by Aidan Harte
‘Go inside. Lay your gift in front of the crater, then step back and close your eyes. If you are lucky she will accept your gift. If you are very lucky, she will speak to you. You may want to listen for days, but do not tarry. The inside air is fatal to men.’
‘And you?’
‘When you emerge, I will be waiting – or the men who have killed me.’
She pushed the ivy aside, found an arch cut into the stone and crawled inside, grimacing as bird bones crunched under her hands and knees. It wasn’t long before it opened into a circular space. The only light inside came from the tunnel, but the green glow illuminated the domed cavern surprisingly well, for its curved walls twinkled more like glass than rock. There was a crater in the centre of the floor, however, and that seemed hungry for light. The wafting blue fumes, a revolting blend of rotting eggs and putrid meat, made her gag. She laid the bird in front of the crater and then scampered back to the side and covered her face as she’d been instructed.
A wheezing cough echoed from the crater as a set of ancient fingers emerged, looking like the tendrils of a vast, bloated spider. As they explored the crater’s edge, the rest of an ancient old woman gradually emerged. Her claws found the carcase and she eyed it warily as she took an exploratory bite. She ate it up, feathers and flesh, then burped and wiped the blood from her face.
‘Sallalation de ta leanamh.’
The words were Etruscan. When Sofia didn’t respond, she broke a small bone and picked her teeth with it. Then in Ebionite, ‘A fine boy, your son. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sofia.
The crone tilted her head, rook-like, and switched to a northern Etrurian dialect. ‘Stop pretending not to look, Child. I’m the last of my kind. The Winds consumed the star-gazers and I shall give myself to the Waters presently, so time is short. Thirty years ago a girl who spoke this tongue sat where you now sit. She and her brother fled from a drowned world. They came south to start anew. He stopped in Salerno to study with the Doctors. She came here. I told her of great changes afoot.’ She pointed to the crater with her bone. ‘In the earth’s bowels, a war blazes. I helped her to perfect her art so that she would be ready when it erupted.’
‘The Reverend Mother died for me.’
‘I told her she would have to if she returned to the north. A brave one, she was. Are you that brave?’
‘I’ll do what I must to save my boy.’
She scampered over to Sofia like a spider. Her grizzled face came close. Her breath was earthy and ripe. ‘What would you do? Would you tear your breast like the pelican? The star-gazer told you that your boy was born to die. Even if you save Him from the worm, the debt must be discharged.’ She sniffed at her. ‘Ah, you don’t like that. I have long pondered it and in truth, it little pleases me either. Follow me and I will tell you the Earth’s secrets.’ She crawled back towards the crater.
‘No Man said that air is fatal to men.’
‘So it is. But we are not men, are we? Besides, you must die a little if you wish to be wise.’ And, like a flower drawing in its petals at night, she sank into the crater.
*
Even the seriousness of his wound could not dim Bakhbukh’s curiosity. ‘What’s happening?’
Warily Fulk watched Hellebore and the Whisperer conferring. There was some controversy upsetting the assembly, but there at Bakhbukh’s side he could not tell what. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’
‘Easy for you to say, Grand Master. Minding other people’s business has been my occupation.’ Bakhbukh attempted to smile but the pain made him grimace.
‘Chew this,’ said Fulk, offering some khat. No Man’s mother snapped it from his hand, sniffed it suspiciously and tasted a sprig. She made a face, but evidently satisfied that it was not poisonous, handed it to Bakhbukh.
‘Thank you, Madame.’ He chewed meditatively for a while as Fulk watched the argument growing more and more animated. ‘’Tis right that I depart now, Grand Master. I have overstayed my welcome, and the scenery has changed about me. This is a stage I hardly know. My nasi is dead, and I helped to finish his bloodline.’
‘You were not responsible for Arik’s fate,’ said Fulk, still watching the Sybarite chief.
‘Being advisor means everything is your responsibility, and by taking Yūsuf’s part, I drove Arik into the embrace of the franj. Tell the Contessa, I could not wait. But you must promise me something, Fulk Guiscard.’
