Lest Darkness Fall and Related Stories

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

  The Italian serfs had meanwhile seen the Gothic cavalry galloping up with the Imperialists in pursuit, and had formed their own idea that the battle was lost. Ripples of movement ran through their disorderly array, and its motion was presently reversed. Soon the road up to the town was white with running Italians. Those who had crossed the bridge were jammed together in a clawing mob trying to get back over.

  Padway yelled in a cracked voice, to Gudareths: “Get back over the river somehow! Send mounted men out on the roads to stop the runaways! Let those on this side get back over. I’ll try to hold the Greeks here.”

  He dismounted most of his troops. He arranged the lancers six deep in a semicircle in front of the bridgehead, around the caterwauling peasants, with lances outward. Along the river bank he posted the archers in two bodies, one on each flank, and beyond them his remaining lancers, mounted. If anything would hold Bloody John, that would.

  The Imperialists stood for perhaps ten minutes. Then a big body of Lombards and Gepids trotted out, cantered, galloped straight at his line of spears. Padway, standing afoot behind the line, watched them grow larger and larger. The sound of their hoofs was like that of a huge orchestra of kettledrums, louder and louder. Watching these big, longhaired barbarians loom up out of the dust their horses raised, Padway sympathized with the peasant recruits. If he hadn’t had his pride and his responsibility, he’d have run himself until his legs gave out.

  On came the Imperialists. They looked as though they could ride over any body of men on earth. Then the bowstrings began to snap. Here a horse reared or buckled; there a man fell off with a musical clash of scale-mail. The charge slowed perceptibly. But they came on. To Padway they looked twenty feet tall. And then they were right on the line of spears. Padway could see the spearmen’s tight lips and white faces. If they held—They did. The Imperialist horses reared, screaming, when the lancers pricked them. Some of them stopped so suddenly that their riders were pitched out of the saddle. And then the whole mass was streaming off to right and left, and back to the main army. It wasn’t the horses’ war, and they had no intention of spitting themselves on the unpleasant-looking lances.

  Padway drew his first real breath in almost a minute. He’d been lecturing his men to the effect that no cavalry could break a really solid line of spearmen, but he hadn’t believed it himself until now.

  Then an awful thing happened. A lot of his lancers, seeing the Imperialists in flight, broke away from the line and started after their foes on foot. Padway screeched at them to come back, but they kept on running, or rather trotting heavily in their armor. Like at Senlac, thought Padway. With similar results. The alert John sent a regiment of cuirassiers out after the clumsily running mob of Goths, and in a twinkling the Goths were scattering all over the field and being speared like so many boars. Padway raved with fury and chagrin; this was his first serious loss. He grabbed Tirdat by the collar, almost strangling him.

  He shouted: “Find Gudareths! Tell him to round up a few hundred of those Italians! I’m going to put them in the line!”

  Padway’s line was now perilously thin, and he couldn’t contract it without isolating his archers and horsemen. But this time John hurled his cavalry against the flanking archers. The archers dropped back down the river bank, where the horses couldn’t get at them, and Padway’s own cavalry charged the Imperialists, driving them off in a dusty chaos of whirling blades.

  Presently the desired peasantry appeared, shepherded along by dirty and profane Gothic officers. The bridge was carpeted with pikes dropped in flight; the recruits were armed with these and put in the front line. They filled the gap nicely. Just to encourage them, Padway posted Goths behind them, holding sword points against their kidneys.

  Now, if Bloody John would let him alone for a while, he could set about the delicate operation of getting his whole force back across the bridge without exposing any part of it to slaughter.

  But Bloody John had no such intention. On came two big bodies of horse, aimed at the flanking Gothic cavalry.

  Padway couldn’t see what was happening, exactly, between the dust and the ranks of heads and shoulders in the way. But by the diminishing clatter he judged his men were being drawn off. Then came some cuirassiers galloping at the archers, forcing them off the top of the bank again. The cuirassiers strung their bows, and for a few seconds Goths and Imperialists twanged arrows at each other. Then the Goths began slipping off up and down the river, and swimming across.

