My soldier’s instincts had grown rusty with disuse. The horsemen were on me almost before I saw them, grey shapes thundering out of a little cluster of woodland east of the road.
“Stay where you are,” a man’s voice shouted, “or you’re dead.”
I paused, one leg cocked over the pony’s saddle. She wouldn’t be able to carry me out of danger, not from these fleet riders.
“Steady,” I whispered, stroking her neck as she whinnied and tossed her shaggy head in fear.
The horsemen clattered onto the road and spread out to surround me. I meekly folded my hands and waited, while making a swift inventory of their number and quality.
Eight men. Mounted on good horses, and with a military look and discipline about them. Each carried a long spear, a dagger, and was protected by a helmet and oval shield. Light cavalry, of the sort I had once led into battle.
“A first-rate ambush,” I said when the dust had settled, “General Belisarius could have done no better. Though he practised his art against the enemies of Rome, not defenceless travellers.”
One of the riders came forward. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with the look of a lancer about him. His face under the helmet was lined and grizzled, scorched by desert suns, and his eyes had a keen, knowing look.
“We are neither friends or enemies of Rome,” he said, levelling his spear at my breast, “which are you?”
29.
I judged my answer carefully, with his spear-point hovering close to my heart.
“I am also for neither,” I replied, “I am a deserter. Like you.”
Those shrewd eyes narrowed, weighing me in the balance. Then he smiled and raised the spear.
“How did you know?” he asked, gesturing at his men to lower their weapons. He looked and sounded Germanic, though from which particular strand of that teeming people it was impossible to say.
“Old soldiers know deserters when they see them,” I replied, “your men have good gear and horses, but have a slovenly, undisciplined look. You carry no flag and wear no insignia.”
“We might be spies.”
“You might. If so, you are in need of training. Spies should stick to their hiding places, instead of charging out like raw recruits to accost travellers.”
I was forcing myself to speak boldly, gambling it would impress him. All the while, my innards were dissolving. Deserters or spies, these men were cut-throats, and would happily spill my blood if I uttered a word out of place.
One of the other riders trotted forward. “This is a waste of time,” he snarled, “let’s kill him and have done.”
And be damned to you, I thought. “No,” said the first man, who was clearly the leader of this troop of bandits, “he is a fellow spirit. Like us, he has deserted his flag and country, and taken to the road.”
“What if he’s lying? We can’t afford to trust strangers.”
My would-be killer was one of the ugliest men I had ever seen. His skin was raw and chapped, as though someone had poured boiling water on his face, possibly in an effort to improve it. Two deep-set little eyes, gleaming with malice, were set either side of a great curving dagger of a nose, under which resided a mean little mouth.
He was clearly itching to put his spear in me, and doubtless had the blood of many innocents on his hands. Such born killers have to be dealt with, and quickly.
His captain barked with laughter. “Trust?” he cried, “do I trust you, Gambara? Do I trust any of the Masterless Men? Not a bit of it. I sleep with one eye open, and one hand on my dagger.”
The one named Gambara gave back, scowling, and his captain turned back to me. “I am Asbad,” he said, “leader and master of this company of rogues. Give me your name and quality.”
Asbad, I thought. A Gepid name. The Gepids were an Eastern Germanic tribe, and close kin to the Goths. In common with most German tribes, they were not particular in their loyalties, and happily enlisted under the banner of whoever paid them most.
“Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly, “a Briton, recently in the service of Rome.”
I thought it pointless to lie. Any brief fame I had enjoyed was long in the past. These men were all young, and would not have heard of me.
“A Briton, eh?” said Asbad, smoothing his greasy tunic, “and what are you doing on the Flaminian Way in time of war, alone, with nothing but that little knife to protect you?”
“I was heading to Ravenna to see my son. He lacks his father’s wisdom, poor lad, and still follows the eagle.”
Asbad smiled, and some of his men chuckled, which was pleasing to hear. With the exception of Gambara, I was winning them over.
