“It is the twenty-fourth of August,” an older man several paces behind him stage whispered. “Two years to the day after the massacre of the foederati families. Two years since we came to these walls. It’s time to make things right, Brothers. It’s time to bring judgment on the rulers of the world.”
The warriors around him nodded solemnly, staring at the gates. Connor’s heart was pounding. He felt as if he could feel death near at hand, the way he had felt in battle so many times. But as he made up one of a thousand pairs of eyes staring at the unassailable walls and impenetrable gates he did not know why he should feel this way – all was still.
Suddenly, they heard the sounds of metal unlatching, of heavy timbers sliding back, of iron chains coiling on pulleys. No one spoke as the doors of the Salarian Gate separated – no one could. Even as the massive doors were pushed open outward all of the Visigoths were silent.
Valia was the first to recover.
Connor leapt to his feet and ran to Valia’s side, leading his troops behind him. As they closed the distance through the still-silent kill zone the thousand-strong force coalesced, a legion of barbarians running unchallenged towards the very threshold of Rome.
Ahead Connor could see the forms of men near the gates, on the ramparts, occupying the gate house. They were not Roman soldiers. They were Goths – though clean shaven and wearing simple white tunics and sandals. But they were armed with swords and knives, and as Connor drew closer he could see that these blades were freshly bloodied.
The slaves – for that is what they appeared to be – were waving them in with their sword arms while keeping a finger of their free hands to their lips in a reminder of silence. To Connor’s surprise, his forces kept their discipline and uttered no battle cry as they reached the gates of their ancient rival. As Valia and the others had attacked the bacaudae in silence in the Alpine pass, so this larger force came upon their prey in the lethal silence of wolves.
Suddenly the design of it was clear. This was the reason that Alaric did not waste lives attacking impregnable Ravenna. This was why the Goths did not waste scarce resources building siege works, but lulled their victims into lethargy with inactivity and blockade. Alaric had already planted his stratagem – a few hundred young men, given up to the wealthiest families of Rome as slaves. Connor did not know how long the men had been in the city, or how they had played their part, but at the appointed time they had appeared out of the darkness, slaughtered the guards, and opened the mighty gates. The Romans always believed that they were the descendants of the survivors of Troy, Connor mused. Here they were, their great walls once again undone by a Trojan horse.
With shield and spear Connor entered through the gates, crossing the threshold into Rome at the head of an army that had come to violate the Mother of the World. The weight of conviction drug down on his pounding heart, the abomination of his mission suddenly undeniable. Yet as he took his first look at the city from within the walls, even this sense was knocked aside. Connor gasped as he beheld the grandeur of the place. The rear ranks of the Visigoth force almost stumbled into the first ranks as these men two were overwhelmed by the size, scale, and endless intricacy of the buildings and the order of the deserted streets. The monuments and mansions seemed to draw their eyes ahead to the magnificent Baths of Diocletian – five times the height of a man and as big as a town’s agora, a masterwork of marble and granite. To their right, just several hundred meters from the wall spread the Palace of Sallust – the ancient home of many of the emperors. Rising story upon story, with marble columns and gilded dome, the opulent structure was known to be the home of emperors who spurned the many luxuries of the other palaces. Connor shook himself. If this edifice was a home for the humble emperors, then how must the vain live? This was not an assault on the order of the heavens but on the pride of man.
“Fire the gardens!” Valia ordered. “That is our signal to the others.”
A detachment broke off to make it so, disappearing into the shadows of the ancient arcades and pleasure gardens of the elite. Connor felt another pang in his chest, for even in the clouded night he could see how beautiful the gardens were. He could smell the fragrances of the thousands of rare flowers carried on the sluggish summer air. Had they really come all this way just to destroy what was beautiful? How had he become part of this?
Valia sent another detachment to reinforce the insurgents at the gate. Connor looked back at the warriors who had posed as slaves. Many of them were donning the mail shirts and taking up the shields of the legionaries they had killed.
