Promised Land

by Roger Booth

  Smiler stood, perhaps unnecessarily, shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun then flopped to the ground alongside him. “Small cloud.” He grinned in evident satisfaction. “Followed by a cloud the size of an army, I’d say.”

  “How long till Harduric’s here?”

  “Twenty minutes, Wallia. Twenty or thirty, I reckon.”

  Wallia felt the rough, dry dirt to his back; looked at the shafts of yellow-blue light that battled their way through the thick-skinned leaves, green so dark it might almost be black. Strange place for killing, he thought, in a land barely alive. Then he was up, striding towards his tent. “Better get going, Smiler,” he said over his shoulder.

  The one-time Roman went about the camp, shouting in a mixture of Latin and Gothic. “Up, you lazy bastards,” he cried, arms flailing as if he was scaring crows. “Foot in ranks to the east. Horse in two groups, one to the south by the trees. The other by the footmen.”

  Wallia fixed his helmet, passed the sword belt through its ornately carved buckle. Behind him, his tent, standard Roman army issue for field officers, was being loaded onto mules. On the sandy escarpment three thousand men and horse had to find their way around boulders, trees; and each other. By the time Harduric galloped up, followed by his small troop, Smiler and the men weren’t done yet.

  And it was a good question who was sweating more, horse or rider, after the long gallop through the shadeless heat. Harduric tore the helmet from his head, hair bedraggled with sweat; caught the water bag Wallia threw him. Wallia waited patiently as Harduric took a long swig, then another while Smiler joined them.

  “How far behind?”

  Harduric cupped his hand, poured some of the precious water and threw it into his face, rubbed his eyes clear of the sweat still rolling down the sopping strands of hair. “First cavalry’s close,” gasped the square face. “The rest – perhaps two hours.” Harduric looked at the water bag, took a more measured mouthful, tasting it like choice wine. “It’s worked alright, Wallia. I’d say every Siling that can lift a sword is in that column.”

  “Smiler, with your horsemen you stay below the crest till I’m out in the open.”

  “Aye”

  To Harduric, who was fixing his helmet again: “Five minutes rest, Harduric. Then with the footmen you go.” He looked between the tree trunks, at the distant shimmering hills. “And drink your fill, man. It’ll be hot work.”

  With that he called for his own horse, rode awkwardly up and down on the churned sand, in the narrow ground between crest and river, cajoling the footmen into two rough columns, holding the best men back for the rear guard.

  When Harduric came up alongside, astride a fresh horse. “See off the first charge.” Wallia told him. “There won’t be another.”

  Harduric cast an appraising glance over the horsemen massed between the trees, the best in the army. “Aye, Wallia.” With his retainers he trotted up to the head of the footmen. “Forward,” he barked and the men followed, tramping diagonally up the slope and out onto the scorching plain; a feast for cavalry that galloped first and looked second.

  The news they had spread around Corduba of his marching north was the first candle; that small cavalry decoy the second. Now the thousand and more footmen Harduric was leading out onto the plain the third. Enough candles they had lit to burn a whole nation of moths. Wallia sat astride his chestnut warhorse, alone and ahead of his men, chewing absent-mindedly on a blade of coarse grass.

  The first he heard of the Silings was Harduric’s warning blast on the horn. He swung round, finger to his lips and sword raised; forward at a slow, silent walk. As he came out of the defile and up into the trees, he saw the Goth rear guard running to close up to the two columns which themselves edged together to form one thick rectangle.

  Siling horsemen he saw now through the tree trunks. As fast as low branches and bulging roots allowed, Wallia urged his mount to quicken its pace. Once out beyond the tree line he sprang forward in pursuit, charging down and onto the plain, the hot, dry air setting his face ablaze.

  Ahead, the Silings washed harmlessly around the steady ranks of Harduric’s men, a giant hedgehog of shields and spears. No horse would come close to the menace of the iron points. The horsemen threw spears, even shot from bows. But for each missile they launched there came five back. Then the Silings had noticed his silent charge, their captains frantically rallying their men to the anxious howl of horns. One group lowered spears, came onto them; to buy time for the rest who, giving Harduric a respectful berth, were headed back towards the huge dust cloud on the horizon that was Fredbal and their main column.

