Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  Wallia used the time to ensure the capon did not go to waste. “Right you are, Galla Placidia,” he agreed. “The Roman armies have taken a real pounding, often as not from each other. By my reckoning, the army of Gallia’s had its share and more.”

  “And the passes?” asked Rohilde again.

  “Well, young lady, Constantius can transfer a few good men from the Army of Italia. He can put uniforms on the backs of new men and switch some limitanei from fort to field. He can do all of that in a few years, always assuming he can find the men in the first place and the gold to pay for them. Even he does that; still don’t mean he’s got a real army, not a real field army thirty thousand strong. He’ll probably have a few by now, though; a few units that really know their business.”

  “And you only need so many men to hold the pass, but a lot more if you’re going to give open battle in the plains.”

  He exchanged a glance with Theoderic. The daughter of Alaric understood well. “When will we hear?” asked the young reiks.

  “Two or three days. If the pass is well held, Herfrig hasn’t the men. Can’t spare more; because, as young Rohilde points out, you need a big army to fight in the plains.”

  “Something in mind?”

  “Nothing at all, Theoderic. We’ve lost too many games of chance for my liking, no fault yours or mine. Point is, others might take the decision for us.”

  Wallia arranged the fish grate to one side of his goblet and a capon bone to the other. He pointed to the fish. “This is the army of the Silings or the Alans or, heaven forbid, both.” Then he pointed to the capon. “This bone is Constantius and the Roman army of Gallia or Italia or, again, heaven forbid both.”

  Wallia studied the wine goblet now surrounded to each side by chewed bones. At length he picked up the goblet, looked at it closely. “Fine cup it is, Theoderic. I’m trying to keep it from harm and, d’you know? I’ll swear I’m getting more and more like that cautious old bastard Constantius every day.”

  He offered a toast with a bitter smile. “To our old friend, Constantius; and his eternal caution.”

  Theoderic joined in half-heartedly but neither woman followed. Galla Placidia looked down at her plate, while Rohilde set her jaw. “Wallia, after the way they treated us, I understand why we’d fight the Silings. And, yes, I know Constantius has caused us great hurt. People have died because of that fleet we never see but is always there.” She paused. “For all that, I still don’t understand what we’re fighting the Romans for.”

  “Rohilde, surely it’s easy enough. Their blockade, you’ve said it yourself. We’re just defending ourselves.” Theoderic then laughed the laugh of a man still young. “Leaving aside the fact we’ve been fighting each other for all my life.”

  “That may be the why, Theoderic. But what,” she repeated. “What do we honestly think we are fighting for?”

  An almost painful silence; before Galla Placidia looked up from her plate. “Rohilde,” she said; then, after another pause: “I fear, Rohilde, you’re fighting over little more than me.” And, though they never flickered, Wallia saw the dark eyes glisten.

  *

  Up the highway they galloped; through the grey of the dawn. No war horns; save for drumming hooves the morning was silent still. Cloak flowing and horsemen to either side, Herfrig raised his spear. A deep-throated roar came from a thousand Goth throats.

  The Roman guards wakened from their stupor, a trumpet sounding its wailing alarm. The first arrows flew from behind the stakes of the parapet. Then the sound of the trumpet abruptly died. The carts which formed a make-shift gate were being tugged aside by Goth hands. Herfrig yelled, dug into the flanks of the stallion with his heels. And in the few yards between the disappearing cart and the earth wall, he burst through into the Roman camp.

  The first line of defenders was almost gone as Smiler’s men swept down the banks from the forest. But there were more trumpets sounding and to the far side of the valley, protected on the one flank by the parapet, Roman lines were forming. The first Goth footmen didn’t get within arm’s reach. Throwing spears and arrows from behind the shield ranks brought them spinning to the floor.

  He caught sight of Smiler, mustering the foot, while the rest of his horsemen battled through the twenty pace gap in the parapet. They had planned for the Goth horsemen to charge up the valley; to blockade the main garrison in the fort before Smiler’s footmen finished the Roman detachment and came to join them. But they had not expected the Romans to react so fast; or form rank where they did.

