Part IV: The Boy
"Still!" the man barked, his large hands wrapped forcefully around the young boy's head.
The boy screamed and cried and bowled himself to and fro, but the stocky soldier held firm. A searing hot brand was pulled from the forge and pressed against the boy's face. The design blistered into his skin and he choked on his screams as the other cheek was treated to the same torture.
The boy grew silent, his throat raw, as salty tears streamed down his dirty, wounded face. The soldier gripped him tightly, wrapping his long, black hair around his hand. He took a sword and severed his hair close to the scalp. "Come."
The boy tripped, falling to his knees. He stared down at his bleeding hands, picking at the small bits of rock covering the open sores. The soldier grabbed him around the neck, hoisting the boy to his feet with absolutely no regard for his mortality.
Eventually the boy was pushed inside of a large, wooden cage. Over two dozen grown men and women had been forced inside, their faces all scarred in the same hideous fashion as their captors. The panicked villagers pushed and shoved, forcing the boy against the bars painfully. He grunted uncomfortably, pushing back against the others with all of his strength. The captives swayed on their feet as the cage began to roll, pulled by several enormous and wooly cattle.
It would be over a week before the boy would eat again. And the water they were served through the slats of wood was brown and salty to taste. The boy was so relieved to get out of the cage that when they were finally released he couldn't care less where he was sent.
He was stripped down and forced into a trough of water. The soldiers dunked him hurriedly, powdering his wet body and pushing him into another line. The powder had formed a sort of paste on his bare body. He didn't mind it; the paste seemed to relieve the horrible itching caused by flea bites.
He stood in line vacantly, no worry, no fear, no hope, nothing. He felt nothing. A man, with a scarred face, but not a soldier, grabbed the boy. He turned him every which way, inspecting him. He spoke to him gruffly, in a language the boy had never heard before. And then he handed him a sack, aiding the boy in pulling it over his head as clothing.
The boy was pushed again, this time toward a short woman. She grabbed the boy, her gnarled fingers digging into the flesh of his arms. She smiled, exposing two rows of blackened and rotting teeth. And then he was pushed onto a platform where he was paraded in front of a churlish crowd. They shouted and jeered, many raising bags of coin into the air.
A skeletal man with only a wisp of a moustache, stepped forward. He looked down at the boy with interest, his scarred face nearly pressed against the boy's. He spoke to the boy but the boy could not understand. The boy opened his mouth and the man popped his finger inside like a hook. He pressed his finger against the boy's tongue, against his teeth, against the roof of his mouth before pulling his finger out.
And then the boy was pushed off the platform and down a dirt road. The man walked behind the boy, every so often reaching his hand out and pushing the boy's head roughly. The boy stumbled and turned, his grey eyes narrowing in anger. The man laughed, shaking his head and carrying on incoherently.
The man grabbed the boy by his clothes, pulling him toward a small hut. The man shoved the cloth covering out of the way and pushed the boy inside. The boy fell onto his hands and knees. He opened his mouth to protest, his eyes darting around the dark and nearly empty hut.
The boy turned, and for a brief moment panic filled his belly. The man stood in the doorway, blocking the only exit. He fumbled with his cord belt, removing it impatiently. He dropped his worn trousers and plunged to his knees. He crawled toward the boy, his hand touching the boy's thigh.
The boy gasped and he struggled brazenly. He kicked out at the scarred man, noise escaping his lips for the first time in weeks. But the man quickly overpowered him, his fist striking the boy across his swollen, scarred cheek. The boy's head hit the floor of the hut with a thud and he resigned himself, his eyes closing tightly.
The boy, nearly six winters older, covered his mouth and nose with his tunic. He narrowed his eyes, the smoke stinging them. He walked through the village slowly, the strange feeling of elation fluttering around in his chest. He approached the scarred man's hut, the terrible stench of burning flesh and hair forcing him to double over. He moved the singed cloth, staring into the fire as if mesmerized. Inside was the man. Inside was the man and he was dead.
