those cruel and degenerate people? Perhaps the best
way would be to show you the marks I carry on my body."

He threw back his tunic so that he was naked from the waist up. He
walked slowly about the open space, facing inward, so that everyone
would have a chance to see the deep, red scars which covered his back in
crisscross pattern.

"I am not proud of the mutilation to which I was subjected by order of
the great Aetius," he said on returning to his place. "Because I always
kept my back covered, they called me the Coated One in Attila's army.
But today I thought I must let my judges and my countrymen see one
reason why my soul sickened at the thought of a world ruled forever by
Rome."

"Begin your story now," said Oslaw, "with the murder of your father and
the rape of your lands. All of us know something of it but I am afraid
we have been inclined to forget it, as something past and done. Take
your time, if you please. Omit nothing that may serve to open our eyes
to your reasonings."

So Nicolan told his story, with urgings from the questioner and shrewd
promptings. It took the balance of the day and he could see that his
audience was listening intently. They might still be against him but
with their bitterness now there was a tincture of sympathy. At the
finish he told briefly of his absence from the Hun army in the fighting
which had come to such a sudden ending and finally he drew a document
from under his belt and handed it to the Orator.

"I submit this," he said, "as a proof of the truth of what I have been
telling."

At his first glimpse of the paper, Oslaw's eyes showed the extent of his
surprise, and perhaps some gratification that this weapon had been
placed in his hands. He read it through twice and then held it up with a
dramatic gesture.

"This," he announced, "is a legal order, issued by the Emperor Attila,
conveying back to Nicolan the lands which belonged to his father and
which are now held by the family of the Finninalders."

Nicolan's eyes were on Ranno when this statement was made and he
believed he could see a hint of fear under the dark anger on the surface
of his opponent's face. It disappeared in a moment, however, as the
latter started up from his chair.

"You have gone too far!" cried Ranno. "I have tried to be patient under
your goadings. But I refuse to have you exhibit in court this--this
deliberate forgery!"

"It is not a forgery," declared Oslaw. "It is a proper and legal
document, transferring the lands to Nicolan of the Ildeburghs, son of
the previous owner. Still, this is no threat to your continued
occupation; for, as you will see when you have the opportunity of
examining it, the deed has been canceled." The questioner turned back to
Nicolan. "What was the reason for the cancellation?"

"I refused to accept it."

"On what grounds did you refuse?"

"Because it was given me in the expectation that I would continue to act
in the same capacity as in the campaign which ended with the battle of
Chlons. Despite what Micca the Mede said, the emperor wanted me to
continue."

"Why did you refuse to serve?"

"In the interval I had been converted to a belief in the teachings of
the Lord Jesus Christ. I could no longer take an active part in another
war as terrible as the first. I could not make out orders to turn armed
forces loose on defenseless people."

"But you continued to serve the emperor?"

"I was given no option. He sent me on a mission into Italy as I have
already testified. He was certain I would be back before the march began
and that I would have changed my mind in the meantime. But almost
immediately after I left, he learned that the Roman commander was making
no army dispositions to defend the mountain passes and so he grasped the
opportunity to move at once."

"But he found more work for you?"

"Yes, my lord. Again I had no option. It is the belief of the Emperor
Attila that no man may voluntarily leave his service. He sent me to the
Roman commander with the warning that he would destroy all the cities of
northern Italy if Aetius laid waste the country to prevent the Hun
armies from living off the land. It was a mission of great danger. I
accepted it with no hope of emerging alive."

"Then the emperor had not lost confidence in you as Micca declared on
the stand?"

"No, my lord."

"Did you see Micca when you returned from your first mission into
Italy?"

"Yes, I had a talk with him. Attila was so convinced of his guilt that
he was kept in chains and his life hung on a promise made to him because
he had given certain information. It is inconceivable that the emperor,
knowing him for a spy and a double traitor, would discuss with him any
matters of a military nature. The statements he made here were
completely false. They were inventions of his own."

"But why would he, an old and broken man, come far out of his way to
testify? Was there bad blood between you?"

"No. When I saw him chained in one of his own trade wagons, he was most
grateful because I had proven the truth of some of the information he
had supplied to Attila."

"Is it true that all his property has been confiscated?"

"He has nothing left. Even the rich robes were stripped from his back."

"Have you any explanation to give for his presence here today?"

Nicolan hesitated. "He has already made it clear that he stops at
nothing where money is concerned. He would have hesitated to show you
the color of the coins in his purse. I suspect it would be largely
plateau gold."


[5]

Nicolan was escorted back to his own chamber and found Ivar there. As no
one of alien blood was allowed to attend hearings, he had been kept
outside. It was clear from the gloom on his face that what he had been
able to learn of the proceedings had disturbed him very much.

He had bad news of his own to impart. "Friend Nicolan," he said, "it may
not be possible to produce Somutu in court. He has disappeared."

"Do you suppose," asked Nicolan, "that he has become impatient of the
delay and has started for his home?"

The Briton shook his head. "His horse is still tethered in the lines.
His belongings are in my tent. No, he has been carried off to prevent
him from testifying. He may even have been killed."

Nicolan sat down and gave in to his bitter discouragement. "So far," he
said, "I have been able to offer only my own unsupported evidence. It's
true that Oslaw succeeded in casting doubt on the conduct of Ranno, even
questioning his courage. But will that suffice? I'm afraid not." He was
silent for several moments, keeping his face lowered in his hands. Then
he looked up and seemed to have partially conquered his fears. "I knew
the danger when I decided to come. But it had to be done, Ivar, my
friend, it had to be done."




CHAPTER XI


[1]

It rained during the night, neither heavily nor long, but too heavily
and too long for the comfort of the thousands of plateau people who had
decided to spend the night where they were rather than risk losing their
places. Dawn broke on the unhappy people, sitting in the discomforts of
the muddy slope. The supplies of food they had brought with them had
been nearly exhausted and the cries of hungry children filled the air.

The first hint of ameliorating circumstances came from the northern bend
of the amphitheater. Someone stood up and sniffed energetically. "Food!"
he cried. "Hot food. I smell it roasting."

Confirmation came soon from those on the crest. They discovered that a
trench had been dug during the night and that the carcasses of cattle
and sheep were being roasted whole. In a brief space of time thereafter
attendants were carrying platters, heaped high with thick cuts of beef
and slabs of hot bread, through the closely packed spectators. The
discomforts were quickly forgotten.

"Have we Ranno to thank for this?" asked the head of one family, whose
face was already greasy because he had secured a rib bone for himself.

The attendant scoffed. "Ranno! Don't you know that Ranno starved his old
father to death? Ranno was suckled on a brass du'pius."

"Then who pays?"

"This, my friend, is the gift of a lady. The widow of Ti'gest."

The word quickly permeated the packed circle of humanity that the widow
of Tergeste, who was no longer a widow but the wife of the English
Samson, who was in turn the friend of Nicolan, had provided the food.
There was much speculation, as a result. Had she done it to win their
favor or was it purely out of goodness of heart? Whatever the reason,
the people were happy about it and the hum of cheerful voices rose from
all directions.

By seven the seats of the judges were filled. A minute later Oslaw
appeared, carrying a statement in one hand. He issued copies to the
clerks and gave instructions to have them carried at once to the
announcers on the platforms.

There was a solemnity about his manner and a tautness in the muscles of
his face. He waited until the copies had been distributed.

"'Two hours ago,'" he began, reading from the statement, "'a herdsman,
searching for stragglers, looked over the edge of the Scaur and saw
among the rocks of the Lintgaw a touch of color which held his eye. It
looked to him like a man, partly covered by a cloak. He made his way
down and found that his guess had been correct. It was what was left of
a man after the long fall. There was an arrow protruding from between
the shoulder blades. He was identified later as Somutu, the dispatch
rider who was to have been a witness in this court.

"'The man Somutu,'" he went on, "'had not been here long enough to make
a mortal enemy for himself. He had not figured in any drinking bouts or
quarrels. From all reports he was an amiable fellow with a wife and
family awaiting him in Sarmatia. Only one conclusion is left to us and I
would be a traitor to my oath of office if I did not say he had been put
out of the way deliberately.'"

When the announcers had completed the reading of the first part of the
statement a silence fell for a space of several moments over the thick
ranks of the spectators. Then a hum of voices began and grew into a
deafening roar. Most of the men sprang to their feet, waving their arms
excitedly.

Oslaw waited for the noise to subside and then continued reading.
"'Yesterday afternoon, Dalbo, a Roymarck groom, was seen in a pothouse
well to the south, at least twenty miles away. He was drinking and he
had a new feather in his hat. He was boasting loudly of the contents of
his purse. Dalbo, who was missing yesterday, had evidence of some
importance to give about things which happened the night before the
battle. All of us know Dalbo as a witless fellow who could labor all his
life and not save enough to pay for that feather in his hat. Again there
is only one conclusion to be drawn. Dalbo had been bribed to absent
himself.'"

The spectators reacted in the same way, although the volume of sound had
become deeper and more sustained.

"'Finally,'" read Oslaw, "'it is necessary for me to report that an
order I gave yesterday for the witness Micca the Mede to be held for
further questioning has been overruled. He was instructed to leave
yesterday afternoon.'"

No one was more astonished than Nicolan at Oslaw's announcements. He had
received no word from the Orator following the conclusion of the session
the previous day. He had slept little, tossing on his narrow bed, his
mind filled with doubts of the outcome. He had glanced, on rising, at
the sun. "Perhaps I am seeing you for the last time," he thought. First
among the bitter regrets which filled his mind was the probability, if
not certainty, that he would never see Ildico again.

Since rising to face this fateful day he had been aware of activities in
other parts of the building, the arrival and departure of visitors, the
rumble of voices. When a man stands in peril of his life, his senses
become unusually acute. He is able to hear what is said at unusual
distances, he draws correct conclusions from many things: an expression,
a gesture, a movement. He can read meanings into the tread of a foot,
the rustle of a gown. Instinct tells him if things are going well for
him or badly. But Nicolan had not been sure of the meaning of the
activities going on about him when he rose that morning. There was a
briskness about things and that, by itself, would have been reassuring.
But why had no one come to see him?

Oslaw paused before continuing with the balance of his announcement. The
loud din, which indicated a high state of excitement among the
spectators, took some time to die down.

