The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  “God help me!” Connor screamed with ragged breath. “For once, God, help me! For me, God! For me, just this once! God!”

  Laughter joined the curses and the shock of hooves behind him. This is the way it had happened, Connor suddenly remembered. The first time he had been taken had been so much like this – running through the woods from an invincible enemy. And with that realization, Connor screamed from the bottom of his soul – a wordless, violent, despairing scream. And he turned his course straight up the hill.

  The horsemen turned to follow him. Connor turned around just long enough to throw Merridius’ cudgel straight at the head of Lorentius’ horse. His aim was true, though the cudgel just glanced off of the beast’s forehead. But it was enough to cause the horse to stumble on the steep grade. The horse went down to his front knees, pitching Lorentius forward. Lorentius held fast though, and was not dismounted. But the others were soon upon him, slamming into each other and falling.

  Connor had no time to survey the results of his attack. The screams of men and horses as they crashed together encouraged him to run faster, even as the loose stones slipped under his feet. He was now weaponless. He heard the hoof beats behind him, as those enemies that had avoided a fall continued their pursuit. The others were recovering as well, and all were again closing on him. They were angry now, so angry Connor could feel it burn. Good! He would die in the forest then. He would never go back to the estate. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He was ready. Let it happen. He saw Lucia’s face in his mind, and would have cried. But there was no place for that now.

  “Come and die!” Connor screamed. As he scrambled, he found more loose stones and he threw these blindly back at his attackers. “Come and fucking die!”

  He was at the top of the hill. He grabbed a heavy rock and cast it down, the throw missed, and if it caused any harm as it rolled down towards the horses he did not know. Connor crashed down the other side – heedless of branches and slowing for nothing. He felt the force of his weight take a hold of him, dragging him down the stark angle of the hillside. He gave into it. He was speeding impossibly fast now, almost effortlessly. All he had to do was to catch himself with each step. He could afford no glances behind him. Any lack of attention would kill him, as he bounded out of control over the rocky slope.

  “Come and fucking die!” he screamed like a madman.

  Behind him he heard horses stumbling and sliding, but still they followed.

  And then all at once the forest was gone and Connor was standing in the middle of a road.

  The shock of it stopped Connor. He was back on level ground, standing on white stones that had been pounded by centuries of traffic. The forest was dense on either side of him. Connor was about to dive headlong into the forest on the other side, to regain what little advantage there may be over the horsemen; but the ring of blade scraping on scabbard arrested him. He turned towards the north, where just a few paces away were four men on horseback. Connor found himself looking straight into the cold blue eyes of the leader. The piercing eyes were set in a face that was young but gaunt, angular, and striped with scars. The man’s blonde hair was tied back and two long, thin braids hung down at the left side of his head; but his beard was trimmed short. He wore a blue cloak, and below it was a coat of dark chain mail reaching to mid-thigh. The man’s big right fist was closed around the hilt of a drawn spatha, its blade chipped from heavy use; and his left hand held ready the reigns of his dark war horse. Strapped to his saddle was a long oval shield that had been dented and hacked until the blue paint was almost gone, and on the other side was a brace of short spears. Two of the other men were almost just like him – and like him their swords were drawn, their eyes hard, and their horses alerting on Connor like hounds waiting to attack. But the fourth man was shorter and darker, with strange almond shaped eyes and lank, black hair; and instead of a sword he had his bow drawn with a barbed arrow pointed at Connor’s chest.

  But all of this Connor took in instantly, for in a blink all was chaos.

  Connor’s pursuers broke through the thicket together and spilled out onto the open road. Lorentius was again in front, his sword drawn, his eyes intent on Connor. He did not yet see the four warriors who were almost right beside him.

  Merridius was just behind Lorentius – until the arrow shot by the dark-eyed man took him through the throat.

