Burning Shadows (39 page)

My colleague and friend, I fear I must once again beseech you to send us troops to guard and to provide escort for the many refugees who are flooding into Drobetae from the north. We have no place to shelter them, and still they continue to come. We have had to house them in all manner of places, from the halls of the basilica to the stables of the inns. There are many among these refugees in need of more care than we can provide, and I despair of their safety if at any time the town should be attacked.

Our supplies of food are also growing crucially low, and with the Huns raiding through the mountains, no one can tell what crops they may actually be able to reap, so it is essential that we have food brought to us, or that places south of the Danuvius agree to take in as many of these refugees as they can. Otherwise we may be facing starvation among many of those who have come to us for safety.

Some several days ago, a Hunnic scout was taken by one of my mounted patrols. He was brought to Drobetae to be questioned, but killed himself before anyone could question him. I find it worrying that he was only four leagues from the town when he was captured, and I have doubled my patrols to search out any others that may be lurking in the hills.

Patras Fortunatos has warned that the churches can no longer provide the charity they are commanded to do, and will have to close their doors to those seeking the succor of the churches. Other priests have said much the same, although a number of mendicant monks have offered to seek out the sick and do what they can for them.

That is another concern I have: that in such close conditions, fever could arise suddenly and spread before we would be able to isolate those who bear the disease, thus making it certain that more of the people in the town, as well as the refugees, would take illness. I have no means of treating such an outbreak, but with the summer in full heat and the people worn and tired, I cannot believe that such a terrible outcome may be completely avoided.

Whatever you have that you may spare to help us would be appreciated beyond anything you can imagine. I pray you will do all that you can to relieve some part of the misery that has come to Drobetae.

Verus Flautens

    Praetor-General of Drobetae

the former Province of Dacia

4

By the time Drinus made it down from his outpost at the narrow pass leading to Sanctu-Eustachios the Hermit, the three arrows in his shoulder and back had him reeling in the saddle from pain and loss of blood. He all but fell off his horse as he came through the gate, leaving a trail of blood to mark his progress; three monks and half a dozen mercenaries rushed forward to help him. Dazed as he was, he was able to say, “Huns. With scouts. I got two. Of them. But two more. Got away.”

Oios, now recovered from his wounds of the previous attack, took the time to help Drinus to the ground and position him to lie on his side. “Someone! Fetch Sanctu-Germainios! Tell him to bring his medicaments! Perigrinos! Get Mangueinic! Monachos Benignos, summon Priam Corydon!” He bent over his comrade and said as calmly as he could, “Don’t worry. The Dom will take care of you.” The early afternoon was hot, the sky was clear, and most of the refugees were busy in the orchard, bringing in the first of the ripe fruit; women with baskets collected the peaches and plums and pears so that they could take them, remove their seeds, and set them out, halved, to dry. This violent intrusion brought many of them running from their tasks, while Rotlandus Bernardius’ men rushed to their positions to man the inner walls, weapons in hand.

The flurry of activity rapidly became a maelstrom, monks rushing to discover what had happened, refugees attempting to find out when the Huns would arrive, soldiers hurrying to their stations on the walkways on the stockades, youngsters running for the fenced fields to drive the livestock into the barn, stable, and pens. Someone had begun to sound the alarm, the brazen echoes sounding over the valley in counterpoint to the murmured distraint of those gathered around the fallen look-out.

“Are we ready? to fight them?” one of the novices asked as he knelt beside Drinus. “How many are coming?”

Before Drinus could answer, Oios pulled the novice back. “Leave him alone! Get the Dom!”

The youth stumbled to his feet, then started running toward the old chapel, calling for Dom Sanctu-Germainios, his voice made strident by his fear.

“We have to tell the Priam,” the nearest monk said in a manner that rebuked all those gathered around Drinus for not thinking of this first.

“I’ll go,” said Monachos Erigolos, who had once been a fowler and was now almost blind. He used his stick to find his way, moving as fast as he dared.