"'All this,'" he then went on, "'is proof of a deliberate determination
to conceal the truth from us. Fortunately our laws cover the case. They
make it incumbent on us to do one of two things. We must dismiss the
charges or postpone the hearing until a close inquiry can be conducted
into this effort to thwart the course of justice.'"

It seemed to Nicolan that the noisy demonstration in which the
spectators indulged was proof of a wide concurrence, though not a
universal one, in the conclusions of Oslaw. And he had this to lean
upon: Somutu murdered, and Dalbo and Micca spirited away, would prove in
their enforced silence the best of witnesses for him.

Ranno had listened to Oslaw with a set and angry expression, his heavy
brows drawn down, his mouth a grim straight line. He now got to his
feet.

"I see no reason for taking either course," he declared. "Sufficient
evidence has been introduced to prove the charges against the defendant.
The case must go on."

It had been assumed by everyone that Ranno would have the people of the
plateau with him. But when his statement had been read to them, there
was an instant response. It consisted of one word, repeated loudly and
in unison.

"No! No! No!"

"It is clear, my lord Ranno," said the Orator, "that the people do not
agree with you."

"There are occasions," declared Ranno, glancing down from his elevated
post, "when new circumstances must override old laws. The decision in
this case rests with me. I repeat that the hearing must go on. Without
further interruption or delay."

Oslaw left his table and advanced closer to the prominent row of seats
where the judges sat in their costly white and red robes. He glanced
steadily at Ranno. "It has been customary to refer decisions to the
voice of the people when any changes in the laws are involved. If the
Council of the Ferma does not decide to dismiss the charges or to
postpone the hearings until an investigation has been conducted, I shall
draw on the authority vested in my office to call for a general vote."

"Very well, Master Orator. A poll of the Ferma will be taken. The result
will not suit you but I give no promises of any further action." He rose
to his feet and gestured widely as though saying to those who favored
him, Observe closely the stand I am taking and be prepared to follow my
lead. Although the sun had broken through the clouds for the first time
and was laying welcome warmth on their still damp backs, the spectators
were too concerned with the drama being enacted beneath them to notice
it.

"The point at stake," went on Ranno, "is whether we are to continue the
hearing of this case. I cast my own vote first. I say, yes."

It was not necessary at this point to send messengers to the platforms
occupied by the announcers. Oslaw had raised his right arm to indicate
that an affirmative vote had been cast.

"Cristus, what say you?" asked Ranno of the judge on his right.

Cristus was very young and he flushed at finding all faces turned his
way. He cleared his throat nervously and said in a high-pitched voice,
"I say, yes."

A believer, clearly, in the effect of an early trend, Ranno polled the
two other young members and received a "Yes" from each. He then called
on one of the older judges. Silence had followed each of the earlier
votes but when Oslaw raised his left hand in the air to indicate the
expression of a negative opinion, the spectators stirred and a wave of
sound reached the ears of those below. Watching with a nervous
intensity, Nicolan found relief in the clearness and lack of hesitation
displayed by the three senior members who followed. After each of them
spoke, the Orator raised his left arm, eliciting an immediate response
from the hearers.

The vote now stood four to four.

Ranno's manner exuded complete confidence at this point. He glanced
about him with an almost jaunty air as he declared: "The deciding vote
will be cast by our most recent member, Hasca, who was selected at the
last moment to occupy the chair once filled by the Ildeburghs. Hasca,
how do you vote?"

Nicolan looked at the sheepherder in his chair at the end of the line of
judges, and his heart sank. He was an uncouth figure with long,
untrimmed hair and a nose of vulpine length. If there was a barely
discernible trace of shrewdness in the man's face and even a glint of
humor in the corners of his yellowish eyes, they were nothing to supply
the defendant with any hope. Nicolan knew that Ranno had ridden into the
north to see Hasca and to offer him a place on the Ferma. Without a
doubt they had come to terms.

"It is well," thought Nicolan, "that Ildico hasn't succeeded in getting
back in time. She will be spared the outcome of this."

Hasca stood up after a moment's hesitation and glanced slowly about him.
His eyes rested on Ranno and then turned to stare at Nicolan.

"I did not know," he said, "that the seat I was to fill had belonged to
the Ildeburghs. If I had been aware of that, I would have refused to sit
here. My brother, my only brother, died at Chlons and if Nicolan issued
the order which cost him his life, I want to see him pay the penalty."

Ranno nodded his head encouragingly at this point.

"Also I want to say I believe that justice should be administered by the
people. Will we ever have such a chance again, with every inch of sod
filled with sons of the plateau, to reach a verdict with the solid
opinion of the people back of it?

"But"--his voice rising to an even shriller pitch as he proceeded--"I
must confess to a doubt. Can we be sure of Nicolan's guilt without
having heard the evidence he was prepared to offer? Perhaps it is
presumptuous of me to express this opinion. Here I stand, a lowly son of
a beggarly line of sheep men, surrounded by the proud and lordly horse
breeders of the plateau. They draw away as though they detect a whiff of
wool about me which even this fine cloak can't conceal. But this I want
to say, my friends--if I have any--a herder of sheep spends all his
waking hours in the open, under the warm rays of the sun or watching
through the hours of the night with no company but the stars above him;
and I believe a love of truth is one of the things he learns. I think my
fellow tenders of sheep would like me to say this on their behalf: that
they would not murder a soldier unheard who had come a long way to give
his evidence, that they would not fill the pockets of a witless gabune
so that he would run away, that they would not hire a triple traitor and
spy to come here and swear to a pack of lies. The man who is guilty of
these crimes might be the one who connived to send the men of the
plateau up the bloody slope at Chlons. Certainly we can't fix the guilt
elsewhere until these points have been cleared up."

He turned and scowled at Ranno, whose face had taken on the high color
of outraged surprise.

"My vote is--no!"

And then unexpected things happened. Although many voices were raised in
dissent, there was an outburst of laughter along the slope, accompanied
by a vigorous clapping of hands and then a great shout which continued
without a check for many moments.


[2]

Oslaw laid a hand on Nicolan's arm and led him back into the room he had
been occupying. He closed the door after them.

"It will be safer," he said, "to remain here until this excitement is
over. I think most of the people have been won to your support but there
will be many who still believe you responsible for the deaths of fathers
and husbands. One of them might plunge a dagger into your back." He went
to the window and stood there for several moments, watching what was
going on outside. "They are swarming down from the slopes. As I
expected, there's much bitter argument among them. The guards will have
their hands full."

"Where is Ranno?"

"He hasn't moved. I don't believe I have ever seen anyone so completely
discomfited as our fine and honorable Ranno. Wait, he seems to have
vanished. At least, I cannot see him."

"What of Hasca?"

"Our brave sheepherder remains in his chair. There's a smile on his
face. It seems to me to be one of satisfaction, although it borders on
the sly as well. The people below him are engaged in a bitter dispute.
But this doesn't disturb him at all."

Oslaw walked to the table and seated himself beside Nicolan. "My son,"
he said, "you realize, I am sure, how lucky you have been."

Nicolan nodded gravely. "I had small hopes of a favorable vote from the
Ferma. I owe you my life, for your forceful presentation of the case."

"It remains now to decide on a course of action. With the hearing
postponed, I can do either one of two things. First, I can take the
position that the killing of your chief witness makes it impossible for
you to present a complete case and that the charges should be dropped.
Second, I can begin a hearing at once into the circumstances of the
murder of Somutu and the bribery of the other two. This would make it
necessary to appoint a committee of investigation, to be chosen by the
people at large."

"I returned voluntarily," said Nicolan. "My main purpose was to remove
the stain cast on my name by the lies of Ranno. To close the case now
would not give me the complete vindication I seek. I believe the
hearings should be resumed. But," he added, after a moment's
consideration, "two steps must be taken first. We must have a thorough
investigation. And a meeting should be called of the people of the
plateau to vote on the filling of the nine seats of the Ferma."

Oslaw's face, which had carried a hint of inner conflict, cleared at
once. He nodded his head and smiled at the defendant.

"That is what I hoped you would say. You are taking an honest and
courageous stand. I shall be happy to report what you have said at the
meeting of the Ferma which will be held as soon as the excitement
subsides. But you must recognize the unpredictable side of Ranno.
There's no telling what violence he may attempt. So wait until a course
of action has been decided on."

There was a knock on the door and Hasca put his head in. He winked at
Nicolan and bowed to Oslaw. "Come in," said the latter.

Hasca entered with a trace of swagger. It was clear that he was quite
pleased with himself.

"I seem to have spoiled the plans of this new Caesar," he said. "After I
had given my vote, he sat and glared at me, and there was death in his
eye. But I have no fears. His fangs will be drawn before we see the end
of this."

"You took an honest and fearless stand," said Oslaw.

"I am deeply in your debt," declared Nicolan. "It may well be that your
vote saved my life."

The sheep man gestured carelessly. "In spite of what I said out there,
it was clear to me from the start they had nothing against you. Except
the word of this land thief and perjurer and his own servants and
toadies. Oh, I was against you until the trial started. I didn't speak
for a week after I heard of my brother's death. He was a little
bowlegged runt, and I loved him." He turned to stare intently into
Nicolan's eyes. "I'm sure now it wasn't you who went to those three
drunken princes."

"No. But I can tell you who it was."

Hasca gestured with both hands. "No need. I _know_. And, my lord Oslaw,
there is a rumor stirring about in the crowd. That's why I came in to
see you. Ranno doesn't give in easy and he was trying to get all his
supporters gathered together at one end. He had not heard the rumor
until I risked the lightning in his eyes to tell him Roric was alive and
on his way here. His face went as white as a Hun's teeth. He snarled at
me that I lied but he gave up the idea of starting an armed
demonstration."

Oslaw asked eagerly, "What is the word about Roric?"

"It seems to be true. A neighbor of mine, a sheep man with the stench of
the critters in every inch of his hide, told me that Roric's riding in
with a party of friends. They are not far away. He told me that Roric is
still weak. His memory"--Hasca waved one hand back and forth--"comes and
goes."

"That is to be expected." The Orator nodded briskly. "But, with care, he
can be brought back to health. And then we'll get the truth. This means
my hands will be full today. I must leave you."