  Finally, on came the Gepids and Lombards, roaring like lions. This time there wouldn’t be any arrow fire to slow them up. Bigger and bigger loomed the onrushing mass of longhaired giants on their huge horses, waving their huge axes.

  Padway felt the way a violin string must the moment before it snaps.

  There was a violent commotion in his own ranks right in front of him. The backs of the Goths were replaced by the brown faces of the peasants. These had dropped their pikes and clawed their way back through the ranks, sword points or no sword points. Padway had a glimpse of their popping eyes, their mouths gaping in screams of terror, and he was bowled over by the wave. They stepped all over him. He squirmed and kicked like a newt on a hook, wondering when the bare feet of the Italians would be succeeded by the hoofs of the hostile cavalry. The Italo-Gothic kingdom was done for, and all his work for nothing....

  The pressure and the pounding let up. A battered Padway untangled himself from those who had tripped over him. His whole line had begun to give way, but then had been frozen in the act, staring—all but a Goth in front of him who was killing an Italian.

  The Imperialist heavy cavalry was not to be seen. The dust was so thick that nothing much could be seen. From beyond the pall in front of Padway’s position came tramplings and shoutings and clatterings.

  “What’s happened?” yelled Padway. Nobody answered. There was nothing to be seen in front of them but dust, dust, dust. A couple of riderless horses ran dimly past them through it, seeming to drift by like fish in a muddy aquarium tank.

  Then a man appeared, running on foot. As he slowed down and walked up to the line of spears, Padway saw that he was a Lombard.

  While Padway was wondering if this was some lunatic out to tackle his army single-handed, the man shouted: “Armaio! Mercy!” The Goths exchanged startled glances.

  Then a couple of more barbarians appeared, one of them leading a horse. They yelled: “Armaio, timrja! Mercy, comrade! Armaio, frijond! Mercy, friend!”

  A plumed Imperial cuirassier rode up behind them, shouting in Latin: “Amicus!” Then appeared whole companies of Imperialists, horse and foot, German, Slav, Hun, and Anatolian mixed, bawling, “Mercy, friend!” in a score of languages.

  A solid group of horsemen with a Gothic standard in their midst rode through the Imperialists. Padway recognized a tall, brown-bearded figure in their midst. He croaked: “Belisarius!”

  The Thracian came up, leaned over, and shook hands. “Martinus! I didn’t know you with all that dust on your face. I was afraid I’d be too late. We’ve been riding hard since dawn. We hit them in the rear, and that was all there was to it. We’ve got Bloody John, and your King Urias is safe. What shall we do with all these prisoners? There must be twenty or thirty thousand of them at least.”

  Padway rocked a little on his feet. “Oh, round them up and put them in a camp or something. I don’t really care. I’m going to sleep on my feet in another minute.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Back in Rome, Urias said slowly: “Yes, I see your point. Men won’t fight for a government they have no stake in. But do you think we can afford to compensate all the loyal landlords whose serfs you propose to free?”

  “We’ll manage,” said Padway. “It’ll be over a period of years. And this new tax on slaves will help.” Padway did not explain that he hoped, by gradually boosting the tax on slaves, to make slavery an altogether unprofitable institution. Such an idea would have been too bewilderingly radical for even Urias’ flexible mind.

 
Urias continued: “I don’t mind the limitations on the king’s power in this new constitution of yours. For myself, that is. I’m a soldier, and I’m just as glad to leave the conduct of civil affairs to others. But I don’t know about the Royal Council.”

  “They’ll agree. I have them more or less eating out of my hand right now. I’ve shown them how without the telegraph we could never have kept such good track of Bloody John’s movements, and without the printing press we could never have roused the serfs so effectively.”

  “What else is there?”

  “We’ve got to write the kings of the Franks, explaining politely that it’s not our fault if the Burgunds prefer our rule to theirs, but that we certainly don’t propose to give them back to their Meroving majesties.