“Your words have the ring of truth,” said Asbad, “so you’re either an honest man, or an accomplished liar. Either is welcome in the Masterless Men. How far can that pony carry you?”
I gave her muzzle a pat. “Far enough, though I would not like to push her. I am not as svelte as I once was.”
“Good. No more than five or six miles of discomfort lies before her tonight. Mount, Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur. Your son will have to wait.”
I knew better than to argue. Asbad’s friendly tone could not conceal the true nature of the man. He was a wolf, and so were his followers. Italy was full of such roving bands, the inevitable debris of a long war. Some were ex-soldiers, others merely criminals, or natives who had lost their homes and families in the bloodshed and turned to highway robbery.
They robbed and murdered and plundered with impunity, living off the land and their fellow men, until justice caught up with them. Belisarius, who had a particular hatred of deserters, used to hang them by the dozen, and leave their bodies to swing by the roadside as a warning.
I climbed aboard my pony and followed Asbad and his Masterless Men into the trees. They had set up a temporary camp in the heart of the wood, but Asbad wanted to move on.
“Too close to Rimini,” he explained, “and there has been little traffic on the road of late. Not worth the risk. We shall head inland.”
We rode east, in the gathering gloom, following a rough track that wound out of the woods and over the rolling hill country beyond. Far ahead, stretching in a rugged line from north to south, lay the Appenines.
Even though I had fallen into the hands of thieves and cut-throats, I did not despair. I was alive, and unharmed, and Asbad appeared to have swallowed my tale of being a deserter. I suppose I was, in a way, though I had not enlisted in the Roman army. There had been enough truth in the lie to lend my words conviction.
Eight men was a small enough following. I entertained hopes of stealing a horse and slipping their grasp, when the time came, but these quickly turned to ash.
A few miles east of the Flaminian Way, we arrived at the gutted remains of a little village. It had been a peaceful place once, nestled in the crook of a fertile valley, until the Masterless Men descended from the hills with fire and sword. Most of the stone cottages were blackened wrecks. The maimed corpses of their inhabitants lay scattered about, but this was not the worst horror.
One of the cottages had been spared. There were men lounging outside it, eating a rough supper of bread and cheese. They rose to salute Asbad as we cantered down the single street, which ended in a basilica.
The basilica was the largest building in the village. It puzzled me why Asbad’s men had not requisitioned it instead of one of the miserable little cottages. Though small, it was a pretty place made of pink stone, with a flat roof and a short flight of steps leading to an arched doorway.
“They tried to take refuge in there,” said Asbad, grinning at me, “the women and children, I mean. And the priest.”
I stared at him, and again at the mangled corpses. They were all men. Most had died fighting, or trying to, their fists still curled around rakes and pitchforks and other makeshift weapons.
The walls of the basilica were streaked with soot, spilling out from the narrow windows. Some dreadful urge made me dismount and walk slowly towards the steps.
&
nbsp; “Only one door, see?” said Asbad, “they barred it from the inside. Stupid. No escape route. Every good soldier knows you always leave a means of escape.”
I mounted the steps. The nailed and timbered door had been smashed in, and its edges were burned black. I stretched out my right hand and gave it a gentle push.
The people inside had been dead for several days. Little remained of them, save a few blackened cinders and bits of bone and hair. The flagstones of the long nave were tainted with grease, and the still air carried a vague hint of roasting meat.
I should have been sickened, but I had seen worse. Such things happened in war. With terrible clarity, I saw the last moments of the villagers trapped inside the basilica. Unable to get out, clutching each other in shrieking terror as the Masterless Men hurled flaming torches through the windows.
Stone doesn’t burn, but flesh does. They had burned, these people, while their menfolk were slaughtered outside. I glanced at the charred remains of the altar, and imagined the priest, kneeling before it and muttering prayers even as the flames licked at his body.
