Burning Shadows (29 page)

Now Priam Corydon drew himself up and spoke with finality. “We are not to abandon the plan we’ve agreed to when we need it most. Ritt, go to the infirmary and warn the monks there to be ready for injuries. Then warn Dom Sanctu-Germainios to prepare for many serious wounds. Ask what he may need from us to assist him in his work.” He signaled the novice to hurry off. “Tribune Bernardius, dispatch your messengers to the herders and organize your men on the inner wall. Neves, assign posts to your men on the battlements and ladders, and deploy your lieutenants. Monachos Vlasos, take nine slaves and go to the kitchen to make ready to feed our defenders. See that there are slaves to carry water to the soldiers. Monachos Niccolae of Sinu, go to the office of the monastery and record the numbers of residents, monks, and slaves presently within these walls and put the accounting in the stone chest. Novice Penthos, go out to the hermits and warn them of what is coming. Monachos Egidius Remigos, summon your novices and delegate them to their posts and duties at the gates. Refugee women, order your dormitory, put your goods into chests and cases, and ready cloth for bandages. Do not be rendered hopeless; God will guard us all.”

Someone at the back of the crowd bawled out, “Monachos Anatolios says God will desert us if we fight!”

Denerac of Tsapousso flung up his hands in outrage. “What of a courier? Won’t you send one to Drobetae? You said you would. Are we to vanish from the face of the earth and our fate never known to anyone but the Huns?”

“An excellent reminder,” said Priam Corydon. “Tribune Bernardius, choose your most skilled rider and mount him on the best horses; choose a loyal man who will cleave to his task. I will prepare a description of our circumstances for him to carry southward, and you may add what you will.”

“If you send him out now, he’ll meet the Huns on the road,” Neves warned. “They’ll make short work of him.”

“Not if he goes over the western ridge, using the hunters’ trail,” said Priam Corydon. “The track is narrow and runs through the forest, but it will bring the messenger to the river at Bagna, and he can follow it south to the Danuvius.” He held up his hand. “Let us be about our duties.”

The crowd broke apart rapidly, but more purposefully than it would have done a moment before. Priam Corydon motioned to Bernardius, and joined him on the path to the monastery building.

“My best rider is Tiberius Valerios. I’ve asked him to ready himself to go.” He pointed out a tall young man making for the stable. “He’ll select his horses, then come to you for the message.”

“Fine. God be praised.” Priam Corydon noticed that Ritt was beckoning to him “Tell your rider that I will have my report ready by noon.” He made the sign of the cross and went off to the novice.

For most of the time until mid-afternoon the monastery was filled with activity, the bustle fueled by anxiety and ill-concealed fear. Yet the mercenaries took their places on the battlements, the soldiers gathered their weapons, the refugees aided in cooking and herding. Before mid-day Mass was over, Tiberius Valerios had selected three horses, secured a bag of provisions, a wallet of coins, the report from Priam Corydon, and departed down the steep trail leading westward. By mid-afternoon, one of the nearer sentries had seen the horsemen three thousand paces away and coming along steadily; he reported counting sixty-seven men with a dozen more horses for remounts. Activity within the monastery became more sedulous than earlier in the day. The soldiers finished distributing weapons and settled down to wait for the arrival of the Huns while novices fussed among them, bringing small loaves filled with venison stew and skins of harsh red wine. Armorers took up posts between the two walls, where they could retrieve the enemy’s weapons and turn them to the defenders’ use. Monachos Archimedios, the master of the infirmary, went to the old chapel to inform Dom Sanctu-Germainios which of the wounded would be sent to the infirmary and which would be given to him; he suggested that Sanctu-Germainios have some of the young men among the refugees help him deal with his patients by carrying the wounded from the walls to the old chapel. Patras Anso went among the people from Apulum Inferior, delivering benedictions. The herders put stout beams across the stalls and pens to keep the animals in if they should panic, and three monks built up a large bonfire in the open space between the monastery building and the travelers’ dormitory to provide light and torches when the sunlight faded.

