But Tuldin was right. The path ahead cut about half a mile through a particularly narrow channel in the cold stone. Rock slopes rose ten to twenty feet on either side, and were covered with loose stones and heavy boulders – making them almost impossible to climb, while offering enemies the opportunity to throw missiles or roll down boulders with impunity. At the head of the ravine the land rose too, so that anyone who could make it through the gauntlet would then have to clamber over the high ground before they could escape.
“Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death …” Connor quoted.
“Well if no one has made a bacaudae tollbooth of this place yet, it’s a waste,” Gaiseric said, his voice cheerful despite the chill rain that had been falling lightly but relentlessly for hours. Though only a mist at times, the rain had been working through their layers of clothing like a sieging army, until the four men were drenched. The wind which blasted down from the higher mountains was doing the rest. As their wool cloaks still kept some body heat in even when wet, Connor, Tuldin, Gaiseric, and Henric were merely miserable. Had it not been for that protection and their constant movement they could have been in danger. Near the beginning of December and climbing steadily into the Alps, the air had seemed to get colder with every step forward. Connor tried not to remind himself that this was only the beginning.
“What do you mean by bacaudae tollbooth?” Connor asked.
“It is a perfect position,” Gaiseric said. “Anyone who takes the land route from Gaul to Italia must pass through the mountains. People pass through to trade or to fight. In a spot like this, you can hide from those who pass through to fight if they are too strong for you. They might not even know that you were here. But with even a few men, you could hold up anyone less threatening and charge them money or goods to pass safely through. Here we are, only three days into the mountains – a perfect distance for bacaudae to collect, because they are near enough to follow other enterprises inland, but far enough away to feel safe.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about it,” Connor said.
“Been dealing with bastards like that my whole life,” Gaiseric shrugged. “They are like dogs – most are peasants and fools and nothing to a real warrior. But like dogs, get a few of them together, or under the right conditions, and they can take warriors down. You got to know how to handle them.”
“And the best way to handle them is to avoid them,” Henric said, dismounting.
“We’re going to go have a look, then,” Connor said, following his example.
Gaiseric and Tuldin took the reins to the horses as Connor and Henric prepared to run reconnaissance on foot. In his month travelling with the Visigoths Connor had already had many such opportunities and knew the plan as well as the others. Henric would often take turns with Gaiseric; but Connor always chose to be runner, as it gave him a chance to put his speed and stealth to work. Tuldin seldom ran, as he was too valuable to the team providing covering fire if things went bad; and Valia never went because he was too valuable to his people to risk on such a task. Many noblemen would consider it beneath them to ride as a scout in the first place, but Valia felt that it was the best way to protect those in his charge and to know exactly what was going on.
But today Valia had been asked to stay back by Sarus on the pretext of discussing issues. He was with the main body, which were all probably making camp at this late afternoon hour. The four of them had ridden out alone that morning, their minds darkened by wondering what could be so important to Sarus that he would take such formal measures. The young lord had seriously misjudged Sarus’ reaction to their imposition at the Montevarius estate. At the time Valia had expected some trouble, but they had not broken any tribal laws – in fact, they had stuck close to them in every respect. Valia thought that he was doing the right thing not only to confront his rival’s pride and misdeeds, but also to protect all of them from the danger Arastan was placing them in. But he should have known better – Sarus was not pleased that his son had been interfered with, much less injured and humiliated; not to mention that Sarus himself was profiting from the cut of the plunder that Arastan was giving him. Sarus had been furious, but had been unable to do anything about it due to the political restraints of the situation. Nonetheless, Valia knew that relations between them had taken an irrecoverable turn, and Connor knew well that not only Arastan, but Sarus and his men would not hesitate to do harm to him and Lucia both if they got the chance. As he feared, this fact made it impossible for him to leave as yet. He had to stick close to Valia’s side. And so he had ridden out with the scouts every day, not just for his own safety but to return the service of protection that his new mentor had given him.
