Lest Darkness Fall and Related Stories

by L. Sprague de Camp;Frederik Pohl;David Drake;S. M. Stirling;Alexei

Belisarius frowned. “No, I swore an oath to Justinian.”

  “So you did. But as you’ll probably hear, I can sometimes see a little into the future. And I can tell you that the more faithful you are to Justinian, the meaner and more ungrateful he’ll be to you. He’ll—”

  “I said no!” said Belisarius sternly. “You can do what you like with me. But the word of Belisarius is not to be questioned.”

  Padway argued some more. But, remembering his Procopius, he had little hope of shaking the Thracian’s stern rectitude. Belisarius was a fine fellow, but his rigid virtue made him a slightly uncomfortable companion. He asked: “Where’s your secretary, Procopius of Caesarea?”

  “I don’t know. He was in southern Italy, and supposedly on his way to join us.”

  “Good. We’ll gather him in. We shall need a competent historian.”

  Belisarius’ eyes widened. “How do you know about the histories he’s collecting notes for? I thought he’d told nobody but me.”

  “Oh, I have ways. That’s why they call me Mysterious Martinus.”

  They marched into Rome by the Latin Gate, north past the Circus Maximus and the Colosseum, and up the Quirinal Valley to the Old Viminal Gate and the Pretorian Camp.

  Here Padway gave orders to encamp the prisoners, and told Gudareths to set a guard over them. That was obvious enough. Then he found himself in the midst of a crowd of officers looking at him expectantly. He could not think what orders to give next.

  He rubbed his ear lobe for a few seconds, then took the captive Belisarius aside, “Say, illustrious general,” he said in a low voice, “what in hell do I do next? This military business isn’t my proper trade.”

  There was a hint of amusement in Belisarius’ broad and usually solemn face. He answered: “Call out your paymaster and have him pay the men’s wages. Better give them a little bonus for winning the battle. Detail an officer to round up some physicians to tend the wounded; at least I don’t suppose a barbarian army like this has its own medical corps. There ought to be a man whose duty it is to check the rolls. Find out about it. I hear the commander of the Rome garrison was killed. Appoint a man in his place, and have the garrison returned to barracks. Tell the commanders of the other contingents to find what lodging they can for their men. If they are to board at private houses, say the owners will be compensated at standard rates. You can find those out later. But you ought to make a speech.”

  “Me make a speech?” hissed Padway in horror. “My Gothic is lousy—”

  “That’s part of the business, you know. Tell them what good soldiers they are. Make it short. They won’t listen very closely anyway.”

  CHAPTER XI

  After some searching Padway located Thiudahad in the Arian Library. The little man was barricaded behind a huge load of books. Four bodyguards sprawled on a table, a bench, and the floor, snoring thunderously. The librarian was glaring at them with a look compounded of hydrofluoric acid and cobra venom, but did not dare protest.

  Thiudahad looked up blearily. “Oh, yes, it’s the publisher fellow. Martinus, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, my lord. I might add that I’m your new quaestor.”

  “What? What? Who told you so?”

  “You did. You appointed me.”

  “Oh, dear me, so I did. Silly of me. When I get engrossed in books I really don’t know what’s going on. Let’s see, you and Liuderis were going to fight the Imperialists, weren’t you?”

  “Hoc ille, my lord. It’s all over.”

  “Really? I suppose you sold out to Belisarius, didn’t you? I hope you arranged for an estate and an annuity from Justinian for me.”

  “It wasn’t necessary, my lord. We won.”

  “What?”

  Padway gave a résumé of the last three days’ events. “And you’d better get to bed early tonight, my lord. We’re leaving in the morning for Florence.”

  “Florence? Why, in heaven’s name?”

  “We’re on our way to intercept your generals, Asinar and Grippas. They’re coming back from Dalmatia, having been ordered out by the Imperial general, Constantianus. If we can catch them before they get to Ravenna and learn about Wittigis, we might be able to get your crown back.”

  Thiudahad sighed. “Yes, I suppose we ought to. But how did you know that Asinar and Grippas were coming home?”