“The pass!” Monachos Egidius Remigos yelled as the first of the riders topped the trail at the narrow gap and began the single-file descent into the valley.

“Stand to your posts! Stand with your comrades and kin!” Bernardius yowled before he set his helmet on his head.

“Three of them! They’re starting down the road!”

At this cry, the mercenaries on the outer battlements rose to their stations, spears, bows, and pikes at the ready. The sound of chanting in the church rose in volume, and the rumble of furtive conversations got louder. The monks at the main gate put the heaviest brace across the upright logs and knelt to pray with their brothers in the church.

“Weapons up!” shouted Neves, climbing to the highest point on the gatehouse. “Kill the horses first!”

More than a dozen Huns were through the pass now, and the first few clustered at the base of the trail at the head of the valley. The men carried bows, quivered arrows, slings with stones, and swords; a few had maces as well, and others had weighted bags tied to their distinctive saddles. Eight riders carried the horsetail standards and each of them led one or two remount horses. They were more menacing as their pace increased, still circling, from a trot to a canter.

“Wait till they’re close enough to hit!” Neves ordered. “Don’t waste spears or arrows on them!”

Rotlandus Bernardius walked along the inner walls. “Have courage! Remember your heritage! Gloria ad Romanorum.”

In the travelers’ dormitory, Isalind and Dysis gathered the refugee children in the vestibule and set them to filling pouches with stones for the ballistas to fire, and gave the older boys the task of running out baskets of these pouches to Neves’ mercenaries; Khorea, working in the main room, helped the women prepare beds and tables for their men.

As the number of Huns through the pass increased, they started up an eerie cry, between a whinny and a howl, and they kept their horses moving in a close circle, in and out of the shadow of the western peaks, which made it impossible to count their numbers.

Then, at a signal none of the defenders could see, the Huns started toward the outer wall of the monastery, the riders carrying the weighted leather bags riding in the van. As they approached the walls, these men suddenly spurred forward, shrieking, and flung the bags so that they landed inside the outer walls. None of the defenders bothered with them since none of the defenders were struck by them; their show of indifference helped to build their courage. Then the Huns began to circle the walls, riding in what seemed to be a disorganized mob, never gathered too closely together, never too ordered in their ranks.

“Use the nearer ballista!” Neves shouted.

“Can’t,” one of his men answered. “We can’t get a fix on them to aim! They mill and—”

“Lead the volley.” Neves tromped over to the catapult and took a few of the bags of stones and put them in the sling. “Tighten the skeins. Now!”

Two of his soldiers jumped to the task, both counting in unison as they worked the windlasses that drew back the arms. They set the trigger and swung the stock to aim, as Neves had ordered them, slightly ahead of where the Huns were swarming. They set the support-leg, ready. On Neves’ signal, they fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing one man tumble from his horse.

“He’ll mount again,” one of the Watchmen shouted.

“Again! Farther ballista, make ready!” Neves handed another bag of stones to his men. “Keep at it.”

“Until we run out of things to fire at them,” shouted one of the soldiers manning the ballista, and laughed.

A boy carrying a basket of bagged stones almost tripped over one of the large leather sacks the Huns had thrown, and dislodged its contents. He stared, and then let out a terrified shout.

“Leave the bag alone,” Neves barked at him, then saw the look on the boy’s face; he rushed to the nearest ladder, scrambled down it, hastening to the boy. “What is it?”

“Fonalind,” the boy whispered, pointing. “Thirhald’s daughter.” Neves looked, and saw the girl’s bloody head. “Perigrinos, Blazius!” he shouted. “Take three men and gather up the leather bags! Now!” As he spoke, he shoved the ghastly trophy back into its bag.

The men responded promptly, commandeering a large basket from a stack of them under the battlements. “What shall we do with them?” asked the nearest of the five men.

Neves considered an instant. “Take them to the Priam. He’ll decide how to deal with them.” Above them the second ballista fired. “Load up and fire again!”