I turned away, not wishing to dirty my already tarnished soul by looking too long.
Gambara was waiting for me at the foot of the steps. “Too strong for your stomach?” he asked, his little mouth curled into a grin, fists planted on his narrow hips.
“No,” I replied, stepping closer, “how about yours?”
The ugly lines of his face wrinkled in confusion. He was a dull-witted sort, and failed to react in time as I seized the hilt of his dagger, drew it from the wooden sheath and rammed the blade into his gut.
His little eyes widened in shock. I left the dagger buried inside him, gripped his scrawny neck in both hands and threw him to the ground.
The back of his head cracked against the bottom step. Dark blood splattered the stone. I pulled him up and smashed his head against the step, again and again, with all the violence I could muster. His body jerked and went into spasm, blood and brains spilling from the shattered pulp of his skull.
Finally, when all the rage had gone out of me, I let the dead thing go and wiped my bloody hands on the grass.
Asbad and the rest of the Masterless Men had watched the killing in silence. Not one of them lifted a hand to help their comrade. Life was cheap among such people, and Gambara was not the sort to inspire affection.
I looked up, panting with exertion, at Asbad. He, if anyone, would have avenged the dead man.
“You can have his horse,” he said, before turning away and calling for supper.
30.
I rode with the Masterless Men for months, all through the autumn and the long winter that followed. Asbad took a liking to me, while at the same time making it perfectly plain what would happen if I ever tried to leave his company.
“No-one leaves,” he was fond of saying, “save in a box.”
This was a favourite jest of his. A Masterless Man was lucky to be buried. If he fell sick, or was wounded in a skirmish, Asbad left him to rot. He judged men by their usefulness, and cheerfully tossed them aside if they showed signs of faltering.
“Scum,” he termed us, “fit to adorn a gallows. Nothing more. I will lead you to profit or death, but don’t expect mercy.”
We were scavengers, feeding off the scraps of war. While Totila laid siege to the few remaining Roman garrisons in Italy, and Narses plodded around the Gulf of the Adriatic, the likes of the Masterless Men burned and pillaged and murdered as they pleased.
There was none to stop us. We had little to fear from the law, since neither the Goths or the Romans could spare the men to enforce it.
Occasionally the citizens of some particularly lawless province would band together to defend their homes. We might have easily scattered these hapless clods, with their cudgels and farm tools, but Asbad preferred to avoid conflict. He would never fight, unless we were starving or in dire need of shelter.
Under his bluff exterior beat the heart of a coward. I despised him, and all his followers, and wished I had the means to bring them all to justice. For months I witnessed them slaughter and rob and rape, bringing horrors I will not describe to isolated villages and farmsteads.
They thought me soft, for refusing to join in with the worst of their crimes. God forgive me, but I did nothing to stop them either. My quill falters as I think of the atrocities I witnessed.
Courage ebbs with age. If I had been a younger man, I might have chosen to die, sword in hand, defending the honour of some young girl the Masterless Men wished to brutalise. Instead I stood aside and prayed silently for death to come and take us all.
The wheel turned, and winter slowly melted into spring. During the worst of the cold months we sheltered in the foothills of the Appenines, inside a ruined tower Asbad claimed to be the palace of some long-dead king, but I reckoned was an old fortified byre for cattle.
One blustery evening in early April, as we sat huddled around a fire on the rough floor, Asbad’s scouts returned with fresh tidings of the war.
“The Romans are on Italian soil,” said one, a one-eyed Lombard ruffian named Agelmund, “we saw them marching down the coast to Ancona. Thousands of horse and foot. Too many to count.”
“Thirty thousand,” I muttered, and cursed as the bread I was toasting on the end of my sword dropped into the fire.
“I was in Constantinople when Narses was recruiting,” I explained in response to all the hard looks, “the Emperor gave him all the money and men he desired. This is the largest Roman army to invade Italy for centuries.”
“What of Totila?” demanded Asbad.
