In the cloudy skies vague shapes loomed as if exulting in the slaughter. Hugest of all was a cloaked, implacable figure on a phantom steed. Were those wolves coursing belly-down before him, or a pack of crimson-eared hounds? No man who saw them was able to say. Did wild horns wind?
King Syagrius noticed none of it. Jupiter and Mithras were far from here, and none saw Iesu, and Syagrius was consummately busy. He rode and fought with a kind of inspired madness in knowledge that the Frankish host must be shattered now or not at all. His sword rose and fell, streaming red. Rome was Soissons; Soissons was Rome; and for Rome he fought as his kind had on this soil for nigh onto six hundred years. He hacked and slashed and hacked, grunted without ever shouting or cursing. The business was to slay and Syagrius, Roman, slew. The trained warhorse under him killed as fiercely as he. Its hooves splashed into flesh and broke bones, its iron jaws caught an enemy by the upper arm, lifted him bodily from his feet and shook him, shrieking, until the biceps tore loose and he dropped in a ruined heap. Syagrius slashed and hacked and slashed.
Incredibly, the Franks were not breaking. They fought like the wild men they were. Closing in, they hacked at the hind legs of horses, hamstringing them with great strokes of axes and long, double-edged swords. They seized riders and dragged them down into the dust and blood of the battlefield. There they strove against heavily mailed men; strove with hand-ax or dagger or bared snarling teeth. Bloody madness reined under a crown of sharpened steel and iron. The screaming of maimed horses was even more horrible to hear than that of butchered men. Clanging weapons were as the anvils of a thousand pounding smiths. Men were butchered and died, and horses, and men and men and men.
Syagrius leaped clear as his own horse crashed headlong. Its thrashing hooves brained a Frank who thought to take the Roman commander’s head. Syagrius’s sword, washed with blood and streaming blood, bit through the temple of a glaring savage and into his brain-pan. The fierce eyes glazed and the long-hafted ax fell.
Dismounted among his foes, his shield somehow lost in the fall, Syagrius accepted that he was a dead man. It did not seem to matter. Naught mattered, save taking as many of these barbarian swine as he could into the next world with him. He struck out ragingly. A sword broke on his blood-smeared cuirass and he opened the belly of the Frank responsible.
“My lord! My lord!”
The deep-throated yell announced the arrival of a score of horsemen. Their leader bashed out Frankish brains with his mace even as he shouted. His other hand gripped the rein of a riderless horse. Blinking, shaking sweat from his eyes, Syagrius recognized his aide, Bessas the Goth. Too, he saw that for this instant he stood alone. The battle had eddied around him, in one of those unpredictable and constant freaks of war. Seizing the saddle, he mounted.
Syagrius well knew that but for Bessas’s most timely arrival, he must have died. Yet there was no time to thank the Goth. Syagrius looked about him, and even his strong heart was chilled.
Death!
Nothing but death. Mangled forms and reeking gore.
How many survived, of his splendid cavalry? One man in four? One in five? the foot legions had moved forward in phalanx, and the Franks were breaking those formations, swarming about them, dragging and hacking men down without recking the cost. Even as Syagrius saw them and watched, the limatani faltered. In a moment more they were in full flight.
The Franks, Syagrius had said, can better us in one respect only: Numbers. He had forgotten their half-insane ferocity, or underestimated it. Who could believe this rage to slaughter, this willingness to die?
A Roman could. “God!” he said hoarsely. Then, to Bessas, “Help me rally the horsemen remaining. The Frankish losses have been terrible too. We can reach the city… hold it against them…”
Bessas shook his head. “We couldn’t hold the city now, sir. Let them have it! We can only go there and die. We can ride to the western districts and raise fresh levies. Sir.”
Syagrius blinked. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Aye! We’d no time to raise forces from those regions; the Franks moved too quickly-but now we will have. The barbarians will waste much time in… looting.” He ground his teeth at that thought. He had said it though; it was as good as done. He accepted. “The best man in those parts is that Bicrus, Comes over Nantes. With his backing I can raise all the country from Nantes to Orleans and march north again. Aye, Bessas! Naught will replace what we have lost here… but the Franks cannot replace their losses either, and they are frightful. Nor can they raise a new army, for the bloody barbarians are outside their own country!”
