“The foederati spent that year in training, and in joint maneuvers with their Roman counterparts under Stilicho. For obvious reasons, foederati almost always fight as their own units under their own commanders, but it gave us opportunity to get used to being part of a bigger war machine. Amongst the many leaders of the foederati was Fritigern’s son, my sister’s husband, Alaric.”
At the sound of Alaric’s name the men round the campfire raised their drinking horns and cheered, then drank lustily. Connor heard the cheer echoed from another campfire that was within earshot.
“Surely you’ve heard of him, haven’t ya Brit?” Gaiseric said, slapping Connor on the back.
“Of course,” Connor answered emphatically. He had, but knew little more than that he was a barbarian outlaw of some kind and apparently quite a trouble maker. So here Connor was, in the company of some of the fiend’s own family.
“Finally!” Valia said. “The shroud of innocence begins to fall.”
Connor was about to protest to being called a Briton, but clamped his mouth shut. The wine was working on him. He had to stay careful – and careful meant quiet.
“Anyway,” Valia continued. “Alaric – then only about my age or a little younger – was one of the war chiefs of the Gothic host. Stilicho was impressed by Alaric’s skill both in arms and in leading men; and became something of a mentor to him. It was at this time that I met Stilicho, as he ate supper in our hall more than once. He told stories of glorious campaigns that he had fought – and believe me, he had fought everybody! He talked of the politics of the imperial court as if it were a tiring and distasteful thing; though every once in a while he would mention the similarities between winning in war and winning at peace, and you could see the glint in his eye. He was a strategist through and through. I think young Alaric was very taken by this whole image, how someone could be a general – true to the way of war and the way of our people – but still be a powerful person and a man of respect and means within the construct of the Imperium. Having that was what we all want – to make that contribution of value and to get the respect we deserve for it – but in Stilicho, Alaric had a living example.
“Late summer of that year – fifteen years ago – twenty thousand Goths rode out of Moesia, at the head of a vast army from Constantinople. Alaric rode at their head, as did young General Sarus, and Bacurius, King of the Georgians. But the combined force was led by Stilicho and none other than Theodosius himself.
“Within a few weeks they were within Pannonia, enemy territory; and yet nothing stirred against them, for Arbogast had chosen to concentrate his forces and wait. Best to let a glorious, pitched battle decide it all rather than engage twenty thousand Goths in skirmishes and harassment actions. So the army of the East – the army of Christ as they fashioned themselves – crossed the Alps into the heart of the Western empire. They came through into the valley of the River Frigidus, near Aquileia. There they found Eugenius and Arbogast awaiting them at the head of a mighty force of Italians, Gauls, Franks, and others. They had raised a bronze statue of Jupiter at one end of their intended battlefield, and carried banners of Hercules; so calling on their old gods for their victory and strength.
“And that day things suddenly went horribly wrong for us. Our enemy was entrenched and ready. We had just come off of a long march. Theodosius did not even take the time to evaluate the battlefield, or seemingly even draw up much of a strategy. Like a madman he called for a headlong attack right away, straight through the valley into the heart of Arbogast’s hardened and experienced troops. And Theodosius ordered that the attack be made by the foederati – the Goths and the Georgians. He knew that being true warriors we would not refuse him, regardless of the danger.
“Nor did we. With Alaric, Sarus, Bacurius, and many other valiant men, our kinsmen charged into the spears and shields of the enemy. Our war cry was like thunder; our swords like lightening. We attacked with passion and courage. But Arbogast had chosen his ground; and his men were numerous and well-prepared. We died that day. We died by the score, cut down in hot battle from the morn of that August day until the sun set that night. So many men lost. So many brave, brave warriors dashed like water against the rock. Had it not been for Alaric, and yes, Sarus, even more of us would have died. Bacurius lay dead on the field with most of his Georgians with him. So few Goths made it back to Theodosius’s lines that night. They had inflicted a respectable blow against Arbogast’s men, but against such odds little was actually accomplished. It had been a slaughter.
“Even then it was clear to Alaric. Who knows when the suspicion first crept into his mind – perhaps from the moment that the order came down that morning. But as he and his men staggered back to the lines of the Eastern Army, binding their wounds and dragging their brothers as they went, it was clear to them that they had been sacrificed. And what perfect sense it made. What perfect Roman sense! They had been sacrificed on the front lines. What better way to sap the power of the Goths, but to throw them against an immovable army, to let them take the fall? In a single move, Theodosius had weakened the forces of Eugenius, and dealt a heavy blow to men that he clearly despised just as much – our people.”
“But your people were fighting for him!” Connor said. The firelight, the wine, and the rhythm of Valia’s voice had drawn him deep into the story. But beyond that, there was something so familiar in this betrayal. Connor had seen the truth of it so many times in so many ways.
