Burning Shadows (30 page)

“But your refugee aides are retreating, and that leaves you without men to help your wounded.” Bernardius swung his shield to deflect a burning arrow. “We’re lost if they burn down the walls.”

“Have the men who can be trusted to bring up cauldrons of water. We can throw the water on them as they light their arrows.”

“Where did they get the fire? They had no torches when they rode in.”

Neves cocked his head. “I think some of what we took for maces were readied torches that needed only a spark to light.”

“A good notion. Nota bona,” said Bernardius. “The bushes they set afire are dying down; that’s something.”

“Are your men ready to fight?”

“They claim to be. But standing and waiting is making them uneasy.” Bernardius laced his fingers together and attempted a stretch. “I would like you to signal me before you fall back.”

“So you can prepare your men?”

“Yes.”

“And cauldrons of water?” Neves pursued.

“I’ll see you have them.” Bernardius jumped as a blazing arrow hissed by his head. “At once.” He took a step back to return to his post, then halted as a sudden, triumphant howl burst from the two soldiers manning the nearer ballista, which was echoed by a scream from the Huns.

“Got him! Got him at last, by God!” The soldiers slammed their right fists into their left shoulders in approval, and cheering derision at the Huns, now clustering around their apparent leader, who remained in the saddle only because the high pommel and cantel held him erect; his body slumped, and the side of his head-guard was deeply indented into his temple. Blood ran down his neck as his men maneuvered his horse away from the outer stockade to the place they had put their dead, men and horses together. They took him out of the saddle, leaving him with two guards to watch over him while the rest resumed their attack with renewed ferocity.

One of the soldiers who had shot the heavy bolt at the leader was struck with three arrows, two of which were burning. More arrows threatened to set fire to the stockade, but cauldrons of water were rushed up, and the arrows embedded in the upended logs were extinguished.

By the time it was dark, Neves’ men had retreated to the inner walls, bringing their ballistas with them and sending those with minor wounds off to be treated. A small holding force of ten remained on the outer walls, torches blazing, preparing burning arrows of their own. In the uncertain light, the Huns continued to circle the monastery, seeming to flicker in the last glow of sunset, continuing to pepper the defenders with arrows, not so often setting them alight as much to have the advantage of stealth in their flight as to continue their attempt to burn the place down.

Once he had fallen back, Neves went to the old chapel, requesting a salve and a bandage for a cut on his face and a welt on his arm. “Not the kind of injuries monks like to treat: too reminiscent of fighting.” He touched the weal. “It’s my own fault. Turned too quickly with my shield,” he said, abashed. “As foolish as a recruit.”

“Better than an arrow in the chest,” said Sanctu-Germainios, inspecting the second injury. “I will give you an ointment for the bruise; you will be stiff tomorrow without it.”

One of thirteen of Neves’ men, lying on a pallet with a bandage around his head, called out, “How many did we kill?”

“The last count was eleven,” said Neves. “Including their leader.” The men on the pallets did their best to whoop. “And our men?” one inquired.

“Eighteen wounded, I haven’t got the count of the dead yet.” Neves turned to Sanctu-Germainios. “Do you know the number?” 

“Three who were brought to me wounded have died,” he answered. “I do not know of any others.”

Nicoris, who was giving water to the men, stopped her task. “Four,” she corrected.

“Four?” Neves repeated, staring at her.

“Dead,” she said by way of clarification, in case there was any doubt.

“The one with the arrow in the groin?” Sanctu-Germainios saw her nod. “I feared so. The main vessel was severed and stopping the bleeding was—”

“I’ve seen such wounds before,” Neves said. “They are never good.” He regarded Sanctu-Germainios. “The rest?”

“Speak to me in the morning; I will know more then.” He pointed to five of the men. “They will be carried to the travelers’ dormitory later this evening, assuming the fighting dies down. The rest I will keep here, in case there is trouble.”

“Do you expect trouble?” Neves asked.

“To a degree, I do,” said Sanctu-Germainios. “Otherwise I would send them to the dormitory.” He pointed to one soldier, sitting up, but groggy and dazed. “He sustained a very bad blow to the head. I fear if he falls asleep, he may remain asleep for many days. Nicoris is watching him closely, and when he seems to fail, she gives him hart’s-horn and water to smell to revive him.”

Neves took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I will return at midnight. And shortly after dawn. Bernardius may have casualties tonight. The Huns are determined on revenge for their leader’s death, now, or later with more men.”

“Do you anticipate heavy fighting?” Nicoris asked.

“They’re Huns—who can tell what they’ll do?” Neves said, taking the pat of camphor-laden ointment Sanctu-Germainios offered him. He managed a salute to his men before he trudged off to the door.

Text of an account of the Hunnic attack on Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, written with fixed ink on vellum in Byzantine Greek by Monachos Niccolae of Sinu for the archives of the monastery and entrusted to their stone vault for records.

In the Name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.

Yesterday, one month following the Vernal Equinox, this monastery of Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit was viciously attacked by eighty-one Huns, well-armed and intent upon havoc, and answering to none but the Devil. The fighting having concluded, the account of the results are offered for the archives, with the ardent hope that God and Sanctu Eustachios will guide me in preparing a truthful report of the battle.