  Now they were in danger of running down their own men who must cross to the other side of the valley to fight the Roman lines. Meanwhile, angry arrows dropped onto the unholy mess of horse and foot and, as Goth riders fell from their saddles, the loose horses added to the mayhem.

  He wheeled about. “Men, hold on,” he shouted to the front horsemen beyond the parapet. “Go, Smiler, go! Get your men across.”

  A nod, the cry of ‘Charge’; and the Goth footmen rushed in loose ranks toward the Roman lines.

  “Come on,” he waved, the road now clear. Every minute gave the Romans time to bring their greater numbers to bear. At agonisingly slow pace the horsemen pressed through the gap in the parapet, while Smiler and the others wrapped themselves round the Roman lines, like a giant snake at its prey. Shrill Roman trumpet calls met with answering blasts from the main Roman force around the fort.

  “Form up! Form line,” Herfrig shouted but the charge of the Goth horse was already a free for all that stretched half way up the valley. He cursed any and everything to hell then joined the mad chase; only to find the first of his men coming back towards him. The Romans in the fort had done more than sound the bugles. The first lines of heavy battle cavalry were already snaking out from the main encampment. And even in their mad blood lust his men had understood. Alone they were dead.

  “Get into ranks,” he ordered again. “Ranks!”

  This time they heeded him. He placed two men fifty yards apart across the valley. “Form against them,” and he trotted back and forth, spear pointing the way. Over his shoulder he saw the Roman cavalry effortlessly doing the same, behind them ranks of infantry. If ever that cavalry got into full flow, the sheer weight would wash them back down the valley like a twig in a torrent. The lines weren’t perfect but then they never were. Smiler’s men he saw still swaying; stabbing. That Roman detachment by the parapet would not die easy. He swung back to face up valley. “Men,” he cried, “for Wallia!”

  Now Goth horns echoed deep off the hillside, swamping for an instant the tight call of the Roman trumpets. But the Romans knew better than to take a charge trapped against their own defences. Slowly he saw the armoured horse heads lumber across the snow towards them, picking up speed as they went, the infantry coming on behind at measured pace. He counted one, two…

  By the number seventeen the first lance clashed upon his shield. His horse reared, bore to the right, he thrust at a helmet. More yards, the horse reared a second time. He swung his spear right, left. Felt a blow on his left shoulder, swore; jerked his shield into a face. He spurred his horse but two armoured horses blocked the way. A darting blade he met with the shield, knocked the other high in the air, stabbed with the point towards the armoured chest. There was space ahead of him; beyond, advancing Roman infantry. He swung round to gather the men.

  Then his head rang as if to a bell. Dead to the world, he slipped from his saddle.

  *

  Count Aemilius Lucellus had always slept lightly. The first faint bugle call from the far end of the valley and he was out of bed and racing down the stairs. “Marcus,” he shouted to his cavalry tribune. “Form up outside the gate. Hold till the infantry are ready to follow. You hear me?”

  He saw Clavinianus hesitate, then speed away, shouting orders. From the frantic bugle cries he already knew what the other had wished to tell him. With his detachment Flavius, the i
nfantry tribune, was under attack. But they weren’t going to do Flavius any good by dying in a futile gesture half way down the valley.

  Flavius not on hand, he gave the orders to the centurions. “Outside, within five minutes, behind the cavalry. Four ranks, front rank spears at the ready.”

  He swung up into the saddle, rode to join Clavinianus, a poisonous look in the direction of the round-faced civilian who was just leaving the fort.

  “Looks like the leader.” The cavalry tribune Clavinianus pointed to the horseman riding up and down, spear outstretched. “Fair rabble, you ask me, Sir.”

  “You ask me later, Marcus.” Lucellus hesitated an instant. “O, by the way, Marcus. If they break, no pursuit without my orders.”

  “Sir?”