In truth, though, it was more than that. Though a captive of circumstance – riding in what must have been a doomed army on a crusade he had no place in, to a place that was hundreds of miles away from where he was trying to go; though hated by some of the most important men in the camp and still spurned and accused by Lucia – he felt alive, useful and excited. He had felt like this before – at times when he was providing for Dervel and the others, or when he was grasping what Titus was trying to teach him, or even at times when he was working at Montevarius’ right hand. He only hoped that this would end better than any of those undertakings had; but of course had no reason to believe that it would.
Connor unfastened his baldric and reconfigured it so that it was outside his gray cloak with Archangel’s scabbard across his back. Henric and he would lose the advantage of being mistaken for ordinary travelers this way, but it was an important step for sound discipline. The leather laces he had worked into the light chain mail coat that Valia had given him ensured that it fit well enough to not cause any unnecessary noise either. He left his shield, three javelins, and spear with his horse and set out beside Henric at a jog, skirting the path and making their way up and around the right side of the mountain.
The mist seemed to thicken as the two men scrambled up the slope. It would conceal them, Connor thought, but it would conceal the enemy too. They would have to be right on top of them before they saw anything. Reaching the crest, Connor crouched low and listened for any sound. Henric motioned him forward, and they skirted along the top of the gulley. To their right the grade was somewhat gentler, and a few contorted trees had found purchase in the poor soil. Connor could hear a stream nearby, but could not see it in the impenetrable fog.
Connor and Henric stopped at the same moment, silently going to ground. The ghostly figure that had seemingly coalesced out of nowhere was still staring down into the ravine. Connor fought to control his breathing. Not twenty paces ahead was a man sitting against a boulder. His hair was dark and unkempt. Though he was probably in his twenties, his face was weathered prematurely. He held his cloak close to keep out the cold and the rain as best as he may, so Connor could see nothing of his gear or of any armor he might have; but Connor could clearly see a spear beside him, and much more importantly a bronze hunting horn strung around his neck.
“Look,” Henric breathed voicelessly. Connor would never have heard him had he not been so in tune with his flank man. Slowly, Connor moved his head to the left and to the right. Despite the mist he could see others. Far off to the right there was another man sitting atop a boulder, and about fifty paces directly in front of them there was a third sentry. Connor’s pounding heart beat even harder – aside from the small amount of bracken they had no cover. If the mist cleared away from them, they would be caught.
Keeping low, Connor and Henric crept back from the direction they came until the sentries were out of sight. The distance of only a few hundred feet seemed to take forever to cross. Connor’s hands were shaking. With every move he felt sure they would be seen. But Connor and Henric were hyper-vigilant while the sentries were lulled into inattention from sitting outside in the mist for hours. Their primary interest was the pass, and they did not see the two shadows that melted away from them slowly down the hillside. At last, Connor and Henric too
k shelter behind an immense boulder.
“The bacaudae are here, but we have no idea how many,” Connor whispered. “We cannot go back until we know more. This may be our one chance.”
“A chance we would lose entirely if we are caught,” Henric replied. “And Gaiseric and Tuldin would not even know what happened to us. Look – darkness will soon fall.”
“Return to Gaiseric and Tuldin. Then fall back a little further. I will try to get a better look. If I am not back very soon then return to the camp and tell the others.”
Henric shook his head. “It is not worth the risk.”
“We need to know what is out there,” Connor whispered. “Without that our whole company runs from twenty men or attacks a thousand.”
Henric considered for a moment and then nodded. “This is no time or place for debate. But I can see the wisdom of your words. Go then, but cut a wide berth. You are a fine hunter, but you cannot count on making it by so many eyes. We have already been lucky today.”
Connor nodded as he rose to a half crouch.
“Godspeed,” Henric said as they clasped hands.