He turned and looked at Bakhbukh. ‘Tell it.’
‘Go and see the Contessa’s tower on my behalf, and then take my bones back to the Sands. I will not rest until my dust is mingled with the Sands.’
Then, satisfied with Fulk’s word, he drifted in sleep, until coming suddenly back to lucidity, he added, ‘And since I cannot leave you without a word of advice: Melisende Ibelin is a good woman, but you are the rightful king of Akka. Your tribe needs its nasi no less than any other. Go home and take your throne.’
There was more than that to his words, Fulk knew. Without the axe to keep the tribes honest, they might easily fall back on their own turbulent ways.
The old Ebionite fell into a deep slumber from which Fulk knew there was no return. He contemplated the chair he had left empty in Akka when a sudden squall of raised voices brought him back to his present predicament.
He looked over to his knights. ‘Perhaps our Crusade shall end here too, brothers,’ he murmured.
*
It was hours before Sofia returned to the surface. Just before she crawled out, she stopped and – not looking back as instructed – said, ‘Back in the village, my friend is—’
Two ancient coins shot out of the hole and the crone’s voice came from far away. ‘Gone. Your spoiled knight saw him out and his soul has already merged with the Winds. And you shall find another friend waiting. You shall never lack for friends, until the very end. Then, when most you need one, you shall be friendless …’
Sofia peeked out of the ivy warily and found No Man calmly sitting by the pool. The body of Hellebore’s son was floating in the reflection of the moon. They didn’t speak until they were close again to the village.
‘Will you get in trouble?’
‘I’ll be killed,’ he said without regret. ‘What did she tell you?’
Sofia glanced back before answering, ‘Everything, except what I wanted to hear.’
*
When the villagers saw No Man return with the Contessa, they fell down and wept at their deliverance.
No Man’s mother returned Iscanno to Sofia.
‘Fulk,’ Sofia cried, ‘what have you done?’
‘Not a thing,’ he said. ‘We merely looked on as justice was done. There was uproar when the Sybarites discovered Femus was missing. Knowing Hellebore, they knew exactly what he’d sent his over-muscled son do. The other one – they call him the Whisperer – he tried to stop them, but I think they’d had enough. They’d kept the Law – they’d been faithful for centuries, waiting for this day – and I guess they weren’t going to let it pass because one old blind fool wished to hold on to power. The Whisperer got off lightly – they only took his tongue. The Top Man’s head is over there, next to the Concordian captain.’
‘Where’s Bakhbukh?’
‘Paradise,’ Fulk said simply, and showed her the body. The old man looked restful.
Sofia laid the ancient Etruscan pennies on his eyes and whispered, ‘Godspeed, my friend.’ That hour when she would be friendless was one hour closer.
The day’s miracles were not over. For the first time in centuries, strange ships came to the sharp-toothed mouth of Neo-Sybaris’ harbour. The Sybarites gathered at the moorings, spears and rocks in hand, ready to attack if the Contessa commanded it, but tears sprang to her eyes as she recognised the tall scarecrow of a man in the foremost boat.
‘These are my friends,’ she said.
*
Even with a paranoid, hesitant commander, the Concordians accomplished the final push in two days and made camp nea
r the slopes of unsleeping Vesuvius before entering the pass between the Lattari and the Picentini Mountains. Much to Geta’s annoyance, Leto again slowed the pace, fearing ambush at every step.
Finally, they saw Salerno. Far from the fierce fight they were expecting, the city was not just abandoned; it was burning. To discover all the agony of dragging the siege-engines south had been for naught? That was the final insult.
*
Some four thousand horsemen formed up beside the River Silarus. The muster of the men of the south was a grand sight, and not just for Pedro. The butteri themselves lived such solitary lives that they had not properly realised their collective strength; it awed them. Even so, Pedro could not forget that the Legion that had besieged Rasenna was a thousand men more, and that Spinther’s Grand Legion was the sum of six such hosts. Doubtless the campaign had reduced that number, but it would still be a disproportionate match.
