Lest Darkness Fall and Related Stories

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

  Padway’s party made themselves comfortable across the road, ignoring the hostile glares from Thiudegiskel’s partisans. Padway himself sprawled on the grass, eating little and watching the barbecue through narrowed eyes.

  Thomasus said: “Most excellent General Urias, that look tells me our friend Martinus is planning something particularly hellish.”

  Thiudegiskel and some of his gang mounted the speakers’ stand. Willimer introduced the candidate with commendable brevity. Then Thiudegiskel began to speak. Padway hushed his own party and strained his ears. Even so, with so many people, few of them completely silent, between him and the speaker, he missed a lot of Thiudegiskel’s shrill Gothic. Thiudegiskel appeared to be bragging as usual about his own wonderful character. But, to Padway’s consternation, his audience ate it up. And they howled with laughter at the speaker’s rough and ready humor.

  “—and did you know, friends, that General Urias was twelve years old before his poor mother could train him not to wet his bed? It’s a fact. That’s one thing about me; I never exaggerate. Of course you couldn’t exaggerate Urias’ peculiarities. For instance, the first time he called on a girl—”

  Urias was seldom angry, but Padway could see the young general was rapidly approaching incandescence. He’d have to think of something quickly, or there would be a battle.

  His eye fell on Ajax and Ajax’s family. The slave’s eldest child was a chocolate-colored, frizzy-haired boy of ten.

  Padway asked: “Does anybody know whether Thiudegiskel’s married?”

  “Yes,” replied Urias. “The swine was married just before he left for Calabria. Nice girl, too; a cousin of Willimer.”

  “Hm-m-m. Say, Ajax, does that oldest boy of yours speak any Gothic?”

  “Why no, my lord, why should he?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Priam.”

  “Priam, would you like to earn a couple of sesterces, all your own?”

  The boy jumped up and bowed. Padway found such a servile gesture in a child vaguely repulsive. Must do something about slavery some day, he thought. “Yes, my lord,” squeaked the boy.

  “Can you say the word ‘atta’? That’s Gothic for ‘father.’”

  Priam dutifully said: “Atta. Now where are my sesterces, my lord?”

  “Not so fast, Priam. That’s just the beginning of the job. You practice saying ‘atta’ for a while.”

  Padway stood up and peered at the field. He called softly: “Hai, Dagalaif!”

  The marshal detached himself from the crowd and came over. “Hails, Martinus! What can I do for you?”

  Padway whispered his instructions.

  Then he said to Priam: “You see the man in the red cloak on the stand, the one who is talking? Well, you’re to go over there and climb up on the stand, and say ‘atta’ to him. Loudly, so everybody can hear. Say it a lot of times, until something happens. Then you run back here.”

  Priam frowned in concentration. “But the man isn’t my father! This is my father!” He pointed to Ajax.

  “I know. But you do as I say if you want your money. Can you remember your instructions?”

  So Priam trailed off through the crowd of Goths with Dagalaif at his heels. They were lost to Padway’s sight for a few minutes, while Thiudegiskel shrilled on. Then the little Negro’s form appeared on the stand, boosted up by Dagalaif’s strong arms. Padway clearly heard the childish cry of “Atta!”

  Thiudegiskel stopped in the middle of a sentence. Priam repeated: “Atta! Atta!”

  “He seems to know you!” shouted a voice down front.

  Thiudegiskel stood silent, scowling and turning red. A low mutter of laughter ran through the Goths and swelled to a roar.

  Priam called “Atta!” once more, louder.

  Thiudegiskel grabbed his sword hilt and started for the boy. Padway’s heart missed a beat.

  But Priam leaped off the stand into Dagalaif’s arms, leaving Thiudegiskel to shout and wave his sword. He was apparently yelling, “It’s a lie!” over and over. Padway could see his mouth move, but his words were lost in the thunder of the Gothic nation’s Wagnerian laughter.

  Dagalaif and Priam appeared, running toward them. The Goth was staggering slightly and holding his midriff. Padway was alarmed until he saw Dagalaif was suffering from a laughing and coughing spell.