“Stick close!” Valia called as the first fire light shone in the arbors. “This city is breached but far from fallen. The enemy will soon be upon us!”
The few men who had forgotten themselves and were already looking for plunder remembered their discipline and returned to their positions. Several hundred meters from the Porta Saleria the lines straightened and the shield wall began to lock together.
Light from the growing flames reflected on Valia’s fierce helmet. His blonde hair hung down in braids from under the broad back rim. Despite the heat, his wolf skin mantle was on his shoulders. His blue shield was ready and his fateful spatha brandished.
“Forward!” he shouted, his mighty voice sounding over the agora. Abandoning their stealth, the Visigoths all shouted their war cry. They marched forward together in formation, their left step landing together as the Roman centurions had taught their fathers. They marched on the Baths of Diocletian, where Valia knew three roads to converge – where he expected to find the soldiers of Rome advancing towards them.
The Gardens of Sallust burned, fire spreading from canopy to canopy, flames reaching into the sky. Connor though he could hear the cry come up from outside the walls. The Visigoth host had seen their signal. But this distant cry was drowned out by the tumult that now began all around them, as the Romans awoke to the sight of fire and smell of smoke and knew instantly what horrible meaning it held. Connor marched at Valia’s left hand. He forced his eyes straight ahead, letting the sights of the city and the sound of the chaos drift by. He tried to banish the confusion of his thoughts and lock his mind on only one concern – the approaching legion. They had to hold this ground long enough for the opening to be fully exploited, for the greater Visigoth force to get safely inside, or this could all be for not – Rome would hold, and the Visigoths forced to retreat under heavy losses to try to find food and safety in a hostile land. They must keep the legion away from the open gate.
Reaching the cross roads, Valia called for his men to halt. The shield wall tightened, the warriors peering over the willow boards towards all the open streets. Nervous fingers worked on leather and ash shafts. Boasts were proclaimed and prayers were muttered as the warriors touched their crosses and sacred amulets. They did not have long to wait. Within minutes they heard the pounding of hobnailed sandals on cobblestoned streets, the shake of rings on a thousand mail shirts, the rattle of shields against shoulders and shins. The legion was coming.
With the would-be saviors of the city approaching, Connor braced himself for a hail of stones cast by slings, or projectiles thrown from nearby windows. He expected the rear ranks of the shield wall to be set upon by a mob with knives or clubs. But the only citizens Connor saw were running away. He glimpsed them moving through the alleyways, casting terrified glances over their shoulders at the invaders. Their eyes were sunken, their bodies thin and wasted from the repeated famine and disease of the last two years. Equestrians and plebes, men and women alike looked like wraiths as they used all their strength to escape back just another mile or two away from those that would further victimize them. Connor saw no children, and wondered if it might be that so many of them had already died. The cries of the Gothic host already entering by the gate filled the air; but still only few citizens had taken to the streets. More were probably hiding, double-locking their doors as if that could avert the fury of the coming storm.
A tall Goth in the second rank behind Connor catcal
led as a young woman bolted from a nearby door. Connor wanted to turn and punch him in his ugly mouth. They had talked of revenge – even Connor had accepted it. The Romans had tried to steal his life. Dania languished under their oppression even now, and many of his friends were reduced to cold bones in the ground because of the greedy systems they had instituted and enforced. But tonight could be no real revenge. Let the fools keep their palaces and their gold. These wraiths that fled in fear were already ruined.
But the time for thinking was over. The choices had all already been made. The front ranks of the Roman legion emerged from the shadowed streets, their general riding on a white stallion. It was time for battle.
