“On the move!” he barked. Adminius shouted commands. Metal gleamed as the formation reshaped itself and started off.
The Gaul kept his horse alongside Gratillonius’s. “Can’t you go faster?” he pleaded.
The centurion shook his head. “Three or four miles at a dead run in full armor wouldn’t leave the boys fit for much. We’ll do what we can. I promise nothing. We may find everybody in your convoy lying throat-cut, and your merchandise gone with your animals. In that case, I can’t pursue. We’re on urgent business of the state. I can only ask the garrison commander in Juliomagus to try for vengeance.”
He felt no great excitement. If he could save yonder folk and kill marauders, that was fine. It depended on how long the guards could hold out. The steady, relentless tramp at his back had carried Rome’s eagles across the world.
‘Tell me what to expect,” he said. “First, what strength did you have?”
The merchant swung his hands and sometimes keened over the loss he might suffer, but piece by piece, the tale came forth. He was one Florus, a dealer in fabrics. With money what it was these days, he most commonly traded rather than bought and sold, which meant he handled a variety, not just cloths but leathers, furs, raw materials. “This trip my best acquisition was a consignment of those wonderful weavings they do in Ys, that have scarcely been seen for many years, oh, priceless…. ” The train consisted of four mule-drawn wagons; their drivers; the reverend bishop with two priests and four deacons; Florus himself; and six guards, toughs who hired out for this kind of duty despite the law frowning on it. Two were Gauls, three were Frankish laeti, and one was a brown-skinned person who said nothing about himself but might well be a deserter from the army. “We take what we can get, right, Centurion? We make do.” The guards had sword or ax, plus a few spears. Their armor amounted to boiled leather jackets, cheap kettle helmets, shields of barbarian type. Then, to be sure, the muledrivers possessed knives, cudgels, whips. And three of the deacons were young and sturdy, equipped with stout walking staffs. “They should be able to fend off the evildoers a while, don’t you think? But hurry, hurry!”
“How did you get away?” Gratillonius inquired.
“Oh, I was mounted, by the mercy of God, and when they swarmed out it was clear what they intended, and by God’s grace they didn’t close a line across the road to the north before I’d gone past. They almost did. You can see where a spear hurt me. Do you have a surgeon with you? Or at least poultices? This kind of injury inflames so readily. It hurts me abominably.”
“We’re not stopping for anything just yet, friend. Why did you flee? One more man defending might make all the difference.”
“But I had to get help. God saw to it that I could get help.” Florus’s voice sank to a mutter. “That means the goods will be safe, doesn’t it, O Lord? You’d not let Your faithful servant be ruined, almighty God Who delivers us from evil.”
Gratillonius snorted and sent his horse a little ahead.
Slowly the tumult became visible from afar. Noise drifted thin. Gratillonius signalled for double time. He was tempted to speed in advance for a better look. It was getting hard to see any distance as the sun declined and dusk began to seep out of the earth. He resisted the impulse. He had no right to take unnecessary risks. Solitary heroics were for barbarians and fools.
Yonder they grew aware of his approaching force. He saw the struggle die down, like a wave that smashed itself on a reef outside Ys, recoiled in foam, and dwindled away. The next wave was coming….
He reined in and jumped to the ground. The men saw his intention and needed but a minute to tether the horses. “You, keep out of the way!” he told Florus. He unslung his shield from the harness, slipped the retaining strap over his neck, gripped the handle, drew blade and took his place as leader. The squadron advanced.
Nearing, he saw that the battle was almost done. The travellers had given a good account of themselves. Somehow they’d gotten three wagons on the sides of a square, cutting loose the mules, which might well panic. There hadn’t been time to bring the fourth around, it stood off where the robbers must have led it, but a crude little fort existed. While three guards held fast at the open side, their comrades and certain of the other men repelled foes who sought to climb over the vehicles or crawl underneath.
Yet they could not long keep off assailants whom Gratillonius estimated to number thirty. As he guessed at once, they were still alive—some of them—only because the bandits lacked proper training and discipline. After being cast back with losses, the outlaws milled around, none wanting to be the first to meet that steel again. They tried to bargain. Gratillonius learned afterward that the bishop had strengthened the will to resist, calling on divine help, while he cleverly strung the talk out. At length the brigands lost patience and made a fresh charge. It failed likewise, though at heavy cost to the defenders.
