“And Rome has depended on the outside world for food for hundreds of years,” Lucia added. “They have to have it shipped in, or everyone starves.”
“So now they are more under siege then they were when the Goths were their enemies. Instead of Alaric leading tens of thousands of Visigoths to North Africa to secure the grain supply immediately, Attalus insists on sending diplomats. Heraclian of Africa declare himself for Honorius, kills the diplomats, and secures the harbors. Instead of listening to Alaric then, Attalus and the Senate send what Roman troops they can scrape together and send them straight into Heraclian’s death trap – all so that he will not have to be beholden to Alaric.”
“Which, of course, he already was and always had been,” Lucia said. “Now Rome starves again. The women I talked to today said that the tales coming from the city are worse than ever. There is nothing – and what there may be is sold at fully exploitive prices. Plague has broken out. People are dying. And all the Senate can find to do is reinstitute gladiatorial games. Even in one of those, I heard, there was a riot – as the starving spectators wanted to buy the corpses of the slain gladiators for food!”
Connor nodded. He had heard similar tales.
“So Alaric realized that raising a usurper only made things more complicated for him,” Connor said. “I think perhaps he also thought that maybe people in Attalus’ government were deliberately trying to undo his work – deliberately trying to make it fail, out of prejudice or resentment. So he brought us all here as a sign of strength, rushed the walls in a sign of bravery and control both to those in Ravenna but more so to his own people, and then publicly and bloodlessly deposed the unwitting Attalus as a sign of cooperation. Now that he has everyone’s complete attention peace talks can resume. Now a treaty may be signed and a solution be reached.”
“But the truth is that there is only one solution,” Lucia said, tossing the bowl of wash water out on the more downhill side of the tent. “There is no food, nor any money, nor anything left. Why? Because there is no one who can work the fields who has not been killed, or pressed into service, or fled out of fear, or been taxed into destitution by one government or another. Who can work when they are afraid their homes will be plundered and their children taken? Who can plant fields when they know that they may just be burned? You have seen more of the countryside of Liguria than I have, and the whole journey down here we saw more of the same. You know better than I do that this land – the heart of our great Imperium – is in ruin. How much longer can this continue? Honorius, Attalus, Constantine, Alaric – they all must stop. They are like men who are fighting over a cloak but who rip it to pieces in their greed. There will be nothing left for any of them – nothing left for any of us.”
“But how can they stop now?” Connor said. “Can this great multitude just walk away? Where would they go? Can Honorius just forgive the rebel Senate and let everything return to what it had been? Too much blood has already been spilled.”
“Would you have more blood spilled? Would that wash away the blood already on the ground?”
“You are your father’s daughter,” Connor smiled. “What I would have is you and me far away from all this madness.”
Lucia moved over to him. Connor put his arm around her shoulders, smelling the sun on her hair. She rested her head on his chest as she traced his muscles with her fingertips.
“Come to Asisium with me,” Lucia said. Connor listened to her tone carefully – it was suggestive, but not pleading.
“Are you ready for me to take you?” he asked.
“I am not ready to be without you,” Lucia said.
“I cannot stay in Asisium,” Connor said. “Not yet. My geis would be unfulfilled, my mandata incomplete.”
“You always speak cryptically when you are cornered,” Lucia said, kissing his chest.
“And what would I do in Asisium?” Connor said. “I’m sure I would be ever so well-received by your family there. I wonder if Asisium is at all far enough away from this for us, if even behind the walls of that hill town you will be safe.”
“Is anywhere in the Imperium safe anymore? Anywhere in the world?”
Connor held her closer and kissed the top of her head. Outside the first of the campfires lighted as dusk faded to night.
XXVI
Connor sat cross-legged at the entrance of his tent, shaded from the worst of the sun. Meridiatio was over, but there was no reason to get up. There was nothing to do. He sipped at his cup of tepid white wine, watered in the Roman style as much to maintain the stores as to make it more thirst-quenching. His left hand lay idly on Archangel’s scabbard, but as usual for this time of day his mail and tunic lay folded by his saddlebags. Connor smirked as he remembered all the times he had read in Homer or in the scriptures of eastern men sitting at the entrance of their tents in their far-off arid lands. Now here he was, doing just that. But even his smile seemed to take effort in this heat. It was never like this back home in Eire. He looked up past the masses sweltering in the camp and out towards the rolling Italian countryside – somehow bright green and spotted with flowers despite their lack of rain. The nearby Adriatic was not visible from his vantage point, but he could smell a hint of the harbor on the air.