Valia held up his sword, the signal for his men to hold their ground. The Romans spread out from marching formation to a shield wall the width of the open ground between the massive Diocletian Baths and the long, narrow row of storehouses. Connor could see them well – the fires in the pleasure gardens of Sallust had spread, casting light across the legions of Rome. The orange glow reflected on the burnished helmets, and the lorica hamate mail shirts. These were the guardians of Rome, and unlike the legions along the frontier they were uniformly armored and carried old style rectangular scutum shields and the formidable pilum javelins that had made their armies famous. Though they had been roused from their barracks in the dead of night and their gear must have been hastily donned, they looked parade-sharp in their red tunics and polished baldrics. The ornamental bronze on their scabbards and shields glowed. Their discipline was perfect as they moved swiftly into formation, as a single creature governed by a single mind. But as Connor looked closely at their hard features he could sense the masked fear in their eyes. Though the soldiers had received more liberal rations than the civilians, they were not untouched by the famine and pestilence that reigned here. Connor could see it in the gauntness of their faces, in the fit of their mail. This legion with its bright gold eagle and its perfect battle array was modeled in the glorious tradition and fighting spirit of the greatest empire in the world; and yet they knew that age had passed. Their defeats had become too numerous, their resources too few to pretend that things could go on forever. Connor could see the brave men standing in the last bastions of their world – their old world – and knew that as they looked on his shield wall, back lit by the conflagration, they saw a dark mass of seething barbarians bent on revenge. They could see their own doom.
The general swung his spatha and the Romans began to march forward, covering the ground before the towering edifice that epitomized their culture. Valia swung his sword and the Visigoths sounded their battle cry – but instead of rushing forward as their ancestors may have done, they marched one step at a time, shields locked. The shield walls approached each other as cowering people watched from their hiding places, too terrified to look away. Behind the Goths the flames were engulfing more and more ground, lighting the way for the others.
“Pilum!” the general shouted.
The Visigoths raised their oval or round shields as the Romans stopped advancing long enough to cast their javelins. There was the briefest whistling of air, and then the fearsome weapons began to hail down. The street came alive with screams and curses as the pilum punched deep into shields and shins. The tall man behind Connor was pierced through the face by the long slender barb of iron fastened to the four foot wooden shaft. The shaft struck Connor in the back of the head as the dying man crumbled, but Connor barely noticed. Two pyramidal iron heads had pierced straight through his shield. The weight of the weapons was dragging his shield down. The man beside him was trying to wrench the javelin from his calf when a late-flying pilum took him through the neck. The Visigoth line faltered as Connor and the others attempted to dislodge the awkward javelins from their shields. It was hopeless – unlike arrows they were designed to stick and bend, rendering shields unusable. But most soldiers could only carry one or two, and so the enemy knew how many to expect. Connor lifted his pierced shield up as a second wave came down. More men screamed as the pilae found flesh. A third iron spike pierced Connor’s shield, coming an inch from his arm. Frustrated, Connor cast his shield aside. He fought the urge to throw his spear, but instead held it fast as the now-disarrayed Visigoth line closed with the charging Roman formation.
The two forces pounded together, the Romans holding their shields high and thrusting frantically with their swords from below. The Gothic shield wall ground their shields against their old foes, stabbing between gaps and slashing overhand. They used hand axes to try to drag down the Roman shields, creating openings for their brethren to thrust spears or swords through.
Connor jabbed his spear past the front rank towards a legionary’s neck. The man in the second rank blocked with his shield. Connor instantly whipped the spear to his right, slicing into the face of the man next to the first. Without his shield, Connor closed with the legionary in front of him in the shield wall. He pressed his body against the Romans shield and thrust his spear once more into the Roman ranks before letting it go. What spear work there had been was done, Connor knew as he rolled away from the thrust of the legionary’s broad-bladed sword. He unsheathed his pugio as he pushed hard in and down on his adversary’s scutum. The Roman’s eyes went wide as Connor stabbed him in the side of the neck. Closing in even tighter, Connor pushed the dying soldier to his side, slamming him into the legionary at his right flank. He whipped Archangel off of his back and started hacking downward around the opening he was creating in the Roman line, trying to cause as much damage as he could before they could close their ranks up again. Valia fought beside him, using his own shield to cover them both. A sword blade glanced off the warlord’s helmet. Valia roared and turned to face his new adversary, but Tuldin cut the legionary’s leg out from under him. Connor, Valia, and Tuldin began to wedge their way into the line, thrusting, shoving, and swinging in frenzy – not caring if they killed their opponents but only trying to break the enemy’s cohesion. Visigoth warriors followed them into the fray. What had been one slain soldier was growing into an epicenter of chaos. If they could wedge their way in further they could make the maelstrom grow to envelope the enemy line. They could turn the battle into a melee – and that was a fight the Visigoths could win.
