Burning Shadows (10 page)

Sanctu-Germainios considered this question for some little while, then said, his dark eyes fixed on the middle-distance, watching a memory from Panticapaeum more than sixty years ago, when he and Rugierus returned with Kirit Honsilat ud-Kof from the lands north of China. “From what I have seen of the Huns over the years, they fight in the manner they herd: they do not form in lines and squares on foot as the Romans have done for centuries; they fan out on their horses as if to gather their herds together. They surround their foes on their horses and drive them as they would drive wild horses, and when they have them in a pen, or a town, they attack by circling them. When I saw them, they were in a band of around two hundred, including women and children. They had tall carts and their flocks and herds, and they skirmished with a company of Byzantine soldiers, raided, and moved on. Now they leave their families at base camps, or so the reports indicate.” He thought a bit more. “Mountains will slow them a little, and forests will, also; bows are not very useful in forests and herding is awkward among close-growing trees. If we drive them away, we should expect them to return.”

“Shouldn’t we leave the town?” He was doing his best to remain calm, but his voice shook. He started to pace the length of the room, as if moving would lessen his dread.

“If we leave, we are likely to be herded into a trap, or be ridden down like game.” Sanctu-Germainios sighed. “No. Dangerous as it may be, it is best to stay here, since the number of Huns seen heading this way is small. There are farmsteads to raid before they attack the town, which will tire their horses, if not the men riding them. If the walls are not set alight, we should be able to hold them off long enough for soldiers from Apulum and Ulpia Traiana to get here. If there were three times fifty, then we might have to abandon the town, and at once.”

“And go where?” Urridien asked bluntly.

“That is what I hope to arrange.” He took a long, slow breath. “Because if we hold them off this time, they will return, in greater numbers and angry; we should use that time between to get away.”

“Could we … pay them? Would they leave us alone if we gave them money or horses and goats—or slaves?” He coughed once, aware that Sanctu-Germainios had no slaves, only servants.

“They might leave,” Sanctu-Germainios allowed. “But they would be back, demanding more, and plundering when there was nothing more to give.” He met Urridien’s jumpy eyes with his steady ones. “They do not want slaves. They are traveling people, and slaves slow them down; they require food if they are to keep up with the Huns, and they take up space. Gold does not eat and a great deal of it can be contained in a small chest. The only thing to be said against it is that it is heavy.”

“But surely we have something they want?” The question was more of a wail than an inquiry.

“We do have. On their raids, they take food, hides, cloth, cooking pots, iron, cases, and chests, and occasionally young women.” He had seen that at Panticapaeum. “They may be more organized now, but their wants have changed little.”

“Then we are doomed,” Urridien said in despair, and made the sign of the fish in supplication to the Christian God.

“Not necessarily, at least not yet,” said Sanctu-Germainios, and was about to explain when Beijos, the head groom, came rushing into the reception-room.

“Pardon, Dom, but a courier has just arrived from Maeia Retta. He is in the stable; his horse has an injured hoof.” He managed to stop panting.

“Maeia Retta is how far east of here?” Sanctu-Germainios asked. “Six leagues?”

“More than five; it’s very remote,” said Beijos. “He has a message for you.”

Sanctu-Germainios nodded to Urridien. “See that the men report to Mangueinic, and meet me in the forum at the close of the afternoon.” He watched Urridien duck his head, then turned to Beijos. “Take me to this messenger from Maeia Retta.” He fell in beside Beijos. “What has he told you?”

“Me? Nothing. Nothing.”

As he walked out into the sunshine, Sanctu-Germainios could feel the gusty wind rising; that was the first real encouragement he had experienced that day—Huns, he knew, would not risk traveling through trees in strong winds, for it was dangerous for men and horses to risk being struck by thrashing branches. That might give Apulum Inferior another full day to prepare for their arrival. No matter what news the courier brought from Maeia Retta, the town might have a reprieve. Ignoring the discomfort of the sunlight, he lengthened his stride and made for the stable, Beijos jogging beside him.

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Emona in Pannonia Superior, to Feranescus Rakoczy Sanctu-Germainios at Apulum Inferior in the former Province of Dacia Superior, written with fixed ink on split leather, carried by hired courier, and delivered in thirty-six days.

To the foreign guardian of the region of Apulum Inferior, and my most treasured friend, ave, ave, from the Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, presently at Emona in what has been Pannonia Superior, thirty days after the Autumnal Equinox in the 1191
^st
Year of the City, or the 438
^th
year of the Christians.

Do not tell me that all is well and that I should not be worried. The word here at Emona is that Attila is raging through the mountains to the northeast, his men slaughtering every human being and half the livestock they come upon. Two Gepidae merchants carrying furs and iron arrived yesterday with such tales of rapine and destruction that I have become anxious on your behalf, since, according to the merchants, Porolissum was entirely sacked, and the Huns have spread out through the mountains and onto the Dacian plains. Even allowing for conflation and the natural inclination to make accounts more exciting than the events they describe were, it is clear that there is real danger in the mountains, and that it is unlikely to end soon. I fear that there is worse to come for all of us.

There is a rumor that the Byzantine Emperor Theodosios will dispatch troops to relieve the Christian towns and villages in the Carpathians, but I must tell you that I believe the Byzantines are not likely to defend lands that are part of the Western Roman Empire. If you are anticipating relief from Constantinople, you are more apt to be disappointed than to be heartened.

Which brings me to the purpose of this letter: I had intended to send you word when I arrive in Aquileia in ten to twelve days, but now, with this alarming information, I believe it is fitting to communicate with you, while I have a chance of getting a message through to you. If what we hear is true, let me make the request that you leave your post and come to Aquileia with all due haste. Knowing you, I extend this invitation to your household as well, and as many others as you wish, and we will find a way to make them welcome and safe.