When they were alone, Hasca began to talk at great length and about a
wide variety of subjects. Finally he said: "I may get to like you. Since
I've had a taste of sitting up there in the chairs of the great, I think
I would like to stay. You and I, now, we might do a lot together."

"And with Roric."

Hasca drew down the corners of his mouth as he considered this phase of
the situation. "Roric too, of course. He'll be the head of the Roymarcks
and he'll sit in the chair that Ranno has been trying so hard to steal.
But he's not going to count for much. When an arrow touches the brain,
it's luck if you stay alive at all. But you and I, we could step along
together when the time arrives for"--he paused and looked with sober
intentness into Nicolan's eyes--"for the great chance."

"This fellow is shrewd," thought Nicolan. "He is looking ahead."

It quickly became even more clear that the sheep man was a great talker
and that, once launched, the ships of his conversation took a long time
in reaching port. He seated himself beside Nicolan and crossed one heavy
leg over the other. "When I was young, with skinny legs which bowed out
like the antlers of an elk, one of our rams charged me from behind. He
sent me head over heels and--Belokin bear me out!--it was near the
finish of me. Ever since I've had a dislike for being butted around.
Last night Ranno came to me and said, 'There's going to be trouble
tomorrow. A regular earthquake. Keep an eye on me, he said, and I'll
signal how I want you to vote.' That left me in a rage. I said to
myself, 'He's starting to butt you around, this fellow.' And then when I
found it _was_ an earthquake, I did my best to make sure it was Ranno
himself who got swallowed up."

He burst into a loud laugh and reached out a fist suddenly to pound
Nicolan on the knee. "We'll work together. And, if there's any butting
around needs to be done, you and me, we'll do it between us."

Their talk was interrupted at this point by a din outside which outdid
anything in the way of noise which the excited people of the plateau had
yet achieved. Hasca ran to the window and stared out. Then he gave vent
to a loud whistle and turned around to stare excitedly at Nicolan.

"They're arriving!" he said. "Must have been much closer than we
thought. I can see the first of them. They've turned in and are going to
ride down the center path."

Nicolan joined him at the window, his heart beating wildly. Ildico, his
brave and wonderful love, had fulfilled her difficult mission. In a
moment he would see her. In several more she would be in his arms. No,
it would be too public for that. But she would be with him. He rose on
his toes in an effort to glance over the massive shoulders of Hasca but
was unable to see anything of the path.

"How many are there of them?" he asked, eagerly.

"Eight, I think."

"No, no!" cried Nicolan. "Not eight! There were eight in the party when
they started out. Look again, Hasca, my friend. There must be nine."

Hasca watched carefully and then shook his head. "No, there's only
eight."

"Then there is no truth in the story that Roric is alive," declared
Nicolan, his hopes falling lower and lower. Another thought, an even
more disturbing one, came into his mind. "Hasca! Is there a lady in the
party?"

"If there is," declared the sheep man, "she's tall and she's broad and
she's got shoulders on her like a bull."


[3]

Forgetting Oslaw's warning, Nicolan rushed out and forced his way
through the mass of people who now filled the level space. He was
recognized at once. Some glowered with hostility but most of them smiled
and a few went to the extent of patting him on the back as he passed.

The horseman in the lead had been selected by Oslaw to command the
party, a tall fellow who scorned to wear any kind of hat. He was coated
with dust from head to foot. Nicolan stopped him as the party reached
the end of the descending path.

"Sarsan! Where is she?" he cried.

The horseman seemed reluctant to speak. "They surprised us," he said,
looking away with a shamefaced air.

Nicolan's first thought was that the surprise attack had been the work
of Ranno. When he voiced this fear, the man Sarsan shook his head. "No,
my lord Nicolan," he said. "It was a large troop. Twenty of them or
more." He leaned over his horse's head, to speak in a lowered voice.
"Huns. Mounted archers. We didn't have a chance to strike a blow."

Nicolan was left speechless. He knew that the possibility of this had
been hanging over them but it had seemed to him a danger for the future.
That Ildico's return had become known so quickly pointed to treachery
within the close circle of the family. Someone had sent word immediately
to Attila's headquarters.

He looked up at Sarsan with a stricken air and waited for more
information. "It happened yesterday morning," explained the leader.
"There was a sharp bend and when we turned it, there they were, sitting
their horses right across the road. Each man had an arrow in his bow and
any move on our part to engage them or to get away would have brought a
volley down on us. Their captain was almost friendly. He said they
wanted the lady and that was all. I asked him what was back of it, and
he said, 'Orders from the Lord of the Land and the Sea.' My Lady Ildico
behaved with the greatest courage. She whispered to me that any movement
would get us all killed without being of any help to her. She said we
must turn at once and take her brother safely back around the bend. She
said to get word to you and then she called, 'Farewell, dear Roric'--and
that was the end. The Huns closed in around her and rode off at a
furious gallop." He seemed almost on the point of tears. "Ah, my lord,
what a brave lady, and we couldn't save her!"

The shock, which had left Nicolan unable to speak, was beginning to give
way to a feeling of black fury. Why had this been allowed to happen?
What precaution had he failed to take? He realized it had been
impossible for him to do anything once they had come to see Oslaw and he
had been put under orders to remain, pending the trial. But before that
there had been an opportunity to secure her safety. Macio's instructions
should have been followed. If Ildico had been persuaded to accompany
Eugenia on the road to safety north of the Alps she would now be well on
her way to a lifetime of liberty. Why, why, had he not refused to let
her have her own way? It was his fault, he realized now, that the worst
had happened.

It could all be traced back to Ranno, who had laid the charges. He was
convinced even that it had been the latter who had sent the information
to Attila. In a few moments the blind fury which had taken possession of
him cleared sufficiently for him to see that this could not be so, for
Ranno had been determined to make Ildico his wife. Who then could be
responsible? He became convinced almost at once that the word had been
sent to the emperor by Laudio. She had always expected to marry Ranno
and it had been a bitter blow when she had been compelled to see that he
preferred her sister. The only way she could win him back was to remove
Ildico from her path. That, almost certainly, was the explanation. How
deep her hatred must be to have driven her to such a course!

Hearing Sarsan say, "My lord Roric is with us," he turned back, trying
to clear his mind of the terror which was driving out all other
emotions, the terror he felt for Ildico and the fate ahead of her.

Roric had a rider on each side of him and it was apparent that the fast
pace they had maintained had worn him out. If it had not been for the
black patch he wore over his blind eye, no one would have recognized
him. He was thin and pale, with a deep shadow under his good eye and a
hollowness of cheek which made him seem an old man.

"Roric!" said Nicolan, walking up beside his old friend.

The wounded man looked at him with an expression of hesitation and
doubt. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Don't you recognize me? Look! Roric, I am Nicolan and we were once the
closest of friends."

The injured man sighed with weariness as he studied Nicolan's face.
"Nicolan?" he said. "It seems familiar. Nicolan. Nicolan." Then he
paused. "I thought it was coming back. But now it is gone again."

Sarsan said, at Nicolan's shoulder, "That's the way he is. His memory
seems to be returning. Then it fades out."

"Did he know his sister?"

"Not at first. He looked at her steadily and then he smiled. Very
faintly. Her name didn't seem to mean anything to him, for he repeated
it several times and then shook his head. It was not until she removed
the wrap and he saw the color of her hair that his memory stirred. He
cried, 'Ildico!' After that, there were times when he knew her but it
was never for long.

"But isn't that proof of a bettering in his condition?"

Roric had been watching and listening, rubbing his hands across his
forehead as though trying to brush the mental fog away. At this point he
said, "Gather--into your hands the--the reins that I--I shall drop
tomorrow."

Nicolan cried excitedly, "Roric, my friend, you are beginning to
remember! Try, try harder!" He added to the leader of the troop, "That
was the last thing he said to me on the night before the battle."

Roric gave a rather wan smile and then nodded his head. "Yes," he said,
in a whisper, "I seem to see clearer. Perhaps--perhaps----"

But in response to Nicolan's questioning and prodding he failed to
achieve any further light. All he seemed capable of saying, in dull
tones, was, "No! No!"

Nicolan, his hopes dashed and his unhappiness returning in full measure,
asked, "Did you find him at the Victorex lands?" and was surprised when
Sarsan shook his head.

"We went there first," explained the latter, "but they had seen nothing
of him nor heard anything. We cast around in all directions and searched
the roads for miles. Then we found him, crumpled up under a tree and
unable to move. He must have been without food for a long time. It was
the barking of a dog which led us to him and the shouts of boys who were
pelting him with stones. After he had been fed and rested, the Lady
Ildico told him about the dream. He had no recollection of it at all."

Oslaw joined them at this point. He stared hard at the frail figure
strapped on the horse's back ("Roric, the daredevil among all riders, in
a saddle!" he thought) and shook his head despondently. He asked
Nicolan, "Did he know you?"

"No. But I think his memory is showing some signs of coming back. He
repeated the last words he said to me on the night before the battle."

"Roric!" said the old man, in a persuasive tone. "It is well that you
have returned. Your father's post remains to be filled."

The weakened horseman looked down at him with a trace of a frown. A
question seemed to hover on his lips. Then he sighed and his head sank
lower between his shoulders.

The Orator continued to study the thin frame and the unhappy face.
Finally he said to Nicolan in a low tone, "My lord Roric has come home
in body but, alas, not in spirit. Still, while there can be hope of his
recovery, his hereditary post must be kept open. The law leaves no doubt
on that point. I shall make an announcement to the people, explaining
the situation. Our poor young friend is in a very weak condition. I
fear--well, see that he is taken to his home at once. It may be that a
few weeks of rest and good food will restore him physically. Perhaps
mentally to some extent as well."

"What of Ranno?" asked Nicolan.

"Ranno," said the Orator, "ceases to play any part, unless he can win
enough support in the meeting of all the people which will be called as
soon as a definite conclusion is reached about Roric's condition. I
doubt very much if he will even be allowed to fill the seat of his
family."

Nicolan told him then the sad news about Ildico. Oslaw listened in
silence and the slight trace of ruddiness in his cheeks left him
completely. For the first time he looked like an old man, sad and
disillusioned and unhappy.