  Amongst the oncoming chargers he fixed the nearest. His throwing spear arced, flew up into the sky; caught the sun on its point. Only then did he think: he’d not yet felt the dark hall cast its usual shadow of deadly calm. For an agonising moment it looked as though the spear would miss with the Siling lance point fixed at his breast and his shield on the wrong side. As he pulled desperately at his sword hilt, the spear-point caught the man’s throat, a good foot higher than he’d aimed. Lucky, lucky, lucky, he swore to himself as the Siling fell, stone dead, to the ground.

  No time to dwell on it; another lance point was at him, turned by his round shield, the passing neck an easy prey for the edge of his swinging blade.

  He headed left, following the line of the shallow slope and the main body of Siling horse in flight. Until Smiler and the rest of the Goth horsemen surged out from behind the trees, as if conjured from the earth by magic. Like startled birds on the wing, the Silings veered away but every yard just brought them closer to him and his riders closing from behind.

  Soon they were within throwing distance and the rearmost riders dropped one by one, axe or spear lazily plucking them off their mounts. The Silings fled the jabbing points; into the net of Smiler’s horsemen converging from the side. The flash of steel, his men the hammer to Smiler’s anvil; blades gorged, the saddles thrashed and emptied; the ripple of a corn field before the wind. It was done in minutes, as long as it took each Goth to find back, chest or neck; then, for the next killing, to thrust their mounts forward through the neighing, rearing confusion of riderless horseflesh.

  A few of the Silings on the flank had escaped and were fleeing for their lives; his right wing giving chase. “Enough!” he screamed over the din of anger. “Call the fools back,” he shouted again and the horns sounded the recall. A few of the men heeded, most did not; racing off to drench in blood the roots of wizened trees.

  At least Harduric had held his men in check. The footmen, he saw, had already resumed their long march towards the hills. Between the loose, bewildered horses Smiler picked his way towards him, stepping aside as Goths leant from the saddle to plunge spears into the fallen. “Not bad for starters,” he said, while the last groaning spear thrusts went home, yards from where they sat.

  “While we’ve been fighting, Fredbald’s been marching,” Wallia reminded him. “Time we were off.”

  Last month they had found what he was looking for, a blind valley, long and narrow. Harduric’s foot soldiers had been marching through the noon, he and Smiler with the horse trotting on behind. Behind them, like a fire, spread the dust of the pursuing column; fresh Siling cavalry warily scouting up to just within sight. As the valley mouth loomed ever clearer, the footmen deliberately slowed their pace so that, gradually, Fredbal and his Silings had begun to gain on them.

  “A final spurt, Harduric. Fast as you can now. Draw up in line by the mouth”

  Wallia looked back again at the approaching dust, then forward to the break in the hillside. “Smiler, cavalry to both wings and the men stay where they’re put. This time no charges ‘less I give the word. Now go.”

  He scanned the dusty, loose-bouldered hillside from under his sweating helmet. Above, eagles circled high on the currents, patiently waiting to swoop. The hillside he carefully studied again; no glint of sun on
metal to tell of the thousands nestled over the crests, though Theoderic and other Goth eyes must even now be peering down at him from their cover. If Lucellus hadn’t got lost, his men with the rest of the Goth cavalry were hidden in another valley some miles south, ready to cut off any retreat across the plain. He looked back at the pursuing column a last time before spurring his horse to re-join the others.

  In different circumstances, if the memory of Gades was not burnt on his mind, he might have felt a hint of sympathy for Fredbal. Within the hour the man must decide the fate of his army and his people. Not that he reckoned Fredbal had much of a choice. Since this morning the Silings had dead to avenge and, for the king of a proud people, it was a long march on a hot day just to stand his ground and shake his fist.