He did not add that they must move swiftly, ere the municipal counts in the north made formal submission to Clovis. He did not add that all hope now hinged on the strength and loyalty of Bicrus, whose example would be required to prevent the bickering counts of the west from doing likewise. Hope was slight enow without such words to dampen it the more. The Lord of Death reigned.
“To Nantes then, sir?”
“To Nantes,” Syagrius said, with a fire of decision that burned away his weariness even while his sword-arm commenced to tremble. “As swiftly as may be! Aye-and in Nantes there is a small errand to be accomplished apart from our main business, now I think on’t. I sent Sigebert of Metz there, to take up the post of chief customs assessor because I had my suspicions of him. Suspicions! Holy Savior! Now I see that he suborned the Franks in my army! That snake prepared them to desert to Clovis and Ragnachar! Need I tell you what is to be done with him when we find him, old friend?”
Bessas spat emphatically. “Nay sir. Ye have no need to tell me, sir.”
“Well horse-it’s Rome you carry now. Fly!”
By sunset, Syagrius and Bessas were riding for the Seine at the head of a grim band of three hundred men. Just over half of them led spare mounts. All were bone-weary from battle and carried such provisions as they had managed to snatch.
Miles behind them, swooping strutting ravens were glutted until they could only just hop. Staring eyeballs vanished down avian gullets in their thousands. Clovis and Ragnachar were utterly victorious. Yet of the twenty thousand men they had led south, barely eight thousand survived to march to the gates of Soissons.
20
An Instinct for Survival
The surface of the black glass mirror swirled smokily, then cleared to its normal vitreous sheen. Lucanor laid it flat on the table and sighed deeply. Sigebert, looking over his shoulder, had seen naught in that surface save the vaguest of moving shapes. They might well have been shadows of his own fancy. Yet they had aroused in him a strange unease.
Lucanor sighed again as he emerged from his far-seeing trance, and Sigebert barked “Well?” because he could restrain himself no longer.
“Victory,” the mage answered. “Utter victory for Frankdom. Syagrius met the host of Clovis and Ragnachar north of the city. His army inflicted fearful losses-and was itself all but annihilated.”
“Ahhh,” Sigebert breathed. Then, suspicously, he added, “But is it truly so? How may I know?”
“I have said so,” Lucanor was so injudicious as to say. “Believe it or not, as you please. I saw. Syagrius has survived the battle and escaped the field. He rides for Nantes at this moment, with some three hundred of his Gothic cavalry. They will camp in the open tonight, I daresay. Having fought a hard battle, so that most of them bear wounds, ’tis unlikely they can continue at their utmost speed. Nor is a Gothic war-horse the swiftest of beasts, especially when it carries a fully armoured man. Yet Syagrius will not waste time. ’Tis a journey of some-what?-two hundred and fifty Romish miles as the raven flies. More, by road. Methinks he cannot arrive in much less than seven days.”
“Hmm. Remounts?”
“They lead some two hundred spare horses. That is another thing-sir; they will have to find forage for so many animals.”
“Not difficult at this season, and them constantly moving on. Syagrius can requisition what he wants. He may have met utter defeat, but it will take time for the stupid Gallo-
Romans to accustom themselves to the idea!”
Frowning, the scarfaced Frank considered. Syagrius and his band must surely rest each night of their journey. Was high summer; there had been little cloud, less rain, and the ground was dry and firm. So, then. Allow them to cover… forty miles in a day. As Lucanor said, seven or eight days seemed about right. Sigebert promptly allowed a safe margin, and gave himself but five days to prepare.
Still, first things first. This time Lucanor had impressed him. Not being an utter fool, however, Sigebert knew that the Antiochite hated him. He considered. Suppose Clovis’s schemes had somehow gone awry? Was there not a possibility that Lucanor might seek to conceal the news for reasons of his own? Suppose the Romans had gained victory and Lucanor was lying… Sigebert’s eyes brightened. His merry smile of anticipation imparted a hideous twist to the scars on his cheek.
“Shall we see how your story resists a little pain?” He drew his dagger.
