“If you decide to close the gates before sundown, inform me. I think we had best keep the gates open for the outlying villagers and farmers, and to find out about the foreigners on the road. Otherwise they’re apt to be killed, and that will not help us fight the Huns.” Mangueinic looked out at the blustery brightness. “Are you going to send your messengers—”
“Shortly,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “I’ll use my personal courier to go to the chapels, churches, and monasteries, and the town’s messengers for the rest. They should be gone from here before mid-afternoon, and not return until tomorrow morning, if then. I am going to instruct them to stay away from here if there is fighting. I’ll make sure they have bows and arrows as well as smoked pork, in case they may encounter trouble on the way. If all goes well, half of them should return by midnight.” He clapped his hands, wishing that Rugierus were with him and not on the road to Constantinople; he reminded himself that wishing was not useful, and gave his full attention to his approaching crisis.
“Funny,” said Mangueinic, “we’ve had a lot of warning since spring, but I never thought it would really happen—that the Huns would actually attack Apulum Inferior. I was sure they’d be stopped before . . . But then, I thought we would have more soldiers here if there were any real threat, I always supposed they’d head for Apulum, and we would have time to make a retreat.”
“That could still happen,” said Sanctu-Germainios, more to reassure Mangueinic than because he was convinced of it.
As the house-keeper appeared at the inner door he ducked his head to the guardian. “Dom Sanctu-Germainios.” His conduct was completely contained, but there was a wildness in his tawny eyes that revealed his fear.
“Urridien,” Sanctu-Germainios said. “Summon the household to this room at mid-afternoon, and send Estaphanos Stobi, and Samnor of Porolissum, Polynices Ridion, and Vilca Troed to me as soon as possible. I will see the messengers in my office as soon as they can get there. Then send word to the stable to have Atlas saddled.”
Urridien ducked his head. “Yes, Dom Sanctu-Germainios,” he said, and hurried away, grateful to have something to do.
As soon as he was gone, Mangueinic asked, “How many men will you be able to provide me?”
“I will know in little more than an hour, and will send the men to you with my report; I reckon between twenty-five and thirty.” He paused, then added, “My clerk will give you the report.”
Mangueinic gave a single, curt nod, raised his hand in a gesture that was not quite a salute but more than a simple wave of farewell. “I’ll send a messenger if there are any changes.”
“Thank you,” Sanctu-Germainios acknowledged this, then strode off toward the room designated as his office, where he spent a short while writing out his dispatches on leather squares with an Egyptian stylus and fixed ink. When that was done, he made a list of his servants. By the time he had dispatched his courier and the town messengers, the afternoon was half-gone, and the town was filled with barely contained panic; as Sanctu-Germainios went out to issue his orders to his household servants, he was keenly aware of the terror that was welling as lava rose in the mouths of volcanoes. Everyone was afraid, and that fear was feeding on itself.
Urridien stood at the head of the household servants in the reception hall. Fifty-three men and women and six youngsters waited silently, apprehension in every aspect of their presence. “I brought the gardeners as well as the rest, and the grooms from the stable,” the house-keeper announced, his voice cracking from his increasing edginess.
“Very good. We will need their help, too,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and turned to address the gathering. “No doubt you have heard that there is a possibility that a mounted company of Huns is coming this way. Whether it is true or not, we must be prepared for that eventuality.” He paused to give the servants a little time to think about this. “I will ask all able-bodied men—no matter what your function in the household—to report to the captain of the town Watch for assignment to a fighting post. Glamode, that does not include you. I want you to go into the cellars and make sure our foodstuffs, water, wine, and cloth are kept safe. And Bacoem, you will have tasks to do here.”
Glamode, who was almost forty and leaned on a stick to walk, and who guarded the kitchen pantry at night, ducked his head. “Very kind, Dom Sanctu-Germainios.”
“And what will I do?” Bacoem, the poultry-keeper, asked; he had lost his lower left arm in a construction accident, and though strong and capable, could not wield a weapon.
