“Then shall I put the flensing knives to boil, and the closing pins? Which astringent herbs shall I use?” Nicoris went to the red-lacquer chest.
“Nettles and tarragon,” Sanctu-Germainios answered, then escorted Hredus to the raised bed. “If you like, I will prepare a composer for you.”
“No need,” said Hredus, and got onto the bed, watching Sanctu-Germainios, revealing nothing.
Text of a report from the factor Artemidorus Iocopolis to Patras Methodos, both in Constantinople; written in Byzantine Greek in fixed ink on vellum, and delivered by footman.
To the estimable priest, Patras Methodos, this accounting of the assets of the Eclipse Trading Company, as requested to facilitate the liberation of Rugierus of Gades, who is presently being held under house arrest, and to regularize the evaluation of the business.
The Eclipse Trading Company is presently owned by Dom Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios, regional guardian at Apulum Inferior in the former Province of Dacia, who has nine hundred aurea in deposit with the Secretary of the Metropolitan for its continuing operation.
The Company owns nineteen merchant ships, all plying ports from Trapezus, through the Black Sea, the Adriatic, the Mediterranean, into the Atlantic Ocean and as far as Gallia Belgicae; additionally, the Company sponsors three caravan troupes that trade as far as Herat in Persia and Medina in Arabia. All tariffs on goods brought to market in Constantinople are current, in accordance with Dom Sanctu-Germainios’ specific instructions, and all taxes on the property of the Company are current. Bona fides copies of bills of lading for the last year are included with this information, for your diligent review. Eclipse Trading Company maintains offices in twenty-seven ports; a list of these is provided in this report.
One hundred aurea accompany this as a donation to the law-courts and the Church, in the interests of justice.
By my own hand, sixteen days after the Vernal Equinox in the Christian year 439,
Artemidorus Iocopolis
factor, Eclipse Trading Company
Constantinople
7
Three days after Enlitus Brevios and his little company of fifty-eight refugees departed for Drobetae, two of the sentries came down from the high peaks running, their eyes wide and breathing hard; they hurried to the travelers’ dormitory and began to pound the platter of hammered brass that hung outside the main door and served as the alarm for all the monastery. In response to the clamor, monks, men, and women came at a rush, a few of the older women shooing children into the old chapel as they sped. The sentries continued to slam the leather-headed mallet into the hanging platter until more than half the residents of the monastery had reached them.
From his vantage-place on the roof of the old chapel, next to the drum-dome, Sanctu-Germainios shifted his attention from the distant clouds to the residents of the monastery, who surged into the central open square, some carrying weapons, and all of them restive. With a sense of distress, he climbed down from the roof, and stepped inside the building. “It’s starting,” he said to Nicoris.
“Are you going out to join them?” She seemed unflustered as she reached for his surgical tools. “I’ll put these to boil.”
“No, I won’t join them. I’m too much of a foreigner for many of them, and just now, they are wary of foreigners.” He said it readily enough, but there was an echo of loneliness in his admission.
“Then I’ll stay in, too. I am also a foreigner.” Her quicksilver eyes glittered. She came up to him.
Contemplating her from his vantage-point above her, he said, “Foreigner to foreigner, I can be counted upon to keep a confidence.” He touched her birthmark with the tip of his finger.
She looked away from him. “That’s good to know,” she said distantly.
Outside, there was an increase in the noise as the crowd grew larger.
Luitpald, the younger sentry, began shouting as people gathered closely around them. “Horsemen! Horsemen! At least fifty of them! Coming this way!”
There were shrieks of dismay and demands for more information. The people moved closer to the sentries and one another. “Huns?” The question ricocheted through the crowd.
“It’s God’s judgment!” exclaimed Monachos Kyrillos, making the sign of the fish as he hurried toward the church.
“Huns or not, when will they get here?” Bernardius’ voice cut through the general babble.
“Mid-afternoon!” the second sentry bellowed, his voice cracking. “If they keep up their pace.”
