Lest Darkness Fall

by L. Sprague Camp

  The crossbow snapped. There was a short splush, and fragments of apple flew about. Urias, grinning, picked pieces of apple out of his hair and walked back.

  "Do you find the demonstration impressive, my lord?" Padway asked.

  "Yes, quite," said Hlodovik. "Let's see that device. Hm-m-m. Of course, the brave Franks don't believe that any battle was ever won by a lot of silly arrows. But for hunting, now, this mightn't be bad. How does it work? I see; you pull the string back to here—"

  While Fritharik was demonstrating the crossbow, Padway took Urias aside and told him, in a low tone, just what he thought of such a fool stunt. Urias tried to look serious, but couldn't help a faint, small-boy grin. Then there was another snap, and something whizzed between them, not a foot from Padway's face. They jumped and spun around. Hlodovik was holding the crossbow, a foolish look on his long face. "I didn't know it went off so easily," he said.

  Fritharik lost his temper. "What are you trying to do, you drunken fool? Kill somebody—"

  "What's that? You call me a fool? Why—" and the Frank's sword came halfway out of the scabbard.

  Fritharik jumped back and grabbed his own sword hilt. Padway and Urias pounced on the two and grabbed their elbows.

  "Calm yourself, my lord!" cried Padway. "It's nothing to start a fight over. I'll apologize personally."

  The Frank merely got madder and tried to shake off Padway. "I'll teach that low-born bastard! My honor is insulted!"—he shouted. Several Gothic soldiers loafing around the field looked up and trotted over. Hlodovik saw them coming and put his sword back, growling: "This is fine treatment for the representative of King Theudebert, King Hildebert, and King Hlotokar. Just wait till they hear of this."

  Padway tried to mollify him, but Hlodovik merely grumped, and soon left Ravenna. Padway dispatched a warning to Sisigis to be on the lookout for a Frankish attack. His conscience bothered him a good deal. In a way he thought he ought to have tried to appease the Franks, as he hated the idea of being responsible for war. But he knew that that fierce and treacherous tribe would only take each concession as a sign of weakness. The time to stop the Franks was the first time.

  Then another envoy arrived, this time from the Kutrigurs or Bulgarian Huns. The usher told Padway: "He's very dignified; doesn't speak any Latin or Gothic, so he uses an interpreter. Says he's a boyar, whatever that is."

  "Show him in."

  The Bulgarian envoy was a stocky, bowlegged man with high cheek bones, a fiercely upswept mustache, and a nose even bigger than Padway's. He wore a handsome furlined coat, baggy trousers, and a silk turban wound about his shaven skull, from the rear of which two black pigtails jutted absurdly. Despite the finery, Padway found reason to suspect that the man had never had a bath in his life. The interpreter was a small, nervous Thracian who hovered a pace to the Bulgar's left and rear.

  The Bulgar clumped in, bowed stiffly, and did not offer to shake hands. Probably not done among the Huns, thought Padway. He bowed back and indicated a chair. He regretted having done so a moment later, when the Bulgar hiked his boots up on the upholstery and sat cross-legged. Then he began to speak, in a strangely musical tongue which Padway surmised was related to Turkish. He stopped every three or four words for the interpreter to translate. It ran something like this:

  Envoy: (Twitter, twitter.)

  Interpreter: I am the Boyar Karojan—

  Envoy: ( Twitter, twitter.)

  Interpreter: The son of Chakir—

  Envoy: (Twitter, twitter.)

  Interpreter. Who was the son of Tardu—

  Envoy: (Twitter, twitter.)

  Interpreter: Envoy of Kardam—

  Envoy: (Twitter, twitter.)

  Interpreter: The son of Kapagan—

  Envoy: (Twitter, twitter.)

  Interpreter: And Great Khan of the Kutrigurs.

  It was distracting to listen to, but not without a certain poetic grandeur. The Bulgar paused impassively at that point. Padway identified himself, and the duo began again:

  "My master, the Great Khan—"

  "Has received an offer from Justinian, Emperor of the Romans—"

  "Of fifty thousand solidi—"

  "To refrain from invading his dominions."