Lucanor shrieked for some moments, begged for mercy, gasped and wept, groaned, cursed, even threatened retribution-which was empty prating. He knew he dared do naught, for Sigebert’s protection was become his only hope of survival. Yet he could not be induced to deny that he had spoken truth.
At last, at blessed, merciful last, Sigebert One-ear ceased to torment him. He wiped the dagger clean. Lucanor lay huddled, tears mingling with blood on his face.
“I am convinced,” Sigebert said mockingly. “Such a craven as I know you to be had surely confessed to a lie at the first touch of the steel. My lord Clovis is victorious, then. And King-no-longer Syagrius rides hard for this city?” His laugh was short, sharp, ugly. “I can guess what he wishes to do here. There, get up, man,” he said, nudging the mage contemptuously with his toe. “You’re scarcely hurt. Why, I’ve merely nicked you here and there. The blood’s out of all proportion to the cuts. I took a sword-thrust through the side of the mouth and lost an ear without such blubbering.” And he left Lucanor, quivering.
Sigebert gathered twenty of his Frankish warriors. Thus escorted he went to the manse of Bicrus, Count of Nantes. Directly Syagrius arrived in the city, he would of course seek this man. In Bicrus was vested power to raise an army from among the local populace. The several counts of adjacent districts would follow his lead and that of Syagrius, if only because they had no wish to be dispossessed by Franks Clovis favored and would reward.
Sigebert had himself announced, with the statement that he came upon a matter of the greatest urgency for the kingdom. He added that he must see Count Bicrus at once. In short order, the count received the handsomely attired Frank.
Bicrus was another in the mould of Syagrius, though not so much man; a believer in the ancient values of Rome, and a soldier. He ruled his district with thorough competence. Was ill fortune that he should lack a subtle brain and yet have to deal with Sigebert One-ear.
“Well sir,” the jowly, big-nosed man said, unsmiling. “Of great urgency you spoke-for the kingdom, no less. It’s best in that case that neither of us stands on ceremony. Sit, and speak your mind.”
“I shall indeed, my lord Count,” Sigebert said, and mused, Oh, thou plain honest fool! And he watched Bicrus as he seated himself. Plain, indeed! A leather-skinned craggy face, three warts on his big chin, another on the side of his arching nose, and ears that stuck out. Honest he was equally as the Frank well knew, and of indomitable character-and a fool he was not. Bicrus, for instance, did not trust Sigebert one finger’s length.
“It concerns the rebellion of the Frankish foederati against the king,” Sigebert said. “My lord Count will have heard of it by now?”
“Against the Consul Syagrius,” Bicrus corrected, “and thus, against the Empire! I have received news that the Franks march, yes. I’d like to know how the word came to you.”
“My lord, I was once a familiar figure at the court of Soissons,” Sigebert said in a tone of faint reproach. “I have friends there yet, and a great deal of time for… the right sort of gossip. Word came to me, I dare say, but a day to two after it had come to yourself.
“Or even before?” Bicrus suggested grimly. “No matter. I am listening, believe me, with complete attention.”
“Possibly it was even before,” Sigebert agreed airily, as though it hardly mattered; as though it could be only the rankest lack of courtesy for Bicrus to demand why, in that case, he had not been informed at once. “I believe it was. Further news has reached me since, my lord, and in this case I am absolutely certain it will not yet have come to you. The battle has been fought, and the consul’s army destroyed. Utter victory has gone to the, Franks, under the cousin-kings Clovis and Ragnachar.” He added unctuously, “Alas!”
Count Bicrus whitened. “You lie!”
Sigebert affected to look shocked, and said naught.
“How can you know? Proof, man! I must have proof!”
“It will be yours ere long, my lord! The Consul Syagrius has fled, and now makes for this city with the remnant of his Gothic cavalry… a mere three hundred men, and five hundred horses. Doubtless he means to raise a new army here, to fare anew against the Franks.”
“I’ll give commands for the levies to be raised at once,” Bicrus said in instant decision. “The Consul shall find the matter well in hand when he arrives. God help you, Sigebert of Metz, an your warning prove false!”
“Softly, my lord Count,” Sigebert purred. “Softly! There be no cause to recruit the entire countryside. A mere one thousand men of training and experience ought to suffice. So many could whelm with ease the three hundred veterans Syagrius brings with him.”