Henric disappeared into the mist, hastening back down the slope. Still crouched low, Connor ran the steep ground to the far right of the pass. Henric had spoken truly – it would be extreme foolishness to try to pass the sentries, even if they were focused on the pass. Instead he would have to outflank them, and then, if he could, he would find a vantage point to see what lay beyond. When he had covered several hundred yards – far enough that he believed to be clear of the three that he had seen as well as any he may have missed – Connor started to climb the slope once more.
Connor found the stream that he had heard earlier. Frigid water was rushing vigorously by, a few paces wide and about knee deep. Connor could see from the lay of the ground that during spring time this stream must become an intraversable torrent as it swelled with melting snow. He no longer needed to wonder where the bacaudae camp was, he only needed to follow the stream.
Taking his time, Connor picked his way across the slippery, moss-covered river stone. If he fell not only could the sound betray him to the enemy and the saturation make him even more vulnerable to the cold, but also that the current could make it difficult for him to get up again. The strength of rushing water was easy to misjudge, and Connor had known men to be killed by so simple a thing. Once on the opposite bank he began to run. Time was passing, and every minute that went by was a minute that his friends were still in harm’s way. If he took too long they would be forced to leave him, and Connor did not care to contemplate a cold night alone on the threshold of a camp of thieves and murderers.
He reached the wooded slope of hillside and slipped within the tree line. His confidence was growing with time and with the distance from where he expected any camp to be. Still, all it would take would be a lone man hunting or someone merely trying to get some privacy from the camp and he could be caught. Half-way up the slope, he looked out towards the stream, but still could not get the view he needed. Connor soon found a suitable tree and began to climb. He could now see the stream below. The mist was starting to dissipate as the rain was falling harder. He could pick out the sentries far off towards the pass, but felt safe in his cover. He picked out four more further along the ridge, and reasoned that there must be an equal number on the other side of the gauntlet. Tracing the stream further east he finally saw what he was looking for – the camp; or at least enough of it. Rising out of the remaining fog, partially shielded from the pass by another hillside, were seven low, long roves. Connor let his breath out through clenched teeth. When he had heard there may be bands of thieves he had assumed that meant a small number. He had heard of bacaudae along the roads operating in groups as small as two or three to as big as ten or even twenty; but this camp could possibly house around a hundred. Smoke breathed lazily from several smoke holes in each of the long houses. From what Connor could see they were constructed of raw timber. They reminded him of some of the longhouses he had seen amongst the Jutes, Saxons, or the Angles, but the similarity was probably more one of purpose than of culture. The details no longer mattered. He had the information that he had come for, and that information was not encouraging: the Alps on the edge of winter, with a hundred or so cut-throats occupying high ground that they must pass through.
***
“Hold!” the Visigoth sentry ordered, leveling his spear. The three others next to him leapt to their feet and drew their weapons.
“It’s us,” Gaiseric said, nudging his horse forward into the torchlight. Connor and the others followed and brought their horses up beside him. The grim sight of the Gothic encampment, its cramped tents erected in defiance of the wind that had pushed off the rain, its people huddling around their sparse, smoky fires as they tried to gather what warmth they could, was a great comfort to Connor after coming so close to the enemy.
“We were starting to worry about you,” the old warrior said.
“We were delayed.” Gaiseric said. “We found something.”
“Bacaudae – a hive of them,” Henric added. “Not three miles away from here. We’re just lucky that we saw them before they saw us, thanks to Tuldin’s good eye and Connor’s good running.”
“That is lucky,” the old man said, pushing his wet, greying hair back from his scarred face. “This comes at a bad time.”
“You brothers stay alert, and go easy on the ale,” Henric said, inadvertently interrupting him. “The bacaudae have a disadvantage in numbers that they more than make up for in terrain. They will make us come to them, but nonetheless watch close for trouble. Perhaps Valia and Sarus will even decide that we should assemble and ride out there tonight, where we would be in place to attack them at dawn before they are aware of us.”
“That would be a wise course,” the old warrior said. “But we are unlikely to get any such combined order tonight. Valia is still in Sarus’ tent. Things do not seem to be going well.”
