Читать книгу The Darkness and the Dawn - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 25

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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.”