After that, the attackers had resorted to slings. Kept up, the bombardment would have done its job. The travellers took wounds and a couple more deaths. However, they had enough protection to be difficult targets, and eventually the supply of missiles was exhausted. Yet the defense was now so weakened that the bandit leader could egg his men on to a third assault. It broke through and was in among the wagons when the legionaries arrived.
Gratillonius took his troop toward chaos. The outlaws were Gauls, in ragged, filthy garb, pieced out with hides or old blankets or whatever else came to hand. Hair and beards were matted, greasy manes, out of which glared faces gaunt, scarred, weatherbeaten. Shoes were agape, rudely mended, or mere bags of skin stuffed with grass. The barbarians who raided Britannia were better off. Weapons were spears, knives, pruning hooks, firewood axes, a few swords acquired somehow. The wielders screamed hatred and defiance at the Romans. At the same time, those on the fringe were pulling back, making for the trees, in disorderly fashion. They knew that if they stood their ground they’d be butcher’s meat.
Which was exactly what they ought to be. “Right and left!” Gratillonius called. “Circle them!” He leading a detachment, Adminius its mate, his men hastened to bag as many as they could.
Those inside the laager could not readily disengage from opponents who, heartened, fought furiously. It had never been a proper battle at all, but more like a riot. It pushed combatants apart, flung them against their fellows, sent them tripping over each other. Somebody fallen but alive might grab at an ankle or cling to a spearshaft. Wrestlers on the ground further impeded everyone.
First from the soldiers went the terrible flight of javelins. Meant for use against shields, here they struck unprotected flesh. Men fell, writhed, shrieked. Those who tried to help them to safety were themselves delayed. And then the legionaries were upon them.
A fair-haired youth with downy whiskers attempted to dodge past Gratillonius. The centurion gave him the sword between rib cage and pelvis, forcing the blade right and left to make sure of the liver. Flesh resisted softly, heavily, helplessly. The lad went down. Before Gratillonius could pull his weapon free, a full-grown man was at him, weeping, howling, belly wide open as he swung his arms back for an ax blow. Gratillonius rammed the boss of his shield into the solar plexus. Breath whooped from the Gaul. He dropped his ax and fell to his knees. Gratillonius crashed the bottom rim of his shield against the man’s temple. The Gaul crumpled.
Gratillonius had delivered a knockout blow he hoped wasn’t fatal. He wanted prisoners to bring to Juliomagus for beheading, or whatever the judgment would be—examples. He withdrew his sword. Blood pumped forth. A stump end of gut protruded past the tattered shirt. “Mother,” the youth wailed, over and over. Gratillonius went on. The whole episode had taken just a minute or two, scarcely interrupting the rhythm of onslaught.
He saw a cluster of men pass under the trees, disappearing amidst boles and brush. They bore along a figure robed and struggling. He had no chance to think about it. He only had a fleeting perception of one who seemed in charge, slender, swift of motion, uniquely well clad. After that, Gra
tillonius was busy finishing the engagement.
—The legionaries had suffered no harm worth mentioning. Of the travellers, besides Florus, there survived, slashed and battered but reasonably hale, two Frankish men-at-arms, three drivers, a priest, and a deacon. The rest lay stretched out on the roadside, blood wiped off as best might be, dead or dying. The clergyman had already prayed over them.
And Bishop Arator was missing.
As for the robbers, a full twelve had fallen in battle or, hopelessly wounded, received the mercy stroke. Their bodies were stacked on the opposite side of the road. Nobody had cleansed them, closed staring eyes or tied up fallen jaws, but the kindly shadows were well on the way to covering them. Six captives sat bound to the wagons.
Nobody said much. Most of the survivors were still too stunned. Now and then pain made somebody moan. Otherwise they huddled, shivered, looked emptily before them, clutched the bread and wine that had been passed out. The soldiers were in full self-possession but occupied with making a safe camp, since they would spend the night here. An occasional sentence, grunt, oath sounded beneath the thud of axes, the sucking noise as spades turned wet humus.