  “We’ve also got to make arrangements with the king of Visigoths for fitting out our ships at Lisbon for their trip to the lands across the Atlantic. He’s named you his successor, by the way, so when he dies the east and west Goths will be united again. Reminds me, I have to make a trip to Naples. The shipbuilder down there says he never saw such a crazy design as mine, which is for what we Americans would call a Grand Banks schooner. Procopius’ll have to go with me, to discuss details of his history course at our new university.”

  “Why are you so set on this Atlantic expedition, Martinus?”

  “I’ll tell you. In my country we amused ourself by sucking the smoke of a weed called tobacco. It’s a fairly harmless little vice if you don’t overdo it. Ever since I arrived here I’ve been wishing for some tobacco, and the land across the Atlantic is the nearest place you can get any.”

  Urias laughed his big, booming laugh. “I’ve got to be off. I’d like to see the draft of your letter to Justinian before you send it.”

  “Okay, as we say in America. I’ll have it for you tomorrow, and also the appointment of Thomasus the Syrian as minister of finance for you to sign. He arranged to get those skilled ironworkers from Damascus through his private business connections, so I shan’t have to ask Justinian for them.”

  Urias asked: “Are you sure your friend Thomasus is honest?”

  “Sure he’s honest. You just have to watch him. Give my regards to Mathaswentha. How is she?”

  “She’s fine. She’s calmed down a lot since all the people she most feared have died or gone mad. We’re expecting a little Amaling, you know.”

  “I didn’t know! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. When are you going to find a girl, Martinus?”

  Padway stretched and grinned. “Oh, just as soon as I catch up on my sleep.”

  Padway watched Urias go with a twinge of envy. He was at the age when bachelors get wistful about their friends’ family life. Not that he wanted a repetition of his fiasco with Betty, or a stick of female dynamite like Mathaswentha. He hoped Urias would keep his queen pregnant practically from now on. It might keep her out of mischief.

  Padway wrote:

  Urias, King of the Goths and Italians, to his Radiant Clemency Flavius Anicius Justinian, Emperor of the Romans, Greetings.

  Now that the army sent by your Serene Highness to Italy, under John, the nephew of Vitalianus, better known as Bloody John, is no longer an obstacle to our reconciliation, we resume discussion for terms for the honorable termination of the cruel and unprofitable war between us.

  The terms proposed in our previous letter stand, with this exception: Our previously asked indemnity of a hundred thousand solidi is doubled, to compensate our citizens for damages caused by Bloody John’s invasion.

  There remains the question of the disposal of your general, Bloody John. Though we have never seriously contemplated the collection of Imperial generals as a hobby, your Serenity’s actions have forced us into a policy that looks much like it. As we do not wish to cause the Empire a serious loss, we shall release the said John on payment of a modest ransom of fifty thousand solidi.

  We earnestly urge your Serenity to consider this course favorably. As you know, the Kingdom of Persia is ruled by King Khusrau, a young man of great force and ability. We have reason to believe that Khusrau will soon attempt another invasion of Syria. You will then need the ablest generals you can find.

  Further, our slight ability to foresee the future informs us that in about thirty years there will be born in Arabia a man named Mohammed, who, preaching a heretical religion, will, unless stopped, instigate a great wave of barbarian conquest, subverting the rule both of the Persian Kingdom and the East Roman Empire. We respectfully urge the desirability of securing control of the Arabian Peninsula forthwith, that this calamity shall be stopped at the source.

  Please accept this warning as evidence of our friendliest sentiments. We await the gracious favor of an early reply.

  by

  Martinus Paduei, Quaestor.

  Padway leaned back and looked at the letter. There were other things to attend to: the threat of invasion of Noricum by the Bavarians, and the offer by the Khan of the Avars of an alliance to exterminate the Bulgarian Huns. The alliance would be courteously refused. The Avars would make no pleasanter neighbors than the Bulgars.

