Lest Darkness Fall and Related Stories

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

  “All right, then, we’ll collect some fast cavalry and head that way ourselves.”

  Padway thought he was pretty well hardened to long-distance riding. But it was all he could do to stand the pace that Urias set. When they reached Ravenna in the early morning he was reeling, red-eyed, in the saddle.

  They asked no questions, but galloped straight for the palace. The town seemed normal enough. Most of the citizens were at breakfast. But at the palace the normal guard was not to be seen.

  “That looks bad,” said Urias. They and their men dismounted, drew their swords, and marched in six abreast. A guard appeared at the head of the stairs. He grabbed at his sword, then recognized Urias and Padway.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said noncommittally.

  “Yes, it’s us,” replied Padway. “What’s up?”

  “Well…uh…you’d better go see for yourselves, noble sirs. Excuse me.” And the Goth whisked out of sight.

  They tramped on through the empty halls. Doors shut before they came to them, and there was whispering behind them. Padway wondered if they were walking into a trap. He sent back a squad to hold the front door.

  At the entrance to the royal apartments they found a clump of guards. A couple of these brought their spears up, but the rest simply stood uncertainly. Padway said calmly, “Stand back, boys,” and went in.

  “Oh, merciful Christ!” said Urias softly.

  There were several people standing around a body on the floor. Padway asked them to stand aside, which they did meekly. The body was that of Wittigis. His tunic was ripped by a dozen sword and spear wounds. The rug under him was sopping.

  The chief usher looked amazedly at Padway. “This just happened, my lord. Yet you have come all the way from Rome because of it. How did you know?”

  “I have ways,” said Padway. “How did it happen?”

  “Wittigis was let into the palace by a guard friendly to him. He would have killed our noble king, but he was seen, and other guards hurried to the rescue. The guards killed him,” he added unnecessarily. Anybody could see that.

  A sound from the corner made Padway look up. There crouched Thiudahad, half dressed. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention. Thiudahad’s ashy face peered at Padway.

  “Dear me, it’s my new prefect, isn’t it? Your name is Cassiodorus. But how much younger you look, my dear sir. Ah, me, we all grow old sometime. Heh-heh. Let’s publish a book, my dear Cassiodorus. Heigh-ho, yes, indeed, a lovely new book with purple covers. Heh-heh. We’ll serve it for dinner, with pepper and gravy. That’s the way to eat a fowl. Yes, three hundred pages at least. By the way, have you seen that rascally general of mine, Wittigis? I heard he was coming to call. Dreadful bore; no scholar at all. Heigh-ho, dear me, I feel like dancing. Do you dance, my dear Wittigis? La-la-la, la-la-la, dum de-um de-um.”

  Padway told the king’s house physician: “Take care of him, and don’t let him out. The rest of you, go back to work as if nothing has happened. Somebody take charge of the body. Replace this rug, and make the preparations for a dignified but modest funeral. Urias, maybe you’d better tend to that.” Urias was weeping. “Come on, old man, you can do your grieving later. I sympathize, but we’ve got things to do.” He whispered something to him, whereat Urias cheered up.

  CHAPTER XV

  The members of the Gothic Royal Council appeared at Padway’s office with a variety of scowls. They were men of substance and leisure, and did not like being dragged practically away from their breakfast tables, especially by a mere civil functionary.

  Padway acquainted them with the circumstances. His news shocked them to temporary silence. He continued: “As you know, my lords, under the unwritten constitution of the Gothic nation, an insane king must be replaced as soon as possible. Permit me to suggest that present circumstances make the replacement of the unfortunate Thiudahad an urgent matter.”

  Wakkis growled: “That’s partly your doing, young man. We could have bought off the Franks—”

  “Yes, my lord. I know all that. The trouble is that the Franks won’t stay bought, as you very well know. In any event, what’s done is done. Neither the Franks nor Justinian have moved against us yet. If we can run the election of a new king off quickly, we shall not be any worse off than we are.”

  Wakkis replied: “We shall have to call another convention of the electors, I suppose.”