Days like this seemed to drag interminably. Connor realized that he had lost track of how long it had been since they had come here, since Attalus had been stripped of the Purple. Peace talks had commenced the very next day, held in a pavilion erected on the plain between the Gothic camp and the kill zone before the city. The Goths knew well from the example of Stilicho and so many others not to trust the Romans enough to send their leaders within the walls. Ataulf came back on the night of the first day, but talked of almost nothing but the radiant beauty, charm, and wit of Galla Placidia – the young sister of Honorius and former ward of Stilicho’s wife, now the diplomatic hostage Alaric had taken from the Rome. By this Connor and the others had construed that peace talks were progressing extremely slowly, if at all. In the days that followed the pace of Ataulf’s news increased, so that every night around his campfire he told the officers enough of the talks to make them feel as if they were being kept informed, but not too much. Ataulf, and presumably Alaric’s other officers, knew that information is vital to men, but not information that would erode their confidence or incite their discontent. And so Ataulf chose his words carefully, but delivered them with such talent that his men could get excited about it and feel as if they were a part of the process.
That they were not, however, a part of the process – other than adding the strength of numbers to the Visigoth position – was evident to all, as day and night drudged on and one week turned to two before most stopped counting. Every day the men assembled in battle formations before the walls, but now there was usually no cheering or other bombast. Alaric wanted the people of Ravenna to see his strength, but acting as if they were truly about to attack would obviously be counterproductive. Every day, while the infantry lay idle or perhaps engaged in some light practice, Valia and the other cavalry leaders would exercise their men and horses on the fields west of the camp. Connor looked forward to this always – it was good to use up some of his energy; but beyond this, he felt like he was getting quite good. During the winter, he had traded in Merridius’ horse for a gray gelding he had named Fingal. The horse was not as fine in terms of confirmation or speed; but the sturdy beast had been trained as a cavalry mount and was as fearless as a horse could be. With him, Connor was mastering both the individual and the tandem maneuvers and the skills needed for mounted warfare, and loving every hour of it. He wished that they could all use this time for larger group training evolutions – using all the cavalry together along with the infantry – but this was forbidden. Small units of “Scythians” racing over the plains could impress the Roman onlookers of the formidability of their foes; but a large group operation may just expose their weaknesses.
But after these exercises were completed, the men were dismissed. After hiding from the hea
t during meridiatio there was nothing to do but whittle the rest of the day away. Before too long Connor felt as if he had talked to every man and woman in camp, heard every tale of Gothic glory thirty times, drank enough wine and ale to fill the Tiber, spent innumerable hours exploring Venusian wonders with Lucia, and trod down every convoluted footpath of his mind.
But it was not his own boredom with the camp that concerned him. The Visigoths knew they were closer than they had ever been to achieving their goal, and so moods had started out exceptionally high – almost as if this whole mustering was a grand festival. But as the waiting settled in, that impression started to slowly slip. No one was going hungry, but it was common knowledge that the food and drink that could be brought in must be limited. So far sanitation measures had held, but everyone had to know that they were sitting ducks for an outbreak of plague. The small chores of camp life started to seem unduly tedious, and people were inventing things to complain about. The only thing battling all this was Alaric’s and Ataulf’s nightly propaganda and the Visigoth’s native idealism. How long would that be enough? How long before the grumbling turned to fights and the few men who slipped away some nights turned into abandonment in droves?
“What are you sitting around for?” Gaiseric said, approaching with Henric from the left.
“Why are you walking around in this heat?” Connor said, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up to them.
“We came by to catch a glimpse of that pretty woman of yours.”
“She’s fetching more water,” Connor said.
“More’s the pity,” Gaiseric said. “We’ll just have to wait till she gets back. Why yes, I’ll have a drink, thank you.”
“Go get it,” Connor said, indicating with his thumb.
“Put a shirt on, man,” Henric said, sitting down beside Connor. “You may look like the marble Perseus in Athens, but you’ve got hardly any scars on you yet. Nobody will take you seriously when they see that baby skin.”
“Baby skin?” Gaiseric quipped. “A baby leopard for the Coliseum, freckled as he is.”
“They will just know how lucky I am,” Connor chuckled. He knew he was lucky – not only that he had first killed most of those who had tried to kill him, but in that the Jutes and Angles in Britannia had favored rods and fists over the distinctively-scarring Roman whip. A striped back was almost as much a stigmata of slavery as a branded face.
Gaiseric came out of the tent with the wine. Not having enough cups, they passed the amphora.
“Well, this is it, brother,” Henric said. “There is a rumor out that things happened today.”
“What?” Connor asked.
“Don’t know yet. Valia went to talk to Ataulf. People think there will be some sort of announcement tonight. They may have done it. They may have a treaty ready.”
***
Connor sat upright in the dark; his eyes wide-open, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Another nightmare. He rested his hand on Lucia’s back, comforting himself with her steady breathing. She did not stir. He reached his other hand towards Archangel and gripped the hilt, finding reassurance there as always. Letting go of his weapon he laid his head back down. The shards of the dream dissipated readily as he worked to banish them from his mind, but as the minutes passed Connor found that he was not much calmer. His heart still thumped and he could feel his own pulse in his ears. Sweat covered his bare chest. His mind looped over and over again. He was not sure how late it was – perhaps it was three or four in the morning. The tent was completely dark, the camp outside tomb-quiet. Finally accepting that he could not fall back asleep, Connor stood to his feet. He took a draught from a water skin and then dressed in his breeches and boots. He slung his baldric over his shoulder and took one more look at Lucia before stepping out into the night.