  “Trade secret, my lord. I’ve also sent a force of two thousand to reoccupy Naples. It’s held by General Herodianus with a mere three hundred, so there shouldn’t be much trouble.”

  Thiudahad narrowed his watery eyes. “You do get things done, Martinus. If you can deliver that vile usurper Wittigis into my hands—aaah! I’ll send clear to Constantinople for a torturer, if I can’t find one ingenious enough in Italy!”

  Padway did not answer that one, having his own plans for Wittigis. He said instead: “I have a pleasant surprise for you. The pay chests of the Imperial army—”

  “Yes?” Thiudahad’s eyes gleamed. “They’re mine, of course. Very considerate of you, excellent Martinus.”

  “Well, I did have to dip into them a little to pay our troops and clear up the army’s bills. But you’ll find the rest an agreeable addition to the royal purse. I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

  Padway neglected to state that he had sequestered over half the remainder and deposited the money with Thomasus. Who owns the pay chests of a captured army, especially when the captor is a volunteer theoretically serving one of two rival kings, was a question that the legal science of the time was hardly equipped to decide. In any event Padway was sure he could make better use of the money than Thiudahad. I’m becoming quite a hardened criminal, he thought with pride.

  Padway rode up to Cornelius Anicius’ home. Its rhetorical owner was out at the baths, but Dorothea came out. Padway had to admit that it made him feel pretty good to sit on a powerful horse in a (to him) romantic get-up, with cloak and boots and all, and report to one of the prettier girls of Rome on his success.

  She said: “You know, Martinus, father was silly at first about your social standing. But after all you’ve done he’s forgotten about that. Of course he is not enthusiastic about Gothic rule. But he much prefers Thiudahad, who is a scholar, to that savage Wittigis.”

  “I’m glad of that. I like your old man.”

  “Everybody’s talking about you now. They call you ‘Mysterious Martinus.’”

  “I know. Absurd, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. You never seemed very mysterious to me, in spite of your foreign background.”

  “That’s great. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “Not in the least. If you made a deal with Satanas as some people hint, I’m sure the Devil got the worst of it.” They laughed. She added: “It’s nearly dinner time. Won’t you stay? Father will be back any time.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t possibly. We’re off to the wars again tomorrow.”

  As he rode off, he thought: If I should change my mind about the expediency of marriage, I’d know where to begin. She’s attractive and pleasant, and has what passes for a good education here…

  Padway made one more attempt to shake Belisarius, but without success. He did, however, enlist five hundred of the Imperial cuirassiers as a personal guard. His share of the Imperialist loot would suffice to pay them for some weeks. After that he’d see.

  The trip to Florence was anything but pleasant. It rained most of the way, with intermittent snow squalls as they climbed toward the City of Flowers. Being in a hurry, Padway took only cavalry.

  In Florence he sent his officers around to buy warmer clothes for the troops, and looked in on his business. It seemed to be surviving, though Fritharik said: “I don’t trust any of them, excellent boss. I’m sure the foreman and this George Menandrus have been stealing, though I can’t prove it. I don’t understand all this writing and figuring. If you leave them alone long enough they’ll steal everything, and then where’ll we be? Out in the cold, headed for a pair of nameless graves.”


  “We’ll see,” said Padway. He called in the treasurer, Proclus Proclus, and asked to see the books. Proclus Proclus instantly looked apprehensive, but he got the books. Padway waded into the figures. They were all nice and neat, since he himself had taught the treasurer double-entry bookkeeping. All his employees were astounded to hear Padway burst into a shout of laughter.

  “What…what is it, noble sir?” asked Proclus Proclus.

  “Why, you poor fool, didn’t you realize that with my system of bookkeeping, your little thefts would stick up in the accounts like a sore toe? Look here: thirty solidi last month, and nine solidi and some sesterces only last week. You might just as well have left a signed receipt every time you stole something!”

  “What…what are you going to do to me?”

  “Well—I ought to have you jailed and flogged.” Padway was silent for a while and watched Proclus Proclus squirm. “But I hate to have your family suffer. And I certainly oughtn’t to keep you on, after this. But I’m pretty busy, and I can’t take the time to train a new treasurer to keep books in a civilized manner. So I’ll just take a third of your salary until these little borrowings of yours are paid back.”