  Another councilor, Mannfrith, spoke up: “Apparently our young friend is right, much as I hate to take advice from outsiders. When and where shall the convention be?”

  There were a lot of uncertain throaty noises from the Goths. Padway said: “If my lords please, I have a suggestion. Our new civil capital is to be at Florence, and what more fitting way of inaugurating it is there than holding our election there?”

  There was more growling, but nobody produced a better idea. Padway knew perfectly well that they didn’t like following his directions, but that, on the other hand, they were glad to shirk thought and responsibility themselves.

  Wakkis said: “We shall have to give time for the messages to go out, and for the electors to reach Florence—”

  Just then Urias came in. Padway took him aside and whispered: “What did she say?”

  “She says she will.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, in about ten days, I think. It don’t look very nice so soon after my uncle’s death.”

  “Never mind that. It’s now or never.”

  Mannfrith asked. “Who shall the candidates be? I’d like to run myself, only my rheumatism has been bothering me so.”

  Somebody said: “Thiudegiskel will be one. He’s Thiudahad’s logical successor.”

  Padway said: “I think you’ll be pleased to hear that our esteemed General Urias will be a candidate.”

  “What?” cried Wakkis. “He’s a fine young man, I admit, but he’s ineligible. He’s not an Amaling.”

  Padway broke into a triumphant gran. “Not now, my lords, but he will be by the time the election is called.” The Goths looked startled. “And, my lords, I hope you’ll all give us the pleasure of your company at the wedding.”

  During the wedding rehearsal, Mathaswentha got Padway aside. She said: “Really, Martinus, you’ve been most noble about this. I hope you won’t grieve too much.”

  Padway tried his best to look noble. “My dear, your happiness is mine. And if you love this young man, I think you’re doing just the right thing.”

  “I do love him,” replied Mathaswentha. “Promise me you won’t sit around and mope, but will go out and find some nice girl who is suited to you.”

  Padway sighed convincingly. “It’ll be hard to forget, my dear. But since you ask it, I’ll promise. Now, now, don’t cry. What will Urias think? You want to make him happy, don’t you? There, that’s a sensible girl.”

  The wedding itself was quite a gorgeous affair in a semi-barbaric way. Padway discovered an unsuspected taste for stage management, and introduced a wrinkle he’d seen in pictures of United States Military Academy weddings: that of having Urias’ friends make an arch of swords under which the bride and groom walked on their way down the church steps. Padway himself looked as dignified as his moderate stature and nondescript features permitted. Inwardly he was holding on tight to repress a snicker. It had just occurred to him that Urias’ long robe looked amazingly like a bathrobe he, Padway, had once owned, except that Padway’s robe hadn’t had pictures of saints embroidered on it in gold thread.

  As the happy couple departed, Padway ducked out of sight around a pillar. Mathaswentha, if she saw him out of the tail of her eye, may have thought that he was shedding a final tear. But actually he was allowing himself the luxury of a longdrawn “Whew!” of relief.

  Before he reappeared, he heard a couple of Goths talking on the other side of the pillar:

  “He’d made a good king, eh, Albehrts?”

  “Maybe. He would, by himself. But I fear he’ll be under the influence of this Martinus person. Not that I have anything specif
ically against Mysterious Martin, you understand. But—you know how it is.”

  “Ja, ja. Oh, well, one can always flip a sesterce to decide which to vote for.”

  Padway had every intention of keeping Urias under his influence. It seemed possible. Urias disliked and was impatient with matters of civil administration. He was a competent soldier, and at the same time was receptive to Padway’s ideas. Padway thought somberly that if anything happened to this king he’d hunt a long time before finding another as satisfactory.

  Padway had the news of the impending election sent out over the telegraph, thereby saving the week that would normally be necessary for messengers to travel the length and breadth of Italy, and incidentally convincing some of the Goths of the value of his contraptions. Padway also sent our another message, ordering all the higher military commanders to remain at their posts. He sold Urias the idea by arguing military necessity. His real reason was a determination to keep Thiudegiskel in Calabria during the election. Knowing Urias, he didn’t dare explain this plan to him, for fear Urias would have an attack of knightly honor and, as ranking general, countermand the order.