“Call the herders in from the pastures and put the herds and flocks in the barn!” Bernardius ordered. “Then post all the Watchmen on the battlements! Women into the dormitory.” Forgetting the ban on his Latin phrases, he yelled, “Cavi tempum!”
“We have time enough to man our posts, and guard the livestock!” Neves roared. “My company! Gather your weapons!”
“Not yet, not yet,” exclaimed Priam Corydon as he pushed his way through the crowd to the sentries. He held up his hands for silence, and gradually the crowd went quiet. “Now, Luitpald, Oios, tell us what you saw. Keep your description simple, and do not report what you did not actually observe.”
“Horsemen,” said Luitpald. “Coming up the trail at the trot.”
“Do you know which direction they came from before they took the road up the mountain?” Priam Corydon asked, unflustered and purposeful. “Just horsemen? Might they not be reserve troops sent to aid us? Why did you give the alarm?” He regarded the two sentries calmly.
Oios frowned. “They’re too far away to be certain where they came from, but I think we should prepare to defend the monastery.”
“They carried no Legion standards; a few of them had pikes topped with horsetails,” Luitpald reported, the panic in his eyes unmistakable.
“Huns,” said Neves loudly. “They have horsetail standards.”
Another tide of whispers swept through the assembled residents, and Mangueinic, once again in charge of the Watchmen, bawled out, “Gather your arms! Bring in the livestock and brace the gates!”
There was an eruption of activity that only stopped when Priam Corydon slammed the mallet into the brass platter and cried out, “Wait! All of you!” This time the gathering did not go entirely quiescent, as many of the men began to fret. Occasional shouts burst through the growing mutters while Priam Corydon strove to gather his thoughts. “We have discussed how we are to mount our offense, and we’ve agreed to abide by our plans.”
“Fifty Huns are coming this way!” shouted one of the men from Tsapousso. “Some of us can still escape!”
Now Priam Corydon drew himself up and spoke with finality. “We are not to abandon the plan we’ve agreed to when we need it most. Ritt, go to the infirmary and warn the monks there to be ready for injuries. Then warn Dom Sanctu-Germainios to prepare for many serious wounds. Ask what he may need from us to assist him in his work.” He signaled the novice to hurry off. “Tribune Bernardius, dispatch your messengers to the herders and organize your men on the inner wall. Neves, assign posts to your men on the battlements and ladders, and deploy your lieutenants. Monachos Vlasos, take nine slaves and go to the kitchen to make ready to feed our defenders. See that there are slaves to carry water to the soldiers. Monachos Niccolae of Sinu, go to the office of the monastery and record the numbers of residents, monks, and slaves presently within these walls and put the accounting in the stone chest. Novice Penthos, go out to the hermits and warn them of what is coming. Monachos Egidius Remigos, summon your novices and delegate them to their posts and duties at the gates. Refugee women, order your dormitory, put your goods into chests and cases, and ready cloth for bandages. Do not be rendered hopeless; God will guard us all.”
Someone at the back of the crowd bawled out, “Monachos Anatolios says God will desert us if we fight!”
Denerac of Tsapousso flung up his hands in outrage. “What of a courier? Won’t you send one to Drobetae? You said you would. Are we to vanish from the face of the earth and our fate n
ever known to anyone but the Huns?”
“An excellent reminder,” said Priam Corydon. “Tribune Bernardius, choose your most skilled rider and mount him on the best horses; choose a loyal man who will cleave to his task. I will prepare a description of our circumstances for him to carry southward, and you may add what you will.”
“If you send him out now, he’ll meet the Huns on the road,” Neves warned. “They’ll make short work of him.”
“Not if he goes over the western ridge, using the hunters’ trail,” said Priam Corydon. “The track is narrow and runs through the forest, but it will bring the messenger to the river at Bagna, and he can follow it south to the Danuvius.” He held up his hand. “Let us be about our duties.”
The crowd broke apart rapidly, but more purposefully than it would have done a moment before. Priam Corydon motioned to Bernardius, and joined him on the path to the monastery building.
“My best rider is Tiberius Valerios. I’ve asked him to ready himself to go.” He pointed out a tall young man making for the stable. “He’ll select his horses, then come to you for the message.”