"All this can be laid at the door of Ranno!" he said, with sudden heat.
"He has been selfish and false and cruel from his earliest years!" He
added after a pause devoted to bitter reflection, "There is nothing we
can do about her. A protest to Attila, perhaps, for whatever small
effect it might have. I would not expect any results from it, save
perhaps an increase in the burdens laid on our people." Aware of a
silence which had fallen about him, he looked back over his shoulder.
His manner became taut although he displayed no signs of apprehension.

"He is coming," he said. "See to it, Nicolan, that Roric is removed at
once. Give instructions that he is to be well guarded."


[4]

The men of the plateau had fallen back, opening a lane for the advance
of the head of the Finninalders. Nicolan and the Orator stood shoulder
to shoulder at the narrow end of the cleared space and waited for the
self-appointed head of the Ferma to draw near. A silence had fallen over
the crowded field, as the eyes of the beholders rested in turn on each
of the principals in the drama.

"Leave this to me," said Oslaw, to his companion. "The law is on our
side now."

Ranno halted a dozen or more paces away. "I stand among friends," he
said. "I know that the people of the plateau have not changed their
minds about the guilt of this man."

Oslaw raised his eloquent hand in the air. "There is nothing to be
gained by further discussion here or at this time. Even if the judges
had not voted to stop the hearing, the arrival of Roric, son of Macio of
the Roymarcks, would have made a postponement necessary. No further
steps can be taken until he has had a chance to regain his strength."

Perhaps Ranno read into the words a suggestion that Roric's condition
was serious. He looked up quickly and there was a hint of relief in his
eyes.

"Why isn't Roric here, so the people of the plateau may see him?" he
demanded. "Why have you taken it on yourselves to conceal him so
quickly?"

"He has not recovered fully from the effects of his wound. As he had
ridden far and fast this morning, he was sorely in need of rest."

If Ranno had intended to press the point, he decided it would not suit
his purpose to do so now. He advanced close to where Nicolan stood and
began to speak in a low tone, employing the Latin tongue which few of
the spectators understood.

"You proud and overconfident fool, putting yourself in my power!" he
said. "They would be preparing the block and sharpening the edge of
Expiation for you now if that rancid fool of a sheepherder had not
broken faith!"

"_You_ will be sent to the block," declared Nicolan, "when Roric has
given his evidence."

Ranno stepped back several paces. "There is another issue which I find
of more concern than the condition of the son of the Roymarcks. Is it
true that his sister Ildico has been carried off by the troops of
Attila?"

"It is true," answered Oslaw.

Ranno continued to address himself to Nicolan, reverting to the native
tongue. "Are you aware," he cried, "that she was to have been my wife?
The last time I saw Macio he confirmed the arrangement which we had
made."

"I was not aware of such an arrangement," declared Nicolan.

Ranno glanced about him. "You will find," he cried, "that it was known
from one end of the plateau to the other. In spite of this, you made no
secret of your desire and intention to marry her yourself."

"It was so understood between us."

A wave of angry color took possession of Ranno's face. "You have tried
to steal my promised bride from me. There is only one answer I can make.
I challenge you to a Duel of the Whips."

Oslaw laid an urgent hand on Nicolan's arm. "Choose your words
carefully," he warned. "You are not in physical condition to fight him
yet. The law provides a delay of weeks for the challenged party to
acquire sufficient skill. You will need all of it."

"There can be no delay," said Nicolan to his elderly adviser. "Do you
think me cowardly enough to spend so much time practicing a trick with a
whip while Ildico is a captive in Attila's hands?"

"But, my son, what can you do for her?"

"There may be nothing I can do. But I must be near her. I must be ready
for any opportunity which may arise."

Nicolan raised his voice to a high pitch. "I hold you responsible, Ranno
of the Finninalders, for all the misfortunes which have fallen on the
family of the Roymarcks. I accept the challenge."

"As the challenged party," Oslaw reminded him, "you have the right to
set the date and select the place."

"The date?" cried Nicolan. "Today. As soon as the arrangements can be
made."

"For the first time in memory," declared Ranno, "I find myself in
agreement with you. There must be no delay, of an hour, of a minute."




CHAPTER XII


[1]

Nicolan had the staked enclosure in the east, which meant that he, the
challenged, would have the sun in his eyes for the first cast. This
actually was a small matter. He would need to exercise care in the first
few moments and be prepared to flatten himself across his horse's back
if his antagonist showed immediate aggressiveness.

He had eaten nothing for so long that, as he thought on the best
strategy to employ, he was hungrily devouring a bowl of chopped mutton
and cabbage which Ivar had brought him.

The Briton was in an embittered mood. "Why must you act like this?" he
demanded, glowering darkly. "The word reaches me that the case is over
and you are free. I run like mad to tell my wife. She is overjoyed.
There is no one else about, so we sing and caper like a pair of
children. Then we hear that Ildico has been taken. My wife falls into
despair. 'It is good that Nicolan is free,' she says, 'because now you,
my great ox of a husband, can go with him to rescue her. If you don't
bring her back, that sweet little golden lambkin of mine, I never want
to set eyes on either of you again.'"

"It was well said," declared Nicolan.

"Then," went on the Briton, with a rising emphasis in his voice, "I come
here and find that you have deliberately put yourself in peril of your
life again. He may kill you out there. He has kept in training with the
whips all his life. Do you think I can rescue Ildico alone?"

"Put yourself in my place," said Nicolan. "When you saw that all our
efforts had been in vain, that Attila had found the beautiful blonde
wife he had been searching for so long, and that the blame could be
traced back to one man, what would you have done? You would have done
exactly what I did." He looked toward the west and studied the signs of
activity behind the stakes in the opposing enclosure. "I shall know no
peace until his gross body is under the sod and his evil tongue has been
stilled."

"But couldn't his punishment have been left to the Ferma? Couldn't you,
at least, have waited a day, a week, a month? Long enough for Roric to
recover his memory?"

"I am forestalling the executioner."

"Perhaps," declared Ivar, whose spirits refused to lift, "you will
precede him into the shades. Will it be any consolation for us if Ranno
is then put on trial and sent to join you?" He placed himself beside
Nicolan, who was still scrutinizing the other enclosure. "Do you realize
you won't have Harthager to ride? Since our poor Ildico has been carried
off, Laudio has become the head of the Roymarcks. She won't let you have
the black in a fight against the man she loves."

"I will have to do with my faithful roan. Jackopol is probably as good
as anything Ranno can get."

"Has it entered your head that Laudio might give Harthager to Ranno?"

Nicolan turned a sober pair of eyes on his friend. "That possibility
hadn't occurred to me. Still, riding the king for the first time is not
easy; and it might be that the great black would refuse to carry that
lying hound. He is a fine judge of men, and he knows the smell of
treachery."

The mood of the plateau people had continued to veer around since the
conclusion of the hearing. Many of them were standing outside Nicolan's
enclosure as though hoping by their presence to lend him support. A few
had ventured inside, including the three younger men who had been
members of the Ferma and had voted first with Ranno. They were a
shamefaced trio and seemed almost pathetically anxious to demonstrate
their change of heart. Two of them had brought their favorite chargers
and had offered them to him. Cristus, the third one, had brought his
whip as a peace offering. Nicolan tested it and then gave his head a
nod.

"I like it," he said. "It has fine weight and balance. Better than mine,
I think."

"It is yours," declared Cristus, eagerly. "And I hope it brings you
luck."

Hasca also put in an appearance. He gave a look at the available horses
and shook his head. "I know sheep and I don't know horses. But I know
enough to see that none of these will do. Is the roan yours?"

Nicolan nodded. Jackopol was standing in a corner of the enclosure. He
knew what was ahead and he was too nervous to eat the measure of oats in
front of him.

"He's steady and sure," said Nicolan. "And he understands me. Every
pressure of my knee means something to him. We'll get along."

"No fire to him!" declared Hasca. It was apparent that he feared the
outcome.

A servingman with the red collar of the Roymarcks entered the enclosure.
He made a cautious gesture in Nicolan's direction.

"She wants to see you, master," he said, in a low voice.

"Who do you mean? The Lady Laudio?"

"Yes, master."

"I haven't much time. The herald will be sounding his trumpet in a few
minutes. Where is your mistress?"

"Close at hand, master. A little distance back in the woods."

Laudio was standing in a clearing not more than two hundred yards from
the enclosure. Harthager was behind her and it was taking the efforts of
two grooms to restrain him. The older daughter of the Roymarcks did not
raise her eyes as Nicolan approached her.

"I am here to make a confession," she said, in a low tone. "I betrayed
my little sister."

"Do you mean you sent word to Attila?"

She nodded somberly. "Yes, I sent him a message. But I realized almost
at once the wickedness of what I had done. It came to me suddenly that I
didn't hate her after all." She raised a hand to her mouth as though to
restrain her feelings before saying anything more. "I've always been
jealous of her. I was the first daughter but my father preferred her. It
was because of her yellow hair. He couldn't get over his pride in it.
When we first expected Attila, and all men thought of keeping their
wives and daughters out of sight, my father sent Ildico away. He did
nothing to protect me. I have enough beauty, haven't I, for the emperor
to want me? My father wouldn't have cared. And then when Ranno, who was
to have married me--it had always been understood that he would--began
to think he wanted Ildico instead, my father was willing to give in to
him."

She looked up then and he saw that her eyes, which had been cold and
withdrawn before, had suddenly become charged with stormy emotions. "I
could see that Ranno wanted her and not me. She couldn't help it. She
didn't want him. I know that now when it's too late. I don't hate her,
even if I always was jealous. But I do hate him. He passed me over, he
discarded me. Yes, I hate him so much that today, when one of you must
die, I don't want it to be you. Nicolan, you must have every chance to
win. I have brought Harthager for you to ride."

"Laudio, you are being very generous," he said.

"Generous?" She turned away. "I am not being generous. I am trying to
make amends for the terrible thing I did. Perhaps, if you live, you can
do something for my poor little Ildico."

Nicolan walked over to soothe the impatient black. Harthager let his
forefeet come back to earth.

"O King," said Nicolan, "we had a wild ride up in the hills, you and I."
He placed one hand on the silky skin of the regal muzzle. "What a ride
we are to take now!"

Harthager gave his head a toss and snorted loudly.