  Let’s see: There was a wandering fanatical monk who was kicking up another row about sorcery. Should he try to smother the man in cream, as by giving him a job? Better see the Bishop of Bologna first; if he had influence in that direction, Padway knew how to make use of it. And it was time he cottoned up to that old rascal Silverius…

  And should he go on with his gunpowder experiments? Padway was not sure that this was desirable. The world had enough means of inflicting death and destruction already. On the other hand his own interests were tied up with those on the Italo-Gothic State, which must therefore be saved at all costs…

  To hell with it, thought Padway. He swept all the papers into a drawer in his desk, took his hat off the peg, and got his horse. He set out for Anicius’ house. How could he expect to cut any ice with Dorothea if he didn’t even look her up for days after his return to Rome?

  Dorothea came out to meet him. He thought how pretty she was.

  But there was nothing of hail-the-conquering-hero about her manner. Before he could get a word out, she began: “You beast! You slimy thing! We befriended you, and you ruin us! My poor old father’s heart is broken! And now you’ve come around to gloat, I suppose!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know! I know all about that illegal order you issued, freeing the serfs on our estates in Campania. They burned our house, and stole the things I’ve kept since I was a little girl—” She began to weep.

  Padway tried to say something sympathetic, but she flared up again. “Get out! I never want to see you again! It’ll take a squad of your barbarian soldiers to get you into our house. Get out!”

  Padway got, slowly and dispiritedly. It was a complex world. Almost anything big you did was bound to hurt somebody.

  Then his back straightened. It was nothing to feel sorry for oneself about. Dorothea was a nice girl, yes, pretty, and reasonably bright. But she was not extraordinary in these respects; there were plenty of others equally attractive. To be frank, Dorothea was a pretty average young woman. And being Italian, she’d probably be fat at thirty-five.

  Government compensation for their losses would do a lot to mend the broken hearts of the Anicii. If they tried to apologize for treating him roughly, he’d be polite and all, but he didn’t think he’d go back.

  Girls were okay, and he’d probably fall one of these days. But he had more important things to worry over. His success so far in the business of civilization outweighed any little failures in personal relationships.

  His job wasn’t over. It never would be—until disease or old age or the dagger of some local enemy ended it. There was so much to do, and only a few decades to do it in; compasses and steam engines and microscopes and the writ of habeas corpus.

  He’d teetered along for over a year and a half, grabbing a little power here, placating a possible enemy there, keeping far enough out of the
bad graces of the various churches, starting some little art such as spinning of sheet copper. Not bad for Mouse Padway! Maybe he could keep it up for years.

  And if he couldn’t—if enough people finally got fed up with the innovations of Mysterious Martinus—well, there was a semaphore telegraph system running the length and breadth of Italy, some day to be replaced by a true electric telegraph, if he could find time for the necessary experiments. There was a public letter post about to be set up. There were presses in Florence and Rome and Naples pouring out books and pamphlets and newspapers. Whatever happened to him, these things would go on. They’d become too well rooted to be destroyed by accident.

  History had, without question, been changed.

  Darkness would not fall.

  THE END

  ***

  L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP’S GREAT

  LEAP OF IMAGINATION

  Alexei and Cory Panshin

  The science fiction short stories and the science articles that de Camp wrote during 1938 and 1939 helped to replace Techno Age emotionalism with a new tone of rationality and good humor. They made a strong case for the legitimacy, value and power of human nature. And they tended to suggest that immediate human survival and advancement would not come by way of evolution, which was a slow, gradual, long-term process that could be trusted to take care of itself, but rather through scientific progress, the cumulative mastery of universal operating principles.

  Useful, even essential, as this early work was, however, de Camp’s most original and significant contribution would come in the novels and short novels that he began to write both alone and collaboratively for Unknown, the new companion magazine of Astounding.

  This second magazine, which started publication in March 1939, was the true measure of John Campbell’s breadth and subtlety. It was the culmination of Campbell’s early editorial experiments with sf form and content.