“Password,” the sentry demanded as Connor approached the camp, jolting him out of his reverie. The big man looked more annoyed than vigilant as he leaned on the head of his axe, unhappy to be awake while everyone else was sleeping off their celebratory ale.
Connor had to think about it for a moment before he remembered it.
“Wenjan,” Connor said – hope in Gothic. The warrior moved to let him by.
Connor’s mind quickly returned to the same thoughts as he picked his way through the maze of tents, striking a course east towards the sea. He turned over the same litany of problems, foregone conclusions, and phantom solutions several times before he realized that even this line of thinking was a distraction. What he had to decide was what he was going to do when the treaty was signed. He would have to take Lucia somewhere. He was not going to spend the next twenty-five years enlisted in the Roman cavalry, fighting against all comers. Or was he? Would Lucia be content to be a warrior’s wife in cold, distant Noricum? If the war took them first to Gaul, could he not secure Dania while he was there? Should he leave his dreams of returning home behind, in favor of what was being offered him now?
Had the taller man’s stare not been so cold, Connor might not have noticed them. He looked up and returned the gaze, but even as he did so both men looked away and continued to walk north through the camp. Connor’s eyes followed them – it was hours before dawn but already in the last watch of the night. In a camp this size there was never a time every person slept. Connor would not have thought it strange that two men might be strolling past the tents, as he did, well after hours. But the second man’s stare had aroused Connor’s suspicion, and what made that suspicion now impossible to abate was that the men were both wearing cloaks. Connor was over-warm walking shirtless. He looked hard at the men, now several paces away from him. They moved purposefully, but almost like they were trying not to move too quickly. He could see their scabbards swing under their cloaks as they walked, though here in this camp that was evidence of nothing. He tried to picture the taller man’s face – the squinting eyes and patchy blonde beard and mustache. It seemed familiar to him, but he could not place it. The man turned his head as if he felt Connor’s eyes on him, but he did not dare turn and look full on again.
Suddenly Connor saw that the men were not alone. Well past them, two other cloaked men made their way through the crowd of tents. Connor saw three more to his left, and then turning his head cautiously to his right he saw several more. They were all far enough apart to seem to the inattentive as isolated pairs or very small groups, like one might encounter here on any given night. But Connor realized that they were far from innocuous. Slowly, trying to appear casual, Connor turned around and began to walk back in the direction he had come. Aside from the first pair, he did not know if any of the others had noticed him yet. He began walking as naturally as he could manage, his heart again racing.
Connor felt eyes on him once more. Before he could master himself he turned his head, seeing the taller man watching him. Recognition flashed – the squinty eyes, the patchy blonde beard. It was the man who pulled Lucia from her bedroom in the villa, who had put a knife to her throat, who had held her down in the courtyard that autumn day so long ago – Arastan’s man. But that was impossible – Arastan was with Sarus, who had returned to his master Honorius.
Then it was all clear.
Connor started walking faster. Though he could not run and attract the attention of all these men, it no longer mattered if the taller man knew that he had been recognized or not. Nor could Connor just scream havoc – if he alerted everyone the wrong way it would have the same effect as shouting “fire” in a crowded basilica. Sarus’ men could fade away while the other Goths slew each other in their panic. No – he had to get back and tell Valia; because after all, he knew exactly where they were going.
Connor risked another glance over his shoulder. The taller man was following him now, his accomplice in tow. They were walking quickly. Connor began to run.
Connor sped amidst the tents. At first he started to zigzag his course, but soon realized that he was more likely to lose his way than lose his pursuers. He could feel the two hunters behind him as much as hear them, but if others followed he did not know. Some of the warriors within their tents stirred as he passed, but no one came out. As Connor reached the edge of the camp he saw that the sentry was nowhere in sight. Connor was on his own.
He crossed into the open field, praying that he would not twist his ankle or miss his footing in the dark. That would be all it would take to bring his death. He could sense the intent of the two men, knew that they had their weapons drawn. Their lives depended upon catching him as much as his depended on escaping them, and they ran with determination. They were close enough that he could hear their breathing, hear the rings of their chain mail shake as their feet pounded the ground. But Connor allowed himself no time for fear – he was going to alert the Visigoths one way or the other, it was only a question of on whose terms. He knew exactly what to do, but first had to perceive exactly where his enemies were. Timing would be everything.
“Do you remember me?” Connor said, his eyes on his footing in the dim moonlight, his arms pumping as he ran.
“We remember you well,” the taller man said. “We’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
They were very close – almost within reach. Their breath was ragged, and they were more taxed than he running in their mail; but they still had ample strength left.
“What if I surrender?” Connor called back. He slid his baldric off over his shoulder, holding Archangel by the scabbard with his left hand as he ran.
“We’re bringing your head back to Sarus,” the other man said. Connor could tell that he was younger and was trying to show off for his comrade.
“And when all this is over we’ll take your woman back to Arastan,” the taller man said, practically upon him. “Drop your sword and make it easy on yourself.”
They were almost within blade-reach. He had them.