"O King," said Nicolan, "you may know already that the mistress we both
love, the little lady with the golden hair, is in great peril. Perhaps
there is something we can do for her today. It is no more than a first
step; but it must be done. We must go out there now and outride and
outmaneuver an evil fellow who will be seated on a charger not fit to
stand within eyesight of you. What do you say? Are you ready to issue
forth with me and do battle with him on his ill-bred and puny horse?"

Harthager gave his head another toss, a high one, and snorted loudly.
Nicolan sprang to his back, and they were off.


[2]

According to custom, the antagonists circled the field in opposite
directions, which brought them together once. They should have passed
with no more than the raising of their whips by way of salute. But
Ranno, wearing a riding jacket of resplendent red with black and gold
facings, saw fit to do more. He reined in abruptly and stared at Nicolan
over the excited head of his rather small brindled mare.

"Things are going badly for me," he said. His eyes began to glow like
coals under the bellows. "But that isn't going to stop me from killing
you. I intend to drive my knife into your heart! And I'll have the sweet
memory of your last agony to carry me through whatever may follow."

"We share this one thought at any rate," declared Nicolan. "My good
knife has been thirsting for the taste of your blood, Ranno of the
Finninalders."

The voice of the herald reached them from the side lines. "This is
against the rules," he cried. "There must be no communication between
you."

"He doesn't realize how easy it is to break rules," said Ranno, with a
sly smile. "Must we heed the silly restrictions made by living men when
we stand on the brink? I see that one has been broken already in your
favor. You are supposed to ride your own horse but that madwoman has
seen fit to let you have the great Harthager." The angry eyes looked at
the glossy black stallion with a hint of envy. "The little idiot! She
pretends to hate me but when neither of us is here to see it, she'll
weep her eyes out at my bier. I wish you no luck at all with that
heavy-footed monster. My Barta here will cut swift little circles around
him."

"The king wouldn't let you sit on his back. See how he twitches to get
out of range of the scent of your treachery."

"You stubborn fool!"

"You liar and thief!"

The trumpet of the herald had not sounded yet to summon them to their
stations at opposite ends of the Field of the Fast Hoof. Nicolan turned
a brief moment in the direction of that official and looked back when
some inner sense warned him of danger. Perhaps he had remembered what
Ranno had said about the futility of rules and his own right to break
them. He fell flat on his horse's back. It was well that he had not
delayed, for he felt the whip of Ranno cut through the air with such
vicious force that it touched his shoulder in passing like the sharp
edge of steel. A roar of disapproval and anger rose from the huge crowds
around the field but this had no effect on Ranno. He had expressed his
scorn for foolish rules when death in one form or another faced him. His
heart pounded with desire to send his enemy into the shades ahead of
him.

He had chosen a new method of attack which startled the spectators into
a moment of awed silence. Instead of circling about in the traditional
way and waiting for the opportunity to make the winning cast, he drove
his nervous little mare straight in toward the black stallion and his
rider. Twice his whip lashed out at close range and missed by no more
than the width of a hand. Astonished at this method of fighting close
in, and having no answer ready for it, Nicolan kept himself as flat as
he could on his mount's back. It was Harthager who saved him in this
crisis. The big horse wheeled and reared and side-stepped with the sure
and graceful steps of a dancer, and never gave the viciously charging
Ranno the chance for a steady cast.

Hanging on grimly, Nicolan caught a glimpse of the massed spectators and
saw that they were jumping up and down and waving their arms and
shouting in paroxysms of an uncontrollable madness. All this was wrong
but they were impotent to do anything. The fury of the attack would
bring things to an end before anyone could reach the center of the
field.

The third cast from the lethal whip of the furiously attacking Ranno
fell short by a wider margin and Nicolan saw his chance to escape.
"Fast!" he cried, and the black responded with a burst of speed which
took them quickly out of range of these hornet-like tactics.

Now the initiative had passed out of Ranno's hands. The lightning feet
of Harthager forced him to guard himself in the traditional way of
fighting: the bursts of speed, the sudden starts and stops, the circling
about to attack from the rear.

"We have him, O King!" cried Nicolan, gripping the flanks of the
straining black and dictating with the pressure of his knees the tactics
they would now use.

But it was by no means certain that the victory would be theirs. Ranno
was a crafty opponent and a skillful rider. He kept his quick-footed
mount out of range of Nicolan's whip. They galloped up and down the
field, they changed pace, they veered and circled and feinted. Neither
seemed able to get into the position where a sure cast could be made.

And then the chance came, suddenly and unexpectedly. The mare had not
come about quickly enough and for a second the back of Ranno, in the
gorgeous red jacket he had selected, was turned. Nicolan drove in closer
and made a perfect cast. His whip lashed out like the forked tongue of a
serpent and touched his opponent's neck. It fastened itself with the
winding acceleration of a tethering rope and then tightened as he
pulled.

Nicolan never did know how it came about that Ranno succeeded in some
miraculous way in making a maddened backward cast. Aim and timing were
perfect. As Nicolan tugged desperately on his own whip, he felt his
throat constrict. There could not have been more than a second's
interval between the completion of the two casts; and then both men were
sprawling on the ground within easy reach of each other.

A silence fell on the spectators. Then a roar of excited comment was
raised and of one accord they came pouring out on the field to be closer
for the last act in this brief and mad drama. They sensed the danger in
which Nicolan was placed before he did, for cries of warning reached his
ears. He felt for the dagger he had worn in his belt. It was not there.
It must have been torn away in his fall.

He had no time to look for it. Ranno had already seen the great
advantage that chance had given him. His blade was out and he was
stalking triumphantly on his disarmed opponent, ready for the kill.

Nicolan struggled to his feet. The fall had shaken him up and he
believed that one of his ankles had been turned. In desperation he tore
off his tunic and wrapped it about his left arm. If he could succeed in
parrying the first thrust of his opponent's steel, he might be able to
get his free hand on Ranno's neck. It was his only chance. The hate he
felt for his opponent was still so deep and all-absorbing that he even
found himself welcoming this chance of a struggle at close range.
Ranno's advantage did not disturb him. All he needed was to get his
fingers on that strong and swarthy neck!

The hand of Providence, which had been stretched out to him in the tense
drama of the trial, was to do him a second service by bringing him
assistance from an unexpected source. He became aware of a thudding
sound behind him. Harthager had not stopped short on being relieved of
his rider as the little mare Barta had done. The great black did not
consider his role to be at an end yet. He charged past Nicolan, feet
flying, mane tossing, a screech of the fighting excitement, which
sometimes rose from the front line of horses in a charge of cavalry,
rising above the roar of the crowd. Ranno, seeing death approach him in
this frightening guise, shrank back and raised his dagger. No such puny
defense could be of any avail. One of the flying hoofs caught him
squarely in the face. He crumpled up on the sward.

The days of Ranno of the Finninalders had come to an end.




CHAPTER XIII


[1]

There were flags fluttering over the entrance to Attila's city when
Nicolan rode in a week later, with his injured leg strapped to a
stirrup. Although the afternoon sun was already in decline, the open
spaces were crowded with people in a festive mood, wearing (his eyes
opened in wonder at this) garlands of flowers in their hair or around
the brims of their hats.

"What is the reason for all this frivolity?" he asked the captain at the
gate. He feared that he knew already but he wanted to be sure.

The captain grinned. "The emperor's orders. It's in honor of his bride.
He was married an hour ago."

"The emperor has had a hundred brides in his day."

The captain indulged in a suggestive wink. "But never one like this! I
saw her as close as I see you now. Ah, what a slender little chick! Her
hair as bright as the sun."

Nicolan turned a tragic face to Ivar as they made their way down the
street. "I don't know what I could have done but I hoped to get here
before anything happened. I might have succeeded where Sartuk failed."

"You mean you would have tried to kill him?" Ivar's horror at such an
idea showed in his face. "If you had succeeded, you head of mutton,
Ildico would have been burned alive on the emperor's bier."

They observed at once a tendency to treat the occasion with scorn on the
part of the Hun girls who were out in great numbers, and dressed in
their gayest and best. One plump and button-eyed maiden planted herself
in front of Nicolan's horse.

"My handsome captain," she said, "are you like all the rest of these
blind donkeys? Do you want a wife with a face as dead white as the belly
of a fish?" She slapped a well-rounded buttock. "Has she got anything to
equal this?"

Giso was on the steps of the palace gate, and when he saw Nicolan, he
came down to greet him. "He's been as giddy as a goat," he said. "And
him with his face twisted this way and that by that last attack he had.
He hasn't visited the Court of the Royal Wives since he returned and you
should hear how the tongues wag! If they had their way, those others,
they would hold burning tapers to the soles of the yellow-haired woman's
feet.... He has been asking for you."

"The emperor?"

"Who else? Perhaps he will have time to see you before the great banquet
begins. I will find out."

Nicolan realized it would be wise to leave at once. If any inkling of
the truth about his relationship with Ildico had reached the ears of the
emperor, the command issued for his presence was a death summons. But he
could not bring himself to turn and ride away. Ildico was here, and
already married to the emperor. There was nothing he could do for her,
save to remain, even though it might cost him his life. Continued
existence, after all, held nothing for him.

When Giso returned and confirmed the imperial desire with a nod, they
made their way to a door at one side. Before they entered, Black Scyles
came out from the kitchens with a fine mouthful of shining white teeth
in his ebony face.

"Emperor's going to be proud as a peacock with three tails when he sees
what I send in to him tonight," declared the head cook. "Roman feasts?
Pah! I spew at them. There's been nothing to equal this since all the
gods got down at one table and picked Nero's bones bare. I have fifteen
cooks in there and every once in a while I walk down the line and kick
their damp backsides as I go, to keep them busy."

Attila, sitting in his dark and narrow little cubicle, was already
dressed for the great banquet in a tunic made entirely of golden thread.
He had been powdered and pomaded and perfumed but there was no
concealing the contortion of his face muscles which Giso had mentioned.
He looked old and wizened and very sick.

"You killed that traitorous dog!" he said to Nicolan. "I am glad. It
relieves me of the need of planning a public execution for him. I have
had so many men killed that I am weary of it. I need a time of rest
which I can devote to my children and my new wife. I have decided to
postpone the assembling of my armies again. The brave Romans need not
begin trembling for a year at least."

