Chapter XXI: The Bridal of Attila

On an eminence rising above the banks of the river, near which the vast army of the Huns pitched its camp on the ensuing night, was found a splendid pavilion, with workmen still labouring hard to complete it, when the vanguard of the army reached its ground. Ere Attila himself arrived, the whole was finished; and a palace of richly-ornamented woodwork, mingled and decorated with hangings of crimson and gold, waited his approach.

The mood of the monarch, however, was not placable; and the workmen whom he had sent forward to prepare his abode received no token of his thanks or approbation, notwithstanding the skill and zeal which they had displayed. Those who had accompanied him on the way had found good cause to mark his discontented humour; and Ardaric and Valamir, and even Onegisus himself, had seized the first opportunity of withdrawing themselves from the side of one who treated all with indignity, which their free spirits could but ill bear. The cause of this harsh rumour might be, it was whispered, that Ardaric had ventured remonstrances, and Valamir had seconded them, which were displeasing to the ear of Attila; but never before, in his most passionate moods, had he given way to such intemperance of language as he had that day displayed towards two of his noblest and most disinterested supporters. An hour after their arrival, however, they received a summons to attend the bridal and the banquet of the mighty king; and to the pavilion on the hill they took their way, clothed in the most splendid robes that the camp could supply.

In a vast hall, decorated by crimson hangings, which many a tributary land had combined to furnish, stood Attila himself, already surrounded by a multitude of his officers and chiefs. To the astonishment of every one there present, however, the monarch of the Huns appeared not now in the plain garment of his Scythian ancestors. For the first time in his life, gold, and jewels, and vestures of silk covered the powerful limbs of the mighty conqueror. The heavy iron sword which never before had left his side was now no longer there. All the rude weapons of war were carefully excluded from his dress; and jewels of inestimable value bound his haughty brow.

In the same hall, at the farther end, was raised a temporary altar, festooned with green leaves and the few autumnal flowers which the country round could supply. Elevated upon that altar was seen the ponderous sword of the Scythian Mars, famous in the history of Attila's reign, from the singular manner in which it had been found. Beside it stood a number of the Scythian priests; and the steps which led to it were thickly strewed with leaves of the wild laurel and the hemlock.

The countenance of Attila himself was now cleared of the clouds which had obscured it; but still, the joy with which it beamed as plainly testified the change which his nature had lately undergone as the frowns that had hung upon it before. In former days, the countenance of Attila had been a stranger to both frowns and smiles. The stern passions which moved him then had wrought and struggled within the secret chambers of his breast alone, and no light emotions had seemed to affect his outward bearing. Now he was moved by many things; and, in spite of all his efforts to seem what he had been, the emotions of his heart thrilled through his bodily frame, and made themselves seen upon the surface.

"Where are the Christian priests?" demanded the voice of the monarch, as soon as he had spoken a few words to Valamir and Ardaric, in a tone evidently intended to soften the harsh impression produced by his ill-humour of the morning--"where are the Christian priests?"

"None have been found in the camp, oh mighty king," said Edicon, coming forward. "I have inquired in every quarter, and none have been found."

"None!" exclaimed Attila; "none! Where is that rash priest Mizetus; he who by a few empty words provoked the wrath of so many mighty chiefs. I have seen him since in the camp. I saw him no later than yesterday. Let him be sent for; and tell the bride that Attila waits her coming, as the spring-earth waits for the rising of the morning sun."

The messengers departed; and then came a pause, dead and silent, and painful to all but those common spirits who saw nothing in the scene they were called to behold but the common festivity of a day. Ardaric and Valamir gazed upon each other, but they spoke not, till some casual movement caused a murmur to run through the hall. Then, in a low voice, the latter asked the former, "What, think you, will be the result?"

"I know not," answered Ardaric; "but, from what I hear, she is not unwilling. Yet, from some chance words dropped in my wife's presence, either her mind wanders as that of one deprived of reason, or else deeper thoughts than we know of are at work within her brain. But lo, they come!"

As he spoke the door of the hall was thrown open, and a bevy of fair young girls, strewing the way with flowers, entered the hall, and wound round towards the altar. Following them, and leaning on the arm of Neva, appeared the Dalmatian bride, clothed in robes of white.

No fear, no agitation was in her step; but firmly and easily she moved along the hall, beauty and grace shining like a glory from every limb and every feature. Neva was far more moved than Ildica; but the countenances of both were paler than the Parian stone; while from those fair, colourless faces beamed forth the beautiful eyes of each--the deep, devoted, dark-blue eyes of Neva, the large, lustrous, liquid eyes of Ildica, shining like brilliant lamps from out a marble tomb.

