The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  “They’re coming,” Henric said, but he did not mean the bacaudae. From the tree line Valia and his men broke cover and ran towards the bacaudae like wolves descending upon sheep. Valia was at their lead, his oval shield in his left grip and his drawn spatha in his right, the horsetail on his helmet trailing and his wolf mantle making him seem even bigger than he was. But he did not scream a battle cry, nor did any of the others, but came silently. The bacaudae did not hear them, so intent on Connor and the others and on their burning longhouses. Within moments, the Visigoths were within a spear-throw of their enemies. Connor looked to Tuldin and nodded, then took a deep breath and prepared for contact.

  The Visigoths hurled their spears and javelins as they ran. At almost the same moment, the bacaudae became aware of the larger trap. Some in the rear of the pack turned to see Valia’s men – just as the missiles found their targets. There was a great scream as men went down, impaled by the iron heads and wooden shafts. Losing no momentum, the Goths tore into their prey, with Valia striking the first blow. But Connor had no time to admire the fighting skill of the Visigoths, for the bacaudae – many still unaware that they were under attack from behind – was upon them.

  Connor deflected the swing of the lead bacaudae’s sword and immediately cut towards the big man’s head. The leader snarled as he slipped just to the right, making Connor miss. But in doing so he had not seen Tuldin dart low, sliding past a man who sought to skewer him with a spear. The Hun caught Connor’s adversary across the back of the knee, slicing tendons, ligaments, and arteries with a spray of blood. Instinctively, the bacaudae stabbed at Tuldin, but the Hun was behind him and the man crumbled on his useless leg. Connor ducked the spear swing from the man who had attacked Tuldin, striking the man in the arm with Archangel before grabbing him with his free hand. He pulled the spearman into him as the bacaudae chief swung his sword from his knees, throwing the spearman in the path of the blow. Connor came over the top, driving Archangel down into the exposed space between the chieftain’s neck and collarbone, punching through flesh and lung, and the severing the great vessels of the big man. The chief tried to cry out, but no air came and he died looking up to the sky.

  But as Connor tried to pull his sword free another warrior slammed his shield into his back, knocking him down on top of the chieftain’s body. Connor pulled his arms in protectively and the warrior’s sword swing missed, burying into the corpse of his leader. Connor struck from his knees and the man screamed as Archangel bit onto his calf. Connor was instantly up, his sword rising up with him – wedging behind his enemy’s shield and piercing through the bottom of his jaw. Connor kicked the bacaudae clear of his blade. The man fell to the ground, still choking on his blood as Connor turned to face the others that stampeded towards him.

  “Shoulder to shoulder!” Henric called. “Shoulder to shoulder!”

  Connor heeded, joining the Visigoth at his left side. Henric’s face and hair were already splattered in the blood of their enemies. His blue eyes were bright with battle fury as he flung the weight of his tall, powerful body into every hacking blow. When Henric’s spatha failed to find flesh his pugio short sword was right behind, searching into the weaknesses of his attackers. Tuldin joined them at Henric’s right, carving the foemen with his curved blade. Connor could sense that fighting in place was an impediment for the Hun, who was used to rushing through his opponents whether he was on horse or on foot; but Tuldin stood fast in their small line, protecting their flank from the warriors who bore down on them.

  Connor parried high as a young, broad-shouldered bacaudae attacked with an overhand sword swing. Riposting off the man’s blade Connor struck him hard across the side of the helmet. Without drawing back, he slid Archangel down the man’s left arm, biting into the hand that held the oval shield by the single wooden handle. As his adversary dropped the shield, Connor thrust his blade through his center, punching through the leather armor and out the young man’s back. Clearing the blade he risked taking his enemy’s shield off the ground. He stood up tall, ready for the next foe. His eyes seemed to see everything. His lungs were full of the breath of life. He shook with energy. He had no thought for the past or the future. He no longer felt fear, just the rush, the furor, the battle frenzy. All he wanted in that moment was to fell another enemy, and another, and another, and another.

  But the next foe that came – a boy barely in his teenage years – simply ran by them, making a wide berth well clear of Connor’s reach. Connor fought back the urge to chase him, holding the line against the others. But the next one fled by as well. Through his ecstasy Connor again became aware of the shouting, the chaos, the crash of weapons; and he realized that something had changed. The bacaudae were now all aware that they were being attacked from all directions as their homes burned, and they were fleeing back to their fort in panic. Valia and the others cut them down as they fled, but the bacaudae had lost their will to fight – they now ran for their lives.

  Beside him, Henric was laughing as their would-be killers parted around them. With a flick of his wrist Tuldin shook the blood off of his sword.

  The Goths were almost upon them, and Connor braced himself for defense should anyone mistake them for the enemy. Titus has always emphasized that this was common in battle, and that the history of the Imperium was replete with men who had died at their brothers’ hands simply because they had dropped their guard too soon. Connor recognized the battle frenzy on the faces of Valia’s men and realized just how easy that might be. Valia and a few of the others were slowing their run as they prepared to meet up with the three; but most seemed to just be pursuing their victims the way a dog pursues anyone who runs from it. Valia’s booming command called most of them down. The nobleman’s sword was bloodied, but his eyes at least seemed calm. Connor nodded his head – it must take a special type of person to be open to the battle frenzy and be able to keep a calculating mind as well.