  “Thank you, thank you kindly, sir. But just to be fair—George Menandrus ought to pay a share of it, too. He—”

  “Liar!” shouted the editor.

  “Liar yourself! Look, I can prove it. Here’s an item for one solidus, November 10th. And on November 11th George shows up with a pair of new shoes and a bracelet. I know where he bought them. On the 15th—”

  “How about it, George?” asked Padway.

  Menandrus finally confessed, though he insisted that the thefts were merely temporary borrowings to tide him over until pay day.

  Padway divided the total liability between the two of them. He warned them sternly against recidivism. Then he left a set of plans with the foreman for new machines and metal-working processes, including plans for a machine for spinning copper plate into bowls. The intelligent Nerva caught on immediately.

  As Padway was leaving, Fritharik asked him: “Can’t I go with you, excellent Martinus? It’s very dull here in Florence. And you need somebody to take care of you. I’ve saved up almost enough to get my jeweled sword back, and if you’ll let—”

  “No, old man. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have one person I can trust here. When this damned war and politics is over, we’ll see.”

  Fritharik sighed gustily. “Oh, very well, if you insist. But I hate to think of your going around unprotected with all these treacherous Greeks and Italians and Goths. You’ll end in an unmarked grave yet, I fear.”

  They shivered and skidded over the icy Apennines to Bologna. Padway resolved to have his men’s horses shod if he could ever get a few days to spare—stirrups had been invented but not horseshoes. From Bologna to Padua—still largely in ruins from its destruction by Attila’s Huns—the road was no longer the splendid stone-paved affair they had been traveling on, but a track in the mud. However, the weather turned almost springlike, which was something.

  At Padua they found they had missed the Dalmatian force by one day. Thiudahad wanted to halt. “Martinus,” he whined, “you’ve dragged my old bones all over northern Italy, and nearly frozen me to death. That’s not considerate. You do owe your king some consideration, don’t you?”

  Padway repressed his irritation with some effort. “My lord, do you or don’t you want your crown back?”

  So poor Thiudahad had to go along. By hard riding they caught up with the Dalmatian army halfway to Atria. They heaved past thousands and thousands of Goths, afoot and horsemen. There must have been well over fifty thousand of them. All these big, tough-looking men had skedaddled at the mere thought that Count Constantianus was approaching.

  The count had had only a small force, but Padway was the only one present who knew that, and his source of information was not strictly kosher. The Goths cheered Thiudahad and Padway’s Gothic lancers, and stared and muttered at the five hundred cuirassiers. Padway had made his guard don Gothic helmets and Italian military cloaks in lieu of the spiked steel helmets and burnoose-like mantels they had worn. But still their lean chins, tight pants, and high yellow boots made them sufficiently different to arouse suspicion.

  Padway found the two commanders up near the head of the column. Asinar was tall and Grippas was short, but otherwise both were just a couple of middle-aged and bewhiskered barbarians. They respectfully saluted Thiudahad, who seemed to move slightly from so much latent force. Thiudahad introduced Padway as his new prefect—no, he meant his new quaestor.

  Asinar said to Padway: “In Padua we heard a rumor that war and usurpation had been going on in Italy. Just what is the news, anyway?”

  Padway was for once thankful that his telegraph hadn’t been operating that far north. He laughed scornfully. “Oh, our lord General Wittigis got a brainstorm a couple of weeks ago. He put himself up in Ravenna, where the Greeks couldn’t kill him, and had himself proclaimed king. We’ve cleaned up the Greeks, and are on our way to settle with Wittigis now. These boys will be a help.” All of which was rather unjust to Wittigis.

  Padway wondered whether there’d be anything left of his character after a few years in this mendacious atmosphere. The two Gothic generals accepted his statement without comment. Padway decided quickly that neither of them could be called very bright.

  They marched into Ravenna at noon the day after next. The mists were so thick about the northern causeway that a man had to precede the leading horsemen on foot to keep them from spattering off into the marsh.