They took but one gaze around the hall as they entered; but that gaze had a different effect upon each. With Neva it seemed to bewilder and confound: she dropped her eyes again instantly, and advanced with a wavering and uncertain step. The gaze of Ildica was firm and calm; though, as she beheld the scene of barbaric splendour that surrounded her, her brow slightly contracted; her eye flashed for an instant with a wilder, perhaps a brighter fire. Slowly she turned her gaze towards the altar; and, without noticing any one in the hall, approached deliberately the spot where the sacrifice of herself was to be completed.

A number of matrons followed; and behind them again came the hermit Mizetus, clad in the same wild robes which he wore in the desert and on the mountain. Attila turned to approach the altar; but the hermit advanced towards him, saying boldly, "Thou hast sent for me. I am here. What wouldst thou with me!"

"I have sent for thee," replied Attila, "to perform between me and that maiden the nuptial ceremonies, according to the customs of her people and the rites of her faith."

"I am no priest, oh Attila!" answered the enthusiast. "I am one touched by the finger of God, and set apart to speak terrible warnings and foretel great events. But I have neither power to loose nor to bind, to take up nor to cast down. No ceremonies can I perform; for I am no priest according to any human law. But what needst thou think of priests or ceremonies?" he continued, seeing Attila stand thoughtfully before him. "Let the ceremony be performed according to thine own will. Is not the will of Attila superior to all law?"

"Thou sayest right," answered Attila, advancing to the altar. "It is!" And placing himself by the side of the altar opposite to Ildica, he said, "Let the rites proceed! Oh beautiful Ildica, are you willing?"

Ildica raised her eyes, large, calm, liquid, shining as fountains of living light. She gazed on him for a moment, and then, "I adjure thee, oh Attila!" she cried, "to tell me truth! Is he dead?"

"He is!" replied Attila, emphatically.

"Art thou certain--quite certain?" demanded Ildica, still gazing in his face.

"As certain as if my hand had slain him," replied Attila.

"Ha!" said Ildica. "Even so!"

"What sayest thou?" demanded Attila.

"That the will of the king is law." And she cast down her eyes to the ground.

"Most beautiful and best beloved!" exclaimed Attila, taking her hand with a look of eager passion. "Let the rites proceed."

They did proceed; and the strange and fanciful ceremonies of the pagan nuptials were begun and ended between Attila and Ildica!

Still, during the whole of that ceremony, the fair unhappy girl uttered not one word; but, passive before the heathen altar, she stood like the victim so often brought there to be sacrificed. Her lips moved not; her voice was heard not; and, without either consent or denial, she became the bride of that dark and mighty king.

The priests ceased; the ceremony was over; and she still stood silent before the altar, with her hand lying in that of Attila. And those who stood by and saw, never forgot the sight of those small, white, taper fingers resting in that broad powerful hand. At length she lifted up her eyes, as if seeking for the heaven; and then her lips moved for a moment, as if in prayer.

As was the custom, the women of the highest note there present surrounded her, and led her away to a banquet prepared for her alone. Ildica ate one cake of bread, and drank one cup of wine, and then sought the chamber reserved for her. They would have led her in, and stayed with her to adorn her; but she paused at the door, and bade them leave her. They hesitated, and urged the custom of the land. But she raised her head proudly, saying, "I am a Roman even here! But what to you is more, I am the bride of Attila, and I command you, leave me! I must spend the intervening time in prayer," she added, in a milder tone; and, ceasing to urge her further, the women left her to her own thoughts; and every one betook them to their homes again.

In the mean while Attila lead his chiefs to the banquet; but, as they went, Ardaric and Valamir walked side by side, and spoke together in a low tone over the scene just past.

"I comprehend it not," said Ardaric; "I understand it not. The memory of old affection is clearly strong in her heart; neither do I think that she forgets her country, nor believe that she is one to wed either for fear or for ambition! If there should be some higher purpose in her bosom, Valamir? If she should meditate some mighty deed?--a deed which, since Attila is no longer Attila, many a brave man in the camp has pondered on as the last hope of many here--a deed which, since safety has been banished from our tents, and the swords of our friends have been drawn at midnight against ourselves, may even have crossed my mind and thine?"

"Hush!" said Valamir; "Onegisus watches us. Let us sit at separate tables; but humour him to the full; and, as he has now forgot his ancient temperance, let him drink deep. It matters not to us whether drunkenness disgrace him on this night of pageantry or not. Cross him not, I beseech thee, Ardaric! Thou hast had warning enough this day that Attila hears counsel no longer, even when given for the protection of his own honour."

Seated at the banquet, the same scenes, or very similar ones, took place, which we have dwelt upon before. The same, in all respects, except in the conduct of the chief actor therein. The rude poet sang the glowing tale of mighty deeds and great warriors in the long-gone past; the jester excited the roar of ribald laughter; the wine flowed plenteously; the chiefs drank deep; but Attila, no longer calm and grave, followed each impulse of the moment--now gave way to some hasty wrath, now joined in the peal of merriment; and still, in the deep wine-cup, provoked the emulation of his warriors.

