The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  “Are you not cold?” Connor asked.

  Lucia nodded that she was, but did not move to cover herself any further.

  Connor found the basket of provisions that had been rationed them for the night – a loaf of bread to share, some hard white cheese, and a few olives, along with a flagon of sour brown ale. He tore into it, trying to replenish some of the energy he had spent shivering through the long day. He forced himself to slow as he drank a gulp of ale. They may be going out again, if Valia took his suggestion. If that happened Connor would need the full measure of his skill to catch the sentries unawares and kill them before they heard a sound. He had been thinking of this the whole perilous journey back to the camp. If it played out that way, this would be the first time he had ever killed anyone who was not directly threatening him or his loved ones. But if he did not kill them then he and his loved ones would be at their mercy. What was the difference? But nonetheless, it felt different.

  “You look very weary,” Connor said, seeing the way the firelight played on Lucia’s cheeks and her eyes, allowing himself the luxury of gazing at her.

  “I’m sorry of my look does not please you,” Lucia snipped.

  “What I am asking is why have you not eaten any of this food?”

  “My Dominus must eat first.”

  Connor shook his head in exasperation, but then took another look at Lucia in realization.

  “You are fasting?”

  Lucia looked up at him, perhaps surprised that he knew anything about her faith. Connor actually did not, but he knew the tools of mystics well enough – fasting, rhythms, potions that give dreams, repetitive prayers, sleep deprivation, self-inflicting pleasure or pain, exposure to the elements, or maintaining solitude; just some of the ways man tries to get a god’s attention.

  “I know that you are not trying to kill yourself,” Connor said. “You would have done it already.”

  “The Mother will not permit me,” Lucia said.

  “How long will you continue this fast?”

  “Until it is time to break it,” Lucia shrugged

  “I do not expect you to obey me,” Connor said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “But I would ask you to consider this: we are in the mountains now. The road ahead is very difficult and winter is upon us. We need to keep up, and we need to keep strong. We have to be ready to protect ourselves and we have to be ready to take our chances when they come. If you do not eat and drink now then you will get sick and die. Is that what your goddess requires of you?”

  Lucia looked into his eyes but said nothing. Connor caught a glimpse in his memory of the young woman who had seemed so proud and full of life. Desire for just one smile from her welled up in his chest. He wanted her to talk to him again as she had that first day of harvest, or when they had met in her hiding place amongst the willows. Lucia returned her gaze to the flickering lamp flame.

  Connor climbed to his feet, shaking the stiffness out of his aching legs. He placed the food and the rest of the beer in front of Lucia.

  “Think about it.”

  He pushed out into the cold night air once again.

  Connor had not walked more than a few steps before he realized that something had again changed in the camp. Men and women were out of their tents and wandering around, others were congregating in groups. Everybody was talking hurriedly. Something had happened. Connor broke into a jog towards Valia’s tent.

  “There you are, brother,” Gaiseric said as he reached the ring of men around the campfire. Henric and Tuldin were also there; along with a gathering of about ten of Valia’s other sworn men.

  Valia was sitting at his usual place, a flat stone serving as a sort of throne around which his most trusted men gathered. He was staring intently into the fire. His hair was still bound and he still wore his mail. His big right hand rested on the hilt of his spatha. Even by the firelight Connor could see that his face was flushed red with smoldering anger.

  “What is going on?” Connor asked Gaiseric.

  “We are done here!” Valia spat, overhearing him. “That is what is going on – we are done here!”

  For one horrible second, Connor thought that what his friend meant was that they were done; but he quickly realized that Valia was talking about the pact between him and Sarus.

  “We made an accord at the end of summer, outside the walls of Valentia,” Valia continued, addressing all the men gathered. “Being kindred and of common purpose – so I believed – to join Alaric in the great cause of our people. But I see now what Sarus is. Sarus has never got over the jealousy he feels for my kinsman – the jealousy that arises from Alaric being proclaimed king and he, Sarus, being passed by. What sort of man never gets over jealousy, my brothers?”

  “One who only cares about himself,” Henric provided. The others murmured their approval.

  “One who only cares about himself!” Valia shouted. “He does not care about the history of our kind. He does not care about our chance to bring the Romans to heel. He does not care about the slaughter of the innocents last year, or any of the other betrayals along the way. Why? Because he is a traitor himself! He will go right back and serve Honorius if he thinks that it would make him richer – or even if it would simply spite our King, Alaric.”

  At the sound of Alaric’s name some of the men gave a short cheer. Everyone around vocalized their accord with everything Valia said, as if he were a great orator making a speech. But Connor already knew him well enough to know that the young noblemen was deeply offended by whatever had taken place, and was throwing a tirade to vent his hurt.

  “Is he going to serve Honorius?” Connor asked, raising his voice above the others.

  “I do not know,” Valia said. “I do not care if he is going to Hell to serve the Devil. We are not going with him. The pact is dissolved! We are going our way, and he is going his. Three days into the Alps and he tells us that he wants us gone – as if we are the thieves, the liars, and the faithless! The Devil take his soul, we are done with him!”