“In a moment, Bacoem. The youths will go to the Watch barracks, and help the Watchmen to arm themselves. The girls will remain here, in the weavery, where they can make bandages from the selvage on the looms.” For the first time he was relieved that he had taken the time to provide brass-and-leather loricae for the men of the town; most of the townsmen could not afford to buy armor for themselves. “While you are there, you are to assist the monks in tending to any wounded,” Sanctu-Germainios said, and saw the assuagement in all of the servants. “If you have to leave the barracks, go to the town chapel, and remain in the crypts under the sanctuary until it is safe to emerge.” He considered adding another place of retreat, then changed his mind; if the chapel crypt was unsafe, the whole town would be lost. “The women will remain here. Set up an infirmary for anyone wounded. Bacoem will help you arrange the beds. Make sure you have sufficient blankets; if you believe you need more, let me know and I will have them brought in from my estate.” He could sense that having something to do was reassuring to most of the servants, and that served to restore him as well. “Tonight when the household dines, I will ask the cooks to make extra cauldrons of stew and set them in the root-cellar, covered, and ready to be warmed tomorrow. The same with bread. And bring in four large wheels of white cheese from the creamery. If there is fighting tomorrow it might not be possible to stop long enough for a meal. This way the cooks need only light a fire to heat the stew, and it can be served in a bowl.”
Urridien clapped his hands twice. “There. The Dom is providing for us. We would do well to follow his orders.” He was about to disperse the servants when a single question stopped him. He looked at Sanctu-Germainios. “Have you made any provision for those of us who die?”
“I have asked Patras Anso to place himself at the town’s service,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “You will have his help and consolation until the fighting is over, and beyond if need be.”
The senior footman who had asked now took a deep breath. “Will he be sufficient?”
“We must trust he will be. Patras Nestor and Patras Iob will have to attend to the chapel.” Sanctu-Germainios held up his hand to command full attention again. “Do your duties in order of importance: the most important first, then those less necessary, and the last, those that may be left undone without undue hazard.” He paused. “If the Huns do not arrive until tomorrow, use the night to sleep when you are not on Watch. You will need all the rest you can accumulate.”
“And how will we keep guard in the house?” Urridien asked nervously. “Where shall we be safe?”
“We have women here, and they have eyes and ears. They will sleep in three shifts, and then, if there is a battle, they will divide their guard duties with caring for any wounded brought here, and so will do one third of the full day asleep, one third on guard, and one nursing.”
“Women?” Hovas, the master gardener, asked in disbelief. “Keep guard?”
“And why not?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Keeping guard is easier than cleaning wounds. Surely if they can tend your hurts they can guard the villa.”
There was an uneasy silence, and then Urridien said, “Be about your work.”
The servants left the reception-room uncomfortably; only Sanctu-Germainios and Urridien remained behind. When they were quite alone, the house-keeper asked, “Can this town stand against the Huns, do you think?”
“I wish I knew,” said Sanctu-Germainios quietly. “I fear we may find out.”
“What
will happen—if we can drive them off? Will they come back again?”
Sanctu-Germainios considered this question for some little while, then said, his dark eyes fixed on the middle-distance, watching a memory from Panticapaeum more than sixty years ago, when he and Rugierus returned with Kirit Honsilat ud-Kof from the lands north of China. “From what I have seen of the Huns over the years, they fight in the manner they herd: they do not form in lines and squares on foot as the Romans have done for centuries; they fan out on their horses as if to gather their herds together. They surround their foes on their horses and drive them as they would drive wild horses, and when they have them in a pen, or a town, they attack by circling them. When I saw them, they were in a band of around two hundred, including women and children. They had tall carts and their flocks and herds, and they skirmished with a company of Byzantine soldiers, raided, and moved on. Now they leave their families at base camps, or so the reports indicate.” He thought a bit more. “Mountains will slow them a little, and forests will, also; bows are not very useful in forests and herding is awkward among close-growing trees. If we drive them away, we should expect them to return.”