There was a shout behind him and the boy turned, his black hair spraying around his head like fringe. He looked up at the man on horseback; he eyed his bloodied weapons and his sweat-covered horse. The man held a battle-axe, a bit of bone and hair still stuck to the edge. The boy took a step back and then, as the man moved to approach, he smiled softly, his lips turning up at the corners delicately.
The boy was scarred, brands marring his otherwise smooth complexion, but the boy was also beautiful. The man, this warrior from another tribe, smiled. He lowered his axe and spoke softly, "You are spoils, no?"
The boy nodded obediently and took a daring step forward. He lifted his hand toward the warrior's horse and stroked its mane. The horse lifted its head, nearly knocking the boy off his feet. The boy laughed and pet the horse's broad-star.
"You come with me now." The warrior demanded gruffly, but, despite his words, his grip was gentle as he lifted the boy onto the back of the horse. The warrior kicked his horse with urgency, and the horse took off. The horse dashed through the burning village and the boy closed his eyes tightly, his hands wrapping around the warrior's armored waist.
The boy could ignore the screams. He could ignore the stench of death. He could ignore the warm blood splattered across the warrior's armor. He could ignore anything and everyone so long as he could survive.
The warrior met up with his army. They cheered deafeningly and the boy opened his eyes in curiosity. Several women from the scarred man's village had been taken captive. They were held together, the warriors herding them into a circle. And the boy shut his eyes.
That night the warriors camped just outside of the razed village. The supped on livestock and drank mead. They entertained themselves with women. And there was no end to the violent, sadistic games they played. But the boy was separate. He sat beside his warrior, and ate and drank alongside them. The warrior used his body, but for the first time the boy felt something akin to desire.
In the morning the boy was given a sword. The warrior laughed when the boy tried to lift it. The boy narrowed his eyes with determination, swinging it wildly to and fro. The warrior grabbed the sword firmly, his fingers bleeding onto the blade. "I teach you."
The boy nodded wordlessly, releasing the sword into the warrior's grasp. The warrior smiled, shaking his head. "How old are you?"
"I don't know." The boy admitted.
"Think." The warrior suggested, watching the boy intently.
"Fourteen." The boy answered after a short pause.
"Your name?" the warrior asked, twisting a strand of the boy's hair out of his face.
"I don't have one." the boy replied.
"What do they call you?" the warrior asked, shaking his head.
"Boy." The boy replied.
"Shuren." The warrior said, hitching his thumb into his chest.
"Shuren." The boy repeated.
Shuren clapped his hands together noisily and the boy sat up, hay sticking out from his messy hair. The boy watched Shuren, and when Shuren flashed a smile, the boy grinned from ear to ear. "That's good."
"But I lost." The boy said, climbing to his feet. He searched the hay for his sword and brushed his clothes off.
"You can't beat me." Shuren laughed, slapping the boy on the shoulder and sheathing his sword. "I am a warrior. You can't even grow whiskers on your face, boy…"
"I want to fight." The boy said defiantly. "I want to be a warrior too."
"Good, good." Shuren murmured. "You got better. You learn fast." Shuren brushed his large hand through the boy's hair. "You'll be a great warrior one day."
"Let's go again!" the boy pleaded. "Let me try again…"
"Yes." Shuren agreed with a nod. "One more time."
"Shuren…" the boy called out, waving his hand in greeting. "You're back!"
"I've returned." Shuren said, patting the side of his horse. He smiled kindly before dismounting. He gave the reins to the boy and ruffled the boy's black hair. He frowned, letting his hand rest on top of the boy's head. "You've grown."
"Yes. I've grown." The boy said, rubbing the horse down affectionately. "Did you kill many enemies?"
"Your voice…" Shuren said, letting his hand fall by his side. He watched the boy intently before answering. "I killed many."
"What's wrong?" the boy asked, turning around to look at Shuren.