  He slapped him on the back until the coughs and gasps moderated. Then he said: “If we hang around here, Thiudegiskel will recover his wits, and he’ll be angry enough to set his partisans on us with cold steel. In my country we had a word ‘scram’ that is, I think, applicable. Let’s go.”

  “Hey, my lord,” squealed Priam, “where’s my two sesterces? Oh, thank you, my lord. Do you want me to call anybody else ‘father,’ my lord?”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Padway told Urias: “It looks like a sure thing now. Thiudegiskel will never live this afternoon’s episode down. We Americans have some methods for making elections come out the right way, such as stuffing ballot boxes, and the use of floaters. But I don’t think it’ll be necessary to use any of them.”

  “What on earth is a floater, Martinus? You mean a float such as one uses in fishing?”

  “No; I’ll explain sometime. I don’t want to corrupt the Gothic electoral system more than is absolutely necessary.”

  “Look here, if anybody investigates, they’ll learn that Thiudegiskel was the innocent victim of a joke this afternoon. Then won’t the effect be lost?”

  “No, my dear Urias, that’s not how the minds of electors work. Even if he’s proved innocent, he’s been made such an utter fool of that nobody will take him seriously, regardless of his personal merits, if any.”

  Just then a ward-heeler came in breathless. He gasped: “Thiu-Thiudegiskel—”

  Padway complained: “I am going to make it a rule that people who want to see me have to wait outside until they get their breath. What is it, Roderik?”

  Roderik finally got it out. “Thiudegiskel has left Florence, distinguished Martinus. Nobody knows whither. Willimer and some of his other friends went with him.”

  Padway immediately sent out over the telegraph Urias’ order depriving Thiudegiskel of his colonel’s rank—or its rough equivalent in the vague and amorphous Gothic system of command. Then he sat and stewed and waited for news.

  It came the next morning during the voting. But it did not concern Thiudegiskel. It was that a large Imperialist army had crossed over from Sicily and landed, not at Scylla on the toe of the Italian boot where one would expect, but up the coast of Bruttium at Vibo.

  Padway told Urias immediately, and urged: “Don’t say anything for a few hours. This election is in the bag—I mean it’s certain—and we don’t want to disturb it.”

  But rumors began to circulate. Telegraph systems are run by human beings, and few groups of more than a dozen human beings have kept a secret for long. By the time Urias’ election by a two-to-one majority was announced, the Goths were staging an impromptu demonstration in the streets of Florence, demanding to be led against the invader.

  Then more details came in. The Imperialists’ army was commanded by Bloody John, and numbered a good fifty thousand men. Evidently Justinian, furious about Padway’s letter, had been shipping adequate force into Sicily in relays.

  Padway and Urias figured that they could, without recalling troops from Provence and Dalmatia, assemble perhaps half again as many troops as Bloody John had. But further news soon reduced this estimate. That able, ferocious, and unprincipled soldier sent a detachment across the Sila Mountains by a secondary road from Vibo to Scyllacium, while he advanced with his main body down the Popilian Way to Reggio. The Reggio garrison of fifteen thousand men, trapped at the end of the toe of the boot, struck a few blows for the sake of their honor and surrendered. Bloody John reunited his forces and started north toward the ankle.

  Padway saw Urias off in Rome with many misgivings. The army looked impressive, surely, with its new corps of horse archers and its
batteries of mobile catapults. But Padway knew that the new units were inexperienced in their novel ways of fighting, and that the organization was likely to prove brittle in practice.

  Once Urias and the army had left, there was no more point in worrying. Padway resumed his experiments with gunpowder. Perhaps he should try charcoal from different woods. But this meant time, a commodity of which Padway had precious little. He soon learned that he had none at all.

  By piecing together the contradictory information that came in by telegraph, Padway figured out that this had happened: Thiudegiskel had reached his force in Calabria without interference. He had refused to recognize the telegraphic order depriving him of his command, and had talked his men into doing likewise. Padway guessed that the words of an able and self-confident speaker like Thiudegiskel would carry more weight with the mostly illiterate Goths than a brief, cold message arriving over the mysterious contraption.