Looking at this rapidly aging man, Nicolan said to himself: "It is all
over. He will never assemble another army."

Attila nodded his head with a return of his former pride. "But I still
keep spies at work. A few days ago the word reached me that the weak
fool who calls himself emperor is plotting to put Aetius out of the way.
He will summon his general to court and have him murdered in front of
the throne. It is even said that the brave Valentinian will thrust the
knife into his heart with his own white hands."

Attila's expression had hardened as he spoke. "Aetius must be warned. I
want him kept alive. I have never said this before but I was fond of him
when he first came to my uncle's court as a hostage. He made things
very"--he paused for the right word and then pronounced the one that
came into his head--"he made things very _gay_. It was not until he
laughed at my short legs that I began to hate him." A trace of the old
antagonism showed once more in his face. "He must not be killed before I
have inflicted the crushing defeat I am planning for him.

"Togalatus, I have selected you for a special honor," he went on. "You
are to set out for Rome and find a chance to whisper in his ear the news
of this treacherous plan."

"Great Tanjou, am I permitted to make an explanation?"

"Proceed."

"When your victorious armies were destroying the cities of Italy and all
Rome trembled with fear of you, the people clamored for retaliation. As
I was being held prisoner, they demanded that I be put to death at once.
My lord Aetius forestalled them by making it possible for me to escape.
But I had to give him a promise before he let me go that I would not
return to your service."

This information had a different effect on the Hun emperor than Nicolan
had expected. Instead of asserting that no man could leave him, he
beamed with a sly pride. "You see? He still fears me. He wants to weaken
me in every way he can. Well, then, I shall have to send someone else."
Then he winked at his visitor with an almost senile relish. "This will
amuse you, as you have seen and talked with the Princess Honoria. She
has returned. The Eastern prince grew weary of her and so she was not
allowed to land. The ship was turned about and sent straight back to
Ravenna with her on board. As the old woman is dead, the princess will
become like an open door where anyone can enter without knocking." He
paused and then resumed his usual air of great pride. "Did you return in
time to witness my marriage to the Lady Ildico, a daughter of your own
race?"

"No, Great Tanjou."

"Then you must not miss the royal banquet tonight. My bride, my lovely
little golden-plumed bird, will sit on a golden chair beside me. The
same chair in which she will be carried into Rome when I have brought
those proud people to my feet."

As he turned away Nicolan realized that the spies of Attila, for once,
had been at fault. They had failed to discover that he had known Ildico
since she was a small girl. Many of the excited spectators at the trial
had been aware that he, Nicolan, loved her and that she preferred him to
all other men. None of this apparently had reached the ears of the
emperor's emissaries, for Attila had talked to him with no reservations
whatever.

There could be only one explanation for this. The Huns knew that the
last act in this greatest play that mankind had lived and suffered
through was nearing an end. They must be certain that he was a sick man,
perhaps even that he was dying. The iron discipline was no longer felt.
Attila's men had ceased to fear him. The party sent to lead Ildico back
into captivity had accomplished their mission but had not tried to do
anything more. No whisper of the love between the golden-haired daughter
of the plateau and the man who had once served the emperor so well had
reached Attila's ears.

How lucky for Nicolan that this was so! If Attila had possessed the
smallest part of the truth, he would have seen to it that Nicolan's
lifeless body was already swinging at the main city gate.


[2]

Nicolan and Ivar encountered Giso as the guests for the nuptial feast
were pouring into the banquet hall. They plied him with questions and
found him pleased to answer them.

No, the emperor's new wife had not been brought by force. Attila had
sent Onegesius to question her and to apply, if necessary, what might be
termed moral persuasion. If she would accompany the imperial train back
to headquarters and there become the last wife of the emperor (Attila
promised definitely that he would never take another wife), she was to
have a household of her own with every luxury that the world had to
offer. No rules or traditions would bind her, save fidelity to the
marriage vows. Her companions and servants would be of her own choosing.
She would have an income of her own, large enough to maintain a court on
an opulent scale.

There was a pause after these conditions had been explained and enlarged
upon out of Giso's personal contacts with the actual conditions.

"She did not accept," declared Nicolan, with the deep conviction of a
lover.

"No. She didn't lunge at this shining bait. Mind you, young sirs, there
was no barbed hook concealed in the offer. The emperor's promises were
made in all honesty. He wanted her and he was ready to pay any price.
But when she made it clear that she could not be bribed into acceptance,
then Onegesius applied pressure. He threatened reprisals on the people
of the plateau if she persisted. They would be treated like a conquered
race. The imperial troops would be quartered on all families. The
strongest of the young men would be taken for the army and the best of
the horses would be seized. The people would be bound to the land. It
would not be their right to marry and have children." Giso shook his
head with a suggestion of involuntary respect. "He knows no limits, this
Lord of Earth and Sky. He meant it. She, and she alone, could save her
people from slavery." He gestured with both hands. "So, of course, she
gave in."

"Yes, she gave in then," declared Nicolan. In the low tone he employed
there was a smoldering anger which was held in check only by his
appreciation of Ildico's willingness to sacrifice herself. "There's
nothing she wouldn't do for her people. Even this."

"She came here by slow stages," continued Giso, "like an empress of the
East, in a great covered wagon. No eyes, other than those of the Greek
servants he had provided, could rest upon her. When they camped for the
night, sentries were placed in a circle about the wagons, allowing three
hundred yards in all directions so she could enjoy the evening breeze
without being seen. She had the softest couch, the choicest foods, the
finest wines cooled with ice and snow from the mountains. If she
expressed any desires, the world would have been ransacked to satisfy
her. But she wanted nothing."

"Were they married in private?" asked Nicolan, who dreaded the answers
he invited but could not refrain from seeking information.

"No, no! It was held on the largest square and all could come who were
able to struggle for foot space. He wanted for once to savor his
triumph. He wanted all his people to see her beauty with their own eyes.
She came to the ceremony loaded with precious stones--he insisted on
that--and she dazzled them all. You Christians tell stories about some
race of godlike servants who fly between the earth and the skies. The
name I haven't on my tongue."

"Angels?"

"That is the word. She looked like one of these angels. The most
beautiful one that ever visited the earth. But without wings."

Nicolan motioned over his shoulder in the direction of the banqueting
hall into which the guests were still pouring. "And she will be on
display again in there?"

Giso nodded. "For the last time. After tonight she will retire into
seclusion. It is the emperor's wish as well as her own. And I must point
out, my friends, that you had better go in now, if you want to have
seats. You will find yourselves in some close and dark corner as it is."

Nicolan hesitated. This might be his last chance to see Ildico before
she retired behind the impenetrable curtain that Eastern custom drapes
about the consorts of rulers. Would the pain of seeing her beside the
emperor like a captive, a pampered one but a prisoner nonetheless, prove
unbearable? He paused, torn between the two thoughts.

"Better come," said Ivar. "You'll never cease to regret it if you
don't."

"I'll regret it all my life if I do."

"What would her wish be?" asked Ivar. "I'm sure her eyes will seek into
all corners of the hall. She will be hurt if she fails to have a last
look at the man she loves."

Nicolan shuddered as his eyes rested on a pair of Hun warriors who
passed them on their belated way into the hall, both of them thickset,
short of leg, with the lumbering gait of captive bears and a feral light
in their eyes.

"This is my fault," he said. "I didn't take the proper precautions."

"You were on trial for your life," reminded Ivar. "Do you think she
would have left?"

"I have brought her to this!" cried Nicolan. "She sits inside now with
all these eyes devouring her. It's not a bearbaiting. The order of
things has been reversed. It is a beautiful white woman, tied to a stake
and baited by the bears!"

Nevertheless he went inside with his companion. As Giso had intimated,
the only seats left were against the wall in the most secluded corner.
The emperor and his latest, and last, wife were already in their places,
high up above all the company, where all could see them. Attila had
fulfilled one of his promises. The chair on which Ildico sat was of
solid gold and studded with enormous precious stones.

She was in white, with a gold band in her hair and a girdle of purple
silk. The jewelry she wore was not conspicuous; perhaps she had refused
to come as heavily adorned as she had for her wedding. Nicolan, watching
her intently over a shoulder which almost blocked his view, read a
bewildered and despairing expression in her eyes. There were violet
shadows under them; and yet she smiled and strove to appear easy and
natural.

Attila was drinking much more than usual. His flagon was raised several
times in the first few minutes and he swallowed deeply. Nicolan noticed
that his hand shook.

The scene was indescribable; it was wild and bestial and unhuman. The
faces of the guests were dark and hirsute, and under the heavy black
fringe of their hair their eyes were reptilian. They were like wraiths
come down from ghostly mists on mountaintops or like half-men issuing
from the gloom of malarial jungles. Cramming themselves with food from
the steaming platters that the helpers of Black Scyles carried about,
they also drank with such abandon that the din of their flagons on the
table tops, demanding replenishment, was like the beat of galloping
horses. They stared at the white goddess beside their master and gabbled
about her, and mouthed obscenities.

The Briton was watching the Hun ruler with an intent eye. "His days are
numbered," he said. "He thinks that it won't be noticed when he pours
something from a bottle into his wine. I've seen him do it twice. Is he
using stimulants? He's eating nothing. But have you noticed the wildness
in his eye?" After further watching, he gave his head a shake.
"Something is going to happen, and it will be soon. I'm going to leave
you here. I want to have a look at the household set up for her. Giso
tells me it is close at hand, and quite large, with stables behind it. I
may be able to get some of the servants to talking."

                 *        *        *        *        *

For half an hour more Nicolan sat alone in his corner. It was clear that
Ildico had given up any attempt to find him in that maze of faces and
prying black eyes. She was keeping her head lowered and toying with her
food.

The noise suddenly lessened and then, at a signal, fell to nothing.
Attila rose to his feet. He stood in silence for several moments, his
eyes studying his drunken followers with a curious intentness, as though
he were assessing them properly for the first time. His manner had
acquired a note of dignity and, when he spoke, there was no trace of
intoxication in his voice.