"You're only sixteen winters." Shuren said thoughtfully. "But you're becoming a man."
"Of course I'm becoming a man…" the boy said with a laugh. "What else should I become?"
"Every man needs a name, boy." Shuren said, grabbing his horse by the reins and leading it to the pen. "And if they aren't given a name, they make one…"
"I- I'm just Boy." The boy said with a shrug.
"No." Shuren said gruffly. He turned toward the boy and his hard gaze softened. "Everything must have a name. Even my horse has a name."
"The horse is useful." The boy said.
Shuren raised his fist as if he might strike the boy, but instead he pulled the boy closer. He leaned down into the boy's face, his warm breath fanning across the boy's cheek. He stroked the boy's hair with his other hand. "Your name is Byakuya."
"Byakuya?" the boy asked, his grey eyes wide.
"It is fitting. It is just like you." Shuren said, releasing his hold on Byakuya.
"Is it a strong name? A warrior's name?" Byakuya questioned.
"It is your name. And you will make it strong." Shuren said simply.
"But what sort of name is Byakuya?" Byakuya pressed.
"Byakuya means winter night." Shuren explained. "And it's the beautiful sort."
"You must go." Shuren said despondently.
"Shuren…?" Byakuya breathed, looking from one man to the other in disjointed shock. "I don't understand."
"This is Ellac," Shuren explained, his gruff voice distressed. "He is honored general."
"I am Ellac, first son of Attila." Ellac said in introduction. He was a short man but unmistakably very strong. He had dark skin and small eyes with scarred designs mutilating his face.
"Son of Attila?" Byakuya murmured, dropping onto one knee. "Honored general."
"I have heard, you are very good with a sword." Ellac continued, removing his sword from its sheath. "Please, be so kind. Show me your skill."
"Shuren?" Byakuya looked toward the warrior in confusion.
"Do as General Ellac commands, Byakuya." Shuren instructed, handing Byakuya his own sword.
Byakuya took Shuren's heavy sword into his hands. The metal was worn and well-used. Shuren loved his sword. Byakuya nodded nervously, looking toward Ellac for further instruction.
Ellac swung his sword without warning, nearly crushing Byakuya under his weight. Byakuya groaned in annoyance, swinging Shuren's sword upward to block. Ellac smiled, slashing and hacking with brutal force. Byakuya countered, his bare feet spinning in the gravel as he turned.
"You're good." Ellac murmured, pressing forward with all his might. "Who taught you this way?"
"Shuren." Byakuya admitted, parrying a blow as he spoke.
"Your skill is beyond Shuren's…" Ellac countered, knocking his sword against the hilt of Byakuya's. Byakuya recovered quickly, tumbling across the gravel floor with a grunt.
"He has his own style." Shuren said quietly. He stepped to the side as Ellac barreled across the tent.
Byakuya moved swiftly, his blade grazing the underside of Ellac's chin. "Amazing," Ellac murmured, lowering his weapon. "You will do."
"I don't understand." Byakuya said, handing Shuren his sword.
"My father plans to wed soon." Ellac explained. "And I wish to provide a gift."
"A gift?" Byakuya repeated the word slowly.
"You are not Hun." Ellac said, brushing his thumb against Byakuya's Hunnic markings. "You are fair and handsome and brilliant with a sword."
"But I am going to be a warrior…" Byakuya argued, shaking his head in refusal.
"You are a slave." Ellac breathed quietly. "And I have already bought you." Ellac smiled grimly. "But if you wish to be a warrior, then come. You will have audience with King Attila!"
"There is no choice." Byakuya said in realization.
"No." Ellac confirmed. "Come with me now."
"I…" Byakuya looked over at Shuren, a peculiar empty feeling in his chest. "I go now."
"You go now." Shuren nodded, a strange gasping noise escaping his lips. He looked down at the ground quickly, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Without you?" Byakuya whispered.