“Tell him it’s urgent!” Oios shouted after him.

There were fragments of questions buzzing around Drinus, although no one was willing to raise his voice to ask Drinus anything more; the man had turned a pasty color, and his scars stood out, starkly white in his chalky face. Blood was slowly spreading around him, not so fast, Oios hoped, that it meant Drinus would surely die, but steadily. “Drinus!” He knelt down once more. “Drinus, listen! Help is coming!”

Drinus’ eyelids fluttered and he gave Oios a muzzy stare. “What. Do you. Want?”

Oios bent down so that Drinus would hear him. “I want you to live, Drinus. Hang on!” He emphasized his words by taking the nearer of Drinus’ hands. “Don’t slip away on me. Stay here.”

“What did he see?” one of the refugees shouted.

“Huns,” Oios answered curtly, then once again gave his full attention to Drinus. “Hold on. Drinus. Drinus. Listen to me! Help is coming!” He felt the lethargy that was coming over Drinus in his fingers; he looked up, searching for a volunteer. “Someone fetch a blanket. He’s getting cold.” He waved his arm to emphasize the need for haste.

“I’ll go,” called out a woman’s voice.

“Huns,” Drinus muttered, struggling for breath. “Large. Numbers. Two. Three. Hundred.”

“Where?” Oios demanded. “How far?”

“Half. A day. Or more. Not all. Pass.” He looked into Oios’ eyes. “More. Scouts. Need. To. To.” Then there was a sound in his throat, he spasmed once, and his body went slack.

“Need to what?” Oios asked, aware that the question had come too late. He made the salute of Mithras and rocked back on his heels, letting Drinus’ head drop from his hand. Those gathered around him made the sign of the cross, then the sign of the fish, and a few of them wept for the mercenary.

A short time later, Sanctu-Germainios pushed through the crowd, and stopped beside Oios. “I see I am too late.”

“Unfortunately,” said Oios, rising. “He must have lost more blood than I thought he had.”

“He has lost a great deal of blood,” said Sanctu-Germainios, who could sense his depletion, but added, “Look at the color of his face and you can tell.”

“I should have brought him to you at once,” said Oios, ashamed of himself.

“It would not have made any difference,” Sanctu-Germainios said as he put his case of medicaments down and dropped onto one knee beside the body. “He did not have enough left in him to rally.” 

“Are you sure of that?” Oios asked.

“As sure as anyone could be.” He moved Drinus’ corpse enough to examine the arrows that stuck out from his shoulder and back. “They penetrated deeply, so they were probably loosed at close range. Perhaps they closed in on his position and all fired at once.”

“Do you think he … he saw what he said he saw? that the Huns are coming at last?” Oios caught sight of Neves approaching from one side of the compound, and Priam Corydon coming from the opposite direction.

“I think he must have,” said Sanctu-Germainios.

“Because he died?” Oios asked.

“Because the arrows in him are Hunnic. Because there is dust rising on the road to the east, a great deal of dust,” said Sanctu-Germainios . “A large number of travelers are coming this way. We need only determine who they are.” He had first observed the dust not long after sunrise, perhaps five or six leagues away, and had mentioned it to Priam Corydon when the Priam came from his private sunrise prayers.

“Do you know they’re Huns?” Priam Corydon had inquired.

“No; I only know they are raising a long plume of dust,” Sanctu-Germainios had told him.

“Then they could be more refugees,” Priam Corydon had said.

“It is possible,” Sanctu-Germainios had conceded, thinking it would be prudent to make ready for a real attack. “It is more likely that the Huns are moving this way.” He could feel fear clutch those around him.

“I noticed the dust,” Oios said, cutting into Sanctu-Germainios’ reflection. “Tribune Bernardius said it was probably from refugees who had abandoned their town to the Huns. Huns, he thought, would be moving faster, and would raise less dust, their fighting forces traveling at speed. He is of the opinion that dust means wagons, not horsemen. He said that Priam Corydon would have to decide if they are going to be allowed in, the refugees. If they take the turn-off toward us, that is.”