Gratillonius and Florus had drawn aside at the latter’s request, away from the dead, wounded, captured, the thickening blood puddles. As yet, the sky and the crowns of trees were bright overhead. A few rays slanted golden through the westside gloom. Only a hint of chill was in the air. Crows cawed.
“But the bishop is gone,” Florus wailed. “A holy man, a lord of the Church, borne off by a gang of sacrilegious murderers! I’ll never live down the scandal, never. And my mules, my well-trained carters, lost! Why could you not make better speed?”
“I told you,” Gratillonius said wearily. “If you mean to complain at the garrison, spare your breath. Any competent officer will understand. Be glad we saved what we did and can help you finish your journey.”
His command would have to do that. The chances of some other group coming along, whom he could dump the chore onto, were slight, as feeble as traffic had become. He couldn’t leave these people without escort when a dozen outlaws were still at large. The delay in his own progress would be excused him. Though the Christians would be aghast at what had happened to a veritable bishop—
“Hs-s-s,” whispered from the brush. “Roman, listen.”
Gratillonius spun about. He saw nothing but tangled green, murk behind it. Helmetless in the aftermath of battle, the breeze cool upon his brow, did he hear a rustling?
“Hs-s-s,” went the voice again. “Hark’ee.”
“What’s this?” yelped Florus. “Are the murderers back? Help! To arms!”
Gratillonius caught him by the nape and squeezed till he whimpered. “Be still,” the centurion said, never looking away from the forest. “Go back to your wagons and say nothing. I’ll handle this.”
“But—you can’t—”
“Begone and shut up, or I’ll have you flogged.”
He let go. Florus stumbled off, half sobbing. Gratillonius spoke softly: “Who are you?”
“The Bacauda chief. Make no move, if you want your bishop alive.”
Something eased in Gratillonius. He heard himself chuckle. “Very well,” he said. “Now how shall we go about bargaining?”
2
The centurion’s tent was large enough for two men to sit in, on its floor which kept out the dampness of the soil. Its walls likewise withstood autumnal cold. Outside, a wind had arisen after nightfall, to rush through branches, whirl dead leaves away, rattle the leather of the tent and make its poles tremble. Within, a lantern threw dull highlights onto faces, against monstrous shadows.
“Your price is high,” Gratillonius said.
Rufinus shrugged and grinned. “One bishop for six Bacaudae. Take it or leave it. Myself, I think I’m being swindled.”
Gratillonius peered at him. His invited visitor was young, about nineteen or twenty he guessed, though the spirit behind the green eyes seemed as old as the night wind. Rufinus was of medium height, much of it in his legs, and wirily built. Features otherwise sharp and regular were marred by the scar of a cut, poorly treated, puckering his right cheek and giving his mouth the hint of a perpetual sneer. Though his beard was still scanty, he kept it trimmed in an unconventional fork. His black hair was also short, and reasonably clean, as were the rest of his person and his clothes. Faded, many times patched or darned, shirt and breeches were of stout material. A deerskin jerkin gave additional protection, and he had doffed a cowled cloak. His footgear was clearly from no shoemaker’s shop, but just as clearly made to his measure with a degree of skill. At his belt were a pouch, a knife, and a Roman sword.
“You put me in a cleft stick,” Gratillonius said. “Unless I let dangerous bandits go free, what will become of the bishop?”
“He’ll be butchered like a hog,” Rufinus answered coolly. “Before then, maybe some of the boys will use him.”
“What?”
“Well, we seldom see a woman, you know. Though in this case, it’d be revenge more than lust. I wouldn’t want that withered prune.”
Fury thickened in Gratillonius’s throat. He could barely stay where he was, and not assail the other. “You rotten snake!”
Rufinus lifted a palm. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m only warning, not threatening. “I’d forbid such a thing if I could. But I’m no army officer. We’re free men, we Bacaudae. We choose our leaders ourselves, and follow their orders if and when we want to. My gang is enraged. If they don’t get their friends back—if, instead, those fellows go off to death, maybe first to torture—I can’t stand in the way of their justice. They’d kick me aside.”