  Lorentius charged Connor, sweeping his spatha in a deadly arc as he came by; but Connor dove and rolled past him, reaching Merridius who struggled in his own blood on the ground. Connor seized Merridius’s short sword and rose to face Lorentius. But as Lorentius turned his horse he saw his own followers set upon by the strangers, who dashed in with their horses and swung their blades from their saddles. Only one of the warriors had grabbed hold of his shield, and he used it to negate the blow of Pulius’ sword. He ducked his head and thrust long with his own sword, plunging it through the rich young man’s belly. He pulled his blade free and slashed it across Pulius’ exposed throat before the youth could even cry out.

  Lorentius charged Connor, but even as Connor braced for the attack he saw the first horsemen – the leader – riding hard on his position, his blade leveled. And yet, neither attack came. Connor was knocked off his feet by a fleeing horse – its dead rider falling from the saddle as it ran. Instinctively, Connor balled up to protect himself from being trampled. As he did so, the warrior who charged him swept by and engaged another enemy.

  Connor sprang up, but he had lost Merridius’ sword, and was again unarmed. In his peripheral vision he could see his former attacker – the young man with the cold blue eyes –bashing into one of Lorentius’ followers. But this rider met the blow, parrying hard with his own sword as his horse turned into the warrior’s own. Connor saw the warrior’s horse begin to stumble.

  “God damn you, Slave!” Lorentius cried.

  Connor wheeled towards him, even as Lorentius charged him at a full gallop. Lorentius, son of Lucius Montevarius, contorted his face in murderous rage. The late sun shone on his poised blade. He rode to finish Connor.

  With everything Connor had, he ran towards Lorentius, screaming a soul-shattering cry as he closed. The horse was moving with the speed of death. Connor could smell the beast’s sweat, just as the slightest turn of his hips brought him past the head – to the stallion’s right flank. Shoving off of his back leg, Connor flew at Lorentius – even as the kill stroke swept in.

  Connor reached him first.

  Lorentius’ sword went wide as Connor closed his arms around the young man’s waist and drove his shoulder in as he sailed through the air. Connor and Lorentius fell to the ground as the horse rode on. Lorentius dropped his sword as his head hit the road stones.

  Connor grabbed Lorentius’ spatha and scrambled to his feet.

  For several heartbeats time seemed to slow. Connor held the leather-wrapped hilt in his fist. The sunlight made the polished iron glow like fire. The jewels in the pommel were deepest red. It felt so light, so perfect. Air filled his lungs. His blood rushed through his body, at the height of arousal – the furor, the rage of the warrior. And at his feet, Lorentius – his deepest enemy – crawled to his hands and knees. Lorentius seemed lost; he seemed not to see as he struggled to his feet. The hatred in his face was replaced by fear and confusion. But Connor was already moving. His eyes were on Lorentius’ vacant stare, and for a split second he could see both Lucius and Lucia in their kinsman’s open face – but this was instantly pushed aside by the fury of Connor’s mind. And he saw only Lorentius.

  And he swung.

  Lorentius’ body spun as blood sprayed. His eyes stared up, as clear fluid, blood, and gray matter spread out from his shattered skull. Connor stared for a moment, and then plunged the still-vibrating blade deep into his fallen enemy’s heart. It seemed that he could feel the movement of Lorentius’s black heart shudder on the point of that sword. And then the movement stopped, and all seemed so impossibly still.

  Connor looked up as he p
ulled the blade free. He turned around, his sword leveled. Three of the strangers – all unscathed and still in their saddles, had him surrounded. The dark-eyed man again had an arrow leveled at him. It was then that Connor realized he was still screaming. He stopped, and tried to swallow, but his throat was raw and his mouth beyond dry. He looked down again at Lorentius, who lay in an expanding pool of blood and brain; and Connor noted for the first time that the young man was unarmed.

  “Easy there, friend.”

  Connor jerked his head up to see the blue-eyed warrior approach. The man was on foot, leading his horse; but he still had his worn spatha in his forward hand. Blood covered the blade and had dripped down to the man’s fingers.

  Connor leveled his sword. He turned to the four men – all that remained – and the fire and fury returned to his face.

  “Hold where you are!” he shouted defiantly.

  The horsemen closed in a pace or two, but the one on foot raised his hand.

