The Songs of Slaves (58 page)

The
furor
was on Connor now. He bashed forward with his shield, struck with his sword, and pushed with all of his weight. The strength of his
enemy seemed weak. But even as Connor slashed his blade across the spearman’s legs and then struck down from overhead, he felt the force of his own people behind him lessening. He could not turn to look, but the cries of horses reached his ears. They were under attack
from behind by horsemen. Sarus’
other men had come.

With renewed desperation Connor pushed forward beside his friends. There was nothing else to do. The men behind him would have to defend them from the cavalry. If they failed to do so they would die. It was that simple. Connor fought with fury, exposing
himself
more and more to risk attacks on the line of shields. There was no longer time for caution; just crush or be crushed.

“They’re breaking!” Valia called out.
“Harder, now!”

There was a great crashing sound, and then for a moment the pressure against them became much greater instead of less. But then the energy behind the enemy shield wall fractured. Connor realized that Sarus must also be attacked from behind. With a great shout, Connor pushed forward, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he was able to step forward
unopposed. The shield walls were gone. Now there was just a melee. There was too much movement to see, too much happening to understand. Connor scanned the scene for Arastan and then ran for him.

Arastan saw Connor coming
towards him and
brace
d
himself. He stood alone, now, his men scattered and fighting for their lives. Nearly a year had passed since their duel for
Lucia
’s life. As he had been on that day, Arastan was fearsome in his gilded helmet and shining mail. His amulets hung from his neck, a source of power. His shield was impenetrable, his sword red with blood. But what had changed was that then Arastan had only confidence and contempt. Now he had only a look of hatred on his face. His mission was failing, their line broken. What else had changed was that Connor was now more ready than ever, as well as possessing mail and shield like his adversary; and Connor was no longer restrained. With a poisonous glare, Arastan collected and charged.

They met with another bash of shields, but Connor quickly turned and thrust. Arastan blocked with his shield and swung. The two enemies launched in with volleys of slashes and strikes
–
parrying, dashing,
wheeling, and hurdling into each other with their shields. Arastan took to feinting high or low, but Connor’s eyes were on his center where he could see his true intent. The
furor
was upon Connor, everything was stillness except for what mattered. He could feel Arastan’s fear, like a coiled serpent. And like a serpent, Arastan struck over and over again, closing the distance with the fire of his intent. Connor parried and riposted. He got past Arastan’s shield twice, but not with enough force to pierce his armor.

The look on Arastan’s face warned Connor a moment before the foeman’s horse reached him. Connor threw himself out of the way of the charging cavalryman, catching the downward swing on his shield. With a cry in Gothic, the rider closed towards his leader’s position. Arastan cast down his shield and reached out his arm. Dropping his reigns the rider shot out his hand. Connor took off, sprinting to close the distance. As Arastan clutched the rider’s wrist and jumped towards the saddle, Connor swung
Archangel
across the horse’s rear legs.

Horse and rider crashed forward to the ground, taking Arastan with them. Arastan tried to jump free as
the horse kicked and tried to get up, but Connor was upon him. As Arastan landed on his feet he swung his sword at his attacker. Connor took the blow on his shield and chopped downward with his sword. Arastan’s sword fell to the ground, still clutched in his severed hand.  Connor struck Arastan across the helmet with his shield, knocking him to the ground.

Connor stabbed the rider through as he tried to stand. Clearing his blade, he returned to Arastan. As the son of Sarus tried to stand, Connor held
Archangel
at his throat.

“Connor!”
Valia cried, rushing up to him. He was covered in blood, some of which was his own. The sword of Lorentius was likewise covered, with new chips in the blade, but Valia had lost both helmet and shield. Connor ventured a glance around. The ground was full of the twisted dead and the writhing wounded – hundreds of them. Men on horseback – no more than a few dozen
–
were racing away towards Ravenna.

“Is that him?” Ataulf blurted, running up to them.

“It is Arastan,” Valia answered.

Without another word Ataulf grabbed Arastan by his mail and jerked the injured man to his feet. He stripped off the proud young man’s helmet to reveal blood-smeared black hair and a battered face that had been so handsome. Arastan could manage no words for him, but the glare of contempt still shone in his eyes.

“Sarus!”
Ataulf screamed on top of his lungs.
“Sarus!”

Just outside of the camp, at the back of the pack of fleeing horses, Connor saw the fierce, bear-like chieftain look towards them.

Ataulf kicked Arastan’s legs out from under him, so that the young man knelt in the blood-soaked ground.

“Sarus!”
Ataulf screamed again. He reared back with both hands on the hilt of his
spatha
and swung, striking Arastan’s head from his body.

Sarus’s horse reared as the chieftain again drew his long sword; but Gaiseric, Henric, and half an
ala
of cavalry was assembling to give chase
. Sarus’
cavalry men gathered around him, and together they withdrew towards the city.

As if in a trance, Connor bent down and wiped
Archangel
clean on Arastan’s clothing. As he returned his weapon to his scabbard he suddenly felt impossibly tired, weak, and racked with pain. All he wanted to do was to go back and make sure that
Lucia
was safe; and then just drink some water. His throat burned. His ears rang. He was shaking uncontrollably.