  “And no killing the wounded.” He heard the Goth horns. The lines bulged into a crescent behind the leader’s headlong charge. “I know, Marcus, I’ll tell you later. Sound the charge, Tribune. Now!”

  Discipline took over. “Bugler!”

  “Sir?”

  “Sound the charge!” cried Clavinianus, who looked at him once more through wondering eyes.

  The big battle horses moved forward. With a small band of guards, Lucellus trotted behind, between the galloping horse and the marching legionaries. A solitary horse he heard closing quickly but deliberately did not turn round. A man with balding head came up alongside.

  “Morning, Count Lucellus.”

  “Morning.”

  “You do remember what we said?” asked the man who wore a civilian tunic under the cloak of fine blue. It was all Lucellus could do not to take a sword to him. But orders were orders, especially hand-written orders from the General and Patrician Flavius Constantius. “Aye, Euplutius,” he strangled between his lips.

  Ahead the two charges met full-on; impossible to tell who was doing what in the melee of horse, lance and sword. But the Roman ranks he saw hold firm, perhaps even move forward. Just then, a Goth in flowing furs appeared from between the last two Roman chargers, the same Goth who had marshalled their lines. He seemed not to know where he was. The flat of a sword clattered into the helmet and he fell.

  “That was their leader?” asked Euplutius curiously.

  “Aye.”

  “And what was that he wore across his breast?”

  “You mean over the chain mail?”

  Euplutius nodded.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d have said it was a crucifix.”

  “Interesting, Count. I had the same thought.”

  Once the Goth cavalry broke his men had advanced at snail’s pace; watched the vicious scrimmage near the parapet where the barbarians still held Flavius and his infantry penned against the hillside before, finally, making good their chaotic escape.

  The last of the Goths had just passed out of sight, galloping and running for all they were worth, back down the highway towards Barcino. Flanked by Clavinianus and the man Euplutius, Lucellus took in the little battlefield. By his quick reckoning two hundred of his men and a similar number of Goths lay dead or dying.

  “Flavius, you are well, I trust?”

  “Sir, I’m well enough,” replied Tribune Flavius Scaervo. “Shame about all this though,” and he pointed to the men in Rome’s uniform littered on the ground. “Sir,” and he stopped, began again. “Sir, please forgive me. But why didn’t you just charge? I doubt half would have got away.”

  Lucellus thought dispassionately as he had been taught. Half? Not even. Archers, then a rush of horse and blade – not one barbarian in ten would have made it beyond the parapet, let alone to Barcino. He tossed his head to the older man. The little hair white as a woman’s teeth, he looked more at home in the quiet warmth of the Imperial records office than on an icy cold battlefield.

  He watched Flavius study the same man, the infantryman’s face speaking for him. A worn and battered civilian who could barely stay on a horse; what could he have to do with anything?

  “Perhaps I should introduce you, Flavius. The gentleman only arrived last night, when you were here with the men. Tribune Flavius Scaervo, may I introduce you to Euplutius. Euplutius comes from General Constantius and Ravenna.” He struggled to keep his voice level. “Euplutius is an agens in rebus.”

  The old man gave a friendly beam. No-one could have imagined they were looking at one of the Emperor’s infamous spies; one of the more important ones at that.

  “A model action, Count,” said Euplutius. “If you will accept a compliment from a simple civilian. And, Tribune,” he nodded appreciatively to Flavius Scaervo, “a stout defence.” The voice of Euplutius was surprisingly strong and clear. “As I reminded the Count last night – and again this morning,” he gave a quiet cough. “It was important to hold the pass but with the least loss of life, Roman or Goth.”

  “And why on earth was that? Sir?” Flavius Scaervo evidently found it hard to remember who he was talking to.

  “Tribune, you’ve had a… a most trying morning.” Euplutius’ sympathy was warning enough. “And the answer to your question, it is easy.” He smiled. “You see, with the Lord’s help you will shortly be fighting again with these men, Tribune. Only then we shall all be on the same side.”

  The smile had grown bright enough to light up the darkest winter morning. “I’m sure you understand. It would not help King Wallia see the wisdom of our proposals, if the Goths had just lost thousands of men at our hands.”