Connor waded deeper, becoming ever more exposed, trusting his mail and his fortune to protect him. Realizing that every attack opened him up more, he chose his strikes wisely. He used the enemy’s shields against them, using his size and weight to bash into them or swing their wielders down. The screams were deafening. The air was heavy with the reek of death. The road stones had grown slippery with blood.
The Romans were fighting doggedly. They were so well-drilled that they knew how to fill voids and weather attacks without thinking. If they knew that they were doomed it was only making them fight harder. But as the violence carried on the results of famine began to show themselves, and in the shoving match of the shield wall the size of the Visigoths was beginning to come into play. Goths were being cut down at every turn, showing themselves vulnerable to the simple, direct, team tactics of the Romans. But in their minds the Goths had already won. This was their vengeance, their destiny. They had already suffered so long for this. It was no longer the battle but the victory. Though more of their brethren fell in agony and death every moment they had no thought of turning back. They pressed forward, smashing with their greater weight and slashing with their long swords. Experienced in battle after battle, the Visigoths were less afraid. War was what they believed they were born for.
Connor parried a sword cut with Archangel and then stabbed forward with his pugio, but his enemy fell before he could even make contact. All at once the shield wall had broken. Screams of battle and screams of death united as one as the rear of the Roman column was being compressed forward. Men on both sides were being pushed everywhere. Connor realized what was happening – the others had come. The breach of the Porta Salaria had held, and now wave after wave of Goths were pouring into the city. The Roman legion was engulf
ed by the barbarians. Connor turned to see the general’s white horse, now riderless, pushing and kicking its way through the melee. It broke free and began to gallop, up the blood-bathed marble steps and over the porch of the Diocletian Baths, and then through the streets away from the fires, towards the heart of the city.
“A rider came on a pale horse, and his name was Death,” Connor remembered.
Connor turned back towards where the battle line had been seconds before, but he saw the Romans pushed back, set upon by Goths. The Romans were still fighting valiantly, trying to make small bands to better defend themselves now that the fight had gone to three hundred sixty degrees. But there seemed to be three or four Goths to every Roman now, and the odds were getting worse for the legionaries by the moment. Connor searched for Valia and Tuldin. He glimpsed the blood-stained wolf skin mantle ahead of him. Valia was cutting his way through Romans now, cleaving and screaming as if possessed by all the spirits of the ancestors the Romans had killed.
Connor moved towards his friends, readying his sword and dagger as he waded back into the fray. Then he stopped. In his distraction the furor had left him. Connor did not worry, for the battle calm was never far away from him it now seemed; but for some reason he felt that he could not move forward. He was watching the legion being torn to pieces. His place was at Valia’s side. Again he tried to move forward, but could not seem to enter back into reality. The Romans were falling – the steps of the Diocletian Baths were littered with their corpses as the battle had spread there. A group of Visigoths, who did not seem to have taken part in the battle at all, were trying to force the ornately carved doors that led to the wealth inside. Very near Connor’s feet a Visigoth crawled, holding his entrails from falling completely out. Connor was surrounded by the blood-drenched fallen, standing in a spot of ground bereft of the living. He looked down to his bloodied blades, his bloodied hands, and splattered mail. He turned around, back towards the Porta Salaria where the fires burned. The Palace of Sallust seemed to be catching fire, though Connor did not know how marble could burn. The people of Rome, looking like the piteous shades of the lost, were fleeing the black column of warriors that streamed in. It was the tide of judgment.
The Songs of Slaves Page 42