Ferruccio did not like to look at the smoke covering Salerno. He turned and found Pedro watching the yellowish haze approaching from the south. ‘How many did the Tarentines promise?’ Pedro said, taking out his eyepiece.
‘Two thousand – but it looks like they brought considerably more.’
‘It’s not them.’
It was a strange host indeed, coming down from the Pollino Mountains. Sofia had set out from Neo-Sybaris with a few hundred men. Along the way, the other villages of the Sybari Plain – each of whom thought of themselves the sole descendants of Sybaris – had been drawn to their banner, a crudely drawn eye.
It was unusual enough to see Sybarites venturing out of their caves, but what alarmed the butteri even more was the sight of their companions; such knights had left this land a century ago – and marching beside them in loose-fitting robes were the Ebionite foe they had gone to fight!
Pedro suddenly snapped his eyepiece shut and urged his mount to a gallop.
‘Maestro, wait!’ cried Ferruccio, but Pedro Vanzetti couldn’t stop for another moment. Three years ago he had found hope in the midst of utter despair when he had spied the Scaligeri flag in the front ranks of John Acuto’s Hawk’s Company.
He had just found it again.
CHAPTER 60
As they headed south of Salerno, General Spinther reviewed the old Bernoullian maps of the unfamiliar territory and pointed out interesting features of the terrain to Horatius, who had become something of an acolyte. The general was missing Scaevola more than he realised.
The Grand Legion found their foe at last, arrayed on the far bank of the Silarus. The rather ragged-looking pikemen jeered at them to cross the antique stone bridge.
As Geta surveyed the situation, Spinther asked, ‘What do you make of it, Horatius?’
‘They picked a good spot for it, General. The steep-banked rivers surrounding the plain make it a natural fortress, the thick forest provides cover – and probably conceals butteri reserves. The marshy patches will retard the ability of large numbers to manoeuvre. The scouts report that the bridge where the Silarus meets the sea has recently been demolished.’ After this grim catalogue, he paused for effect, then added, ‘There is another bridge further inland which has been left undefended. I wish to volunteer—’
‘Undefended indeed,’ said Geta irritably. ‘It’s a ruse, boy. They want us to waste time looking for a chink in their defence.’
Horatius ignored the interruption and said earnestly, ‘If we fight them here, General, I strongly recommend luring them to this side before we engage. They could have easily destroyed this bridge before our approach. It’s obvious they wish to make it the focus of the contest. And it’s obvious why: only small numbers can cross at once so a few sturdy pikemen could hold us back almost indefinitely.’
‘Everything you say is true – but what are we to eat while we are waiting – grass?’ Leto was by now as impatient for blood-letting as Geta. ‘We’re out of time, so damn the difficulty. I’m through playing according to their rules. Bring up the catapults. Might as well get some use of them.’
Horatius saw the general was decided. ‘In that case,’ he said with studied élan, ‘might I lead the cavalry charge?’
‘You would volunteer in spite of your reservations? I must say I’m impressed. But no, you shall stay by my side. That baton is an honour that must go to another.’
‘Too kind, Spinther,’ said Geta wearily. ‘Just make sure you soften them up first.’
The bombardiers assumed that this would be their last chance this campaign to practise their art, and they were liberal with the powder. The intensity of the bombardment quickly forced the pikemen back, then the artillery slowly increased their range. Geta’s cavalrymen were first across the bridge. They formed up quickly on the far bank, all the while waiting in vain for any counter-attack.
Behind them, a cursing centurion herded eighty infantrymen across. The century formed an intimidating semi-circular wall of steel in front of the mouth of the bridge, and it expanded as more infantry poured across.
After five more centuries had crossed, Geta ordered them to form a cohort. He was disgusted that the butteri had not even attempted to contest the crossing. ‘If they won’t come and get it, we’ll bring the fight to them.’
Leto had altered his plans. After seeing how easily they had crossed over, he decided to push the advantage. He left a cohort protecting the artillery on the first bridge and led a march for the second – if he could get across that one before the Salernitans found the nerve to attack, they could attack at two points.