"Without me." Shuren grunted, his voice even lower than usual.
"Thank you." Byakuya said, stepping toward the flap of the tent. "You saved my life."
"I was repaid." Shuren said.
Byakuya tried to turn around but Ellac grabbed him by the shoulder. "Come now, beautiful one…" Ellac said as he ushered Byakuya from the tent.
"Be brave." Shuren called out. "Be strong, Byakuya."
"Don't you like magic?" Ellac asked.
Byakuya nodded his head unenthusiastically. "I love magic."
"We employ the best sorcerers in all the land."
"It's lovely," Byakuya replied, staring at his hands rather than watching the sorcerer performing his tricks.
"I want to watch you dance." Ellac said.
"Dance, your Majesty?" Byakuya asked, turning to look at the prince.
"Yes." Ellac leaned forward, grabbing his father's arm. "Attila, would you care to see Byakuya's sword dance?"
"I have no sword dance, Prince Ellac…" Byakuya hissed into Ellac's ear.
"Yes, I know…" Ellac said with a laugh. "But I still want to see it."
"I should kill you." Byakuya threatened, sitting forward on his stiff chair.
"I want to see you," Attila requested. "Wielding your sword."
"Of course, your Majesty…" Byakuya breathed, narrowing his eyes at Ellac in anger.
"Conjurer…" Attila called out. "Clear the stage."
Byakuya stood up slowly, his breath squeezing from him in an instant. He walked slowly into the center of the simple open air court and stood. The musicians began to play, the ocarina filling the air. Byakuya unsheathed his ornamental sword, his clothing prohibiting much of his movement.
He removed his robe, letting the heavy silk fall around his feet. He stood in only leather britches. He shrugged his shoulders, widening his stance. And then he moved, his martial movements becoming like a dance. The ocarina's airy song continued and Byakuya wound his sword around his body. He balanced his sword along his arm before flipping it up into the air, catching it between his palms.
The court clapped excitedly and Byakuya 's pale skin flushed scarlet. He continued his dance until the ocarina faded away. He bowed and sheathed his sword, dipping down to retrieve his robe. He walked straight up to Ellac and stopped directly in front of his chair. "Did I please the Prince?"
"Completely." Ellac said with a grin. "You're a man of many talents."
"I am a warrior." Byakuya snapped. "Not a jester."
"Of course," Ellac agreed. "Which is why you're coming with us."
"I am?" Byakuya asked, dropping down in front of Ellac. "What's this I'm hearing?"
"You and me and my father…" Ellac explained gaily. "Are leaving tomorrow."
"You're taking me?" Byakuya's cheeks flushed.
"Yes." Ellac said, smiling indulgently. "We cross the Alps."
"East Rome?" Byakuya breathed excitedly.
"Yes." Ellac said. "We take Rome."
Byakuya consumed the raw flesh hungrily. The blood soaked into his hands and he felt a kind of frenzy. He tore into the meat voraciously, never minding the blood that dribbled down his chin and ran onto his armor. Every surviving and able-bodied warrior in the camp did the same.
"Lieutenant…" Ellac breathed, cradling his injured hand in his lap. "We won't win this time."
Byakuya grabbed another strip of raw rabbit flesh from beneath his horse's saddle. He met Ellac's gaze and Byakuya shook his head in refusal, "We must."
"Father is dead." Ellac muttered, fever setting in. "My brothers fight for the throne." Ellac's head fell back against the trunk of a tree. "Ardaric marches against me."
"You will be King in this life or the next." Byakuya said, nudging Ellac's shoulder impatiently. "I don't have time to coddle you. Be a warrior."
"You're right." Ellac said with a slow nod.
"Yes." Byakuya said simply, climbing to his feet. He extended his hand to Ellac, "Come now."
After feasting and watering their horses, the Huns returned to the fight. It was a bloody battle full of much brutality on both sides. Ellac was felled, by two swords and six arrows. He died valiantly, a death that even the great Attila would envy. The remaining force could do nothing but wait to die.