  “I will not bow to anyone ever again,” Connor hissed.

  “Indeed,” the stranger said. “I can see that.”

  The blue-eyed man relaxed his stance.

  “I do not know who you are, friend, or how you came to be here. But you killed that man as he was charging for me. As fortune would have it, my horse had stumbled, and I was vulnerable. So it seems I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  He took another step forward.

  “I am Valia,” he said. “These are my kinsmen, Gaiseric, and Henric; and this is Tuldin of the Huns.”

  “You are Goths?” Connor said.

  “Visigoths.” Valia corrected. “Yes. Except for Tuldin of course, but he is our blood brother now. And you are?”

  “Connor.”

  “From?”

  “Far away.”

  Valia laughed.

  “A diplomatic answer,” he said. “And it pays to be diplomatic these days, doesn’t it? Well, Connor of Far Away, maybe you know who these men were?”

  “No, I do not,” Connor said. “I think they were bacaudae. They chased me from the east road. I do not know why.”

  Connor saw the four men exchange glances. They did not believe him. He was far from out of danger yet. Who were these men, and why had they attacked his pursuers so readily instead of running away?

  “Indeed,” Valia said. “These are dangerous times, are they not? The roads are full of desperate men – outlaws, runaways, even deserters from the various armies of the Imperium.”

  He seemed to say this last category with emphasis, and Connor thought he saw the others nod slightly in understanding. Of course – Connor had a Gaelic accent, and they had seen him kill. The easiest assumption would be that he was a deserter, probably from Constantine’s army. But where would that put him with them? The price of deserting was no longer crucifixion, but it was still certain death.

  “And that is not even to mention the traffic from armies of displaced barbarians,” the man called Gaiseric said. Henric chuckled. Connor noticed with some small relief that Tuldin the Hun had put away his bow.

  “Yes,” Connor said. “These are dangerous times.”

  “Well, Connor. We owe you a service. And the day grows old. You say you are from nowhere. Perhaps you are going nowhere as well?”

  “I am en route to Massilia,” Connor said.

  “Massilia?”

  “Seeking passage back to Britannia perhaps?” Henric said.

  “Good luck with that,” Gaiseric said with a toothy grin.

  “Well, stay with us and share our bread and wine tonight, and continue on tomorrow if you wish,” Valia offered.

  “Thank you,” Connor said. “But I wish to travel alone. Despite the risk.”

  “I see that you are a hard man,” Valia said. “And you are a great fighter. I respect that. So I will not mince words. We cannot let you go tonight. You see, we are not alone. The others will be here soon, and we cannot allow anyone to go away and betray us to local militia. Not that I believe that you would do that, but I have women and children depending on us for safety. So you will break bread with us tonight, as our guest, and we will celebrate our victory over these –young and well-dressed bacaudae.”

  Connor bridled. It seemed that he had fallen into another trap. But what was the right thing to do? He needed to be off on his own, and yet he was starving and thirsty, and these men –while so threatening in their nature and appearance – had certainly saved his life. But he could not trust them. He could not trust anyone.

  “You will be safe with us tonight. I owe you a debt of gratitude – regardless of who you are or what business you are on. You have my oath for your safety, as I am a Balti and a Visigoth,” Valia said.

  There was something in his demeanor that made Connor believe him. He was hard and gaunt and splattered in fresh blood, but Connor could see that Valia was a true warrior; and nothing is more important to a true warrior than his honor.

  “May your gods hold you to your oath,” Connor said.

  “Exchange a gift with me,” Valia said.

  “What?” asked Connor, instantly wary again.

  “That is a fine sword.”

  Connor looked down at Lorentius’s sword that he still clutched tightly. It was indeed a fine sword – richly jeweled the way no military man’s sword would be, sharp, and well-wrought. But it was the sword that had goaded him into slavery, and now it was the sword with which he had murdered his master’s son and his love’s brother.

  “I would not be unarmed, oaths or no,” Connor said.