“Shouldn’t we leave the town?” He was doing his best to remain calm, but his voice shook. He started to pace the length of the room, as if moving would lessen his dread.
“If we leave, we are likely to be herded into a trap, or be ridden down like game.” Sanctu-Germainios sighed. “No. Dangerous as it may be, it is best to stay here, since the number of Huns seen heading this way is small. There are farmsteads to raid before they attack the town, which will tire their horses, if not the men riding them. If the walls are not set alight, we should be able to hold them off long enough for soldiers from Apulum and Ulpia Traiana to get here. If there were three times fifty, then we might have to abandon the town, and at once.”
“And go where?” Urridien asked bluntly.
“That is what I hope to arrange.” He took a long, slow breath. “Because if we hold them off this time, they will return, in greater numbers and angry; we should use that time between to get away.”
“Could we . . . pay them? Would they leave us alone if we gave them money or horses and goats—or slaves?” He coughed once, aware that Sanctu-Germainios had no slaves, only servants.
“They might leave,” Sanctu-Germainios allowed. “But they would be back, demanding more, and plundering when there was nothing more to give.” He met Urridien’s jumpy eyes with his steady ones. “They do not want slaves. They are traveling people, and slaves slow them down; they require food if they are to keep up with the Huns, and they take up space. Gold does not eat and a great deal of it can be contained in a small chest. The only thing to be said against it is that it is heavy.”
“But surely we have something they want?” The question was more of a wail than an inquiry.
“We do have. On their raids, they take food, hides, cloth, cooking pots, iron, cases, and chests, and occasionally young women.” He had seen that at Panticapaeum. “They may be more organized now, but their wants have changed little.”
“Then we are doomed,” Urridien said in despair, and made the sign of the fish in supplication to the Christian God.
“Not necessarily, at least not yet,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and was about to explain when Beijos, the head groom, came rushing into the reception-room.
“Pardon, Dom, but a courier has just arrived from Maeia Retta. He is in the stable; his horse has an injured hoof.” He managed to stop panting.
“Maeia Retta is how far east of here?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Six leagues?”
“More than five; it’s very remote,” said Beijos. “He has a message for you.”
Sanctu-Germainios nodded to Urridien. “See that the men report to Mangueinic, and meet me in the forum at the close of the afternoon.” He watched Urridien duck his head, then turned to Beijos. “Take me to this messenger from Maeia Retta.” He fell in beside Beijos. “What has he told you?”
“Me? Nothing. Nothing.”
As he walked out into the sunshine, Sanctu-Germainios could feel the gusty wind rising; that was the first real encouragement he had experienced that day—Huns, he knew, would not risk traveling through trees in strong winds, for it was dangerous for men and horses to risk being struck by thrashing branches. That might give Apulum Inferior another full day to prepare for their arrival. No matter what news the courier brought from Maeia Retta, the town might have a reprieve. Ignoring the discomfort of the sunlight, he lengthened his stride and made for the stable, Beijos jogging beside him.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Emona in Pannonia Superior, to Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios at Apulum Inferior in the former Province of Dacia Superior, written with fixed ink on split leather, carried by hired courier, and delivered in thirty-six days.
To the foreign guardian of the region of Apulum Inferior, and my most treasured friend, ave, ave, from the Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, presently at Emona in what has been Pannonia Superior, thirty days after the Autumnal Equinox in the 1191st Year of the City, or the 438th year of the Christians.
Do not tell me that all is well and that I should not be worried. The word here at Emona is that Attila is raging through the mountains to the northeast, his men slaughtering every human being and half the livestock they come upon. Two Gepidae merchants carrying furs and iron arrived yesterday with such tales of rapine and destruction that I have become anxious on your behalf, since, according to the merchants, Porolissum was entirely sacked, and the Huns have spread out through the mountains and onto the Dacian plains. Even allowing for conflation and the natural inclination to make accounts more exciting than the events they describe were, it is clear that there is real danger in the mountains, and that it is unlikely to end soon. I fear that there is worse to come for all of us.