  The Goths had never seen an election conducted on time-honored American principles. Padway showed them. The electors arrived in Florence to find the town covered with enormous banners and posters reading:

  VOTE FOR URIAS

  THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE!

  Lower taxes! Bigger public works!

  Security for the aged! Efficient government!

  And so forth. They also found a complete system of ward-heelers to take them in tow, show them the town—not that Florence was much to see in those days—and butter them up generally.

  Three days before the election was due, Padway held a barbecue. He threw himself into debt for the fixings. Well, not exactly; he threw poor Urias into debt, being much too prudent to acquire any more liabilities in his own name than he could help.

  While he kept modestly in the background, Urias made a speech. Padway later heard comments to the effect that nobody had known Urias could make such good speeches. He grinned to himself. He had written the speech and had spent all his evenings for a week teaching Urias to deliver it. Privately Padway thought that his candidate’s delivery still stank. But if the electors didn’t mind, there was no reason why he should.

  Padway and Urias relaxed afterward over a bottle of brandy. Padway said that the election looked like a pushover, and then had to explain what a pushover was. Of the two opposing candidates, one had withdrawn, and the other, Harjis Austrowald’s son, was an elderly man with only the remotest connection with the Amal family.

  Then one of the ward-heelers came in breathless. It seemed to Padway that people were always coming to see him breathless.

  The man barked: “Thiudegiskel’s here.”

  Padway wasted no time. He found where Thiudegiskel was staying, rounded up a few Gothic soldiers, and set out to arrest the young man. He found that Thiudegiskel had, with a gang of his own friends, taken over one of the better inns in town, pitching the previous guests and their belongings out in the street.

  The gang were gorging themselves downstairs in plain sight. They hadn’t yet changed their traveling clothes, and they looked tired but tough. Padway marched in. Thiudegiskel looked up. “Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?”

  Padway announced: “I have a warrant for your arrest on grounds of insubordination and deserting your post, signed by Ur—”

  The high-pitched voice interrupted: “Ja, ja, I know all about that, my dear Sineigs. Maybe you thought I’d stay away from Florence while you ran off an election without me, eh? But I’m not like that, Martinus. Not one little bit. I’m here, I’m a candidate, and anything you try now I’ll remember when I’m king. That’s one thing about me; I’ve got an infernally long memory.”

  Padway turned to his soldiers: “Arrest him!”

  There was a great scraping of chairs as the gang rose to its feet and grasped its collective sword hilts. Padway looked for his soldiers; they hadn’t moved.

  “Well?” he snapped.

  The oldest of them, a kind of sergeant, cleared his throat. “Well, sir, it’s this way. Now we know you’re our superior and all that. But things are kind of uncertain, with this election and all, and we don’t know whom we’ll be taking orders from in a couple of days. Suppose we arrest this young man, and then he gets elected king? That wouldn’t be so good for us, now would it, sir?”

  “Why—you—” raged Padway.

  But the only effect was that the soldiers began to slide out the door. The young Gothic noble named Willimer was whispering to Thiudegiskel, sliding his sword a few inches out of the scabbard and back.

  Thiudegiskel shook his head and said to Padway: “My friend here doesn’t seem to like you, Martinus. He swears he’ll pay you a visit as soon as the election is over. So it might be healthier if you left Italy for a little trip. In fact, it’s all I can do to keep him from paying his visit right now.”

  The soldiers were mostly gone now. Padway realized that he’d better go too, if he didn’t want these well-born thugs to make hamburger of him.

  He mustered what dignity he could. “You know the law against duelling.”

