The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  A distinct scream finally cut through Connor’s confusion. He turned towards the steps of one of the houses on the far side of the agora. Connor saw a woman and two older girls there – perhaps a mother and her two daughters – surrounded by five or six Goths.

  Connor stepped over the bodies of the slain. He pushed past Visigoth men who were running through the street, already looting. He could hear terrified shrieks coming from upstairs windows, and the pounding of make-shift battering rams. The fools were not even waiting to secure the city. Thousands of them were intent on thieving, violation, and destruction even now.

  He reached the group of men even as the apparent leader – a middle-aged man with flaxen hair – stripped the veil from the woman’s head. The woman was pleading as her daughters cowered. Her cheeks were sunken with hunger and her face ashen with despair, but Connor could see that she had once been beautiful and proud. Her garments, already partially torn by her captors, were of silk. Connor could not focus on her words, but her tone cut through to his heart. The six men only laughed. They pinned her down beside her two daughters, who screamed and cried as they shut their eyes against the world.

  Connor strode towards the leader, who had carelessly laid his sword and shield on the ground as he fumbled with the knot of his breaches. Two of the men saw Connor’s bloody mail and stopped.

  “Let them go,” Connor growled.

  “Fuck off,” the man said as he turned his head indignantly towards the one who would dare throw orders at him. He saw Connor’s face and battle array and then stiffened.

  “Alaric said to take money and valuables,” Connor attempted. “He said to not harm those who did not resist.”

  “Alaric isn’t here,” the man said. “You want one? Go get your own. No one is going to tell us what not to do.”

  Connor looked into the woman’s pleading dark eyes for a moment. He took another step forward. The flaxen-haired man reached for his sword. Without a word, Connor put the crook of his right arm around the man’s jaw and pulled his head back. He stared into the Visigoth’s blue eyes as he cut his throat. Blood pulsed over the woman’s dress as the other men cried out. One drew his sword, but Archangel was faster. The second attacker doubled over, and then fell face-first into the street. The other four jumped to their feet, releasing their victims. They were armed, and could try to rush Connor, but the sight of this killer in blood and firelight was more than any of them dared to face. They fled into the riotous streets, flinging curses at him.

  “Stand up,” Connor ordered. Dumbstruck, the woman complied. She tried to raise her daughters who wept on the ground.

  “Thank you,” the woman ventured, not sure whether Connor was her savior or some new threat. She opened her mouth to say more.

  “Where is the nearest church?” Connor cut her off. The woman pointed.

  “Come,” he said, turning his back and walking in the direction away from the battle that seemed all but over. “You must take sanctuary there. The King has ordered that anyone who does will not be harmed. Take us there.”

  The woman led her daughters. Connor walked beside them, watchful as a hound, his weapons drawn. The streets of Rome were in tumult. Romans were running as best as they could, trying to find someplace that was still safe. The Goths were in the city in vast numbers now and Connor saw larger and larger groups breaking in to the public buildings and marketplaces and carrying away whatever or whoever they wanted. For the moment it seemed that some of the less grand houses were being spared – but Connor knew that this was an illusion. As time would pass the invaders would become more and more thorough in their search for plunder. They would strip this place bare if Alaric let them stay. The King’s orders had shown more clementia than the Romans could have expected, but even these orders could not fully restrain tens of thousands of violent men whose passions and greed were inflamed.

  Connor leveled his weapons as men approached. That was enough to deter them – though Connor could feel evil eyes on him, allured by the beauty and vulnerability of the three he protected. Why was evil drawn to good? Why were the animal instincts of men bent on destroying what the human yearnings had elevated? Was it not enough to take money and possessions for themselves – did they have to destroy what they could not keep? Connor felt that at any moment he could be challenged. As he pushed his way through the masses with the girls close beside him he knew that he could be rushed and torn asunder with almost no warning. He did not care – he had no more thought of living beyond this night. He would die fighting for any little thing. He was on no one’s side anymore.

  But the Visigoths would not risk a fight with such a vision of the god of death when there was so much that lay unprotected for the taking. Soon Connor could see the dome of the church ahead.

  The houses were bigger here. Many of the doors were already broken open. Screams came from within the dark structures. More and more of the Visigoths could be seen weighted down with sacks. Their weapons were sheathed or even set aside as they stripped the houses of their finery. Some stood sentinel over piles of goods that their kinsmen were looting. The gates of the villa-style houses were closed and locked, but this was little deterrent now. Connor could see bucellarii nervously holding their posts within their low walls. Outside of a grand townhouse a slave stood guard, an antique gladius in his hand, a look of proud defiance on his wrinkled face. Connor could smell the odor of smoke in the air. All sight of the Roman legionaries was gone. Civilians – slaves, plebes, equestrians, and senatorial class alike – lie dead in the streets. Connor could hear the distant sounds of fighting, and caught glimpses of armed Roman men running towards the commotion. The famous street gangs of Rome were mustering, defending their ancestral territories where their army had failed. Connor smirked bitterly, the blood drying on his face cracking – he almost wished them well, but they would find the Visigoths ready.