  *

  Up on the side of the hill, just inside the valley, the thorns of the spindly bushes covered them from preying eyes. Theoderic lay flat on the rough red-brown earth, Brodagast beside him. The men waited along the length of the crest, starting several hundred paces back to either side. No way of knowing how far Wallia could suck Fredbal in before the Siling numbers started to tell. The messengers to warn Lucellus had scurried off across the scrub moments before.

  Wallia he saw out on the plain, sitting alone, while the men took up their positions. Then Wallia had moved to join them. A sweltering age it had seemed before the trailing dust cloud became man and horse; an age again before the Silings drew near and formed up in battle order. There were five and some for every Goth down on the valley floor, though with cavalry on either wing, the shield wall blocked the whole of the entrance so they couldn’t be outflanked.

  A small group of Siling horsemen watched on from the side of their battle lines.

  “Fredbal.”

  “Aye, Theoderic, must be.”

  The wind stirred the bush above their heads, a beetle walked by, clambered over a stone. Below nothing moved.

  “You think he suspects?”

  “It’s been a trap writ large – since we told every trader in Corduba that Wallia was going into the hills…” Brodagast shook his head, the cool grey eyes full of contempt. “The man’s swallowed so much. He won’t stop now.”

  “Aye… there they go.”

  The Siling lines marched steadily forward; broke into a run. As they did, the Goth foot began to edge back and the cavalry swept in from both wings; mayhem as the Goth horsemen broke into the loose Siling lines. The rest of the Siling footmen ran up against the Goth shield wall. Though the Silings were the many more, they were by now just inside the valley mouth and only so many swords they could bring to bear. Before long a horn blared and they pulled away.

  “Lost some horsemen; shield wall looks untouched. He’s a sly bastard, our King,” murmured Brodagast.

  The Goth line had quietly slipped back another fifty paces and was now almost level with their hillside perch. The dead and dying a barrier of sorts against the next charge; this time the Siling cavalry was met head on by the Goths riding out in front of their own shield wall.

  It was a scrambled melee. They were losing men but the mass of horse flesh stopped the valley tight as a cork. All the while, without anyone really noticing, the shield wall was stepping backwards. By the time the Siling horn sounded the rally a second time, Wallia was further up the valley than their vantage point.

  He nudged the other and the two Goths pushed themselves out from under the bush. Dodging from bush to boulder, they ran back towards the men waiting over the crest, flattened themselves again on the rough dirt.

  They hadn’t moved a moment too soon. Fredbal had seen how far the Goths were retreating and now planned a trap of his own. Files of Silings were clambering up the slopes, working their way along, while another attack along the valley floor was prepared. This time, when the Silings came at them, the Goth cavalry found itself looking two ways. Some of their horsemen were fast dismounting to get up the slopes and stop the Silings getting round behind.

  “Damn it,” cursed Brodagast. The slopes sucked in more and more of the dismounted cavalry. “Not enough cover for the wall.”

  Silently he agreed. The mounted Goths that were left looked decidedly thin on the ground against the massed ranks of Siling horse and foot. Sheer body weight was buckling the Goth shield line.

  He was sorely tempted to sound their own horns but Lucellus couldn’t possibly be there yet. He watched and waited, stomach churning. The din of battle filled the valley and, from the top of the crest, he cut and parried in his mind’s eye; alongside every hand to hand combat that was played out below them. About him he felt tempers boil as more of the people they saw go down and die. Little by little, the Goths were giving way and it didn’t look like this was one of Wallia’s tricks. The men in that shield wall had marched across the plain, had been heaving, slashing and stabbing for close to an hour in the oven-like heat that bounced off the valley walls. They were Goths, they were fighting men but, even so, they were tiring fast.

  Brodagast took him by the arm. “That wall breaks, Theoderic, by the time we’re down, we’ll just have corpses to bury.”

  He felt the sweat in his palms. Wallia had been clear; wait and wait again until the last minute, no matter what the cost. But the trap wasn’t going to work as planned. Fredbal had forced Wallia to stand and fight to the finish far sooner than they intended.