  Thiudegiskel’s invincibly good-natured arrogance wasn’t even dented. “Sure, I know it. But remember. I’ll be the one enforcing it. I’m just giving you fair warning, Martinus. That’s one thing about—”

  But Padway didn’t wait to hear Thiudegiskel’s next contribution to the inexhaustible subject of himself. He went, full of rage and humiliation. By the time he finished cursing his own stupidity and thought to round up his eastern troops—the few who weren’t up north with Belisarius—and make a second attempt, it was too late. Thiudegiskel had collected a large crowd of partisans in and around the hotel, and it would take a battle to dislodge them. The ex-Imperialists seemed far from enthusiastic over the prospect, and Urias muttered something about its being only honorable to let the late king’s son have a fair try for the crown.

  The next day Thomasus the Syrian arrived. He came in wheezing. “How are you, Martinus? I didn’t want to miss all the excitement, so I came up from Rome. Brought my family along.”

  That meant something, Padway knew, for Thomasus’ family consisted not only of his wife and four children, but an aged uncle, a nephew, two nieces, and his black house slave Ajax and his wife and children.

  He answered: “I’m fine, thanks. Or I shall be when I catch up on my sleep. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. Business has been good for a change.”

  “And how is your friend God?” Padway asked with a straight face.

  “He’s fine too—why, you blasphemous young scoundrel! That will cost you an extra interest on your next loan. How’s the election?”

  Padway told him. “It won’t be as easy as I thought. Thiudegiskel has developed a lot of support among the conservative Goths, who don’t care for self-made men like Wittigis and Urias. The upper crust prefer an Amaling by birth—”

  “Upper crust? Oh, I see! Ha, ha, ha! I hope God listens to you. It might put Him in a good humor the next time He considers sending a plague or a quake.”

  Padway continued: “And Thiudegiskel is not as stupid as one might expect. He’d hardly arrived before he’d sent out friends to tear down my posters and put up some of his own. His weren’t much to look at, but I was surprised that he thought of using any. There were fist-fights and one stabbing, not fatal, fortunately. So—you know Dagalaif Nevitta’s son?”

  “The marshal? By name only.”

  “He’s not eligible to vote. Well, the town watch is too scared of the Goths to keep order, and I don’t dare use my own guards for fear of rousing all the Goths against the ‘foreigners.’ I blackmailed the city fathers into hiring Dagalaif to deputize the other marshals who are not electors as election police. As Nevitta is on our side, I don’t know how impartial my friend Dagalaif will be. But it’ll save us from a pitched battle, I hope.”


  “Wonderful, wonderful, Martinus. Don’t over-reach yourself; some of the Goths call your electioneering methods newfangled and undignified. I’ll ask God to keep a special watch over you and your candidate.”

  The day before the election, Thiudegiskel showed his political astuteness by throwing a barbecue even bigger than Padway’s. Padway, having some mercy on Urias’ modest purse, had limited his party to the electors. Thiudegiskel, with the wealth of Thiudahad’s immense Tuscan estates to draw upon, shot the works. He invited all the electors and their families and friends also.

  Padway and Urias and Thomasus, with the former’s ward-heelers, the latter’s family, and a sizable guard, arrived at the field outside Florence after the festivities had begun. The field was covered with thousands of Goths of all ages, sizes, and sexes, and was noisy with East-German gutturals, the clank of scabbards, and the flop-flop of leather pants.

  A Goth bustled up to them with beer suds in his whiskers. “Here, here, what are you people doing? You weren’t invited.”

  “Ni ogs, frijond,” said Padway.

  “What? You’re telling me not to be afraid?” The Goth bristled.

  “We aren’t even trying to come to your party. We’re just having a little picnic of our own. There’s no law against picnics, is there?”

  “Well—then why all the armament? Looks to me as though you were planning a kidnapping.”

  “There, there,” soothed Padway. “You’re wearing a sword, aren’t you?”

  “But I’m official. I’m one of Willimer’s men.”

  “So are these people our men. Don’t worry about us. We’ll stay on the other side of the road, if it’ll make you happy. Now run along and enjoy your beer.”

  “Well, don’t try anything. We’ll be ready for you if you do.” The Goth departed, muttering over Padway’s logic.