  Bloody John had moved cautiously; he had only reached Consentia when Urias arrived to face him. That might have been arranged beforehand with Thiudegiskel, to draw Urias far enough south to trap him.

  But, while Urias and Bloody John sparred for openings along the river Crathis, Thiudegiskel arrived in Urias’ rear—on the Imperialist side. Though he had only five thousand lancers, their unexpected charge broke the main Gothic army’s morale. In fifteen minutes the Crathis Valley was full of thousands of Goths—lancers, horse archers, foot archers, and pikemen—streaming off in every direction. Thousands were ridden down by Bloody John’s cuirassiers and the large force of Gepid and Lombard horse he had with him. Other thousands surrendered. The rest ran off into the hills, where the rapidly gathering dusk hid them.

  Urias managed to hold his lifeguard regiment together, and attacked Thiudegiskel’s force of deserters. The story was that Urias had personally killed Thiudegiskel. Padway, knowing the fondness of soldiers for myths of this sort, had his doubts. But it was agreed that Thiudegiskel had been killed, and that Urias and his men had disappeared into the Imperial host in one final, desperate charge, and had been seen no more by those on the Gothic side who escaped from the field.

  For hours Padway sat at his desk, staring at the pile of telegraph messages and at a large and painfully inaccurate map of Italy.

  “Can I get you anything, excellent boss?” asked Fritharik.

  Padway shook his head.

  Junianus shook his head. “I fear that our Martinus’ mind has become unhinged by disaster.”

  Fritharik snorted. “That just shows you don’t know him. He gets that way when he’s planning something. Just wait. He’ll have a devilish clever scheme for upsetting the Greeks yet.”

  Junianus put his head in the door. “Some more messages, my lord.”

  “What are they?”

  “Bloody John is halfway to Salerno. The natives are welcoming him. Belisarius reports he has defeated a large force of Franks.”

  “Come here, Junianus. Would you two boys mind stepping out for a minute? Now, Junianus, you’re a native of Lucania, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You were a serf, weren’t you?”

  “Well…uh…my lord …you see—” The husky young man suddenly looked fearful.

  “Don’t worry; I wouldn’t let you be dragged back to your landlord’s estate for anything.”

  “Well—yes, my lord.”

  “When the messages speak of the ‘natives’ welcoming the Imperialists, doesn’t that mean the Italian landlords more than anybody else?”

  “Yes, my lord. The serfs don’t care one way or the other. One landlord is as oppressive as the next, so why should they get themselves killed fighting for any set of masters, Greek or Italian or Gothic as the case may be?”

  “If they were offered their holdings as free proprietors, with no landlords to worry about, do you think they’d fight for that?”

  “Why”—Junianus took a deep breath—“I think they would. Yes. Only it’s such an extraordinary idea, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Even on the side of Arian heretics?”

  “I don’t think that would matter. The curials and the city folk may take their Orthodoxy seriously. But a lot of the peasants are half pagan anyway. And they worship their land more than any alleged heavenly powers.”

  “That’s about what I thought,” said Padway. “Here are some messages to send out. The first is an edict, issued by me in Urias’ name, emancipating the serfs of Bruttium, Lucania, Calabria, Apulia, Campania, and Samnium. The second is an order to General Belisarius to leave screening force in Provence to fight a delaying action in case the Franks attack again and return south with his main body at once. Oh, Fritharik! Will you get Gudareths for me? And I want to see the foreman of the printshop.”

  When Gudareths arrived, Padway explained his plans to him. The little Gothic officer whistled. “My, my, that is a desperate measure, respectable Martinus. I’m not sure the Royal Council will approve. If you free all these low-born peasants, how shall we get them back into serfdom again?”

  “We won’t,” snapped Padway. “As for the Royal Council, most of them were with Urias.”

  “But, Martinus, you can’t make a fighting force out of them in a week or two. Take the word of an old soldier who has killed hundreds of foes with his own right arm. Yes, thousands, by God!”