  There was some alarm in Ravenna when the force appeared in the fog. Padway and Thiudahad prudently kept quiet as Asinar and Grippas identified themselves. As a result, most of the huge force was in the city before somebody noticed the little gray man with Padway. Immediately there were shouts and runnings to and fro.

  Presently a Goth in a rich red cloak ran out to the head of the column. He shouted: “What the devil’s going on here? Have you captured Thiudahad, or is it the other way around?”

  Asinar and Grippas sat on their horses and said: “Uh…well…that is—”

  Padway spurred up front and asked: “Who are you, my dear sir?”

  “If it’s any of your business, I’m Unilas Wiljarith’s son, general of our lord Wittigis, King of the Goths and Italians. Now who are you?”

  Padway grinned and replied smoothly: “I’m delighted to know you, General Unilas. I’m Martin Paduei, quaestor to old lord Thiudahad, King of the Goths and Italians. Now that we know each other—”

  “But, you fool, there isn’t any King Thiudahad! He was deposed! We’ve got a new king! Or hadn’t you heard about it?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard lots of things. But, my excellent Unilas, before you make any more rude remarks, consider that we—that is to say King Thiudahad—have over sixty thousand troops in Ravenna, whereas you have about twelve thousand. You don’t want any unnecessary unpleasantness, do you?”

  “Why, you impudent…you…uh…did you say sixty thousand?”

  “Maybe seventy; I haven’t counted them.”

  “Oh. That’s different.”

  “I thought you’d see it that way.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, if you can tell where General Wittigis is, I thought we might pay him a call.”

  “He’s getting married today. I think he ought to be on his way to St. Vitalis’ Church about now.”

  “You mean he hasn’t married Mathaswentha yet?”

  “No. There was some delay in getting his divorce.”

  “Quick, how do you get to St. Vitalis’ Church?”

  Padway hadn’t hoped to be in time to interfere with Wittigis’ attempt to engraft himself on the Amal family tree by his forcible marriage of the late Queen Amalaswentha’s daughter. But this was too good an opportunity to let slip.

  Unilas pointed out a dome flanked by two towers. Padway shouted to his guard and kicked his horse into a canter.
The five hundred men galloped after, spattering unfortunate pedestrians with mud. They thundered across a bridge over one of Ravenna’s canals, the stench from which fully lived up to its reputation, and up to the door of St. Vitalis’ Church.

  There were a score of guards at the door, through which organ music wafted faintly. The guards brought their spears up to “poise.”

  Padway reined in and turned to the commander of his guard, a Macedonian named Achilleus. “Cover them,” he snapped.

  There was a quick, concerted movement among the cuirassiers, who had been sorting themselves into a semicircle in front of the church door. The next instant the guards were looking at a hundred stiff Byzantine bows drawn to the cheek. “Nu,” said Padway in Gothic, “if you boys will put your stickers down and your hands up, we have an appointment—oh, that’s better. Much better.” He slid off his horse. “Achilleus, give me a troop. Then surround the church, and keep those in in and those out out until I finish with Wittigis.”

  He marched into St. Vitalis’ Church with a hundred cuirassiers at his heels. The organ music died with a wail, and people turned to look at him. It took his eyes a few seconds to become accustomed to the gloom.

  In the center of the huge octagon was a pickle-faced Arian bishop, and three people stood before him. One was a big man in a long, rich robe, with a crown on his dark graying hair: King Wittigis. Another was a tallish girl with a strawberries-and-cream complexion and her hair in thick golden braids: the princess Mathaswentha. The third was an ordinary Gothic soldier, somewhat cleaned up, who stood beside the bride and held her arm behind her back. The audience was a handful of Gothic nobles and their ladies.

  Padway walked very purposefully down the aisle, thump, thump, thump. People squirmed and rustled in their seats and murmured: “The Greeks! The Greeks are in Ravenna!”

  The bishop spoke up: “Young man, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  “You’ll soon learn, my lord bishop. Since when has the Arian faith countenanced the taking of a woman to wife against her will?”