"You." the soldier barked, using his sword to lift Byakuya's chin. "You're his slave."
"I'm a lieutenant." Byakuya answered, cutting his eyes at the soldier furiously.
Byakuya's hands were bound behind his back and he remained on his knees in the mud as Ellac's entire army was slaughtered. Many of the men had been like family, and all had trusted him to the end. Blood swirled into the earth like wine and Byakuya clamped his eyes shut tightly.
"Come now." A general barked, lifting Byakuya by his bound arms.
Byakuya grunted in discomfort, his shoulders feeling as if they might burst at the seams. "I will die with my King." Byakuya said, shrugging out of the opposing general's grip. "I die with my army…"
"You come." The general repeated, pushing Byakuya toward the enemy's camp.
"Byakuya," Ardaric said, leaning forward in his chair as the general approached. "You survived."
"You killed the Huns." Byakuya said. "But I have not surrendered."
"Your skill is mine now." Ardaric said. "You join my army now."
"I refuse." Byakuya uttered.
"You can't." Ardaric barked. "You're not Hun. You're slave."
"I am a warrior." Byakuya seethed.
"You're still a boy." Ardaric said dismissively.
"Ardaric, I wonder," a Roman man said, stepping forward audaciously. He was from the Western Roman Empire and had been friendly acquaintances with both Attila and Ellac. "If he is a slave, might I buy him?"
"I'm not for sale." Byakuya barked.
"His skill, his thirst, his exotic splendor…" the Roman man gushed. "I will pay any price."
"Any price?" Ardaric murmured. "How about the throne of the Hun?"
"Any price." The Roman agreed with a nod. "It is yours."
"I say that I'm not a slave!" Byakuya shouted. "I'm not for sale!" Byakuya's entire body shook with anger. "I die with my king. I die on this battlefield."
"You're coming with me." The Roman said, gesturing to his own attendants. "We leave for Western Rome immediately."
Byakuya was hoisted from the ground, two men pushing him from Ardaric's tent. He struggled in vain, kicking and dragging his feet whenever possible. He let out a feral scream as he was forced into a cage. He beat his arms against the transport, backing up and running, throwing himself against the iron bars. But it was no use. Once again he was trapped, he was caged, and on his way to a strange, new place.
"That's incorrect." Aetius reprimanded, striking Byakuya's hand with a switch. "That is the letter 'A'."
"They look the same." Byakuya complained, rubbing his hand irritably. "It not matter. Huns don't read or write."
"It does not matter!" Aetius groaned in exasperation. "Not 'It not matter'. Speak properly!" Aetius anticipated Byakuya's reaction and shook his finger preemptively. "You are no longer a beast. You are no longer a heathen. You are a Roman."
"I don't want to be Roman." Byakuya protested.
"Fine! You want to go live outside with the pigs? You want to eat your raw meat and grunt like a Godless savage? Go on then! Go on!" Aetius shouted. "You Huns and your nasty habits… Why, even the Moors are leaps and bounds above your whole lot!"
"I go now?" Byakuya asked hopefully, standing up.
"No!" Aetius groaned. "You stay now. By God's divine power, I will turn you into a proper human being…"
It was the summer of his twenty second year when Flavius Aetius passed. The days were long and warm, and comfortable. A strange calmness had surrounded the Magistrate's home and Byakuya knew at once that Aetius had died.
Without a word, Byakuya had run away. He took the most dangerous routes, where the Roman soldiers wouldn't be on patrol. It had served him well until suddenly, in the middle of winter, it didn't. "Stop and empty your purse."
"I don't have any money." Byakuya said, turning out his pockets. His breath unfurled from his lips like steam and his hands shook as he spoke.
"Give us your weapons then." The barbarian ordered, his voice muffled by the cloth that wrapped around his head.
"I don't have any weapons." Byakuya admitted.