  “Get close as you can to the valley mouth. Wait for the signal.”

  “And if they see us?”

  “So be it.”

  Brodagast slid back, silently gesturing for the men nearest to follow. He turned to watch the battle again. It couldn’t go on like this much longer. The Silings swarmed higher and higher up the hillside, the line of their dismounted horsemen stretched ever thinner as they tried to protect the flanks of the shield wall.

  One minute passed, then another and his mind wanted to burst. It was too soon, he knew. Then again, it was almost too late.

  High he stood on the ridge, visible to any who cared to look that way. “We go to avenge our fallen friends,” he shouted. At his signal, the men let out something between a groan and a deep roar of fury. Down below the battle halted an instant, mid-blow. Unearthly, unseen; the echoes rolled around the valley, answered by the Goths hidden over the opposite ridge.

  Then baying, as if possessed of some animal spirit, Theoderic threw himself down the slope. Over rocks he hurdled, slipped yards in the scree. He struggled to his feet. On and downwards, another long slide, further he ran, his whole being the tip of his outstretched blade. Until the first of the Silings stood square in his path.

  From on high, on hatred’s barren mountainside,

  The fell sword, it swoops to the kill.

  He gouges, a groan, gentle as a feather,

  Life’s husk drifts to earth, the hunter’s trophy.

  Dread the horns, the howl of the vengeful,

  Steel-hard the wave-strike, wild storm’s gusting,

  In blood-red foam, men’s feet swept from under,

  Still heedless of haven, the helmets stand firm.

  Then from war’s strand, strong his steed’s mettle,

  Forgetful of fame, Fredbal turns.

  The King of the Silings, he slips death’s vale,

  For shame gallop hooves, while shields clash in thunder.

  Twisting in terror, taunted the battleworn,

  Broken they run, their burden of fear.

  Slender the ash spears, slithering serpents,

  Bitter the fang bite, backs unshielded.

  Hoarse, hardhearted, heels tread the fallen,

  Slaughter sweet, stubble after harvest,

  For life men cry, to the croak of black wings,

  Fine edge and point, the pitiless beak.

  Till turning, timid, the tide of reason,

  Dims fire and fury, faint the moon’s riding in the clear, sunlit sky.
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  Hardly knowing, he had fought his way through, to where the battle lines had been thickest; to where their King stood, unconquered, at the last stand of the shield wall. Under the great hills of the valley, by the smaller hills of the butcher’s mounds he reached Wallia’s side, watched him kneel and cradle the man in blooded arms. The old scar smiled from jaw to temple, the chest a blotch of smudged iron kisses.

  “Another gone,” he heard Wallia say.

  *

  A howl, a squawk, the purposeful padding of dog and buzzard torn between greed and fear; Lucellus sat on a rock at the mouth of the valley. He might not have been there. Under the cover of lengthening shadows, greed their sole knowledge, the prowling men searched, stabbed and stripped. Not a cloud to be seen in the sky’s darkening twilight, the sun’s heat he felt ebb fast from the rock. He was glad for the excuse to leave that place. Pulling his cloak about, he mounted up, headed for the camp fires that flickered across the unsoured plain.

  “Evening, Theoderic. Sorry we were late, Wallia.”

  “Needn’t hang your head, Lucellus. You caught Fredbal.”

  He had come with his cavalry just after the Silings had broken, following their king out of the valley in a headlong rush across the plain. Fredbal had ridden, thankfully, straight into Roman arms.

  “I have orders.”

  Wallia lay full length, as close to the fire as could be. Turning, he cocked a weary-looking eyebrow.

  “I must send Fredbal to Ravenna, not…”

  “Well you gave the order when you did, Theoderic.” The King of the Goths stretched out luxuriously on the rock-hard ground. “Line was about to go and then… then it wouldn’t have mattered much to me or the others when you arrived, Lucellus. Didn’t think about being outflanked.” He shook his greying head. “Getting old.”