  As Valia reached them and the Visigoths came up to reform their lines Connor ventured a look back to the enclave. Flames climbed high in the air, threatening to spread as burning material were carried on the air currents. Chaos reigned there. When the fire was first noticed everyone in the enclave had rushed out to get water, but the sight of the Goths attacking had sent most of them back inside the palisade. Now as their warriors reached them it seemed as if most did not know whether they wanted to fight the fire or shut the gates against their unexpected enemies. Just outside the palisade, about ten or fifteen of the bacaudae formed a shield wall, perhaps planning to engage the Visigoths while the others got water. Connor could see the men returning in equal panic from the far side of the ravine. He could see the chaos intensify as these men saw that the situation at the palisade was even more desperate than the one they had fled.

  “We teach them what happens when they steal from Visigoths!” Valia suddenly shouted, raising his sword in the air. The men around him bellowed a war cry in response as they locked shields in their own shield wall. The battle cry was echoed from the other side of the ravine, as the Goths there took it up. Black smoke was billowing from within the enclave, and as the Goths shouted the thatch roof of the first longhouse collapsed with a great crash and eruption of flame. Seeing this, the Goths went mad with howling and beating their weapons. Unprompted, they began to advance as one on the palisade.

  Connor could not deny the excitement, the swell of victory that washed over him – but now that the danger had been removed his furor had receded. He looked at the burning ruin that had been a longhouse, knowing that it could have served as shelter for the bacaudae families, a barn for their animals, storehouse for food, or repository of their stolen treasure – or all of these things. Now it was burning, and the whole village within the palisade may very well burn with it unless the flames were extinguished. He had been part of the attack. He had brought in the intelligence of the enclave’s existence. He had helped plan how they could best assault the bacaudae’s trap and how they could use the enclave as the essential d
istraction. He had led the way to this place and even handed Tuldin the arrows that started the fire. He had prayed that the buildings were empty of people, and planned the attack so that they would be, but there was no surety in that. Now this army of Visigoths was marching on the palisade and the people trapped within. The Goths knew only one thing, it seemed – fighting, especially fighting for revenge. The threat that this people had offered, regardless of how severe or benign the actual affront might have been was all the provocation the Goths needed to fight; and now that they were fighting they were going to win. And Connor knew what winning meant to the people trapped between the palisade and the fire.

  “Valia, my Lord, we have already won,” Connor said quietly.

  Valia strode forward at the helm of his men. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if he did not hear. His worn shield was up and his bloodied sword ready. His horsetail crest and wolf mantle were blown by the wind that brought heat, ash, and smoke towards the marching Visigoths.

  “Remember the plan,” Connor said, marching beside him. “We care about the crossing of our people, not these brigands. These enemies are done. Why waste time and lives for treasure we cannot carry?”

  Valia stopped, holding up his shield arm to halt the advance of his men. It took a few steps, but Connor saw that the column of Goths approaching from the far side of the ravine halted too. The main body of men, the women, children, and supplies should be mostly through the ravine by now. Lucia would soon be safe.

  Valia stepped forward.

  “Where is your leader?” he shouted, his trained voice of command sounding easily across the distance, though within the burning enclave it was probably inaudible. Some of the outlaws looked at him in fear and expectancy, but none stepped forward. Valia knew that their leader was already dead behind him.

  “Do you see what happens when you steal from Visigoths?” Valia thundered. “Do you see what happens when you steal from Valia, Horse Lord of the Visigoths; and from Alaric, our mighty King?”

  The bacaudae outside the palisade still stared at him silently. The roof of the second longhouse collapsed, and another miserable cry sounded from within the enclave.

  “Men of the mountains, I, Valia, leave you your lives. Fight your fire and live. Follow us and we will cut you down like the dogs you are.”

  Valia turned and strode back towards his men, his sword and shield both lowered. Connor sighed as he followed him.

  “Strip the men you have killed,” Valia called.

  “We’re letting them go?” one of the men protested.

  “We have them!” another added.

  “Yes, we do,” Valia offered. “And we have lost none of our own men. We need to keep it that way. Do you want to face desperate men caught between sword and flame as they attempt to save their wives and children; all so we can be slowed down with more useless baggage carts? Much good would our treasure do us when we are buried in the winter snows. If you want that you should have followed Sarus – for this cohort fights for greed; while we march to join Alaric at the walls of Rome! Do you want the scraps in a bacaudae rat’s nest or do you want the treasures of Rome, Ravenna, and Mediolanum?”

  There was a cheer from some of the men, though Connor noted that more than a few still looked skeptical and sullen at the last-minute deprivation of what they considered their due.

  “Now, strip your kills,” Valia said. “Quickly. Then reform over there with the main body.”