"No money, no weapons…" the barbarian hissed, looking at his two companions. "We must have something."
And suddenly the barbarian was on top of Byakuya. He sliced his cheek open with the tip of his knife and Byakuya grunted in anger. Byakuya's fist connected with the barbarian's stomach and the man doubled over in pain. Byakuya twisted the man's hand, wrenching the knife from his grip.
"I will kill you." Byakuya threatened, wiping at the copious blood flowing from his wound.
"Kill him!" the barbarian ordered.
The two other barbarians lurched forward. Byakuya threw the barbarian's dagger forcefully, striking one of the men in the heart. He ran forward and slid across the snow, ripping the knife from the man's chest. The third barbarian fell upon him, right onto his associate's blade.
Byakuya rolled the man off of him and climbed to his feet, grabbing the dying man's sword. He looked at the first barbarian and a strange smile flit across his face. "I'm glad you stopped me." Byakuya admitted, his lips shivering in the cold. "I was growing listless."
The barbarian retreated immediately. Byakuya stood stunned for a few moments and then decided to give chase. That man had meant to kill him. That man was a danger to every good and noble Roman.
The barbarian began to shout in his native tongue and Byakuya understood it well enough. He was warning others. Byakuya gripped onto the barbarian's sword even more tightly, running as fast as he could after the fleeing man.
The barbarian ran straight into a camp. Byakuya panicked for only a moment before realizing the camp was nearly all women, children and the infirm. The barbarian stopped and lifted his hands pleadingly. "No, no. Please stop. I'm sorry."
"You would have killed me." Byakuya breathed, taking two steps for every step backward the barbarian took. "I see no reason you should live."
"I was wrong." The barbarian cried out. "I was just trying to feed my family." The barbarian dropped to his knees pleadingly. "You… You're Roman… You're a good Christian, am I right? Take pity on us!"
"I am not a Christian." Byakuya hissed. "And I am not forgiving."
"Please, my family will starve…"
"No, they won't." Byakuya swore, plunging the sword through the man's throat. He wrenched the sword free, watching as the man's blood poured into the snow, like water from a faucet.
And then Byakuya did something that he would truly come to regret, for the rest of his life. He massacred the entire encampment. Women, children, the elderly, everyone was felled by his stolen sword. He robbed the corpses and gathered supplies, the stench of the dead nearly sickening him.
He didn't make it far before the realization hit him. He had killed countless times, thousands of men had fallen to him. He was a warrior. But he had never murdered an unarmed man, let alone a woman or child. He sank onto his knees in the snow.
A strange panic came over him and he gasped for air. Hot tears streamed from his eyes and he couldn't breathe. Byakuya choked, crawling forward on his hands and knees. He collapsed into the snow and cried, his entire body shaking violently.
It was night before he could move. His entire body hurt, his skin raw and red from the wet and the cold. He saw nothing in the pitch blackness. He started to cry again, completely alone and emotionally overwhelmed. He searched the ground for his supplies, finding only his sword.
"It was a mistake." Byakuya groaned aloud. "I didn't mean to…" He rocked back and forth until he could no longer bare it.
He held his sword in his hands, immediately and completely thinking of Shuren. What had happened to Shuren? Had he perhaps married? Had children? Did his wife wait for him to return from battle? Was Shuren still alive? Had Shuren been under his command at some point?
And then all Byakuya could see was the steaming snow and the children's warm blood drenching the frozen ground. He could smell death. He could hear their mother's pleading for mercy, speaking in an unknown tongue. "I'm sorry."
Byakuya thrust himself forward without hesitation, skewering his neck over the barbarian's sword. He choked noisily, the unbearable pain causing his eyes to bulge. His arms and legs twitched rapidly and he fell onto his side. His body rolled for a few more seconds and then it moved no more. His last agonized breath escaped his lips and his lids fell over his grey, unseeing eyes.
The boy was dead.