Remember that there is no Tribigild to stop this new wave of Huns as he did almost forty years ago, and no Goths willing to form an army to hold the land against them. The Sciri and Carpi—what few are left of them—are not likely to unite with Attila as their fathers and grandfathers did with the first lot, which may be an advantage for you, but with more Goths holding the old Roman forts, the degree of protection they provide is not as ordered as it was before, unless the Byzantines finally decide to mount a resistance. Withdrawal from danger of the sort you are confronting is a sign of wisdom, not cowardice, and you are a wise man.

I vowed that I would not rail at you, and I have done my best not to, but I know I cannot continue without upbraiding you, so I will end this, hand it to the messenger, and leave wine and oil for Magna Mater in the hope that it will reach you before the Huns do. Know that it brings my pious love and my enduring bond, secured by blood, for days and years and centuries,

Olivia

5

Mangueinic arrived at the central villa of Apulum Inferior before prandium, a harried look on his face, his determined limping almost as rapid as a jog. Soot clung to his hair and swiped his nose, making the scrape along his jaw less noticeable than it would have been otherwise; all were indications that the morning clean-up after the nighttime skirmish with a small company of Huns was well-underway. He looked around the reception-room that had been transformed into an infirmary, where a dozen women tended forty- three men—nearly a third of the men of the town—on cots and pallets, and Sanctu-Germainios provided medicaments, set broken bones, and stitched wounds closed. “The woodmen have come back from the forest with twenty more logs,” he announced, his voice strained; he had been shouting orders since sunrise. “There is a band of refugees coming this way, they tell us. They have wagons and carts, well-laden, and probably wounded.”

“How many?” Sanctu-Germainios asked with great calm; unlike most of the people in the room, he was impervious to the damp chill that promised rain by evening, and had not added a trabea over his black woolen pallium and femoralia to keep warm. “And do we know where they come from?”

“We have only guesses,” said Mangueinic. “The woodmen estimate anything from sixty to a hundred. They are coming from the northwest. Possibly from Tsapousso.”

“The northwest?” Sanctu-Germainios repeated, slightly emphasizing
west.
“Not Apulum?” Apulum was northeast of Apulum Inferior.

“Tsapousso,” Mangueinic said again, and fell silent as the men on the beds around him who were alert enough gave him their full attention.

“Then the main body of the Huns have passed beyond us, and may circle back once they’ve secured their targets to the west.”

“Ulpia Traiana, do you think?” Mangueinic asked. “We’ve had no news from there.”

“It is probable. It is certainly the greatest prize, with the fortifications and the old Dacian sacred precincts.” Sanctu-Germainios motioned to one of the women. “Will you fetch another roll of bandages for me, from the cabinet in the corridor? The captain of the Watch needs his leg rebound.” His level voice and even look concealed the alarm he felt as he studied the stains on the bandages along the outside of his calf: puffy parallel traces made by smears of oozing pale-yellow pus.

“You needn’t bother,” Mangueinic grumbled. “Just let me have my mid-day meal and two cups of wine before I leave—that’s all I need. We have to get the section of wall repaired today. I’ll rest tonight, while it’s raining.”

“I would rather rebind your wound now than have to care for you in a high fever, which may be the alternative if you refuse this treatment. The rain will not give you the deep aches that are already beginning if the wound is cleaned.” Sanctu-Germainios indicated a bench next to an array of oil-lamps next to the hearth, for unlike traditional Roman villas, this one was heated with fireplaces, and the light from the lamps and the burning logs provided the illumination he needed for his task. “If you will? You can dine afterwards, when you are improved.”

Mangueinic huffed, but went to the bench with as much of a swagger as he could manage, although his eyes were worried. “If these refugees come here, what should we do?” he asked, as much to distract himself as to seek information. “If the Huns come back—and sooner or later, they will come back—these foreigners may take their part against us.”

“I doubt that will happen. Take them in,” said Sanctu-Germainios at once. “They will have valuable intelligence for us, and coming here now, we can use them and the time to advantage. The Huns will not attack in a storm, at least not so small a village as this one: it is not worth the risk.” He paused in his untying the outer bands that held the dressing in place; Mangueinic winced, as much concession as he would give to pain. “The refugees can help us arrange our defenses.” The unwrapping began. “I will try not to hurt you, but some of the bandage may stick to the laceration.”

Mangueinic tried to conceal a squinch as he shifted his attitude. “If there are strong men among the refugees, then they can help rebuild the southern wall and the storehouse, and assist the woodmen in bringing in more logs to heighten the outer wall.”

While Mangueinic spoke, Sanctu-Germainios tossed the long bandage aside and saying to the woman who picked it up, “Boil it with astringent herbs and dry it in the caldarium.”

“Why do you want her to do that?” Mangueinic demanded. “Because the pus from your injury contains elements of disease. The Egyptians teach that there are animalcules engendered in wounds that may spread to others if not contained. Boiling in stringent herbs eliminates the contagion.” He had learned about the boiling more than five centuries ago from a physician with the Legions and had used the technique ever since: anything that touched blood or pus boiled with astringent herbs. He had learned about the animalcules while serving at the Temple of Imhotep, many centuries ago. He also washed his hands with medicated water between patients, as a precaution against mixing animalcules.

The woman ducked her head and was about to throw the bandages into a cauldron when Mangueinic stopped her. “I want to have Patras Iob bless it first.”

“Dom?” the woman inquired.

“Have him bless the bandages after they have been boiled, but tell him not to touch them.” he said, and added for Mangueinic’s benefit, “It would not be wise to pass infection to the priest.”

“No,” Mangueinic exclaimed, his nose wrinkling as the odor of his wound reached him. “There is pus.”