  Valia went on, cursing Sarus and reiterating the betrayal of the situation. Connor wondered what would happen now. Would they group just break up in the morning, as everyone seemed to be indicating? Or were tempers on both sides of the camp hot enough that the two groups would break out into open fighting? That was a great possibility, he thought – but he then realized that if Sarus intended their deaths he would have probably used a surprise attack against them without telling them anything. Nonetheless, it was time to be on guard, and it was time to bring Lucia up where he could keep her under his watch. Would the sight of her fuel anger amongst Valia’s own men? After all – he and Lucia had been the vehicles by which this unrest came to fruition. But no, he thought, Valia was sticking to his side. Perhaps he could have given Connor and Lucia up to appease Sarus, but he did not.

  He turned to go and bring Lucia back to the fireside with him, but then remembered his original purpose.

  “Lord Valia,” Connor made himself heard again. “Our scouting party made an important discovery that we must talk to you about. It is urgent.”

  Valia stopped and blinked at him, surprised that anyone would change the subject from such hot emotion.

  “What is it? Tell me here? Are we not all brothers? The true brothers!”

  “There are bacaudae just a few miles ahead,” Gaiseric said.

  “Many of them,” Connor added. “Entrenched in such a way that they could possibly kill us and Sarus both. But there is a way to maneuver around them and perhaps take them by surprise.”

  Valia shook his head, suddenly quiet and solemn. He refilled his drinking horn with Montevarius’ wine.

  “This is what I am talking about,” he said. “My true brothers. Such men as you all I would take with me to battle the dragons at the end of the world! Who is luckier than we?”

  The warriors gathered around – now about thirty men – all bellowed assent. Valia raised his cup and drank, with his men following suit.

  “Connor, Gais
eric, Henric, and Tuldin – meet me here tomorrow at this very spot, in the morning after Sarus’s shit beetles have scuttled away, and we will discuss the bacaudae problem. Officers come too – any and all warriors come too. We are in this together – a brotherhood of iron in fire.”

  “But what of them?” Connor asked. “They will walk right into the bacaudae trap.”

  “They have broken with us,” Valia said. “You are all sworn to secrecy. No more fruits of our labor will be shared with them. They leave us for dead, we leave them to make their own way in the world. May we never meet them again. Let the bacaudae deal with them; and if not the bacaudae then the winter; and if not the winter then the Romans. As for us, we will prevail, and we will follow destiny through these trials until we join our brethren in the fields of glory.”

  XX

  Connor stood shoulder to shoulder with Gaiseric, Henric, and the other warriors, watching Sarus’ people file out of the camp. Connor’s hair, heavy with sleet, hung in his face as he regarded the long processional from under his brow. Sarus’ men, and the few women and children that followed them, kept their eyes straight ahead; and if any did not share their master’s enmity with their brethren within Valia’s ranks they tried not to show it. Instead they minded their horses, or kept the beasts that pulled the plunder-loaded carts going straight along the narrow path east.

  Valia stood a step in front of his men, his face shielded by the cheek pieces and nose guard of his iron helmet. The black horsetail hung from the helmet’s top ring as the sleet collected along the strands. He wore a wolf pelt in place of a cloak, with the wolf head forming a pauldron on the shoulder of his sword arm. His mail was polished, and like his men he held his shield. Like his men, his sword hand was free but ready. The morning had been tense enough, as his warriors had lined up in full battle array around their families and their possessions, and the followers of Sarus took what they willed from the property that had been considered communal. The show of strength was essential, but if there was so much as one sword cleared from a scabbard the situation could ignite into kin slaying. Connor could see the anger and resentment burning in Valia’s eyes. This was not just a parting of the ways – Valia considered him and his people as being left for dead by the man that he had made a pact with. Connor had been by his lord’s side, talking and planning through much of the night and in marking their defenses early in the morning. He had his senses piqued for any sign that Valia resented him for the part he had played in the demise of the alliance with Sarus. Though he had picked up on a few insinuations and jibes from some of the others in the camp, Valia had treated him no differently than ever.

  Horseman after horseman passed by, followed by wagon after wagon of plunder from the cities and countryside of Gaul. Connor considered these to have been stolen in the first place – and ill-gotten gain is profit to no one. But he was aware that as soldiers of Rome, the foederati considered plunder taken from enemies as part of their pay and a big part of the economics that enabled them to go to war. This seizure by Sarus was thus regarded by all of Valia’s people as a severe injustice, as well as a highly insulting insinuation that his bravery had earned it and they had not. In the night Valia had posted a group of fifty armed men to protect his share of the food and the essentials, lest Sarus truly leave them to starve. Sarus’ men had been wise enough to steer clear of this. Why fight over stale bread and weary livestock when there was silver and valuables to be had?