  "If Thiudahad, King of the Goths—"

  "Will make us a better offer—"

  "We will ravage Thrace—"

  "And leave the Gothic realm alone."

  "If he does not—"

  "We will take Justinian's gold—"

  "And invade the Gothic territories—"

  "Of Pannonia and Noricum."

  Padway cleared his throat and began his reply, pausing for translation. This method had its advantages, he found. It gave him time to think.

  "My master, Thiudahad, King of the Goths and Italians—"

  "Authorizes me to say—"

  "That he has better use for his money—"

  "Than to bribe people not to attack him—"

  "And that if the Kutrigurs think—"

  "That they can invade our territory—"

  "They are welcome to try—"

  "But that we cannot guarantee them—"

  "A very hospitable reception."

  The envoy replied:

  "Think man, on what you say."

  "For the armies of the Kutrigurs—"

  "Cover the Sarmatian steppe like locusts."

  "The hoofbeats of their horses—"

  "Are a mighty thunder."

  "The flight of their arrows—"

  "Darkens the sun."

  "Where they have passed—"

  "Not even grass will grow."

  Padway replied:

  "Most excellent Karojan—"

  "What you say may be true."

  "But in spite of their thundering and sun-darkening—"

  "The last time the Kutrigurs—"

  "Assailed our land, a few years ago—"

  "They got the pants beat off them."

  As this was translated, the Bulgar looked puzzled for a moment. Then he turned red. Padway thought he was angry, but it soon appeared that he was trying to keep from laughing. He said between sputters:

  "This time, man, it will be different."

  "If any pants are lost—"

  "They will be yours."

  "How would this be?"

  "You pay us sixty thousand—"

  "In three installments—"

  "Of twenty thousand each?"

  But Padway was immovable. The Bulgar finished:

  "I shall inform my master—"

  "Kardam, the Great Khan of the Kutrigurs—"

  "Of your obduracy."

  "For a reasonable bribe—"

  "I am prepared to tell him—"

  "Of the might of the Gothic arms—"

  "In terms that shall dissuade him—"

  "From his projected invasion."

  Padway beat the Bulgar down to half the bribe he originally asked, and they parted on the best of terms. When he went around to his quarters he found Fritharik trying to wind a towel around his head.

  The Vandal looked up with guilty embarrassment. "I was trying, excellent boss, to make a headgear like that of the Hunnish gentleman. It has style."

  Padway had long since decided that Thiudahad was a pathological case. But lately the little king was showing more definite signs of mental failure. For instance, when Padway went to see about a new inheritance law, Thiudahad gravely listened to him explain the reasons that the Royal Council and Cassiodorus had agreed upon bringing the Gothic law more into line with the Roman.

  Then he said: "When are you going to put out another book in my name, Martinus? Your name is Martinus, isn't it? Martinus Paduei, Martinus Paduei. Didn't I appoint you prefect or something? Dear me, I can't seem to remember anything. Now, what's this you want to see me about? Always business, business, business. I hate business. Scholarship is more important. Silly state papers. What is it, an order for an execution? I hope you're going to torture the rascal as he deser
ves. I can't understand this absurd prejudice of yours against torture. The people aren't happy unless they're terrified of their government. Let's see, what was I talking about?"

  It was convenient in one way, as Thiudahad didn't bother him much. But it was awkward when the king simply refused to listen to him or to sign anything for a day at a time.

  Then he found himself in a hot dispute with the paymaster-general of the Gothic army. The latter refused to put the Imperialist mercenaries whom Padway had captured on the rolls. Padway argued that the men were first-rate soldiers who seemed glad enough to serve the Italo-Gothic state, and that it would cost little more to enlist them than to continue to feed them as prisoners. The paymaster-general replied that national defense had been a prerogative of the Goths since the time of Theoderik, and the men in question were not, with some few exceptions, Goths. Q. E. D.

  Each stubbornly maintained his point, so the dispute was carried to Thiudahad. The king listened to the argument with a spacious air of wisdom.