Connor leaped in the air, drawing Archangel as he turned a half circle. As he landed he swept the scabbard across, redirecting the taller man’s slash. Simultaneously, Archangel hissed free and bit towards the younger man’s neck. The younger man started to duck, protecting his neck but took the blade across his face. Connor entangled the taller man’s sword arm with his scabbard and baldric, using the sweep of his shoulder to pull the off-balanced Goth in. All it took was a shift of his hips to shove Archangel’s point up through the warrior’s mail into his lower belly. The taller man’s blue eyes went wide as the spatha pierced muscle, entrails, diaphragm, and lungs. Connor slung him into the path of the younger man, jerking Archangel free, slinging blood and bile across the grass. As the younger man tried to push away the dying warrior and free his sword, Connor swung his spatha straight down on the man’s head. The younger man’s legs buckled and he fell on top of the other who still gasped for breath.
Connor wiped the gore from his blade on his enemy’s cloak as he looked into the taller man’s eyes.
“Thank you for making it easy for me,” he said. He slung his baldric on once more and took off towards his camp.
The fight had taken seconds, but it was time he did not have. He raced across the open ground – a distance of only five or six hundred meters, though it seemed a vast expanse. Finally the ground began to raise towards the tents of the Visigoth cavalry.
“Valia! Gaiseric! Henric! Rise! Rise!”
Connor did not wait for an answer, but made for his horse. Fingal started as Connor approached him so quickly, but the gray held his ground. Connor set about bridling him – there would be no time for much else.
Lucia was the first one from the tents – her green eyes wide in fear.
“Get my mail!” Connor called to her. “My shield!”
“What is it?” Valia called, a naked sword already in his grip.
“Sarus!” Connor shouted as others gathered around. “Assembling his men w
ithin Alaric’s camp.”
“Horses and weapons, swiftly!” Valia added his voice to Connor’s. “Sarus will try to kill Alaric. Rally to his tent!”
Everyone was moving. Connor led his horse away from the others and then swung up to his bare back. Lucia was soon at his side.
“Be careful,” she said, as he pulled his mail on. There was no time to adjust the laces. He replaced his baldric once more and took his shield from her.
“I love you,” Lucia said, though Connor was so taken up in what was going on that he did not at first perceive what she had said.
Valia was soon mounted and came up next to them.
“I’m going to kill those men for you,” Connor told Lucia. Lucia shot a contemptuous glance at Valia, the wielder of her brother’s sword.
“Just come back to me alive,” Lucia said.
Without another word they were on their way – Valia in the lead and Connor almost right beside him. There was no time to wait for the entire force to assemble. A battle within the confines of their own encampment would make cavalry work impossible. They just needed to get there. Steadily men took to their sparsely-tacked horses; helmets unstrapped, extra weapons left behind, pre-battle preparations and rituals neglected. They rushed to save their king and their people. They rushed to take their revenge on the men who had betrayed them.
***
“Lord Valia?” one of the three sentries called even before they had reached the edge of the central camp.
Valia’s horse kicked up clods of dirt as it skidded to a halt just in front of the men. The others followed suit, coming together more than a hundred horses strong.
“The King is in danger!” Valia called. “Run, tell your lords. Have them make ready and respond to trouble; but tell them to have their men keep their discipline. If panic spreads many lives will be lost. Pass the word.”
The sentries did not question them further but headed off in different directions. Valia was part of the King’s family and had often come there. Seeing he and his men arrayed in war gear had been enough to convince them of the urgency. Connor looked ahead towards the tall tents of the Visigoth high command – Alaric, Ataulf, and the others – only a few hundred meters away.
Suddenly there were screams and the sounds of iron on iron. They were too late.
Valia kicked his horse up to a canter – as fast as he dared go in such tight quarters. Men and women were already pouring from their tents, most staggering about in confusion. A few were arming themselves, and it was only a matter of seconds before some swung out at the column of horsemen.
Valia and his men screamed out the password “wenjan” in the Gothic tongue, though hope was getting farther away. The men looked to their safety as best as they could, though within a hundred meters two of them were already wounded.
“Assemble on your battle lines and hold!” Valia called to any of the Visigoths on foot aware enough to listen. They heeded, but no sooner had order appeared in one area then confusion appeared elsewhere. Arduously, they worked their way through the crowd towards Alaric’s tents – where they knew they would find Sarus.
The commotion of battle grew louder, and then all at once the crowd was gone – behind them. The round pavilions of the high command were just ahead, their tall center posts topped with banners that lay limp in the still air. Only a few paces ahead of the tents what was left of Alaric’s bodyguard stood side by side, their round shields locked together as they fought the press of their enemies. They stretched their line between two larger tents; but these provided no real barrier and the men at the flanks were in danger of being caught by any attackers who might come around them. Ataulf stood in the center; but there were only about fifty others, and most of these had been caught without armor as they arose to their brothers screaming under the assassins’ blades.