In addition to two hundred eighty-four monks and novices, this monastery has, as of this day, within its walls four hundred nine men, women, and children from Apulum Inferior, sixty-one from Tsapousso, one hundred sixty-seven from Ulpia Traiana, and the mercenary company of Antoninu Neves of one hundred fifty-three. As a result of the attack we are left with thirty-nine dead to whom to give Christian burial, and an additional forty-four who were among a company who had left the monastery but three days before, and whose heads were thrown over the walls in bags at the start of battle. What became of the others in the company, we have no knowledge, nor any knowledge of the few others who have left us since the thaw began, including a small number of monks who have set out for other Christian communities in the former Province of Dacia to obtain more information regarding our enemies, and to apply for help. Outside the walls there are a number of hermits, but we at present have no notion of their fate, for although they were offered the protection of the monastery, they chose to remain in their caves, trusting to God to spare them if He deemed they worthy, or to allow the Huns to overwhelm them if not.

Actual fighting commenced at mid-afternoon as the Huns came through the southeastern pass, and mustered for their charge, shouting imprecations against God and Sanctu Eustachios. They began to circle the outer walls which had been built specifically to hold them out; they brought a vast number of arrows with them, keeping up a steady flight of them for the last quarter of the day. Their attack was answered by the men of Antoninu Neves’ company, who were manning the outer wall, and supported by the troops of Tribune Bernardius of Ulpia Traiana, along with a good number of refugees and novices, who did not actively fight, but busied themselves gathering enemy weapons, providing water to fight fires, and to assist in carrying away the wounded and dead.

Having set fire to brush between the outer wall and the lake, the Huns fired many burning arrows into the monastery, some killing defenders, or grievously wounding them. They also threw spiked stones from slings, threw spears, and once in a while struck at the gates with swords and axes. They offered chants to their demonic gods and performed vile rituals intended to destroy this monastery and all the Christian souls within it.

Fighting continued through the later afternoon and into the night, the Huns always circling the walls while attempting to light them on fire, as restless as flames themselves, the defenders seeking to reduce their numbers, and the number of their horses to such an extent that they would be forced to withdraw. The fires outside the wall spread to the sheepfold, and the Huns carried off a dozen lambs and four ewes before Neves’ men could recapture the enclosure and extinguish the fire there. Through the Grace of God, Neves’ men were able to kill the leader of the Huns in a single blow, and many of his favored men besides, which the remaining Huns burned in a funeral pyre, with sacrifice of many horses to their damnable gods. We counted some twenty-eight or -nine dead, and give thanks for their losses, which were roughly half their number. At the conclusion of their pagan rites, thunder and lightning rent the air long into the night, and the fires of Hunnic worship were extinguished by God’s command.

While most of us believe the Huns will not think it worth their while to return, the refugees and soldiers inside the gates lack our faith and warn of another attack. They have said the walls need more reinforcement, two more ballistas have to be built, and the infirmary at the monastery, along with the hospital in the old chapel, require more beds and assistants, for we have some fifty-three wounded who will need time and tending to recover; if there are more, our resources will be extended beyond our limits, unless Sanctu Eustachios intervenes with God for our preservation, and so we trust.

A list of the dead and wounded are appended to this report; we pray for their souls and for all Christian souls.

I commend this account to Priam Corydon and the Christian Church, the Patriarch in Constantinople, and the Saints as a testament to my faith and the faith of those whose actions it describes.

Monachos Niccolae of Sinu

  Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit

    observing the Rite of Sanctu-Ioannis Chrysostom

8

“No more patients left,” Nicoris sighed, going to the center of the old chapel and turning around slowly under the drum-dome, her arms extended, reclaiming the floor where all the pallets had been spread out. She offered a tired smile. “And we only lost ten of them.” It was six days since the Huns had attacked, and the sound of sawing and hammering was filling the little valley as the residents struggled to prepare for another, larger onslaught.

“So far,” Sanctu-Germainios appended. “Two of them are still marginal. Oios’ fever is too high, and I fear Drinus may not recover from his burns.” He moved the last pallet into the rear of the old chapel and stacked it with the rest of them.

“Then why did you move them to the dormitory? Why not keep them here, where you could watch them?” Her hands were on her hips and her posture revealed her exasperation.

“Because their people want to care for them; they want to see for themselves that their comrades and kin are given adequate attention, which they fear they will not have among other wounded,” he said quietly. “And I am a foreigner, for all that I have some abilities to treat sickness and injury.”

“They distrust you, you mean? Though you’re their regional guardian? You’ve saved many lives, haven’t you?” Nicoris started toward him, her movements deliberate, provocative.

“All regional guardians are foreigners, to keep them in service to Roma, and unallied with anyone in their region; the people of the region are not expected to trust them,” he said in the same steady voice. “Saving lives was the bargain I have struck with the people of Apulum Inferior, to keep their good opinion of me, foreigner that I am.”

“They must not understand how fortunate they are,” she said after considering what he said.

“Which they are entitled to do,” he said, going on in a deeper tone, “It is no longer in our hands; for a while our work is done.” 

“That will mean we’ll be alone tonight.”

“So it would seem,” he agreed, his demeanor less melancholy. “Then I’ll wait until nightfall, but no longer.” She tossed her head, and met his gaze squarely.

His smile was fleeting, fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Will you open the door, Nicoris, so the chapel can be refreshed?” 

“Main or side?” She was slightly more than an arm’s-length in front of him now, tempting him with her nearness.

“Both would be best, to circulate the air.” He nodded to the stack of rags he had used to clean the floor. “I’ll take those out to the bonfire. I think we can sacrifice the basket.”

Nicoris made a face. “Good. They all stink.”

“That they do; warmer weather makes them worse,” said Sanctu-Germainios , stepping back from her before going to pick up the large basket filled with filthy rags. He hefted the basket to his shoulder and went out through the side-door toward the bonfire laid in the central court of the monastery.