“What said you? Nay, I heard. Treason!”
Sigebert shook his head. “Smooth timing is all in these matters, my lord Count. What was treason yesterday becomes mere shrewd foresight tomorrow. What appears loyalty now may well be declared treason in as brief a span. Look ye, the victory he has won will make Clovis’s support among his own people complete.” Mention of Ragnachar, Clovis’s ally, co-commander and cousin, was conveniently dropped. “He can raise a new host as easily as Syagrius can raise a new army. With great ease! The Frankish marches teem with wild warriors, but where can Syagrius replace the cavalry so thoroughly destroyed in this sad battle?”
A telling point. Syagrius, riding to Nantes at the head of three hundred men? Bicrus shuddered to think of the slaughter that implied. Why, the Consul had commanded thousands!
Always supposing this Frankish rascal spoke the truth. Bicrus considered it more than doubtful.
“Nay,” Sigebert One-ear went on comfortably, “since Frankish victory is a fact, wise men will accommodate themselves to it. The Church, I make no doubt, has already done so. My lord Clovis has been at some pains to enter the Church’s favour, and methinks the bishops will accept his rule. No bishop, after all, need fear to be deposed from his office by a barbarian who cannot read or write! For the count of a city, matters be somewhat… different.” Sigebert leaned forward. “Consider, my lord Count, the worth of earning King Clovis’s favour by seizing this fugitive Consul when he shows his face here.”
Bicrus controlled himself, though Sigebert’s smirk made it difficult. He spoke practically: “You have not explained how you come to know so much.”
“Yes. I suppose it is out of place in a humble customs assessor! Well, my lord, while I was highly placed at the court of Soissons, I was an agent for King Clovis. Aye, even in those days. Softly, I say! Hear me out! I myself prevailed upon the commanders of the Frankish soldiery to desert to Clovis when the battle was joined. Misfortunately, Syagrius began to suspect me, and sent me here to take up the minor post I now hold. Since Clovis has conquered, I can look to hold a higher place in the world again-not before time, in my opinion!”
He chuckled, enjoying himself. “You see that my goodwill as well as my king’s will be worth the having. Act wisely, and you can be one of the few Roman counts to retain his position. You will probably better it, an you deliver Syagrius up as a captive.”
Bicrus seethed.
Before him sat a fouler traitor then he had dreamed could befoul his city. That he should invite Bicrus into his dirty schemes with the air of one who conferred some immense favour was not to be borne! It should not be borne!
The count’s face crimsoned. “You swine!” he roared. “I’ll crucify you-no, by Heaven, I’ll keep you prisoner for my Lord Syagrius to have the satisfaction of passing that sentence, when he arrives! Guards! Ho, guards-”
“Idiot!” Sigebert snapped. With no further talk, in two long lithe movements, he closed with Count Bicrus and drove a dagger into his throat.
So swift, so ruthless and so wholly unexpected was the deed that even the trained soldier of Rome was taken by surprise. He choked horribly, lifting a hand to the dagger-hilt protruding from the side of his neck. He hadn’t even known Sigebert carried one.
Sigebert watched him fall across the table, and thence to the floor. Rome kicked and clawed in his death agonies, attempting to drag himself to the door. His struggles seemed to go on forever. Even Sigebert was appalled, though he did find the sight fascinating. He couldn’t take his gaze from the stricken man.
“Guards!” Bicrus croaked.
Was his last word ere he shuddered and died on the tiled floor. He’d left a trail of dark blood across the room. It continued now to stain his clothes and spread over the tiles.
The guard opened the door. He was one of Sigebert’s Franks.
“Gods!” he said in awe, at sight of the corpse. Then he remembered himself. “All’s well, sir. The house is in our hands. These town-soldiers couldn’t guard a rabbit hutch. Why, we talked them down. Didn’t even have to kill anybody,” he added with some disappointment.
“Excellent,” Sigebert said. “Have two reliable men clean the blood and hide this body where nobody will see it for a while. Once that’s done, I’ll convene the municipal curia, or as many members of that august body as I can reach. My Lord the Bishop of Nantes must be summoned, too. Without the late Bicrus to stiffen their backbones, methinks they will see reason.”
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