The harsh heat of day had given way to an oppressively muggy night. The odor of the swampland just to the north blended with the sweating humans and horses, burned out campfires, excrement, trash, and other unidentifiable smells of the massive camp. Far to the west Connor could see some rain clouds in the sky, and he hoped that they might come give them some relief. He urinated on the ground as he looked at the towers of Ravenna and the lights that still burned within the city. Finishing, he began to walk away from Valia’s encampment, towards the open field that lay between them and the larger host. There was a rise just on the other side of the main camp that provided a good view of the Adriatic. It was about a fifteen minute walk away. Without really thinking about it, Connor set out in that direction.
Connor knew well why his thoughts were churning and why he could find no rest tonight. It was not just the usual fears and hardships. Around the time of the evening meal, Ataulf had arrived as expected. Valia and the other warlords had gathered around as their general gave out the good news. After so many days or weeks, a treaty had finally been drafted to the liking of both the Visigoths and Honorius’ delegates. It remained only to be ratified by Honorius himself, which could happen as early as tomorrow. It would be hard to imagine that the petulant emperor would not ratify it, despite his vow never to make peace with Alaric, as it was drafted under delegates that he had selected and continuously instructed. As Ataulf told the terms of the treaty, Connor had trouble imagining how the Emperor could not ratify it, as it was objectively almost solely in his favor. The Visigoths cheered, men and women alike, as they heard the terms – so long had they been embroiled in this struggle, so long had they wandered without an end in sight, that they were ready to take what was offered provided that it held at least the shade of what they desired. And it did – the Visigoths and their allies were to receive ample land in Noricum as a client kingdom in exchange for military service as foederati against Rome’s innumerable enemies. The Goths received their long-sought-after place to call home; but would almost immediately – presumably next year – cross the Alps to go to war against Constantine, the Franks, Burgundians, Sueves, Alans, and Alamanni. After that who knew? Maybe they would go on to fight the Saxons, the Vandals, and of course the Huns; maybe the new rebels they were hearing rumors of, such as Constantine’s former general Gerontius, or the evil Heraclian who seemed to be rising fast in Africa? Then there were always the Persians. Honorius had finally bought himself a military force willing and possibly ready to take on his multitude of enemies; and all for the price of swallowing his pride and granting them a barely fertile, mountainous region that was on the crossroads of any advancing barbarian horde, northern or eastern.
Yet this news was very well received. Though the Visigoths had been disappointed enough times to know by now not to celebrate until all the ink was dry, this did not stop them from cheering at the news. This was followed by laughing or crying and embracing each other; with flowing wine and eating double rations; with singing and even some dancing; and talking deep into the night of the good hearths they would build and the grand war they would fight, now that they were the sword of the Imperium, now that they were the hope of Rome.
Connor sighed as he paced the grass of the open field between the Ataulf’s cavalry encampment and Alaric’s much larger camp. He was happy for them – though the arrangement did not appeal to his more detached sense of justice. What was bothering him was where all this left him. Over these last months it had been easy to get lost in the day to day. He had his mandatae – fight for Valia and his new friends, protect Lucia and take her to Asisium, recover Dania and take her home – but it had been very easy to get lost in this. He followed Valia and the others wherever they might go, earning his food and shelter with his valor, steadfastness, and skill. He would have already taken Lucia to her kinsfolk – but she had made no appeal to go since they had become intimate. She seemed happy with him, and she was his greatest treasure – at times, seemingly, the only thing he had. They were not ready to lose each other. But what of Dania? Connor cursed himself. He never should have let other mandatae get in the way. He had vowed to find her and rescue her. Perhaps there may be market records that
would lead him to her; or perhaps he could watch long enough for Andopaxtes to return, as the trader certainly would, and force the information from him. Connor grinned in the darkness at the thought of making the slave trader talk; but quickly abandoned the fantasy in the face of reality. It may be possible to discover who had bought Dania – but that was last year. What if she had been sold again? Or what if she had died? Meanwhile, every day for her must be a living hell – if she had any soul left to burn. He should have left the Goths the first morning, gone to Massilia, and sold Merridius’s fine horse for the money to buy her. As his mind turned over and over this, he thought of lots of things he could have done differently, if only he had not allowed himself to become mesmerized by the task of everyday survival. How many days in the nameless town where they had wintered, how many nights on the road, how many weeks here camped before these walls had he gone without even thinking of his mission and purpose? Had he not even faced Constantine’s army in the foothills of Liguria back in the spring, before they realized that Alaric had outmaneuvered them politically as well as militarily and had to retreat? The showdown between the Gothic cavalry under Ataulf and the seasoned Roman army of Britons and Gauls under Constantine had amounted to mere skirmishes, but still – might he not have been killed there and then. How would he fulfill any of his obligations if his corpse lay rotting in a field?
The Songs of Slaves Page 36