The two men said nothing for several heartbeats, then Sanctu-Germainios asked, “What does Antoninu Neves say?”

The mercenary leader coughed delicately. “I think we had best prepare for the worst. I’ll post my men on the slope above the pass, not only to keep watch, but to roll the rocks down to block it if we must.” Priam Corydon stared at him, his expression aghast. “What do you mean, roll the rocks down?”

“I mean my men have set up barriers for falls of stones. All they need do is release the braces, and heavy rocks will descend on anyone foolish enough to try to come through the pass.” Neves smiled, satisfied. “Bernardius’ men helped us with building the barriers and gathering the rocks.”

“But that would block us in,” exclaimed one of the refugees. “Only on the main road. There are still three other tracks that lead away from here, and, if it comes to that, we can evacuate using those paths,” Neves declared.

“Hunters’ tracks,” scoffed another of the refugees.

“Which the Huns could use,” Oios cautioned.

Before Neves could counter this remark, Priam Corydon said, “There isn’t room enough in the mortuary just now to lay him out.” He pointed to Drinus. “I will assign some monks to preparing a place for him, and readying his shroud.” Stepping back, he addressed Neves, his whole demeanor condemning. “They say one of your men made the sign of Mithras over him.”

Neves shrugged, unimpressed by the Priam’s disapproval. “You know the aphorism: Mithras in war, Jesus in peace.”

“Some of the monks will not want to let him lie in consecrated ground if he is a follower of Mithras.” Priam Corydon was already striding back toward the monastery, Neves pursuing him.

“However you decide, neither my men nor I will protest it,” Neves assured him. “If you want him buried beyond the outer walls, we’ll attend to it.”

More of the crowd around Drinus moved away, leaving Oios and Drinus at the center of a widening circle; Oios took a step toward Sanctu-Germainios. “What are we to do with him? We can’t leave him here.”

“Bernardius may have a place for him,” Sanctu-Germainios suggested. “He may be willing to let you leave him where he puts his own dead to await burial.”

“I should find out,” Oios answered, but stayed where he was, reluctant to leave his fallen comrade. He squatted once more and began to break off the shafts of the arrows so that Drinus could lie nearly flat, then rose, wiping his hands on the hem of his heavy cotton pallium. “There. That’s better.”

The crowd was thinning now that Drinus was dead. As the refugees began to drift back to their interrupted labors, the woman who had gone to get a blanket came through the diminishing crush, a rough woolen blanket over her arm. “Here,” she said, holding it out and casting a careful eye on Drinus as she made the sign of the fish. “It should be long enough to cover all of him.”

“We don’t need—” Oios began.

Sanctu-Germainios took it from her. “Thank you, Brynhald.” He unfolded the blanket and placed it over the corpse. “I will see this is returned to you.”

“No. No, don’t bother,” she said promptly. “Keep it for others who may also …” She made a gesture to finish her thoughts as she started away.

“Where shall we take him for now?” Oios asked, looking directly at Sanctu-Germainios.

“Priam Corydon will tell us where he is to lie when he and Neves have agreed,” Sanctu-Germainios said. “If you would rather not appeal to Tribune Bernardius, you might wish to move him out of the sun, at least; we can carry him to the old chapel.”

Oios nodded, and bent to lift Drinus’ shoulders. “Take his feet, Dom. It isn’t fitting for him to lie in the dust.”

Sanctu-Germainios did as he was asked, lifting the fallen man carefully so that he would not appear to be as strong as he was. He felt the remaining people part behind him as he backed toward the old chapel, moving deliberately slowly for Oios’ sake; it would have been no difficulty for Sanctu-Germainios to carry Drinus’ body himself, but that would cause unwanted scrutiny for him, so he continued to back up cautiously. Once in the old chapel, the two men laid the body out on a pallet, and adjusted the blanket over him.