  Finally they reached the church. It was not the massive basilica that many of the emperors had built, but it was big enough and the stone work looked solid. There was no gate or outer wall, but Connor noticed that the Goths were keeping their distance around it. They were leaving it alone not just because Alaric had ordered it so, but out of respect, and probably out of guilt. Who among the Christian Visigoths would want to involve God in what they were now doing? Connor pushed his three charges up the steps, following close behind them, his eyes scanning the mob for any last moment assault.

  Connor banged on the door with the pommel of his sword. He did not particularly expect an answer – with such havoc in the streets who would even notice a knock? He backed up on the tiled porch and shouted towards one of the thin, high windows.

  “Sanctuary!” Connor cried. “Sanctuary!”

  There was no answer. Connor called out again.

  “We have no room!” a thin voice called out.

  “Have the courage to come to the window and speak to me,” Connor demanded. A weathered old face appeared above, the hair below the tonsure line was white, the eyes black and full of fear.

  “I am Connor, pupil of the priest Titus Vestius Laterensis! I charge you in the name of Christ to let these three women in!”

  “The sanctuary is full, my son,” the priest called out. “There are hundreds in here already.”

  “Make room for three more,” Connor called. “If you do not take them in you know what will happen to them.”

  The priest was clutching the window sill with white-knuckled hands. Then he disappeared. Connor shook with fury as he prepared to launch into a litany of threats and curses, but even as he opened his mouth the oak door opened a crack. The priest stood in the doorway, ready to shove it closed. He was older and more bent then Connor had initially perceived.

  “Come in, children,” he said. The woman ushered her daughters forward. The oldest turned back and took one more look at Connor, her black eyes seeming to shine. The woman followed them in, fighting back the breakdown that was boiling below the surface. She tried to say something to Conner but her
voice caught.

  “How can I protect them?” the priest said.

  “God will protect them,” Connor said. “Let no one leave until the Goths are out of the city.”

  “God go with you, my son,” the priest said, then shut and barred the door.

  A deep exhaustion overwhelmed Connor as he almost stumbled down the steps. Around him the chaos was intensifying, and from the clamor in the air he knew that it was spreading deeper into Rome as fast as men could run. In the distance, the Palace of Sallust burned, lighting the dark morning with a hellish glow. It seemed very far away. They had entered the city what seemed like hours ago, but Connor could not guess when the sun would dawn. It was hopeless to even try to find Valia now. Connor realized that he had no desire to. That path had ended. He was alone, adrift in a world of cruelty – just as he had been when his journey began.

  He stood on the white-paved street, outside of the church packed with refugees now huddled together praying for deliverance. Men were running past him, noticing him just enough to steer clear of him – frightened away by the marks of Cain he bore. Rome was falling. The Goths were having their revenge. He should be happy – for what had civilization done but enslave him? What had it done but yoke him to a system he did not want in order to benefit others who bore no love for him? Yet as the fabric of interwoven screams broke up in his mind until each cry became an arrow into his soul he could not remember any reasoning or idealism behind this. This city was falling – and the whole Imperium would likely be close behind it. The weight from the outside would crush the decaying bones within, until there was nothing but rubble. The Goths and the other dispossessed would raise something out of it. They all spoke of something better, but would it not turn out to be something worse? On such a foundation as the atrocity of this night, how could it be other?

  Connor stumbled forward, like a man heavily drunk.

  Then suddenly he raised his head.

  Connor sheathed his blades. With renewed strength he ran, back-tracking his way through the streets. The tide of people was so great that he could not run more than ten steps in a straight line. He passed the townhouse where the old slave had stood guard, but saw the man lying dead by the broken door. Many of the bucellarii now seemed to be taking to their own interests. Connor left the main thoroughfare for the smaller streets.

  Wide-eyed with the treasure troves of the principle via, the Gothic force had not yet penetrated the tighter, darker streets in great number. The press of chaos was still strong, though, as citizens and slaves ran, searching for family members or seeking out places to hide. Some carried their valuables on their backs, abandoning their homes to the marauders. It had not yet occurred to many of them that – except for the rapidly filling churches – there would be no place of safety.

  Connor almost ran into a man as he crashed out the front door of a townhouse. The man turned on him, his dark eyes wide. He was dressed in a simple tunic, and Connor easily surmised that he was a slave. But the tunic was blood-stained, and the man carried a knife in his hands. The slave recovered himself, and fled into the guilty night. There were more cries from upstairs windows as Connor sped down the alleys. Slaves were rising against their masters, and evil men on all sides were taking advantage of the havoc to steal, murder, and rape. Law had collapsed, and the gods of fire and death reigned.

  Two middle-aged men ran with the others. Though they had thrown on their tunics and fled their houses in the depth of the night, Connor could see that they were wealthy – equestrian or senatorial class. The man in the back cried out as Connor grabbed him. His friend shot one look over his shoulder, but kept running. Connor turned the man around and grabbed his tunic, pulling him up on his toes.

  “Let me go!” the man pleaded. “I’ll give you anything.”

  The man was slightly better fed than many of the others Connor had seen, but still seemed weak and frail from the famine. His face was a mask of sheer terror. Sweat beaded on his balding head.