“He is at Rome, mustering all the men he can get,” answered another of the scouts, “besides the people of his own race, he has hired a number of Lombards and Gepids.”
“There are the imperial deserters, as well,” said Asbad, “men Totila lured from their old allegiance with promises of easy plunder. What of you, Coel? Would you sell your sword to the Goths?”
I would rather fornicate with rabid dogs, was the truthful answer. “To anyone who can afford it,” I replied carelessly, earning myself a laugh from the others and a comradely slap on the back. They thought I was a fine fellow, if inclined to be soft-hearted and easy on women, and referred to me as their little priest, since I refused to take part in rape and the pillaging of holy places.
Asbad had no reason to welcome the arrival of Narses. All was set for the contending armies to clash in an epic pitched battle, thus bringing the long war to a close and finally deciding the ownership of Italy. This was wretched news for the Masterless Men, who lived off the consequences of war, and relied on it continuing for many years yet.
He brooded for weeks in his lonely mountain stronghold, sending out regular bands of scouts to watch Totila at Rome and Narses at Ancona, and report on any movements. I waited, and bided my time, and prayed for Arthur’s wellbeing.
“Please God,” I murmured every night, out of earshot of my godless comrades, “let him be safe. Bring him through every trial without hurt. If he must fight, let him not be struck down. Spare him, O Lord, and take me instead. I am old, and ready to die.”
It was high summer before Narses made his move. From Ancona he marched north to Ravenna, forcing a path through the mountains since the Goths had destroyed the old Roman bridge on the Flaminian road. At Ravenna he rested his army for nine days before setting out again.
“He’s marching on Rome,” reported Agelmund, “straight down the Flaminian Way. Totila has moved out of the city to confront him.”
I would not have credited Narses with such boldness, but then the eunuch constantly surprised me. His conduct of the war to date had been firm and decisive, as though placing him in overall command had instilled some sense of duty in place of his usual scheming avarice. For once, Justinian had demonstrated shrewd judgment.
An idea came to me. “We should be present, when the armies meet,” I said, “remain out of sight while the battle rages, and then descend on the field after all is over. Think
of it! All those thousands of dead men. The plunder would be immense.”
“Too risky,” Asbad replied quickly, “what if we were spotted by outriders?”
I could almost smell his fear, and his followers looked unimpressed. A few had already started to cast sidelong looks at their chief. I was sometimes tempted to encourage their doubts with a carefully placed word here and there, but refrained, not wishing to put myself in danger. It is in the nature of thieves to fall out among themselves, and I predicted Asbad would suffer a fatal accident before the summer was out.
He sensed the disquiet of his men. After a bit more whining and protesting, he agreed to my plan by pretending it was his own.
“We shall track the line of march of the Romans,” he said, “Totila will have to advance to meet them somewhere on the Flaminian road. Until the slaughter is over, we keep our distance.”
“Then,” he added, baring his brown teeth in a snarl, “the wolves shall descend.”
31.
The Masterless Men rode out in force from their lonely hilltop fortress. There were twenty-seven in all, a disparate collection of Goths, Isaurians, Lombards, Gepids and I know not what else. And, of course, a single Briton.
Asbad sent two bands of scouts on ahead to discover the precise location of the contending armies. Agramond’s men returned first. They found us picking our way through a ravine, surrounded by the frowning heights of the snow-capped Appenines.
“The Romans have taken up position over there,” said Agramond, pointing his spear to the south, “on a plain near Taginae.”
I could see nothing but mountains in that direction, but Asbad knew the country better. “Onward, then,” he said, “but slowly.”
He took us south via a difficult route, through a winding defile with sheer walls of rock rising either side of us. The way was so narrow in places we had to ride in single file, and Asbad insisted on absolute silence.
The ground sloped gradually upward. It was oppressively hot, and clouds of midges buzzed and danced around us, irritating the horses.
Flame of the West Page 17