“Fine. God be praised.” Priam Corydon noticed that Ritt was beckoning to him “Tell your rider that I will have my report ready by noon.” He made the sign of the cross and went off to the novice.
For most of the time until mid-afternoon the monastery was filled with activity, the bustle fueled by anxiety and ill-concealed fear. Yet the mercenaries took their places on the battlements, the soldiers gathered their weapons, the refugees aided in cooking and herding. Before mid-day Mass was over, Tiberius Valerios had selected three horses, secured a bag of provisions, a wallet of coins, the report from Priam Corydon, and departed down the steep trail leading westward. By mid-afternoon, one of the nearer sentries had seen the horsemen three thousand paces away and coming along steadily; he reported counting sixty-seven men with a dozen more horses for remounts. Activity within the monastery became more sedulous than earlier in the day. The soldiers finished distributing weapons and settled down to wait for the arrival of the Huns while novices fussed among them, bringing small loaves filled with venison stew and skins of harsh red wine. Armorers took up posts between the two walls, where they could retrieve the enemy’s weapons and turn them to the defenders’ use. Monachos Archimedios, the master of the infirmary, went to the old chapel to inform Dom Sanctu-Germainios which of the wounded would be sent to the infirmary and which would be given to him; he suggested that Sanctu-Germainios have some of the young men among the refugees help him deal with his patients by carrying the wounded from the walls to the old chapel. Patras Anso went among the people from Apulum Inferior, delivering benedictions. The herders put stout beams across the stalls and pens to keep the animals in if they should panic, and three monks built up a large bonfire in the open space between the monastery building and the travelers’ dormitory to provide light and torches when the sunlight faded.
“The pass!” Monachos Egidius Remigos yelled as the first of the riders topped the trail at the narrow gap and began the single-file descent into the valley.
“Stand to your posts! Stand with your comrades and kin!” Bernardius yowled before he set his helmet on his head.
“Three of them! They’re starting down the road!”
At this cry, the mercenaries on the outer battlements rose to their stations, spears, bows, and pikes at the ready. The sound of chanting in the church rose in volume, and the rumble of furtive conversations got louder. The monks at the main gate put the heaviest brace across the upright logs and knelt to pray with their brothers in the church.
“Weapons up!” shouted Neves, climbing to the highest point on the gatehouse. “Kill the horses first!”
More than a dozen Huns were through the pass now, and the first few clustered at the base of the trail at the head of the valley. The men carried bows, quivered arrows, slings with stones, and swords; a few had maces as well, and others had weighted bags tied to their distinctive saddles. Eight riders carried the horsetail standards and each of them led one or two remount horses. They were more menacing as their pace increased, still circling, from a trot to a canter.
“Wait till they’re close enough to hit!” Neves ordered. “Don’t waste spears or arrows on them!”
Rotlandus Bernardius walked along the inner walls. “Have courage! Remember your heritage! Gloria ad Romanorum.”
In the travelers’ dormitory, Isalind and Dysis gathered the refugee children in the vestibule and set them to filling pouches with stones for the ballistas to fire, and gave the older boys the task of running out baskets of these pouches to Neves’ mercenaries; Khorea, working in the main room, helped the women prepare beds and tables for their men.
As the number of Huns through the pass increased, they started up an eerie cry, between a whinny and a howl, and they kept their horses moving in a close circle, in and out of the shadow of the western peaks, which made it impossible to count their numbers. Then, at a signal none of the defenders could see, the Huns started toward the outer wall of the monastery, the riders carrying the weighted leather bags riding in the van. As they approached the walls, these men suddenly spurred forward, shrieking, and flung the bags so that they landed inside the outer walls. None of the defenders bothered with them since none of the defenders were struck by them; their show of indifference helped to build their courage. Then the Huns began to circle the walls, riding in what seemed to be a disorganized mob, never gathered too closely together, never too ordered in their ranks.
“Use the nearer ballista!” Neves shouted.
