The Songs of Slaves (54 page)

Connor got up. He took a drink from the small amphora on the desk. He offered some to
Lucia
, but she shook her head. She was staring at the ceiling. He took her a towel and then lay down beside her.

Connor scooped his big arm under her and held her.
Lucia
settled her body close to his, with her face turned towards the wall. It was then that Connor realized that she was crying.
At first he feared that he had hurt her; but realized it was not that. She was weeping because she had entered into her new life. There was no road back to the old.

Connor did not know what to say, and so he said nothing. He held
Lucia
, feeling her body shake, occasionally feeling a tear reach his arm. He tried to sooth her, but when this did not work he just lay there quietly.

Lucia
’s crying slowed and then ceased. By her breathing Connor could tell that she was still awake. He still had no idea what to do – not tonight, not tomorrow. He held her tighter as he went to whisper something in her ear. Realizing his words were useless, Connor kissed her temple instead.
Lucia
turned over to him. She stared into his eyes, though there was only the dim light of the cinder and
coals illuminating the room
.
Lucia
kissed him. She rolled onto her back and pulled Connor on top of her. She opened as she reached for him. As his urgency returned, Connor kissed her, the woman he had loved for so long. Outside the snow was falling, covering the ghost town in winter white.

Part IV

Italia

410
AD

Italia, July, 410 A.D.

XXV

             
Connor scanned the plains of Ravenna, trying to encompass the size of the Gothic host. He had never seen so many people, all standing tall in the hot summer sun, all looking expectantly towa
rds the high walls of Honorius’
capital. Hundreds of standards flew in the blast-furnace breeze as the men, armed and in what armor they possessed, stood in ranks ready to fight. Well behind these ranks their families waited by the myriad of tents, facing the walls with equal expectancy, equal determination. The baggage wagons themselves seemed as if they could make an unbroken line from here to Rome. Some had said that there were forty thousand fighting men; some had said double or even triple that number. It did not matter, Connor thought, for it was an inestimable host that no army could hope to equal – because it was not an army, it was an entire people.

But though no army in Honorius’
Imperium
could equal them in strength, Honorius was reasonably safe. There would be no fight today. Arrayed in their battle splendor before the mighty walls of a city
founded to be impregnable, the Visigoths could only stand and wait safely out of
ballista
range. Swampland and uneven ground narrowed the angles of assault. The vastly outnumbered Roman legions – many of whom had finally come from the East to help – watched the sun-gleamed spears and brilliantly-colored shields from their parapets and arrow slits. They had walls that no man could scale, sixty feet high and impenetrably thick. They had heavy weapons –
ballista
e
,
onager,
and other catapults
–
to break up masses of attackers before they could even reach them. They had boiling oil and burning naphtha to pour out on men who would scale the walls with ladders. They had arrows by the tens of thousands. The strength and fighting skill of their experienced legionnaires was focused on their battlements and behind their gates. They had food to last for months, and running water within the walls. Honorius had always been too paranoid to be unprepared, too ineffectual not to rely on defense.

But even more so, Connor knew by now that the Visigoths were not adept at siege craft. Looking over the vast army gathered he saw no siege engines. These were warriors of the wild lands east of the Danube. They wore the ornaments of their bravery – the amulets,
arm rings, medallions, and scars. It was in their voices and the way the stood. They were, as a man, tall and fierce and formidable. But they knew the charge of the horse, the shield wall, and the ritual of single combat. Though they had been in the
Imperium
now for decades, and battling with it for a century more, they had neither the talent nor the stomach to take a walled city – not one such as this; not one such as Rome. These were the children of the warriors who had wiped out the armies of the
Imperium
at Adrianople; but the few legions that waited behind these walls could hold them off for months.

Connor stood up in his stirrups, stretching his back. The dust of the road seemed to coat his mouth and throat. They had just arrived from Liguria – all several thousand of Ataulf’s cavalry, leaving only a small rear guard and swift scouts behind to watch the northern passes. Now, their whole force was lining a low rise on the left flank of Alaric’s great army.

“They’re great, aren’t they?” Valia said, indicating Connor’s stirrups of leather and wood.

“I do not know how I got on without them,” Connor said. Connor was a natural with horses, but as
the winter snows thawed and Ataulf’s cavalry began practicing maneuvers together, Connor saw that there was a big difference between riding a horse and fighting from a saddle. In a rare display of kindness for the Hun, Tuldin had honored Connor with a pair of stirrups he had made. Many of Ataulf’s men were already adopting the use of this new equipment from the Asiatic horsemen, which were often the difference between keeping one’s seat or ending up just as unhorsed as one’s adversary. 

“What are we waiting for?” Gaiseric said. His chestnut stallion pawed the ground and shook his great head, as if sharing his master’s impatience.

“They’ve waited around Rome for the better part of two years; that hasn’t worked so it’s time to try Ravenna,” Henric said.

Connor knew it was not just the hammer of the Italian summer sun on their armor that was making them all testy; it was the obvious impasse of the situation. Almost two years ago – when Connor was safe home in Eire and knew nothing about any of this – it had seemed to the Visigoths like divinely inspired destiny to declare war on the whole
Imperium
and
march
on Rome. The Visigoths had forsaken any home they might have made and any path ahead they might have had to join the great movement that would free their people for good. They had pledged their loyalty to King Alaric, believing in his vision to lead them to wealth and freedom. They were going to take their revenge on their oppressors and the murderers of their families. Now here they were, after months of waiting, massed outside of one of the best-defended cities in the known world. They were the proverbial unstoppable force meeting the immovable object.

“Easy, brothers,” Valia said. “Look. Something is happening.”