Connor saw Sarus standing at the center of his force, his long sword in his hand and his long black hair hanging from under his fearsome helmet. Arastan was to his left, and his other son Struan to his right. The wave of revulsion that washed over Connor was almost overwhelming as he saw these murderers and traitors again; a cascade of memories and all the emotions attached to them racing through his mind. But besides their personal nature, those past betrayals were nothing compared to this – attacking their own people on the very night that peace seemed within reach. The same men who had filtered in small groups through the unsuspecting camp to their rallying point were now a force of two hundred or so. They were well armed and armored, having easily stolen shields which other Visigoths had stored outside their tents. They formed a shield wall that was bigger and deeper than Ataulf’s; and if they failed to merely push his down they would just envelope it and cut the bodyguards to pieces.
Valia jumped off his horse, with Connor and the others right behind him. They readied their shields and drew iron.
There was a ripping sound as the back of Alaric’s tent was cut open from the inside. As the King stepped out, he saw Valia’s men and immediately leveled his sword for battle.
“Lord King,” Valia said. “Take my horse and go.”
“I will stay and fight,” Alaric said. “Take my family.”
The tall, auburn-haired Goth led out his wife and three young girls. Connor picked up the youngest one – a tiny, bony child with brown hair and terrified blue eyes – and set her up on his horse. Without assistance, her older sister jumped up behind her.
“Gaiseric – take ten men and get them to safety,” Valia ordered.
“I’ll hurry back,” Gaiseric said, giving Alaric’s stunning wife a boost onto Valia’s horse.
“Protect my husband, brother,” the Queen said to Valia.
“I will,” Valia said, lifting her daughter up to her.
“Go!” Alaric said, and as he turned away from his family towards where his warriors struggled, a dramatic change came over him. His handsome face contorted grotesquely, and Connor thought he could almost see the bare muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest grow as they filled with his hot blood. The veins of his neck stood up as he emitted a guttural, ear-splitting battle cry. Valia and his men echoed it, and as one they ran towards their kinsmen’s shield wall.
The moments that followed were complete chaos. Connor was behind one of the bodyguards, pushing into him with his shield, reinforcing him against the press of the enemy. Valia was beside him with Alaric just past him. Tuldin was to Connor’s right, his stocky body leaning into his shield and a maniacal look rendering his scarred face grotesque. He could not see Henric, who may have taken men over to either of the flanks. Connor dug his heel into the ground and held pressure, as the front line bashed their shields into the enemies’ front line in a four hundred man shoving match. He was deafened by the battle cries, screams of pain, the crash of wood and the clang of iron, and the sickening sounds of bones breaking and metal piercing flesh. The air was thick with the reek of blood, excrement, and the smell of fear-gripped men. Connor could barely see, could barely breathe. There was pressure on all sides as men pushed forward, trying desperately to keep the other side back, knowing that if they gave ground then they would soon die. And in all this, only one sentient thought broke through the chaos in Connor’s mind – Sarus had more than three hundred men but they were only fighting about two hundred; so where were the others?
For a moment, Connor became aware that the battle may be growing. Everything was getting louder, the chaos was intensifying. Then suddenly the warrior he had been supporting just suddenly was not there anymore. Connor fell forward, into his place. He struggled to maintain his footing as he slid on something slippery below him, but all he could see were the shields in front of him. Fighting almost blind, he braced his shield with his left shoulder and his uncovered head and planted his feet squarely. He stabbed Archangel under his shield. Beside him Tuldin was laughing as he stabbed his wicked blade downward over the moving barrier. To his other side Valia was roaring a battle cry and thrusting as if every stroke would be a kill stroke. Connor fe
lt his faceless enemy’s pressure on his shield change, and so he was able to shift his body away just as the foe lunged his blade towards his groin. Connor smashed down with the edge of his shield into the seemingly disembodied arm. Just as he did, Tuldin struck down diagonally, killing the man. Connor pushed the corpse back before Sarus’ men could fill the gap. Now he used this gap to thrust Archangel through over and over again. He struck metal and flesh. He heard screams of pain and felt the pressure in front of him lessen. But even at that moment a long spear slid over his shield. Connor rolled with the blow just enough to protect his head, and the spear glanced off of his mailed back. Connor struck his shield forward, exposing himself to try to strike his assailant with the edge. It was at that moment that he saw Arastan – just two spaces away. And Arastan saw him.
The furor was on Connor now. He bashed forward with his shield, struck with his sword, and pushed with all of his weight. The strength of his enemy seemed weak. But even as Connor slashed his blade across the spearman’s legs and then struck down from overhead, he felt the force of his own people behind him lessening. He could not turn to look, but the cries of horses reached his ears. They were under attack from behind by horsemen. Sarus’ other men had come.
With renewed desperation Connor pushed forward beside his friends. There was nothing else to do. The men behind him would have to defend them from the cavalry. If they failed to do so they would die. It was that simple. Connor fought with fury, exposing himself more and more to risk attacks on the line of shields. There was no longer time for caution; just crush or be crushed.
“They’re breaking!” Valia called out. “Harder, now!”
There was a great crashing sound, and then for a moment the pressure against them became much greater instead of less. But then the energy behind the enemy shield wall fractured. Connor realized that Sarus must also be attacked from behind. With a great shout, Connor pushed forward, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he was able to step forward unopposed. The shield walls were gone. Now there was just a melee. There was too much movement to see, too much happening to understand. Connor scanned the scene for Arastan and then ran for him.
The Songs of Slaves Page 37