There is a rumor that the Byzantine Emperor Theodosios will dispatch troops to relieve the Christian towns and villages in the Carpathians, but I must tell you that I believe the Byzantines are not likely to defend lands that are part of the Western Roman Empire. If you are anticipating relief from Constantinople, you are more apt to be disappointed than to be heartened.
Which brings me to the purpose of this letter: I had intended to send you word when I arrive in Aquileia in ten to twelve days, but now, with this alarming information, I believe it is fitting to communicate with you, while I have a chance of getting a message through to you. If what we hear is true, let me make the request that you leave your post and come to Aquileia with all due haste. Knowing you, I extend this invitation to your household as well, and as many others as you wish, and we will find a way to make them welcome and safe.
Remember that there is no Tribigild to stop this new wave of Huns as he did almost forty years ago, and no Goths willing to form an army to hold the land against them. The Sciri and Carpi—what few are left of them—are not likely to unite with Attila as their fathers and grandfathers did with the first lot, which may be an advantage for you, but with more Goths holding the old Roman forts, the degree of protection they provide is not as ordered as it was before, unless the Byzantines finally decide to mount a resistance. Withdrawal from danger of the sort you are confronting is a sign of wisdom, not cowardice, and you are a wise man.
I vowed that I would not rail at you, and I have done my best not to, but I know I cannot continue without upbraiding you, so I will end this, hand it to the messenger, and leave wine and oil for Magna Mater in the hope that it will reach you before the Huns do. Know that it brings my pious love and my enduring bond, secured by blood, for days and years and centuries,
Olivia
5
Mangueinic arrived at the central villa of Apulum Inferior before prandium, a harried look on his face, his determined limping almost as rapid as a jog. Soot clung to his hair and swiped his nose, making the scrape along his jaw less noticeable than it would have been otherwise; all were indications that the morning clean-up after the nighttime skirmish w
ith a small company of Huns was well-underway. He looked around the reception-room that had been transformed into an infirmary, where a dozen women tended forty-three men—nearly a third of the men of the town—on cots and pallets, and Sanctu-Germainios provided medicaments, set broken bones, and stitched wounds closed. “The woodmen have come back from the forest with twenty more logs,” he announced, his voice strained; he had been shouting orders since sunrise. “There is a band of refugees coming this way, they tell us. They have wagons and carts, well-laden, and probably wounded.”
“How many?” Sanctu-Germainios asked with great calm; unlike most of the people in the room, he was impervious to the damp chill that promised rain by evening, and had not added a trabea over his black woollen pallium and femoralia to keep warm. “And do we know where they come from?”
“We have only guesses,” said Mangueinic. “The woodmen estimate anything from sixty to a hundred. They are coming from the northwest. Possibly from Tsapousso.”
“The northwest?” Sanctu-Germainios repeated, slightly emphasizing west. “Not Apulum?” Apulum was northeast of Apulum Inferior.
“Tsapousso,” Mangueinic said again, and fell silent as the men on the beds around him who were alert enough gave him their full attention.
“Then the main body of the Huns have passed beyond us, and may circle back once they’ve secured their targets to the west.”
“Ulpia Traiana, do you think?” Mangueinic asked. “We’ve had no news from there.”
“It is probable. It is certainly the greatest prize, with the fortifications and the old Dacian sacred precincts.” Sanctu-Germainios motioned to one of the women. “Will you fetch another roll of bandages for me, from the cabinet in the corridor? The captain of the Watch needs his leg rebound.” His level voice and even look concealed the alarm he felt as he studied the stains on the bandages along the outside of his calf: puffy parallel traces made by smears of oozing pale-yellow pus.
Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23) Page 7