“What do you mean?” Henric asked.
“As you know, there have been some problems. There always are whenever two companies travel, and those problems are times ten whenever you add women and children. Sarus said this morning that he wanted to discuss the issue of his man that stabbed our man. We didn’t have much issue with that – even Valia said that the bastard had it coming for making eyes at the fellow’s wife. I know I never had much use for him. But Valia went over there shortly after you and the other scouting parties left. By the time we were all packing up we heard raised voices coming from the tent. We were alarmed, as the voices became louder and more angry – to the point that men on both sides went and armed themselves. People got close, trying to hear what was going on, and all day long all we’ve heard on the march was one theory after another.”
With this last statement, the old warrior rested his gaze on Connor, but then quickly looked back towards Gaiseric and Henric.
“Anyway, as we made camp tonight, Valia – who was in a foul mood all day, and barely had a word for anyone – got a few men together, along with his little Roman lawyer captive, Scarbo, and one of our priests, and then went back into Sarus’ tent. They’re still in there now.”
“The enemy is out there, not in here,” Henric said.
“Indeed,” the old warrior nodded. “Let’s hope cooler heads prevail.”
“We need to tell Valia what we have seen,” Gaiseric said. “Seems we need to go to Sarus’s tent and wait our turn.”
“Maybe it will help them both to remember what is important,” the old warrior said. “Good work today, brothers.”
Connor, Gaiseric, and Henric returned his salute and the four moved on into the camp.
The tension in the camp was palpable and impossible to ignore. Many of the women and children were already huddled in their tents, staying out of sight. The men around the fires still wore their swords, and some wore their armor, as if ready for the other half of the camp to attack them. Perhaps the extra vigilance was good in light of their proxi
mity to so many bacaudae, Connor mused. Just this morning, relations in the group had seemed a little raw but essentially alright. The road and the weather take their toll but now the change in the mood was drastic. Where there would normally be talking and drinking and even singing there was now only worried looks and silence, as everybody seemed to stare intently at Sarus’ tent.
“What the hell?” Gaiseric said. Henric nodded in response.
“I need to go check on something,” Connor said.
“Just hurry back,” Henric responded. “Valia will want all your details.”
Leaving his horse with one of the grooms, Connor made his way through the maze of tents and campfires towards his own. He was anxious to see that Lucia was safe. As long as he was Valia’s oath man then his woman would have protection. This was especially true considering how high profile he and Lucia had become in such a short time. Everyone in the camp knew her by sight as the woman whom Arastan and the drifter had battled over. As such, everyone knew that to lay a hand on her would bring wrath from one direction or another. But Connor wondered if that was now no longer a given. If Sarus and Valia were quarreling, Sarus may in fact target Lucia – as Homer’s Agamemnon did Briseis. Finally picking his tent out from all the others, Connor pulled the flap and ducked in. He drew a sigh of relief as he spied Lucia sitting on the ground with her knees drawn up to her chest, though he knew to expect the usual cold reception.
Lucia barely acknowledged his entry. She gazed into the tiny flame of the lamp, watching it ripple in the cross-currents that drafted through the tent. She had her small wooden case hugged to her breasts – the case that held her idol and the accoutrements of her cult. Connor thought back to the night he fought for her. She had asked for that box then, but he had refused. He returned to Lorentius’ chamber that night to find Lucia clutching it tightly, as she did now. She had risked her life to find it, taking it from her pillaged room when all backs were turned. Connor had wondered how she got to her room without being seen – if she had perhaps risked crossing from terrace to terrace, or if perhaps there had been a secret passage – but he never ventured to ask her. Those two days she had seen her life as she knew it end – her family killed, her property stolen or left waste, and her future changed irrecoverably. She had watched from the window as the few slaves who were brave enough buried her father, as within the house the roar of hundreds of Goths feasting and singing filled her ears. Connor had stayed beside her through all of it, and never spoke of it again.
The Songs of Slaves Page 28