"I always know what my people think," he began, with a hint of censure
in his tone. "And so I am aware that now some harsh things are being
said. The belief is in many of your minds that I have led you to battle
for the last time. You listen to the voices of the Romans, who have gone
back to their marble palaces, and their gluttony and their women and
their hot baths, like the soft fools they are, content to think that the
terrible shadow of danger has lifted from the northern skies. They dance
and sing and say that their great pope frightened the ignorant emperor
of the Hun people. Behind the crumbling walls of Byzantium, they are
whispering with relief in their beautiful halls. How wrong they are! How
wrong you are, who hear this foolish gabble and believe there is truth
in it!

"I shall conquer Rome and set my foot on the neck of Constantinople
before the priests light the sacred torches and prepare the burial fires
for my body! It will not be next year. My warriors have been in the
saddle too long. They need a rest, a chance to see their wives and sit
with their sons at the family fires. I am granting the world, and all
the people in it, a full twelve months of peace. Let them make the most
of it. For when that year is over, let the cowards of Rome shiver on all
of their seven hills and lift up their voices to the unhearing sky!
Attila will ride against them again! He will go down over the mountains
in all his might, and break their hollow squares, and strew the plains
with their dead. He will ride across the Tiber with his new wife beside
him, and then all the world will know but one master.

"It is being said also that I am too old to marry again." He threw back
his great shocky head and released a peal of laughter that filled the
hall. "Hear me, ye whisperers and nodders and tattlers of idle scandal.
I give ye my answer. I shall raise a large family of sons and daughters.
Fine children all of them, and with hair the color of the sun!"

Attila stood in silence for several moments. Then he glanced down at his
new wife and his face twisted in a smile. "The nuptial couch awaits me,
so I leave you, my brave men, to your drinking." He bowed once and then
walked down the steps from the dais, his bride following him. He led the
way with dignity and outward sobriety to the steps of the raised floor
which served him as a sleeping chamber. He drew back the curtain to
admit Ildico and then followed her in, the curtain dropping back into
place behind him.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Nicolan remained where he was for a long time. There was no other place
to go. He did not want to think, for thought would be full of horror and
madness. He sat in the midst of the drunken turmoil and stared with
unseeing eyes at the roistering figures about him. He refused all offers
of food and drink with savage shakes of his head, and declined to be
drawn into any of the loud talk. One phrase from Attila's speech kept
going around in his head, repeating itself interminably: "And all of
them with hair the color of the sun."

Finally he heard a familiar voice speak at his shoulder. He turned and
saw that it was Giso. The emperor's servant was pale, if such a term
could be applied to his leathery skin. His eyes were filled with panic.

"Come!" he whispered. "There is something wrong."

Outside the palace the noise was almost as great as inside. Tuns of wine
had been set up in all the open squares for those who had not been
summoned to the banquet. The soldiers were already blissfully drunk.
"Rome! Rome!" they were shouting. "Give us another chance to ride over
the bodies of the long-noses!"

Ivar was waiting for them in a dark corner of the palace courtyard.
Apparently he already had the news from Giso, for his manner was grave
and restrained.

"A few minutes back I was listening in the little room below, where I
always wait in attendance on the emperor," said Giso. "I heard a sound.
At first it seemed like the mewing of a small animal but then I strained
to hear better and I knew it was a woman crying. Not loudly; but in the
low tone of great sorrow. I knew it must be the new wife.

"I am going to tell you a secret that no one else shares," he went on.
"There is a very small trap door in the floor of the sleeping chamber. I
stay under it every night, so that I am within call. This is so I can
get in quietly to make sure the lights are burning. You know how great a
dread he has of the dark. But I have been taught that when Attila has a
new wife in his couch he will not allow interruptions. It is my custom
then to sit beneath the trap door but never, under pain of death, to
open it unless he calls a command to me. So, I had settled myself down
to a long night of waiting when this sound of weeping reached my ears.
There was no other sound. Not a footstep had I heard on the floor and
not a whisper from the master himself. I decided I must risk my neck to
see if they needed me. I raised the door no more than an inch, very
cautiously, I promise you. The candies still burned and I could see the
little bride, crouched in a corner. Then I saw that Attila was stretched
out on the bed. I watched him for many minutes and he did not move. I
asked myself if it was the drinking. But I was sure it couldn't be that.
When he is drunk, he twitches about and mutters and groans." The fear
that possessed the imperial servant showed in the eyes he turned on his
two auditors. "I am sure Attila is dead!"

Nicolan roused himself from the torpor of despair in which he had been
sunk. Attila dead! That put a decidedly new face on the situation. Now
there were steps to be taken, where formerly their hands had been tied.
There was a chance to rescue the frightened bride. He nodded briskly to
Ivar and then turned to Giso.

"Someone must go into the chamber at once," he said. "We must know the
truth."

Giso hesitated. Long years of blind obedience could not be broken
easily. He did not dare intrude.

"I am not sure it can be risked," he whispered. "If he is sleeping and
my going in wakens him, his anger will be beyond belief. He will have my
head on a pole in a matter of minutes. Or perhaps he will turn me over
to these savages"--motioning toward the nearest open square from which
rose sounds of wild debauchery--"to kill me as they see fit."

"Will you let me go in?"

Giso was still overcome with doubts. "It is such a risk that I dare not
think of it." He remained in this painful dilemma, turning things over
slowly in his mind. "You may be right, O Togalatus. If he is dead, there
is much to be done and little enough time to do it."


[3]

Nicolan followed Attila's servant into a small corner room, directly
under the royal bedchamber. It was airless, unfurnished, and unkempt,
but well lighted by a beautifully designed and ornamented silver lamp,
suspended by chains from the ceiling; a sample, no doubt, of the looting
which had accompanied the Hun conquests in eastern Europe. A steep
wooden stair led to the floor above. Nicolan removed his shoes in
preparation for his invasion of the imperial sleeping quarters but kept
possession of his sword and the dagger in his belt.

"Lift the trap no more than an inch at first," cautioned Giso, who
looked pale and disturbed. "If my master has wakened, we will pay for
this with our lives."

Nicolan raised the trap door with his head, keeping his hands on his
weapons in case he had to defend himself.

The royal chamber above was brilliantly lighted by many lamps. His eyes
encountered the royal couch first, with the inert body of the emperor
stretched across it. He then glanced quickly about the room and found
Ildico in a corner. She was sitting on the floor with her head in her
hands, and leaning against the side of a luxurious Byzantine couch. She
had stopped weeping.

The sound he had made in raising the trap door attracted her attention
and her eyes became distended with increased alarm. When his face could
be recognized in the widening space, she looked first incredulous and
then overjoyed. Rising to her feet and gathering her long skirts in one
hand, she ran on silent feet toward him. Nicolan paused for a moment to
hook the door back against the wall and then advanced to meet her.

"You! Here!" she said, in an excited whisper. "How did you succeed in
getting in?" Then a sense of the terror which surrounded her came back.
"They will kill you. If they find you here, you will share my fate. For
me there is no escape. But you--you must not be involved."

"My brave child!" said Nicolan, taking her hands in his and studying her
face with worshipful intensity. "You must come away with me. We haven't
much time." He glanced in the direction of the still figure on the bed.
"Is he dead?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "As soon as he reached the room he began
to stagger. I tried to support him but he fell heavily on the bed. I
looked at him--for a moment only. He was bleeding terribly." Her voice
became so low that he could scarcely hear what she was saying. "They
will think I did it! They will have me killed in some dreadful way!"

He pressed her hands reassuringly. "We may be able to get away. But I
must be sure about him first."

Nicolan relinquished her hands and made his way to the side of the bed.
One glance was enough. Attila was lying on his back, with an arm hanging
over the side of the couch. His face and neck were covered with blood,
and some of it had stained the cover of the bed. To make sure, Nicolan
touched one hand which was clenched convulsively. The flesh was cold.
The heart of the great conqueror had stopped beating.

Despite the need for haste, Nicolan lingered a moment longer to look
down at the figure of the man who had wanted the whole world and had
come so close to winning it. So this was the end of all the
preparations, the arming of continents, the slaughter of innocent people
in the hundreds of thousands! This was the final act in the grim drama
which had involved all the nations in the civilized West. The fire which
had burned in the brain of one amazing man had gone out.

Did this mean that Rome would move now to regain all the wide provinces
which Attila had taken from her? Would the iron foot of the legions
settle again on the necks of people who longed to be free? He did not
think so. Aetius was a strong leader and a resourceful general but he
was not a Caesar or a Scipio Africanus. No, the day of great empires was
over, he said to himself. Soon the plateau people would again be able to
assert their independence and live according to their own traditions and
beliefs. He must be there to play a part.

While these thoughts occupied him, Nicolan was conscious of a sense of
pity, stirred in him by the figure lying so still on the wide imperial
bed. How much more fitting it would have been if this great warrior had
died on the field of battle, at Chlons perhaps or on the Lombardy
Plain, with his dreaded horsemen riding behind him and the enemy ahead!

He stepped back and gave Ildico some whispered instructions. "Don't stop
to change your clothes but find a warm cloak. If all goes well, we will
have a long and cold ride tonight. Take off the jewelry you are wearing
and leave it on the table. You mustn't be accused of taking anything of
value with you. And hurry, dear child, for we have little time."

She did as he had bid her and then followed him on tiptoe to the head of
the stairs. "Can this really be true?" she asked. "My mind has been so
filled with hideous dreams that I can't believe anything good can be
happening to me! Nicolan, is it really you? You are not just a dream?
And are you going to take me away? Away from this place and these
dreadful people?"

"We are going to try," he whispered back. "The martyrdom you were
willing to face is at an end. We may be killed in getting away but that
will be better than staying here for them to find you."

Ivar and Giso were waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, both
filled with a desperate anxiety.

                 *        *        *        *        *

After telling them that Attila was dead, Nicolan addressed the emperor's
servant. "Where is the oldest son?" he asked.

"The emperor did not want any reminders tonight of his other marriages.
Ellac was ordered to stay at his house. He will be there still. And in a
sulky rage, without any doubt. He was bitterly opposed to his father's
determination to marry again."

"How far is it?"

"Two minutes' walk."

"We must see him at once." Nicolan turned then to Ivar. "Did you see any
of the servants?"

The Briton gave a nod. "Fortunately they had allowed two of the Roymarck
maids to come in the party. They recognized me and were glad of a chance
to talk."