  Then he sent the paymaster-general away and told Padway: "Lots to be said on both sides, dear sir, lots to be said on both sides: Now, if I decide in your favor, I shall expect a suitable command for my son, Thiudegiskel."

  Padway was horrified, though he tried not to show it. "But, my lord king, what military experience has Thiudegiskel had?"

  "None; that's just the trouble. Spends all his time drinking and wenching with his wild young friends. He needs a bit of responsibility. Something good, consistent with the dignity of his birth."

  Padway argued some more. But he didn't say that he couldn't imagine a worse commander than this self-conceited and arrogant puppy. Thiudahad was obstinate. "After all, Martinus, I'm king, am I not? You can't browbeat me and you can't frighten me with your Wittigis. Heh, heh I'll have a surprise for you one of these days. What was I talking about? Oh, yes. You do, I think, owe Thiudegiskel something for putting him in that horrid prison camp—"

  "But I didn't put him in jail—"

  "Don't interrupt, Martinus. It isn't considerate. Either you give him a command, or I decide in favor of the other man, what's-his-name. That is my final royal word."

  So Padway gave in. Thiudegiskel was put in command of the Gothic forces in Calabria, where, Padway hoped, he wouldn't be able to do much harm. Later he had occasion to remember that hope.

  Padway may seem rash to have incorporated such an alien element as the ex-Imperialists in the Italo-Gothic army. But in this age there was no such thing as nationalism in the modern sense. The ties that counted were those of religion and personal loyalty to a commander. Many of the Imperialists were Thracian Goths who had remained in the Balkans at that time of the migration under Theoderik. And some Italian Goths had served the Empire as mercenaries. They mixed with little prejudice on either side.

  Then three things happened. General Sisigis sent word of suspicious activity among the Franks.

  Padway got a letter from Thomasus, which told of an attempt on the life of ex-King Wittigis. The assassin had inexplicably sneaked into the dugout, where Wittigis, though slightly wounded in the process, had killed him with his bare hands. Nobody knew who the assassin was until Wittigis had declared, with many a bloodcurdling curse, that he recognized the man as an old-time secret agent of Thiudahad. Padway knew what that meant. Thiudahad had discovered Wittigis' whereabouts, and meant to put his rival out of the way. If he succeeded, he'd be prepared to defy Padway's management, or even to heave him out of his office. Or worse.

  Finally Padway got a letter from Justinian. It read:

  Flavius Anicius Justinian, Emperor of the Romans, to King Thiudahad, Greetings.

  Our serenity's attention has been called to the terms which you propose for termination of the war between us.

  We find these terms so absurd and unreasonable that our deigning to reply at all is an act of great condescension on our part. Our holy endeavor to recover for the Empire the provinces of western Europe, which belonged to our forebears and rightfully belong to us, will be carried through to a victorious conclusion.

  As for our former general, Flavius Belisarius, his refusal of parole is an act of gross disloyalty, which we shall fittingly punish in due course. Meanwhile the illustrious Belisarius may consider himself free of all obligations to us. Nay more, we order him to place himself unreservedly under the orders of that infamous heretic and agent of the Evil One who calls himself Martinus of Padua, of whom we have heard.

  We are confident that, between the incompetence and cowardice of Belisarius and the heavenly wrath that will attach to those who submit to the unclean touch of the diabolical Martinus, the doom of the Gothic kingdom will not be long delayed.

  Padway realized, with a slightly sick feeling, that he had a lot to learn about diplomacy. His defiance of Justinian, and of the Frankish kings, and of the Bulgars, had each been justified, considered by itself. But he shouldn't have committed himself to taking them on all at once.

  The thunderheads were piling up fast.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Padway dashed back to Rome and showed Justinian's letter to Belisarius. He thought he had seldom seen a more unhappy man than the stalwart Thracian.

  "I don't know," was all Belisarius would say in answer to his questions. "I shall have to think."

  Padway got an interview with Belisarius' wife, Antonina. He got along fine with this slim, vigorous redhead.

  She said: "I told him repeatedly that he'd get nothing but ingratitude from Justinian. But you know how he is—reasonable about everything except what concerns his honor. The only thing that would make me hesitate is my friendship with the Empress Theodora. That's not a connection to be thrown over lightly. But after this letter—I'll do what I can, excellent Martinus."