Perigrinos had picked up a second sack, and realized at once what it contained. “What are we to tell him?”

“Take this lad with you, and leave it to him,” said Neves, and made for the ladder once more.

Perigrinos took the lad by the shoulder and laid the baskets of bagged rocks on the ground. “We’ll get the sacks away from here, to Priam Corydon,” he said, uncertain if the boy heard him over the din of battle. Howls came from several points along the outer battlements as Hunnic arrows found their marks. The flights of Hunnic arrows continued and thickened.

“Archers!” Neves hollered. “Notch your first arrows, and fire at will!”

His bowmen loosed their arrows and notched more, firing steadily at the Huns, many trying for their horses. The ballistas continued to lob the fist-sized sacks of stones, and the noise of battle grew too loud for orders to be heard. Neves continued to walk along the outer battlements, showing no fear, his determination communicating itself to his soldiers. All the while, he watched the Huns, making note of which men they rallied around, and which men followed their orders. He stopped by his lieutenant assigned to this stretch of wall and pointed out one of the Huns on a spotted horse. “That man. Can you kill him?” he shouted in his ear.

His lieutenant, a hatchet-faced veteran from Illyricum called Drinus, nodded. “If I can see him, I can kill him.” He hefted his Armenian bow.

Neves stepped away from him. “Good hunting,” he called back, and continued on his rounds, finding his next lieutenant with an arrow in his side and blood staining his scale armor, spreading along the overlapping brass medallions rapidly. Neves signaled for one of the men from Apulum Inferior assigned to carry the wounded to safety. “This one is for the Dom. The arrow struck in the base of his shoulder. Tell the Dom he’s lost a lot of blood. Oios! Take Accius’ place!”

The look-out came from his post on the tower, ducking the Hunnic arrows sailing lethally near. “Nine men?”

“If you can, keep them alive,” said Neves, and helped lower the wounded man to the refugees beneath, pausing long enough to see them carry him through the gate in the inner wall. He continued his rounds. When he had completed the circuit, he had a moment to take stock. Eleven men injured, two seriously; the Huns had lost one man and two horses. It was about what he had expected for a first sally. They could hold the outer walls until sundown, and then would use the gathering darkness to fall back. His evaluation ended abruptly as a flaming arrow shot overhead, thunking solidly into the inner stockade wall.
‘Water!”
he screamed, and saw one of Bernardius’ men come rushing, a pail slopping water as he ran.

Outside the walls, a thicket went up in flames, then another at the edge of the lake caught fire. One of Neves’ men fell to the ground, a smoldering arrow in his neck. A dozen more sailed brightly into the space between the inner and outer walls, striking a novice and an armorer, and setting the trampled grass alight. Some of those assisting the mercenaries scattered, terrified by the fire as much as by the arrows.

A wail of dismay erupted among the Huns as a chain fired from one of the ballistas uncoiled among them; another volley of Hunnic arrows, some of them burning, soared over the outer wall, many landing again between the two defensive walls, where the refugees worked to help the fighters. More outcry signaled where the arrows had found their marks, and this time the response of those charged with tending the wounded was slower than before.

“Get to it!” Neves thundered at the refugees, crouched under the battlements. “The wounded need you!”

The refugees set out at a reluctant scuttle for the nearest ladder and the men above them.

Neves resumed his circuit of the outer wall, keeping his head down, and trusting his helmet and lorica to protect him from the continual flight of Hunnic arrows, now augmented with occasional spears. He wished now that they had a third ballista and many more chains to shoot at the mounted barbarians. They would need more bags of rocks and more arrows. He made himself keep moving, shouting to his lieutenants and dodging arrows. As he paused at one of the three towers, he saw Bernardius coming toward him.

“How much longer are you going to remain forward?” Bernardius yelled at him as he came up.

“We agreed my men would fall back at sunset,” Neves reminded him. “We still have a little daylight left to us.”