The sight of Alaric striding forward took his attention away from himself. The King had fought without armor and was covered in small lacerations and abrasions. His arms were bloodied with killing, but he had lost his sword and shield. He moved like a man dreaming, his face expressionless, his breathing even. Connor and many of the others followed him as he walked without a word towards the edge of the camp. Such was his affect that no one dared speak to him. Reaching the edge of the camp, where Sarus had only just fled, Alaric stopped and turned towards the site of battle, where the dead lay piled on top of each other. There were not just warriors, but others had been killed in the chaos too – whether at the hands of the attackers or in the confusion. Where his people had slept in their dream of peace, now there lay corpses of men and horses, trampled tents and turned over wagons; but
what struck almost everyone was that it could have been –
indeed, was intended to be – so much worse.

Alaric turned back towards the walls of Ravenna that rose tall and silent in the dawning light.

“Honorius!” Alaric bellowed, his frame drawn up and his face contorted in anguish once more. “Honorius! This is on your hands! Now the fate of Rome is on your hands!” 

XXVII

             
Connor carelessly tossed the hand mallet aside and started lashing the cords to the tent stakes.
Lucia
sat down on the ground, too tired to wait for the shelter to be ready. Connor knew his eyes were just as red as hers. It was only the second day on the road, and such a massive group could only cover so much ground; but no one had recovered from the events of the other night. Enraged, Alaric had ordered the camp struck immediately
, and the tens of thousands of
Visigoths had marched away the moment the dead were buried.

The joy that had greeted the promise of the treaty was replaced by grave words and grim faces. Throughout the host the usual talk along the road was muted
–
there was no longer anything to say. The future they had long fostered hope in had died at its very birth. There was nothing to do but to try to invent another. But how were they to find it with every door closed on them? As the nation of refugees trudged the white stones of the Roman road
under the hammer of the summer sun, the only thoughts that were easy were thoughts of revenge.

             
Connor checked the tension on the cords to be certain they would stand up to the increasing eastern wind. Around him others were doing the same – but now there were so few men in his section. Connor had not realized it in the heat of battle, but Valia had lost seventy-three men in the shield wall against Sarus. The only unit that had suffered more casualties was Alaric’s own bodyguard. As a cavalry
ala
Valia’s force was now cut down to about a third.

Connor looked over to Valia, who had already finished his own tent and was sitting on a camp chair. The young Visigoth warlord’s face was creased with weariness and worry, as well as pain from the several injuries he had sustained in the action. Valia was a noble by birth, but the wealth and strength of a warlord were in the number of men he retained. His reputation depended not just on bravery but on how his men prospered. Connor knew Valia well enough to be sure that his first thoughts were of sorrow for the friends they had all lost – men they had shared days in battle and nights surviving in the wilderness; men
with whom they had been bonded to in
true brotherhood, the brotherhood of adversity. Nonetheless, he must be keenly aware that while they may have even saved
Alaric and Ataulf from Sarus’s sword, their raw bravery was the only thing that could be said to be adding to Valia’s status. For whatever reason, years ago Valia had tried to distinguish himself in the battles in Gaul instead of merely following the main body of his people. Now half the valiant men that loyally followed him back from that fruitless mission lay dead in the ground. Far from being a bringer of wealth to the sworn men that trusted him for leadership, Valia would have a name as a warlord hungry for suicide missions. From what Connor had seen of warrior culture, the young leader may possibly never recover his place. Even this evening, as morale amongst his friends was so
low,
could any of them be harboring ideas of defecting to any of the other warlords who surrounded them, in hopes that they may be luckier? Connor, and perhaps Valia, hoped that the men were made of truer metal than that, but only time would tell.

             
“What are you thinking about?”
Lucia
asked him. Connor smiled weakly and sat down beside her.

             
“Nothing of merit,” Connor said, putting his big hand on her knee and kissing the top of her head. The Visigoths had been Connor’s saviors, but
Lucia
’s
victimizers. The fact that Arastan’s men, and not Valia’s, had been her father’s killers did not matter much – these barbarians had participated in the looting and had been indistinguishable to her at the time. Over the months Connor had seen her warm up to some of the women, and she did not shoot Gaiseric and Henric her famous death glares as often as she once had. Valia she still fully hated, but seldom spoke of it. Despite all this, Connor saw
Lucia
looking at those around her with empathetic eyes. The despair in the group – not just their
ala
but the entire mass of nomads – was inescapable. But Connor realized it was more than this. Just as when he had been a slave, he had eventually started to fall into the role. The need for fellowship with others and the patterns of day to day life had been inexorable.
Lucia
was no slave, but she had been – with varying degrees of willingness – a part of the company for many months. Connor looked at her hair, bound in a single braid as the Gothic women’s hair was. She had long ago abandoned the worn out and unseasonable woolen travel clothes from her villa, replacing them with clothing like the linen dress she now wore – cut from multiple pieces of cloth and sewn with large stitches by Gothic hands. The green color was beautiful
on her, and brought out the bronze of her skin and the deeper green of her eyes, but the
Lucia
of a year ago would not have thought it fit
even
for one of her bodyslaves. Instead of gold or precious stones she wore an amulet of cleverly woven tin wire from a leather thong around her neck. Connor smiled, despite his dark bent of thought, as he imagined that if their luck changed and he was able to come by some gold that
Lucia
would not be far from looking like a barbarian princess.

             
“What are you staring at?”
Lucia
asked, feigning annoyance.

             
“The stars will be out soon,” Connor said.

             
“I know what that means. Let’s eat some supper first, shall we?”

             
“Are you worried about me keeping my strength up?” Connor teased.
Lucia
smacked him on the shoulder; but when Connor put his arm around her and pulled her closer she rested her head contentedly on his chest.