  While his two tribunes were absorbing the unwelcome news, Lucellus looked again at his men littering the snow, cut down by Goth blades. “And what do we do with the Goth wounded?”

  “The young Goth leading the charge,” and Euplutius pointed at the inert body slung across a trailing horse. “That one there is mine.”

  “And the others?”

  “The others?” The groans and sighs of the wounded filling the air, Euplutius flicked a patch of snow from his cloak. “War is a frightful business, Count Lucellus,” he sighed. “An absolutely frightful business.”

  XV

  The month of February: in and around Barcino

  The first camp had been a smudge of smoke and dirt-faced peasants, wagons circled in a makeshift defence of the tents and canvas lean-to’s. After the mountain’s crisp scent of pine trees, the stench of beasts and men had almost knocked him and his troop out of their saddles. At the jingle of their harness children had first come running only to be called back by the slattern-haired mothers who saw the red cloaks. Then men from the shelter of the wagon wall had followed them with hate-filled eyes.

  “A rutting sow, better looking than ‘er.”

  “Silence!”

  Count Lucellus was no happier than the men but there was nothing for it. Euplutius had a message to deliver and a peace to arrange. After the round of letters had caused nothing but war it was hard to disagree. If they wanted a peace, and none less than the General Constantius said they did, then they would have to do it face to face.

  He made the smallest nod towards the man riding to his left, an off-white bandage visible under his helmet. “Erfrigius,” he asked in a voice so loud the rearmost trooper must hear. “Why do they hate us so?”

  “You will see, Count. You will see.”

  He looked back at the escort, mouthed: ‘he understands every word.’ The troop’s under-officer met his eye. A short whisper made its way back through the ranks.

  Satisfied, he turned his attention to the bland, rosy face to his right, seemingly without a care. All along, since leaving the camp, Euplutius had been quietly and, as far as he could tell, genuinely confident; unlike his own pretence for the sake of the men.

  The young barbarian rode as born to the saddle and spoke Latin that would not shame one of his tribunes, once you became accustomed to the gruff way with the sounds. Nephew of their king, so he had told and Euplutius had no doubt. Many the hours they had spent together, Eu
plutius and the Goth, treated as an honoured guest, given the freedom of the camp. Erfrigius had watched the daily routines, asked question after question. “What’s the point?” Lucellus had asked.

  “He admires us, Count, and we need him to admire us more. This charming young man has to get us to Barcino. Or do you propose we fight our way there?”

  That camp this morning had not been their first encounter with the Goths. A guard picket yesterday; without a by your leave the barbarian had trotted ahead, in a few words of their rough language cleared their way. Two of the picket he saw gallop off ahead towards Barcino. When asked why, the barbarian had looked over their little troop. “I have sent word to my uncle. We could do with more men.”

  Which had not made that night’s sleep any easier. He went to Euplutius’ tent.

  “You heard what he said, the barbarian?”

  “I do not listen to barbarians,” the soft face had answered, eyes not so soft. “What Erfrigius, noblissimus of his clan and nephew of King Wallia says; that I hear well.”

  It did not sit easy to be lectured to by a balding civilian; however many letters from Constantius the man carried. “So what exactly does he say?” he demanded, cold as snow.

  Euplutius stretched back, studied the roof of the tent. “They hate the Vandals more than they hate us. As I told you once already, Erfrigius actually admires us. He often rides escort to Her Highness,” and both men, without thinking, had marked mention of their Emperor’s sister with a short silence of respect. “Then there are other things he does not tell but which I think I have heard.”

  “Such as?”

  “Count, if I’m not mistaken, the Goths are hungry for peace.”

  Euplutius had said no more; but beamed one of his most mysterious smiles.

  The milestones told they were only ten miles from the city and since noon past the camps had been every mile. There were Goths everywhere; a few followed on horseback, others ran alongside the horses with jeers. Children had thrown stones, while others sat by the roadside with their mothers, pot-bellied and listless.