"Can they be depended upon?"

"I believe so. All the servants are loyal to their mistress. Even the
two strange ones from Greece."

"God grant they are brave as well as loyal. Everything will depend on
that. Take our dear lady back at once and I will join you in a quarter
of an hour, if all goes well. Tell her servants to clothe her warmly and
see that she has something to eat. Have the horses saddled and ready."

As they set out for the house of Prince Ellac, Nicolan asked the
servant, "Do you know the password for the night?"

"I heard it when they gave it to the emperor. 'Sun goddess.'"

"Will it get us through one of the gates?"

Giso considered the point. "I think old One-Eye is on the eastern gate.
Do you remember him? He's one of the emperor's oldest veterans. He's
getting a little careless. If he had his share of the wine ration issued
tonight--and knowing old One-Eye, I'm sure he did--he will be seeing
double by this time. He's our best chance."

Nicolan asked other questions as they picked their way through the
narrow streets. "Did Ellac love his father?"

"Ellac has no love for anyone. He was frightened of the emperor."

"How did he feel about his brothers? Is it true they are all by
different mothers?"

"Yes. If Ellac had his way, they would all be tied up in sacks and
thrown into the great river."

"Is he ambitious?"

Giso snorted. "He is sure he will be a greater man than his father when
the power is in his hands. If it ever is. The truth is that Ellac is as
vain as a peacock and as stupid."

"For the well-being and peace of the world," said Nicolan, solemnly, "as
well as for the safety of our beautiful lady, and for our own skins, we
must convince him that the shoes of the emperor are waiting for him."


[4]

Ellac dismissed his servants when he saw who his visitors were. "Well?"
he said, in an unfriendly tone. "What brings you here? What has
happened?"

"Illustrious Prince," said Nicolan, "we have your best interests at
heart and we have come to give you some advice."

Ellac cut a very good figure with his straight back and legs and the
features he had inherited from his mother; but on close inspection, it
could be seen that his eyes were small and close-set and that his mouth
was both avaricious and cruel. He looked at them with open suspicion.

"You come to give me advice? You," to Giso, "my father's servant. And
you," to Nicolan, "a member of a conquered race."

"The time may be near at hand when you will need friends, Prince Ellac.
If you value your rights as the first-born son."

"I need no one to tell me what my rights are." The prince addressed
himself to his father's servant. "Giso, I suspect the Coated One fears I
will punish him when I take my father's place on the throne. He is
trying to win favor with me in advance."

"My motives are of no importance and we haven't time to discuss them
now," declared Nicolan. "I came to point out to you that, when your
father dies, you will have to move fast if you want a full inheritance.
You have brothers, illustrious Prince, all of whom want a share of the
power. And all of them, moreover, have uncles and other supporters among
your father's leaders."

Ellac took a step nearer Nicolan and stared into his eyes at close
range. "I think," he said, slowly, "that you have come here to tell me
something. Speak up. What is it?"

"Great Prince, your father is dead."

An excited flush spread over the face of the young prince and his eyes
took fire. "Dead!" he exclaimed. Then he seized Nicolan by the
shoulders. "Was it a plot? Was he murdered? Were you in it?"

"There was no plot. The emperor was not killed. He has been desperately
ill for some time, as you must have known. He died tonight of this
disease."

"When did he die?"

"We found him a few minutes ago. But he died as soon as he left the
banquet."

"How did you find out?"

"Giso heard a sound of weeping in the bedchamber. He has been under such
strict orders that he feared to go in. I went in his place and I found
the emperor dead on his bed."

"Was she there? The yellow-haired woman?"

"She was in a corner of the room, too frightened to move. She was afraid
they would think she had killed him."

Ellac's face now showed a trace of triumph. "She killed him!" he
exclaimed. "I'm sure of it. And she will have to die."

"Illustrious Prince, you have a chance to make yourself emperor if you
do what we say. But first of all, you must remain calm. You mustn't let
personal considerations sway you. The new wife did not kill the emperor
and you won't have her killed. You must accept that first of all."

"Is she still there?"

Nicolan shook his head. "No. She is out of reach of all danger."

"Now I am sure!" cried Ellac. "It is a plot. You are in it. Perhaps you
want the yellow-haired woman for yourself. Well, I will see to that, my
ex-slave and traitor. You will die with her."

Nicolan did not allow himself to lose any of his coolness. He even
smiled at this evidence of mounting hysteria in the first-born of
Attila's sons. "You might have me killed," he conceded, "but in doing so
you would lose the throne. Be calm for a moment while I explain what the
situation is." He walked to the door and opened it, thus allowing the
sounds of the wild debauchery in the streets to fill the room. "Prince,
all I have to do is to step outside and shout at the top of my voice,
'Attila is dead!' What will happen then? Within a matter of minutes
every man in the place will know--and the mad scramble for power will be
under way. It's not only your brothers who will oppose you. Some of the
emperor's generals and advisers hope to succeed him. How much chance
will you have in such a race?

"Now," he went on, "let me present the other side. When your father left
the banqueting hall, he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed
until noon tomorrow. Giso promised him that no one would be allowed to
enter the room. If you place sentries at each of the doors to make sure,
you will have fifteen hours clear to get the power into your hands
unopposed. In fifteen hours you can get your personal party together.
You can bring in troops favorable to you and take command of the city.
You can seize the treasury and the horse lines. You can do all this
before any of the others know that the emperor is dead."

Ellac's hand fell to the sword in his belt. "Then I am emperor now. I
can do what I please. First of all, I can order your death."

He tugged the sword from its scabbard but Nicolan had anticipated the
move and had drawn his sword a second sooner. Ellac felt a twist on his
wrist and saw the weapon fly out of his hand.

"I could kill you now," said Nicolan, "and go to another candidate who
would welcome me warmly. One sound out of you and that is what I shall
do." He kicked the sword to a greater distance, so Ellac had no way of
retrieving it. "Now make your decision. I have told you the only way in
which you can become emperor. If you want the chance, say so at once.
Every moment that you hesitate is a moment lost."

Anger still seethed under Ellac's skin. "What do you want?" he demanded.
"What reward? How do I know you haven't some treacherous plan to get the
power yourself?"

"I want nothing. Once I am sure you intend to act as your father would,
I shall leave here. And you will never see me again."

"Are you taking the yellow-haired woman with you?"

"She is already in safety. You will never see her again either."

Silence fell on the room. The prince had succeeded in putting his
passion sufficiently to one side to enable him to give careful thought
to the situation. Watching his face, Nicolan could see some degree of
reason dawning under the scowl.

"What of Giso?" asked the prince.

"Always remember," said Nicolan, "that Giso was your father's best
friend. He will be faithful to you if you become emperor."

                 *        *        *        *        *

As he left the house alone, for Giso was remaining to advise the prince
on his first moves, Nicolan said to himself: "That stubborn and vicious
fool will fail. He will bungle things and get himself killed. But this
was the only way to make sure of the time we need. Fifteen hours of hard
riding will take us beyond the danger of pursuit."


[5]

Old One-Eye came out of the gatehouse with unsteady steps. He looked up
at Nicolan, sitting his horse in advance of his party.

"Ha, Coated One," said the captain. "Where are you going--at this time
of night?"

"I am married and I am taking my wife away with me."

"Married?" The captain brushed a hand across his eyes as though he found
it necessary to clear his vision. "The Great Tanjou was married today.
You also? Is it catching, like a disease?"

"Can a loyal subject do better than follow such an example?"

"Is it this one?" Old One-Eye shuffled closer to the party and stared up
at Ildico, who was enveloped in a warm cloak and had a woolen bonnet
drawn down tightly over her head. "She's young, this one. And kind of
small."

"Of course she's young and small. Do you think I would choose a fat
widow with hips as broad as a saddle?"

"They say wife of emperor is--is beautiful--like a bird."

"My wife, One-Eye, is just as beautiful as the new wife of the emperor."

The captain cackled drunkenly. "I have spent whole day in--in company of
mistress--more beautiful still. A fine round barrel of wine. That's
right kind--of company--for a man." He teetered across the stand beside
Nicolan's stirrup. "Something wrong here. Don't know what it is."

"There's nothing wrong, my brave captain."

"Yes. Something wrong. I've forgotten--something--AH!--have it.
Password. You haven't--haven't given it."

"The word is 'Sun goddess.'"

"Sun goddess," mumbled the inebriated officer. "I--I think that--may be
it. On your way, Coated One."




IN CONCLUSION


I wish to make it clear that in telling the story of _The Darkness and
the Dawn_ I have adhered quite closely to such facts as history supplies
of that spectacular conqueror, Attila the Hun. Readers may now desire to
know what happened after the death of the man who became known as the
Scourge of God.

Attila was buried with barbaric state, and the anticipated struggle for
power among his sons and generals began at once. Ellac was defeated and
killed on the banks of the Netad in Pannonia. Another son named
Dengisich managed to hold together a section of the empire along the
Danube for a number of years. But gradually the territories which had
acknowledged the sway of the great Hun were overrun and submerged.

A year after the retreat of the savage armies from Italy, the Emperor
Valentinian murdered Aetius when the latter appeared before him for an
audience. The jeweled sword, which had never been drawn in defense of
the Roman empire, was plunged into the breast of the victor of Chlons.
The following year the cowering Valentinian was himself cut to pieces by
an avenging group. The dissensions thus created paved the way for the
sack of Rome by the Vandals under their king, Genseric.

The Princess Honoria returned to Italy, and it is believed that a
husband of obscure rank was found for this unfortunate but not entirely
worthy member of the imperial family. At any rate, she disappeared from
the pages of history.

As for the fictitious characters who played their parts in the story,
there is little left to be told. It may be taken for granted that Micca
the Mede died in abject want, that the wealthy and amiable lady of
Tergeste remained content with her fourth husband, that Harthager sired
many sons with shiny black coats but that none of them could match him
for speed. Finally, it is the author's belief that Roric's powers would
never be fully restored and that, in consequence, Nicolan and Ildico
would find it necessary to devote themselves to the leadership of their
people on the Plateau; and that they lived in accord for the most part
and with as much happiness as is possible between two reasonable people.


THOMAS B. COSTAIN






[End of The Darkness and the Dawn, by Thomas B. Costain]