  “I know all that,” said Padway wearily.

  “What then? These Italians are no good for fighting. No spirit. You’d better rely on what Gothic forces we can scrape together. Real fighters, like me.”

  Padway said: “I don’t expect to lick Bloody John with raw recruits. But we can give him a hostile country to advance through. You tend to those pikes, and dig up some more retired officers.”

  Padway got his army together and set out from Rome on a bright spring morning. It was not much of an army to look at: elderly Goths who had supposed themselves retired from active service, and young sprigs whose voices had not finished changing.

  As they cluttered down Patrician Street from the Pretorian Camp, Padway had an idea. He told his staff to keep on; he’d catch up with them. And off he cantered, poddle-op, poddle-op, up the Suburban Slope toward the Esquiline.

  Dorothea came out of Anicius’ house. “Martinus!” she cried. “Are you off somewhere again?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You haven’t paid us a real call in months! Every time I see you, you have only a minute before you must jump on your horse and gallop off somewhere.”

  Padway made a helpless gesture. “It’ll be different when I’ve retired from all this damned war and politics. Is your excellent father in?”

  “No; he’s at the library. He’ll be disappointed not to have seen you.”

  “Give him my best.”

  “Is there going to be more war? I’ve heard Bloody John is in Italy.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Will you be in the fighting?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh, Martinus. Wait just a moment.” She ran into the house.

  She returned with a little leather bag on a loop of string. “This will keep you safe if anything will.”

  “What is it?”

  “A fragment of St. Polycarp’s skull.”

  Padway’s eyebrows went up. “Do you believe in its effectiveness?”

  “Oh, certainly. My mother paid enough for it, there’s no doubt that it’s genuine.” She slipped the loop over his head and tucked the bag through the neck opening in his cloak.

  It had not occurred to Padway that a well-educated girl would accept the superstitions of her age. At the same time he was touched. He said: “Thank you, Dorothea, from the bottom of my heart. But there’s something that I think will be a more effective charm yet.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He kissed her mouth lightly, and threw himself aboard his horse. Dorothea stood with a surprised but not displeased look. Padway swung the animal around and sent it back down the avenue, poddle
-op, poddle-op. He turned in the saddle to wave back—and was almost pitched off. The horse plunged and skidded into the nigh ox of a team that had just pulled a wagon out of a side street.

  The driver shouted: “Carus-dominus, Jesus-Christus, Maria-mater-Dei, why don’t you look where you’re going? San’tus-Petrus-Paulusque-Joannesque-Lucasque…”

  By the time the driver had run out of apostles Padway had ascertained that there was no damage. Dorothea was not in sight. He hoped that she had not witnessed the ruin of his pretty gesture.

  CHAPTER XVII

  It was the latter part of May, 537, when Padway entered Benevento with his army. Little by little the force had grown as the remnants of Urias’ army trickled north. Only that morning a forage-cutting party had found three of these Goths who had settled down comfortably in a local farmhouse over the owner’s protests, and prepared to sit out the rest of the war in comfort. These joined up, too, though not willingly.

  Instead of coming straight down the Tyrrhenian or western coast to Naples, Padway had marched across Italy to the Adriatic, and had come down that coast to Teate. Then he had cut inland to Lucera and Benevento. As there was no telegraph line yet on the east coast, Padway kept in touch with Bloody John’s movements by sending messengers across the Apennines to the telegraph stations that were still out of the enemy’s hands. He timed his movements to reach Benevento after John had captured Salerno on the other side of the peninsula, had left a detachment masking Naples, and had started for Rome by the Latin Way.

  Padway hoped to come down on his rear in the neighborhood of Capua, while Belisarius, if he got his orders straight, would come directly from Rome and attack the Imperialists in front.

  Somewhere between Padway and the Adriatic was Gudareths, profanely shepherding a train of wagons full of pikes and of handbills bearing Padway’s emancipation proclamation. The pikes had been dug out of attics and improvised out of fence palings and such things. The Gothic arsenals at Pavia, Verona, and other northern cities had been too far away to be of help in time.