*
The pikemen were repugnant one-eyed creatures, and almost as gruesome were the Moorish-looking fellows beside them hurling stones from leather slings with deadly accuracy. They stood together so firmly, and Geta belatedly realised they had intended to draw the Concordian forces as far forward as they could. Behind the first rows was the League’s carroccio, and amongst the coalition flags he could see the same red banner that the Tartaruchi of Rasenna had flown: the Scaligeri lion.
Dio, how he’d love to capture that one.
Fond hope. The mounted butteri never charged the centre, but instead pressed either flank, one darting forward and flinging his bolos before turning away and immediately being replaced by another. Geta did not like to imagine the results if one wing collapsed under the pressure.
‘What do we do, Lord Geta?’ cried the centurion.
‘For God’s sake, give me a moment.’ It was hard to fight and even harder to think while keeping one eye over his shoulder, where the situation across the river was looking distinctly troubled.
The cohort that was supposed to be protecting his own rear was pulling back, and to the east he could see Spinther too was giving ground – but what on earth to?
He saw it.
A purple river had poured down the slopes of the Picantini Mountains and flooded the plain, and there in the front rank was the master of the purple river, riding in a quadriga. The two-headed eagle emblems, the massive square banners – they were horribly familiar.
The Byzantine Army – Geta didn’t care to think about how it had got there – might not be as large as the Grand Legion, but it was almost certainly fresher. And he knew from painful experience the skill of their cavalry. It was only a matter of time before the bridge behind him was cut off; if he ordered a general retreat, the butteri would turn it into a rout in moments.
Only one thing for it.
Geta dug his heels hard into Arête’s flanks and galloped into the thickest fighting, slashing left and right, before turning to face his beleaguered men. He held his baton aloft and flung it into the enemy ranks. ‘A thousand soldi for the hero who retrieves it!’
After a stampede of inspired soldiers passed by, he turned about and galloped headlong for the bridge – but before he reached it, he found his way blocked by an ancient buttero with a thick white beard and a long starry cloak.
‘No further, Lord Geta.’
‘Dear me, Doctor, this is too exciting a place for an elder statesman.’
&
nbsp; ‘I’ll make it fair,’ said Ferruccio as he dismounted. ‘My mazza. Your steel.’
Geta remained in his saddle. ‘Very good of you – I’m ordinarily game for daft romantic gestures, but the thing of it is, I am in rather a hurry.’
‘Oh, it won’t take long. You’re overestimating again.’
‘And you’ve already had your chance to kill me. YAAH!’
Arête went straight for him. Ferruccio would have done better to strike at the horse instead of its rider, but that a true buttero could never do.
*
Leto could hardly believe it. The Byzantines were pressing his line back, pushing them away from the Silarus and cutting them off from the men he had already sent across. He was not so much concerned for them but worried that the Byzantines would envelop his forces; it would be inevitable if they continued to grapple.
Horatius was still at his side, injured in the leg but fighting on gamely. ‘Look who it is, General,’ he said with a curled lip.
Leto turned to see a dreadful figure approach. The legs and belly of Geta’s horse were spattered in gore, and Geta himself was breathless. ‘You saved my life once, Spinther. Permit me to repay the favour. Our position is untenable. Order a retreat while you can.’
Leto’s face fell. He knew it was true, but he hadn’t dared admit it to himself. ‘But the artillery—’
‘Already lost. The only question is whether you give them your life today, or preserve it. I’ve harried enough disorderly retreats to know how they end.’
The centuries fighting on the far side of the Silarus were almost entirely encircled and – once it got round that Lord Geta, whose survival instincts were the stuff of barracks legend, had abandoned them – utterly hopeless. A few months ago they might have fought to the last man, but the Minturnae had leached that spirit. Instead, they struck their colours and prayed their foes were men who treated prisoners better than they did.
CHAPTER 61
The Concordians passed once more into the funnel of the Lattari and the Picentini Mountains, constantly looking over their shoulders, checking out any number of concealed passes from which butteri could burst to harass their straggling columns and tumble their exhausted horses with bolos before dispatching their riders with mazzas.