He leaned forward. His Latin flowed easily despite rough accent, sloppy grammer, and idioms strange to Gratillonius. “As is,” he said, “I’ll hear curses aplenty when they learn they won’t get a ransom besides the exchange. I wonder how you dare hold back stuff that could make you sure of your holy man.”
Gratillonius returned a grim smile. “He’s not my holy man. I’ll have to answer for whatever happens. Leave me this much to show. If you won’t, well, I need just report that no meeting took place.” He didn’t know if he could bring himself to that. Certainly he could not if put under oath. However, he needn’t reveal his vulnerability. “Besides, think. You’ll have to go far and fast, before the garrison comes after you. This wood isn’t too big for them to beat. Four of our prisoners are too hurt to walk much. They’ll encumber you enough, without adding boxes of goods.”
Rufinus laughed. “Right! That’s how come I gave in on that point. I did hope for some solidi, but you win.”
He grew serious, with an underlying liveliness that never seemed to leave him. “How’s this sound? We meet at sunrise. You keep your men in camp. We’re woodsrunners; we’ll know whether you’re honest about that. We’ll show up half a mile south with the bishop. One of us’ll stand by him—me—ready to kill if anything goes sour. You release our four disabled buddies and give time for us to carry them well away. Then two of you bring our two hale down the road. You can have their hands tied and leashes on them, and you can have swords, but no javelins. We stop a few yards apart and let our hostages go, both sides. The bishop’s slow on his feet, so I’ll release him first, but you’ve got to release ours while he’s still near enough for me to dash up and stab him. Naturally, you can pay us back in kind if I play you false. We scamper off into the woods and you return to camp. Satisfied?”
Gratillonius pondered. This was a quick intelligence he dealt with. “The leashes will be long, so your fellows can’t bolt off after we let go,” he decided. “When they reach you, you can cut the cords.”
Again Rufinus laughed. “Done! You’re a workman, Gratillonius. Be damned if I don’t like you.”
In his relief, the centurion couldn’t help smiling back. “Aren’t you damned already?”
Mercurially, the Gaul turned somber. “No doubt, if it’s true what the Christians say. But then I expect the fire for me won’t be
so hot as what they keep for the great landowners and senators. Do you really know the masters you serve?”
Memories crowded on Gratillonius. He scowled. “Better them than outright banditry. I’ve seen enough places looted and burnt, women who’d been raped over and over, children and oldsters killed for fun, that I’ve no lost no sleep after striking down what reavers I could—be they barbarians or Romans.”
Rufinus gave him a long look before murmuring, “You aren’t from hereabouts, are you?”
“N-no, I’m a Briton. But these past two years and more I’ve been in Armorica. Osismiic country, that is.”
“I don’t believe there’re any Bacaudae that far west.”
“There aren’t. Most of it’s been picked too clean. Ys alone has stayed well off, because it’s got ways to keep the wolves out.”
Rufinus sat straight. His eyes caught the lantern light as they widened. “Ys,” he breathed. “You’ve been there?”
“I’ve operated in the area.” Gratillonius’s instinct was to reveal no more to an enemy than was unavoidable. “Now I’m on a different mission. I planned no fight with you. Nor did those wayfarers you attacked. For whatever you’ve suffered, blame yourselves.”
“Ys, the city of fable—” Rufinus broke off, shook himself, spoke sharply. “I’ve never been yon way, of course, but I can guess what kind of ’wolves’ you’re thinking of. Saxons and Scoti for the most apart, hey? And some Gauls who took the chance to go looting around after everything was wreckage—though I’ll bet a lot of those were driven to it by hunger. Where was the Roman state that taxed them and ordered them about, where was it when they needed it? But anyhow, they were not Bacaudae.”
“Do you mean you’re something else than marauders?”
“I do.” With bitterness: “You wouldn’t care to listen. I’ll go now. See you in the morning.”
“No, wait!” Gratillonius thought for a moment. “If you’ll stay a while, I’ll hear you out.”
Roma Mater Page 42