“Can’t,” one of his men answered. “We can’t get a fix on them to aim! They mill and—”
“Lead the volley.” Neves tromped over to the catapult and took a few of the bags of stones and put them in the sling. “Tighten the skeins. Now!”
Two of his soldiers jumped to the task, both counting in unison as they worked the windlasses that drew back the arms. They set the trigger and swung the stock to aim, as Neves had ordered them, slightly ahead of where the Huns were swarming. They set the support-leg, ready. On Neves’ signal, they fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing one man tumble from his horse.
“He’ll mount again,” one of the Watchmen shouted.
“Again! Farther ballista, make ready!” Neves handed another bag of stones to his men. “Keep at it.”
“Until we run out of things to fire at them,” shouted one of the soldiers manning the ballista, and laughed.
A boy carrying a basket of bagged stones almost tripped over one of the large leather sacks the Huns had thrown, and dislodged its contents. He stared, and then let out a terrified shout.
“Leave the bag alone,” Neves barked at him, then saw the look on the boy’s face; he rushed to the nearest ladder, scrambled down it, hastening to the boy. “What is it?”
“Fonalind,” the boy whispered, pointing. “Thirhald’s daughter.”
Neves looked, and saw the girl’s bloody head. “Perigrinos, Blazius!” he shouted. “Take three men and gather up the leather bags! Now!” As he spoke, he shoved the ghastly trophy back into its bag.
The men responded promptly, commandeering a large basket from a stack of them under the battlements. “What shall we do with them?” asked the nearest of the five men.
Neves considered an instant. “Take them to the Priam. He’ll decide how to deal with them.” Above them the second ballista fired. “Load up and fire again!”
Perigrinos had picked up a second sack, and realized at once what it contained. “What are we to tell him?”
“Take this lad with you, and leave it to him,” said Neves, and made for the ladder once more.
Perigrinos took the lad by the shoulder and laid the baskets of bagged rocks on the ground. “We’ll get the sacks away from here, to Priam Corydon,” he said, uncertain if the boy heard him over the din of battle. Howls came from several points along the outer battlements as Hunnic arrows found their marks. The flights of Hunnic arrows continued a
nd thickened.
“Archers!” Neves hollered. “Notch your first arrows, and fire at will!”
His bowmen loosed their arrows and notched more, firing steadily at the Huns, many trying for their horses. The ballistas continued to lob the fist-sized sacks of stones, and the noise of battle grew too loud for orders to be heard. Neves continued to walk along the outer battlements, showing no fear, his determination communicating itself to his soldiers. All the while, he watched the Huns, making note of which men they rallied around, and which men followed their orders. He stopped by his lieutenant assigned to this stretch of wall and pointed out one of the Huns on a spotted horse. “That man. Can you kill him?” he shouted in his ear.
His lieutenant, a hatchet-faced veteran from Illyricum called Drinus, nodded. “If I can see him, I can kill him.” He hefted his Armenian bow.
Neves stepped away from him. “Good hunting,” he called back, and continued on his rounds, finding his next lieutenant with an arrow in his side and blood staining his scale armor, spreading along the overlapping brass medallions rapidly. Neves signaled for one of the men from Apulum Inferior assigned to carry the wounded to safety. “This one is for the Dom. The arrow struck in the base of his shoulder. Tell the Dom he’s lost a lot of blood. Oios! Take Accius’ place!”
The look-out came from his post on the tower, ducking the Hunnic arrows sailing lethally near. “Nine men?”
“If you can, keep them alive,” said Neves, and helped lower the wounded man to the refugees beneath, pausing long enough to see them carry him through the gate in the inner wall. He continued his rounds. When he had completed the circuit, he had a moment to take stock. Eleven men injured, two seriously; the Huns had lost one man and two horses. It was about what he had expected for a first sally. They could hold the outer walls until sundown, and then would use the gathering darkness to fall back. His evaluation ended abruptly as a flaming arrow shot overhead, thunking solidly into the inner stockade wall. “Water!” he screamed, and saw one of Bernardius’ men come rushing, a pail slopping water as he ran.
Burning Shadows: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain (Saint-Germain series Book 23) Page 21