It was when the night waxed late, and the banquet was nearly over, that Zercon, the negro jester, who had already played his part in the hall for the amusement of the guests, entered again, bearing in his hands an enormous cup of gold, richly gemmed at the rim and on the handles. The shape was beautiful; the workmanship splendid; the jewels of inestimable value; and, as he approached the seat of Attila, the eyes of the monarch, already inflamed with wine, gazed on the magnificent vessel with eyes of wonder and admiration. Kneeling before him, Zercon placed the cup in his hand, saying, "Behold, oh mighty king, a present just arrived from a dear friend and well-wisher of Attila. Thy messengers have just returned from the M[oe]sian frontier, and bear thee this jewelled cantharus from Eugenius, bishop of Margus. Happily has it come to grace thy bridal night."

Attila took the cup, and gazed upon it, repeating thoughtfully, "From Eugenius, bishop of Margus!--the boy's uncle! I will use it some other night."

"Nay, oh mighty king!" said Zercon, "no night like this; for in it you may pledge yourself to avenge the wrongs of him who sent it."

"What wrongs?" cried Attila, turning upon him fiercely. "I know of no wrongs that he has suffered."

"It comes," replied Zercon, in a deep tone, "from the dead to the living! from the impotent to the mighty! Eugenius has been put to death, by command of Marcian, for admitting the Huns to the Roman territory; and thy messengers have but escaped with life and this cup, which he had just given them for thee, as a pledge of his friendship."

Attila's countenance grew as dark as night. "Take the cup," he cried, to one of his officers; "take the cup and let it be purified with fire. Then bring it to me."

The attendant took the cup, and held it over a lighted torch in the midst of the hall. Then, after passing it through water, he brought it to the monarch, who filled it to the brim: and, rising from his seat, exclaimed, "Pledge me, kings and mighty leaders! Pledge me, in our last cup this night, death to the slave Marcian, who has dared to slay the friend of Attila!" and he drank off the wine at once.

He had not spared the cup throughout the night; and now that deep draught had a visible effect. He felt it himself; and, setting down the cup, leaned his head upon his hand for a moment; then suddenly rose, and, bending slightly to his guests, quitted the hall with an unsteady step. Several of his chief attendants followed, but they returned the moment after; and many of the leaders rose and left the hall, conversing in low voices on the varied events lately passed. Others remained, and protracted the debauch; but by the first hour after midnight the pavilion of the king was void of its guests, and all had returned to silence.

Among the first that left the hall were Ardaric and Valamir; and, as they passed through the camp of the sleeping Huns, they paused for a moment beside one of the tents in which a light was burning, and from which might be heard the voice of lamentation.

"Hark! Her slaves weeping over her unhappy fate!" said Ardaric.

"What! did she not take them with her?" demanded Valamir.

"Not one," replied Ardaric; "not one, I hear. Neva, dead Bleda's daughter, who dwells in our tents with my own children, reported that she went alone; and none has been with her so much as Neva! She went alone, Valamir: she went alone to her abhorred task, whatever that task may be! Let us early to-morrow to Attila, and let us go together. My heart is not at rest!"

Within the tent by which they stood were, as Ardaric conjectured, the slaves and attendants of Ildica, weeping for their mistress, who had gone forth alone, solitary, unaided, unbefriended, in that awful hour of trial; and had gone so by her own choice. Collected in the outer chamber of the tent she had occupied, they mourned as for her funeral; but in the inner chamber of that tent were others who mourned not less, but whose mourning was mingled with a strange agitation which was neither hope nor fear.

By the light of a lamp, holding high a wooden cross, stood the hermit Mizetus, and at his feet knelt the fair girl Neva, raising her eyes to the symbol of a new faith which the enthusiast had lately planted in her heart. Dark and obscure as was his own knowledge of the truth, clouded by a bewildered brain and distorted by wild fancies, he had still been able to show her a glimmering of the light which was afterward to shine upon her more fully. Both were pale and haggard, and moved by the anticipation of great and terrible events; and as they passed there the long hours of that dreadful night, the young, fair, lovely maiden kneeling at the feet of that old ascetic, the tears poured down her cheeks in torrents; the sobs burst struggling from her young kind bosom; and often the agony and apprehension of her heart convulsed her form as if in the grasp of death.

"Fear not, fear not, my daughter!" would the hermit exclaim. "Fear not for her! fear not for us! There is a mightier power than any on the earth to shield us! There is a greater arm than ever drew mortal sword to defend us! Even were we in the gates of death itself, I would bid thee fear not; for God has broken the bonds of the grave asunder, and provided a ransom to deliver us from hell itself!" Thus did he speak through the livelong night, and thus did he try to give her consolation and support; still bidding her not to fear, till at length he said, "Fear not, maiden! fear not! Lo, the night is past, and the morning is come; and after the darkness in which we walk upon this earth shall come the light of a brighter day! Fear not! fear not! I say unto you, fear not!"