  “I will let you go,” Connor said. “But you must first take me to the libraries.”

  The man stared at him, at first not seeming to comprehend. Connor shook him.

  “You can find books anywhere,” the man said.

  “Where are the old books?” Connor demanded. “The philosophies? The masterworks?”

  “The greatest collection is in the Palace of Sallust,” the man sputtered.

  Connor released him and ran back towards the gates where the attack had begun.

  He sped through the back streets, but it was easy to navigate by the glow of the flames. He was likely far too late – the fires in the gardens had been started hours ago, but the palace was massive and not all connected in its enclave, and made of material that Connor did not expect to burn readily. Still, his pounding heart urged him on, up the slopes hills, towards the Porta Salaria where the atrocity began.

  Connor could feel the heat on his face. The blaze of the miles of gardens was past the peak of its fury, but still burned like a furnace. He stepped out onto open ground. The Palace of Sallust was ahead of him, rising atop the many steps and surrounded by perfectly masoned walls. Flames engulfed more than half of it, and thick smoke blew from most of the windows and eaves. Still a few of the Goths were there, running in to brave the smoke and flames, certain that they would find great wealth within. As Connor moved towards the steps, he saw a looter rush out of the doors – his hair and clothes alight with flame. Another luckless man came right behind him. Connor turned to his right, running along the walls past the part of the palace that burned so fiercely. Around the side of the great edifice, he scaled the low wall and dropped inside the open yard.

  Smoke was easing out of the windows; but the smoke was gray and slow, not black and angry as it had been on the other side. An old man sat against the wall of the palace, his head to his knees. He did not move as Connor approached. His short hair was gray and his garment was a tunic, smeared in soot.

  “Where are the libraries?” Connor demanded.

  The old slave said nothing, but only rocked back and forth.

  “Where are the libraries?” Connor shouted, grabbing the frail man.

  “Count no man lucky who is not dead. It burns. It all burns. It falls. It will all fall.”

  Connor released the man. He bounded up the steps to the open door and stepped inside.

  The smoke burned his lungs, but it was not heavy here and it was possible to see. There were lamps still lit in the hallways. He was in a service entrance of some kind – near slave quarters or kitchens. Connor grabbed a lamp and moved forward. He did not have much time.

  He moved through the hallways. He pulled up a table cloth and held it over his mouth, but soon he was still coughing as he went. The air was getting hotter with every door that he went through. His small flame had trouble cutting through the darkening smoke. He heard someone screaming from what sounded like far away, and did not know whether it was a trapped slave or a looter. All the rooms he moved through were deserted. He stepped into a corridor, one end leading to a flight of marble stairs, another leading to more rooms. Connor did not notice the grandeur of the place – the ornaments, decorations, pillars, silk curtains, or high ceilings. The marble or bronze statues leered out at him like daemons on the darkness. This palace was a labyrinth. Connor was running out of time. He stopped, forcing himself to think. He coughed violently and tried to take a deep breath of air – but the air that filled his lungs somehow did not seem like air at all, just a heavy, suffocating weight. He looked back to the stairs, knowing that if the fire burned there that the heat and smoke would only be worse as he went up. But where else would a reading room be in a palace? This was the rear of the building, and so a tower of any considerable height would look over the wall to the mountains.

  Connor rushed towards the steps and began to ascend. The fire was still on the other side of the palace, moving slowly through the heavy timbers and stone, but the staircase was acting as a chimney, funneling the smoke and heat up
. Soon Connor could barely see. The cloth at his mouth and nose was doing little good. He missed a step as he reached the top. In the dim he could just make out several doors. Connor made for one and opened it.

  He stepped into the room, picking out instantly the outline of book shelves. He slammed the door, stuffing the cloth against the base of it to further seal off the smoke. He crossed the room towards the far wall and felt around until he felt fabric. Pulling the curtains aside, he swung the shutters opened and stuck his head out into the dark morning. He sucked air as a man coming out of the water. He could see the fire burning off to the side, seeming much bigger and closer than it had been before. Outside, past the breeched walls, he could see the Visigoth camp of the outer town, now almost empty. He turned to his far right and could see the buildings and the streets of Rome alive with havoc, flames breaking out amidst the houses.

  He turned his attention back to the room. There were dozens of shelves, with hundreds of books. He could barely see. How was he to begin? Despite the cloth insulating the door, blackening smoke was seeping through, drawn by the open windows. The fire was coming. Connor steeled himself. He ripped down a curtain and spread it out on the reading desk. Moving over to the book shelves he read the titles on the bronze plates of the scroll, forcing calm into his mind. He took several of the scrolls of Plato and cast them onto the cloth. He followed that with some by Cicero, then Aristotle, then Hippocrates. The smoke was intensifying. Connor started grabbing books and casting them as quickly as he could. Rome was lost, and the thought that made it may be lost with it. It would burn up in this very place, and he would burn up with it. It may already be too late. Titus had taught him when he was a child that the thought, the enlightenment was what mattered most. Taking his last selections, Connor bundled them in the cloth. He cast one sorrowful glance at the others, took a last breath of clean air, and then left the library into the billowing smoke.