“Indeed,” Valia said. “And not just fighting for him, fighting for ourselves. You see, my brave friend, all we wanted – all we wanted from the beginning of this account – was a little space, and a little respect. When Alaric went to war at the Augustulus’s side he was not just acting as a mercenary – he wanted to win, and he wanted to win for the Imperium’s sake. Ever since his father had crossed the Danube with his people in tow they had been asking for the same thing: not to take over the Imperium, but to be part of it. Even for the right to protect it. They had been betrayed so cruelly then; and they had revolted and fought for their respect. But once the Imperium made new treaties and paused in their hostilities, my people thought that they had finally won the right to be part of things, to be thought of on equal terms. But there in the dark, listening to the cries of his wounded and grieving brethren and hearing the celebrations of the army of Arbogast from afar, Alaric – yes, all the Goths present – knew the fucking truth. They knew that peace had been a ruse; that respect had been patronage with a knife behind the back; and they knew that the Romans had only contempt for them.”
“But why?” Connor said – though in part he knew that it was obvious. War. The Goths may have felt justified in all their actions against the Empire, for all of their vengeance; but the fact remained that lives, bloodshed, and wealth were the commodities in this exchange. How could the Romans not hate the men who had slain their kindred? If they were like most men, they would not even suspend judgment long enough to hear the excuse. And yet, there had to be more to it than that.
“The Imperium has been around for almost a thousand years,” Connor continued, digging into what Titus had once taught him. “What has made it so big and so successful was not just power on the field or in trade; but in the systems. The Romans gave their rivals as well as the conquered a chance to be part of the Imperium. They readily adopted differences. You see it in their religion and philosophy; their weapons and tactics; even their languages and laws. What part of this culture is not touched by Greeks, or Egyptians – or even Jews now that Rome embraces Christ? The Roman Imperium is built on all the peoples within it. Why should the Goths, or the Franks, Burgundians, or Picts be any different? When is someone free from being thought of as a barbarian?”
“Indeed, Connor,” Valia said, shaking his shaggy blonde hair emphatically. “Indeed. When does it stop? We may never know. You think it’s gone; or at the very least you think that it is at a tolerable level – nothing but some jokes or insignificant distinctions – but then in a moment it shows itself for w
hat it really is: hatred, arrogance, and contempt. As it did that day that the Frigidus ran with Gothic blood, while the Augustulus Theodosius sat by, his loyal Stilicho leashed helplessly to his side, watching it all play out.”
“So what happened?”
“So the sleepless night passed and dawn came the next day. The battle lines were drawn. Alaric and his Goths were in them, seething – torn between rage and confusion, but determined not to break their oaths and disgrace their warrior hearts by turning away. Perhaps they were keenly aware that the men they were fighting were still just as much their enemies as the betrayers were. The Goths had only themselves. But as that morning dawned, it was clear that one thing was different. In the morning the wind was blowing.”
“The problem with declaring your war to be a war between gods is that sometimes the gods show up,” Gaiseric said.
“It is called the Bora,” Valia continued, nodding, “a strong, persistent, howling wind that blows off the Alps through the valleys. The locals around Frigidus all knew about it; and knew that an August morning would be when to expect it. But many of the host of the Western army, and certainly most of those in the Eastern, knew nothing of this local natural occurrence. But even those that did could not help but be mystified there on a battlefield littered with broken corpses, with the statue of Jupiter looking on and the lines so clearly drawn between the old gods and the new. To those assembled it was a divine wind! It had to be. And it was blowing in the backs of the army of Christ – driving them to attack, and giving their arrows great flight – and it was in the faces of the armies of the Pagans, blowing their shields back into their faces and making their arrow volleys whither. The battle was joined – by all the forces this time – and Theodosius carried the day. Eugenius was captured and beheaded outright. Arbogast escaped, only to later commit suicide as he realized the hopelessness of his position. And for the first time in many years, the Imperium had only one ruler. And the Imperium had a new arch enemy – Alaric, the newly elected King of the Visigoths.”
Valia drained his cup. He called for one of his men to fetch another amphora from his tent.
Movement caught Connor’s eye – off to left and behind them a shape raced from the direction of Sarus’ tent. Startled, Connor stood up, the hilt of his sword ready in his grip. It was the captured girl, running heedlessly for the edge of the camp, seizing her first chance of escape. Before Connor could even react, her pursuers – three of Arastan’s men – caught up with her. Her despairing scream tore through the peace of the camp as they lifted her off of her feet. They dragged her struggling back from the direction they had come. Some of the Goths looked on as they passed, the creases of concern on their face deepened in the firelight; but most ignored the scene, and a few even laughed. But even those who might have disagreed with what was happening were not going to do anything about it. They would not bite the hand that fed them; and besides – scenes like this must be common enough. Connor grimaced bitterly. For all their talk of freedom, respect, and equality, here in this Gothic camp were the familiar patterns of the powerful versus the powerless. Connor slumped back down to the ground. He wished that he could help the girl, but he had never been able to help the others. Just Grania, he reminded himself – he had saved her; or so he hoped. But he had failed Dania and the people in his village, and those helpless people he had seen in the slave markets along the way. He wished to God that if he could not help anyone that he could at least escape this dark land of violence and corruption. But where would he go to do that? His village had been peaceful, living under the teachings of Saint Declan; but had not evil wiped it off the face of the Earth? And even still, his homeland as a whole was an island of clan rivalries and petty warlords – anything but a land of law and order. There was nowhere to go to be free of man’s wickedness once greed and power were engaged. Nowhere.