A man on a huge, black charger rode out onto the plain. His war spear was held
high in the air with one thickly-muscled
arm, but he carried no shield. The gilded ornamentation of his helmet caught the light of the sun. His chain mail was polished bright, but the sword that hung at his hip was one that had seen a lifetime of service. He wore no cloak or surcoat to keep the heat off of his highly-polished mail, as if he wanted the sunlight to catch, as if he wanted the warriors on both sides to know that he heeded no elements. It
worked, Connor thought, for surely he looked like one of Homer’s gods of the battlefield. The man spurred his horse into a full gallop. Auburn hair trailing behind him, he ducked his head like a racer as the beast took off. The charger’s big hooves were pounding the ground as man and horse sped towards the walls, kicking up great clumps of earth and a cloud of dust. The Goths started to cheer. It was not their war shout, but a great cacophony of triumph as they urged the rider onward. 

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Connor realized it was the sound of
ballista
e
firing from the walls as the rider had crossed into range. Black bolts shot forth from several of the battlements, like the arrows of a titan’s bow. They descended towards the rider at tremendous speed, their tips the size of spearheads seeking out their targets. They were big enough to skewer the man and horse both to the earth. But the rider tightened his reins and kicked his spurs in. Connor thought he could hear him calling to the horse, as the host – now hushed in awe – waited breathlessly for judgment. With perfect discipline and balance, the charger wove and dodged. Connor realized that both
horse and rider were maneuvering to take themselves out of the trajectory the engineers had fired, not actually dodging the flying missiles – but nonetheless, it looked as if they were. The bolts penetrated the hard earth, the shafts shaking with the impact. The shining rider reached the first line of spike-lined moats and then wheeled around.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

More
ballista
e
fired as horse and rider sped back to the line. The pair repeated the maneuvers, making the long bolts miss. One after another the dark shafts meant to impale them hit the ground, often coming brutally close. There was a lone shout of rage from one of the battlements – and every Visigoth skipped a breath as a massive round stone appeared in the sky. The
torsion catapult’s
missile reached the height of its parabola almost slowly, and then began to descend. Some in the ranks began to scream a warning to the rider. Connor saw him duck his head and glance under his arm, again like a jockey in a horse race. He spurred his horse faster. The charger seemed to stretch out. Its hooves beat relentlessly as it pushed the ground away in long strides.

“He can’t do it,” Gaiseric said, as if passing sentence. “The rock will bounce. There will be no way to dodge it.”

Just then the rider turned his horse’s head to the right. The horse sprang up as it changed direction, turning a wide circle in ten paces. The boulder came crashing down – ahead of them. It bounced forward once then twice, the ground exploding under its weight each time. A
ballista
fired impotently as the rider raced on.
With a flourish the armored man spat on the rock as he passed it.
He pulled his reins in, bringing the magnificent horse gradually out of his run into a walk. Stopping in front of the army he again raised his spear. The valley erupted with their cheers. The rider turned back towards the impregnable walls of Ravenna and pointed his spear towards the tallest tower, where everyone knew Honorius must be watching unseen. Behind him the crowd began to chant.

Alaric! Alaric! Alaric! Alaric!

Settling on his sweating charger and catching his breath, Alaric took off his helmet. His auburn hair fell down to his shoulders but his beard was trimmed short. Even from such a great distance away, Connor
could see the hard face of the vigorous, heavily muscled man in his mid-thirties. The king’s chest heaved from his effort and
–
Connor had to believe
–
from the terrible fear anyone must feel at such a risk, but his eyes were leveled on the towers of Ravenna. Somewhere inside, did Honorius stare back?

At a signal, the cheers of the multitude faded. A middle-aged man rode forward, riding a snow-white stallion. His oiled black hair was crowned in gold. His large, square jaw and straight nose dominated his olive-skinned face. His eyes were set to portray regal pride and power, but Connor thought he saw a certain pitch in the man’s carriage, a shift in his legs that belied that. He wore a gold cuirass, molded in the muscles of a hero of legend – muscles he did not look likely to possess. His shins were also armored with golden grieves. A
gladius
with the hilt carved into a gilded eagle’s head was at his waist, with a baldric and scabbard set with jewels. But more than all these things, on his shoulders hung a cloak of Tyrion Purple. This could only be Attalus, the Senate-appointed
Augustulus
of Rome.

What happened next seemed to happen very quickly – too quickly for most of either the Visigoths or
the Romans to understand it at first. Alaric turned towards Attalus. He seemed to say a few words to him in a low voice as he gave a signal. Like an animal caught in a trap Attalus looked around as six Visigoths ringed him in. Nearby his Praetorians did not move. The
Augustulus
reached for his eagle-headed sword, but then thought better of it. The men closed around him. Connor’s eyes were taken away as one of the gates of Ravenna opened. From the city, a small delegation of six Roman cavalrymen, fully armed but carrying olive branches high, began to cross the kill zone that Alaric had just braved. When Connor turned back to Attalus he saw that the Visigoths were stripping him of his purple garments and crown. With surprising casualness, the men folded the cloak and mantle neatly, then placed the crown on it. From the line, some of the senators and other representatives of the city of Rome gasped or cried in outrage; but the six Visigoths withdrew, taking the trappings of
Augustulus
with them. Alaric nodded to them, and they began carrying the items over to the riders from Ravenna. The two parties met almost at the rock, and with brief courtesy the Visigoths handed the crown and garments over. Both sets withdrew,
and as the vestiges of Attalus’
power cross
ed the threshold into
Honorius’
city, Alaric again raised his spear towards the tower – still proudly, still threateningly. Then he withdrew to his line.