  Belisarius, to Padway's unconcealed delight, finally capitulated.

  The immediate danger point seemed to be Provence. Padway's runner-collecting service had gathered a story of another bribe paid by Justinian to the Franks to attack the Goths. So Padway did some shuffling. Asinar, who had sat at Senia for months without the gumption to move against the Imperialists in Spalato, was ordered home. Sisigis, who if no genius was not obviously incompetent, was transferred to command of Asinar's Dalmatian army. And Belisarius was given command of Sisigis' forces in Gaul. Belisarius, before leaving for the North, asked Padway for all the information available about the Franks.

  Padway explained: "Brave, treacherous, and stupid. They have nothing but unarmored infantry, who fight in a single deep column. They come whooping along, hurl a volley of throwing-axes and javelins, and close with the sword. If you can stop them by a line of reliable pikemen, or by cavalry charges, they're suckers for mounted archers. They're very numerous, but such a huge mass of infantry can't forage enough territory to keep themselves fed. So they have to keep moving or starve.

  "Moreover, they're so primitive that their soldiers are not paid at all. They're expected to make their living by looting. If you can hold them in one spot long enough, they melt away by desertion. But don't underestimate their numbers and ferocity.

  "Try to send agents into Burgundy to rouse the Burgunds against the Franks, who conquered them only a few years ago." He explained that the Burgunds were of East-German origin, like the Goths and Lombards, spoke a language much like theirs, and like them were primarily stockraisers. Hence they did not get on with the West-German Franks, who were agriculturists when they were not devastating their neighbors' territory.

  If there was going to be more war, Padway knew one invention that would settle it definitely in the Italo-Goths' favor. Gunpowder was made of sulphur, charcoal, and saltpeter. Padway had learned that in the sixth grade. The first two were available without question.

  He supposed that potassium nitrate could be obtained somewhere as a mineral. But he did not know where, or what it would look like. He could not synthesize it with the equipment at hand, even had he known enough chemistry. But he remembered reading that it occurred at the bottom of manure-piles. And
he remembered an enormous pile in Nevitta's yard.

  He called on Nevitta and asked for permission to dig. He whooped with joy when, sure enough, there were the crystals, looking like maple sugar. Nevitta asked him if he was crazy.

  "Sure," grinned Padway. Didn't you know? I've been that way for years."

  His old house on Long Street was as full of activity as ever, despite the move to Florence. It was used as Rome headquarters by the Telegraph Company. Padway was having another press set up. And now the remaining space downstairs became a chemical laboratory. Padway did not know what proportions of the three ingredients made good gunpowder, and the only way to find out was by experiment.

  He gave orders, in the government's name, for casting and boring a cannon. The brass foundry that took the job was not co-operative. They had never seen such a contraption and were not sure they could make it. What did he want this tube for, a flower pot?

  It took them an interminable time to get the pattern and core made, despite the simplicity of the thing. The first one they delivered looked all right, until Padway examined the breach end closely. The metal here was spongy and pitted. The gun would have blown up the first time it was fired.

  The trouble was that it had been cast muzzle down. The solution was to add a foot to the length of the barrel, cast it muzzle up, and saw off the last foot of flawed brass.

  His efforts to produce gunpowder got nowhere. Lots of proportions of the ingredients would burn beautifully when ignited. But they did not explode. He tried all proportions; he varied his method of mixing. Still all he got was a lively sizzle, a big yellow flame, and a stench. He tried packing the stuff into improvised firecrackers. They went fuff. They would not go bang.

  Perhaps he had to touch off a large quantity at once, more tightly compressed yet. He pestered the foundry daily until the second cannon appeared.

  Early next morning he and Fritharik and a couple of helpers mounted the cannon on a crude carriage of planks in a vacant space near the Viminal Gate. The helpers had previously piled up a sandhill for a target, thirty feet from the gun.

  Padway rammed several pounds of powder down the barrel, and a cast-iron ball after it. He filled the touch-hole.