“Disgusting that they disturb the peace in front of the women and the children,” Henric muttered.
“The slave should accept her fate,” Gaiseric said. “It would go better for her if she did.”
“What?” he protested, catching the glare that Connor shot him. “I do not like Arastan and his gang any better than any of us do; but for her own sake the girl needs to realize that her fortune’s changed. She’s not father’s little princess anymore.”
It was at that moment that the realization finally hit Connor. It had been at the edge of his mind for the past hours – perhaps since even before he had reached the camp – like something in his peripheral vision that seemed to be gone every time he looked for it; but now he could see it clearly. And it was suddenly as big as a mountain.
“Arastan forages ahead of the group,” Connor said, as if to himself. “He targets the rich villas, killing those who oppose him and taking whatever he wants.”
“Yes, while we take all the risks,” Gaiseric said. “Filthy bastard.”
Connor looked at Valia. The young nobleman was returning his stare, a patient inquisitiveness in his blue eyes, weighing Connor.
Connor continued, as if chanting out the sentence of cold fate: “And you are heading east.”
XVI
Connor could sense the ghosts of Lorentius, Merridius, and the others as he rode through the site of yesterday’s battle. Some rust-colored blood still remained on road stones. Connor wondered if animals had yet disturbed the young men’s shallow graves. He pulled his wool cloak closer, but it was not the morning air that chilled him.
Valia’s dark charger paced fluidly ahead. The Gothic nobleman had been talkative at the camp that morning, visibly excited at the day’s undertaking; but now that the game was in play Valia was all business. The column of thirty cavalrymen followed their leader’s example – one hand on the reigns, the other loosely at their weapons; the rhythm of hooves the only sound.
Valia halted the column when they came to the cross roads. Connor was surprised – even a little wary – that the intersection seemed so deserted. But then he realized that it was Sunday; and with the herald of an impending winter in the air and the lands astir with travelling mercenaries and bacaudae, who would be on the road who could avoid it? Connor peered eastward, down the wider road he had travelled. Arastan’s men were nowhere to be seen. While both parties had left the Visigoth encampment at the same time in the morning and took the same route, Valia saw to it that their pace allowed his rival to develop a lead, or at least the impression of a lead. If Arastan surmised their plan their hopes of success would be spoiled, and perhaps an unwanted confrontation would follow. So far, there had been no sign of that; and if any of Arastan’s men noticed that Valia was bringing a considerably larger scouting party than he normally did, they had not seemed to question it. “They ride out clamorously, like brigands; not in order, as warriors should,” Valia had muttered to Connor. By the look of derision on the young lord’s face, Connor knew that Valia was ready and committed to his task that day, and that he believed that Connor had offered him the perfect opportunity. Valia, Gaiseric, Henric, Tuldin, and the others that followed them were ready to take Arastan down a peg or two.
Valia turned back towards his men.
“We split here,” he said, the morning sun catching his mail. “We have our fox hunt for today, but security for the main body comes first. Feodric, you and your four scout west. Give it about three miles; then come back. Ansturval, your four stay here and wait for the column; then rejoin with Feodric and follow us east. At any point that we leave the road, we will post a lookout for you to follow. And don’t worry – I’ll see to it that you all receive an equal share tonight.”
The groups that were splitting off saluted Valia with a fist over their heart, in the Roman style. Valia turned his horse and spurred it back to a trot.
“And don’t worry,” Gaiseric added, as if to the men but only loud enough for Valia and Connor to hear him. “If this goes poorly, you will all have deniability when Sarus comes after you.”
“Losing your nerve?” Valia asked.
“Never,” Gaiseric said with a grin.
They were now heading east, trotting along the road that Connor had trudged just the day before. He had sworn that he would never come back this way alive. Every step he had taken was a measure of distance away from that place and that past he was determined never to return to. Nonetheless, here he was. Connor cursed his foolishness. He now believed that Valia and the others would have let him go on his way that morning, with the horse, sword, clothing, and silver he had won the day before. He could have ridden on to Massilia, arriving there by nightfall, perhaps. His coins were not enough to buy Dania from her captors – even if he could find her – or even enough to book a passage to Britannia for himself; but he may have been able to acquire more money. But how? And how long would that have taken? Connor could suddenly see himself as an old laborer, toiling away in the slums of Massilia, having spent decades trying to scrape together enough money to buy an old woman out of her slavery. He allowed this macabre fantasy to play in his mind longer than it should before he finally shook it off.
The Songs of Slaves Page 23