  “Of course not. You are a warrior. Take my sword. It is not as pretty, but it is well-tested, and has taken a score of lives. Death Drinker is its name, and it has been with me since my passage unto manhood –a weighty gift from my father.”

  Valia thrust Death Drinker in the ground. Connor looked at it. It did seem a good sword, perfect in its simplicity. Its wood furnishings were well-worn, but the new leather wrapping of the grip suggested it had been meticulously maintained; and as the sunlight caught the notched blade Connor noticed the wispy patterns of the metal that comes from blending hard iron and soft iron together – the unmistakable mark of a fine weapon.

  Connor thrust Lorentius’ sword into the ground. Both men strode purposefully forward and grasped the hilt of their new weapons. Valia offered his bloody hand and Connor clasped his wrist, in the manner of the Imperium.

  “Welcome, Connor of Nowhere. You are now the guest of the Visigoths.”

  XIV

  Connor watched the gold sun dip below the ridgeline, leaving the world in twilight. The twilight he felt in his soul seemed heavier by far. He pulled his cloak closer to seal out the advancing chill of the late-autumn night. Valia and Gaiseric rode ahead, with Tuldin and Henric strategically close behind Connor. He shook his head. Just that morning – which now seemed like such an age away – he had awoken alone and half-frozen on the damp earth, with nothing but the tunic on his back. He had been on the run from a murderous enemy that was very close to catching him. But now he rode Merridius’ bay stallion, and wore one of the cloaks that had not been too blood-stained. A small bag with one sixth of the combined coins that had been taken from his pursuers hung from his belt – more than enough to get him to Massilia – and next to it hung a good sword. More than all of these things, those who had set out that morning to catch him now lay slain, naked in the forest, not far from the road; and he had murdered the man who had wanted to murder him – Lorentius, the Dominus’ heir and the brother of the girl he loved.

  But as he followed his new companions, some things had not changed – he was still a runaway slave; and the future was still just as uncertain.

  “We should be there soon,” Valia called back. “I recognize this bend in the road.”

  “Be where soon?” Connor mused bitterly. But within moments he had an answer, though it was not what he had expected. Rounding the bend, they came to the place where Valia’s people had stopped for the night.

  It was a full mil
itary encampment. No less than ten rows of rectangular tents were erected in ordered files to the north of the road. In the intervening distance, well-armed sentries had been posted and a hasty barrier of sharpened, crossed poles had been set up. But it was not only soldiers in the encampment – the village of tents was teeming with women and children hurriedly engaging in their evening work. While many of the men could already be seen sitting near the new-blazing campfires with flagons of drink in their hands, the women were busy in preparing the evening meal; and children as young as five or six were helping to tend to the sheep and few head of cattle. Hundreds of horses grazed the hillside, carefully watched by men with dogs. Connor estimated that there were maybe four times the number of people here as in Montevarius’ estate.

  “There are four hundred and seventy one fighting men,” Valia said, sensing his question. “Most on horse. A hundred and twenty six of them are mine. The rest are fully loyal to Sarus. But more join us every day; and as you see, the numbers of women and families grow as well.”

  “Quite a lot of mouths to feed,” Henric added.

  “Every day is a new challenge,” Valia nodded. “But who would have it any other way?”

  “How long have you been traveling like this?” Connor asked, still trying to grasp the size and logistical puzzle of such a camp.

  “We left the armies of Honorius maybe three weeks or so ago,” Valia answered. “Perhaps another month will pass before we get to where we are going, at our current rate. We need to get there before winter really sets in, obviously. Neither friend nor family are too happy to see you when you bring them many mouths in the dead of winter.”

  As they entered the encampment, many of the men stopped their bustle long enough to shout a greeting to Valia. It was soon clear that Connor’s new friend carried considerable weight here, despite his fairly ordinary gear and rugged appearance.

  A young man came out to greet them as they reached a large, circular tent. Valia dismounted, and passed his reins to the blonde-haired youth. He shook the road dust from his cloak, as the others dismounted. Three more warriors emerged and took their horses. The one who assisted Connor appraised him with surprise, but said nothing.