  Connor saw the wisdom of this order as the shield wall broke up. Valia’s oath men were loyal, but even so the distraction of some valuables was useful. The Goths covered the field, taking what few goods there were to be had from the bacaudae dead. There was not much, as the outlaws had been fighting just outside of their homes and so had only brought their weapons and armor – most of which was inferior to what the Goths already possessed. Nonetheless, there were some sounds of approval as some knives, a few rings or silver chains, or purses of coins were found. Connor turned his back on the scene as he waited for the men to march towards the head of the ravine. He knew the group was safe, but as always, he wanted to see for himself. He watched the bacaudae fight the fire with buckets run from the stream and with hand tools, as a few of their men kept an uneasy watch on the two lines of Valia’s warriors. The third house was now on fire, but Connor hoped that they might be able to get it under control and save the rest. To be burned out in winter was next to a death sentence.

  “Again, I do not know if you are just too soft-hearted, or if you are so wise that you are above daily concerns,” Valia said, coming up behind him. “Had I not seen how you kill, I would think you were a weak man.”

  “It is just good sense,” Connor said. “They cannot pursue us if they are trying to save their homes.”

  “Oh, no – I agree with you. That is why I stopped the men. If they ever get this fire out they will then probably squabble over who is now leader; and by that time even if their hate or remnant of bravery returned we will be completely unreachable. I just wonder if wisdom is all it is, my friend.”

  “Love thy enemies, and pray for those who persecute you,” Connor quoted.

  “Ah,” Valia said, and then repeated the verse in Gothic translation. “One of Saint Wufila’s favorites. Though we have another saying, an older one: Be rich and safe, and then practice virtue.”

  A small commotion behind them interrupted their conversation. Two of the Goths were quarreling over how the bacaudae chieftain’s rings, weapons, and chains should be divided.

  “Stop!” Henric called. “Connor slew him, not you two greedy bastards.”

  “With Tuldin’s help,” Connor added, looking over to the Hun who stood impassively with his arms crossed.

  “Well, then Connor and Tuldin split it,” Valia said, looking at Connor with renewed surprise. “As is the way.”

  “Let Tuldin take what he will,” Connor said, though Tuldin seemed to have already taken whatever he may have wanted while no one was noticing. “Let my share be put in the treasury. I love my own sword and my own coat of mail, and do not care for this man’s ghost following me through his possessions.”

  Connor meant it. He was proud of keeping his people safe, even proud of his bravery and fighting skill – but as he watched the villagers try desperately to fight the fire he wanted no reminders of this place. He wanted no reminders of any of the men he had killed, he thought, as an image of Lorentius gasping in blood shot before his eyes. But no sooner had this thought been chased out then he realized his mistake – he should be collecting as much gold and silver as he could to have enough money to get Lucia to Asisium and then get Dania home. Still – the money would come if death tarried. He did not need to strip bodies like a carrion bird.

  “Hail Connor, our warrior ascetic,” Valia said, smiling. “You’re a strange man, but I am glad to call you brother.”

  XXII

  “If we ever come across him again – no, when we catch up with him – I will kill him,” Valia said.

  There was a murmur of assent from the warriors gathered, but Connor just stared into the fire. He remembered Aristotle’s Historia Animalia that he had borrowed months ago from Montevarius, and how the philosopher had stated that different creatures are suited perfectly for the environments for which they lived. He envisioned Sarus, his great stature and strength, the cruel eyes calculating beneath the impassive countenance, the cunning of his designs, the resolve and fortitude. There was a man who had faced a lifetime of enemies – the Roman abuses before Adrianople, the wars on the Dacian frontier, the Battle of Frigidus; who had attacked Radagasius, Stilicho, and Constantine the Third. Time and time again this man with the body of a bear and the mind of a fox had cut his way in and out of harm’s way with the edge of his long, long sword. It seemed that if any creature was perfectly suited for this age of violence and upheaval it was Sarus. Valia would not easily be able to keep this vow.

  Connor turned away from the fire and looked around. The bright light of the full moon
eased the transition of his night vision. It was the third full moon since the harvest began, seemingly a lifetime ago. The pass they were following had opened up considerably, and though they had just crossed through the bacaudae’s ravine that morning they were camped on a bald mountaintop. The icy wind and freezing rain of the last few days had given way to a clear, starry sky. The open ground and the bright moon would protect them from any enemies who may have followed them, and the sentries posted at double-guard stroked the fur of the quiet watch dogs. As the conversation around the campfires looped the familiar routes it had taken since the morning’s victory, Connor looked out to the giant, snow-clad peaks that formed the world around him. The snow showed pale blue in the moonlight, the shadows impenetrable black. No man could hope to survive such mountains, he thought. They seemed a place where only the spirits could go, where the gods of the old ways would be at home. They seemed to stretch forever, stout pillars holding up the skies. In the winding pass they had followed the titanic peaks were behind them now as much as in front. Connor took a deep breath. He felt trapped in this world of angles, stone, and ice. They must find a way out before the advancing snow covered their lifeless bodies.