  Connor noticed one of the carts that rolled by was filled with the barrels of Montevarius’ wine. The Visigoths had drunk it non-stop during the days that they stayed on the estate, and had taken plenty of it with them. But they were travelers supplying their journey and not equipped for systematic plunder, and so some wine had been left at the estate. Since the Goths had taken indiscriminately, much of what was left was from the back of the cellars, where the choicest wine was kept. If the slaves there could work together and sell the wine it could be enough to keep them alive until they could bring in more harvests and make more. Would it be possible? Connor mused, indulging in this distraction from the grim sight before him. If Montevarius’ only heir was missing, then were the slaves still slaves? Philip, Brontius, Sextus, and the others would never match the artistry that Lucius Montevarius had brought to it, but could they not continue to do on their own what they had done for their master for so many years? Could they not be free and successful? Or had Paulinus or perhaps the corrupt government already taken the place over, selling everything and everyone for a profit? Or had bacaudae or still other bands of barbarians already descended upon it, killing every person and burning every vine? Connor watched Sarus’ Goths march by, spears and shields in hand. How could anyone have a normal life or hope to go on with business at the break-neck pace the Wheel was spinning now? And yet, did life not go on?

  Sarus himself finally rode by at the head of his elite guard. He was mounted on a magnificent black charger, adding to the impression that he towered over Valia and his ranks. He too was clad for war, with a fearsome helmet inlaid with gold, silver, and bright garnets. The black crest stood high despite the weight of the ice crystals that formed there. A red cloak draped from gold and sapphire broaches on his shoulders. He wore his fine plate armor instead of his mail, as if on a victory march instead of crossing the treacherous mountain passes. His round shield was on his reign arm, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his hero’s sword.

  “Salve, Valia,” Sarus said. “If I ever see you again, perhaps I too will then wear a wolf’s pelt.”

  Connor had learned that Valia’s family held the wolf as their ancestral totem and symbol, sometimes even incorporating it into their names – as his father Ulferic meant “Wolf King” or his brother Ataulf meant “Noble Wolf” – and so this seemingly inconsequential remark was at once mockery and threat. Valia held his silence and let Sarus pass. His warriors passed behind him. Soon the procession was out of sight, lost in the stony slopes and winding road. The sound of hundreds of hooves and the rumble of dozens of carts dissipated as well, and all was silent.

  Connor looked up, letting the sleet sting his reddened face. Through the low clouds he could see the high mountains, already blanketed in gleaming snow. Above these swirled heavy gray snow clouds. He turned his head and regarded the camp – now just a shell of what it had been. Where Sarus’ men had rested was now trodden earth and smoldering campfires. Valia’s followers huddled on the other side of the line of men who protected them. The rock outcroppings offered slim shelter from the devious wind. More than two thirds of the camp – its warriors, horses, tents, livestock, baggage carts, and families – was gone. What had looked like a formidable force now looked like a rabble of refugees lost in the barren mountains at the edge of winter.

  Valia turned on his heels towards them, his eyes alight.

  “You ten – meet me at my tent at noon where we will finalize our plan,” he said, looking at Connor, Gaiseric, and the others in turn.

  Valia raised his voice and addressed the crowd. “Contubernii One through Four, lock shields and face the path. I want three lookouts posted on each of these rock spires – here, here, and here. We do not know what the traitors are scheming. Perhaps this has all been an elaborate plan to separate theirs from ours to make it easier to kill us. They may come screaming back down this path any moment and try to cut us to pieces. I do not think that they have the balls for that, but they may yet find their courage. We will not let such further unmanly betrayal prosper against us. I want every warrior ready.”

  There was a half-hearted shout from the warriors, who still held their formation as ice formed on their armor.

  Valia lifted his hands wide. “Brothers! Where are your hearts? We have been betrayed by a cunning fox – an emasculate worm masquerading as one of us – but we are not beaten. We are not alone, for we have each other. We are not weak, but we have both the strength of body and of purpose. We have given our word to pass through these mountains, and to bring our swords to the
great fight of our people. I know that for my part, I will keep my promise. I will fulfill my mandata.”

  Valia drew his spatha from its scabbard. What winter sun that could pierce the clouds shone on the blade that Connor had taken from Lorentius.

  “And I!” Henric called, pulling forth his blade. “I will keep my promise.”

  “I will keep my promise!” Connor called, drawing Archangel. The others followed until a great commotion rattled on the rock walls. The Visigoths shouted and beat their swords or spears against their shields. Valia’s grim smile could be seen through the shadows of his helmet. He raised his sword higher as the shouts of his people reached crescendo.

  “Every man to his business,” Valia said. “Look sharp. Watchmen, we all rely on you. Each contubernium shall be relieved in turn every three hours. Now, all unassigned, take your rest. These next two days will be long and dangerous. Who knows? After that the worst may be yet to come.”

  Despite the negativity of the last statements, the Goths cheered loudly before sheathing their weapons and dispersing. The forty or so men of the first four contubernii, or battle groups, locked shields into a shield wall five men deep, their spears pointing down the path where Sarus had gone. Whether Sarus would reappear there, or whether the battle cry would come from a host of bacaudae Connor did not know. He felt vulnerable and stranded. They all did, he reminded himself. He walked towards his tent to try to at least get out of the worst of the weather.