Lest Darkness Fall (25 page)

            Padway divided the total
liability between the two of them. He warned them sternly against recidivism.
Then he left a set of plans with the foreman for new machines and metal-working
processes, including plans for a machine for spinning copper plate into bowls.
The intelligent Nerva caught on immediately.

            As Padway was leaving,
Fritharik asked him: "Can't I go with you, excellent Martinus? It's very
dull here in Florence. And you need somebody to take care of you. I've saved up
almost enough to get my jeweled sword back, and if you'll let —"

            "No, old man. I'm sorry,
but I've got to have one person I can trust here. When this damned war and
politics is over, we'll see."

            Fritharik sighed gustily.
"Oh, very well, if you insist. But I hate to think of your going around
unprotected with all these treacherous Greeks and Italians and Goths. You'll
end in an unmarked grave yet, I fear."

-

            They shivered and skidded
over the icy Apennines to Bologna. Padway resolved to have his men's horses
shod if he could ever get a few days to spare — stirrups had been invented but
not horseshoes. From Bologna to Padua — still largely in ruins from its
destruction by Attila's Huns — the road was no longer the splendid stone-paved
affair they had been traveling on, but a track in the mud. However, the weather
turned almost springlike, which was something.

            At Padua they found they had
missed the Dalmatian force by one day. Thiudahad wanted to halt.
"Martinus," he whined, "you've dragged my old bones all over
northern Italy, and nearly frozen me to death. That's not considerate. You do owe
your king some consideration, don't you?"

            Padway repressed his
irritation with some effort. "My lord,
do
you or
don't
you
want your crown back?"

            So poor Thiudahad had to go
along. By hard riding they caught up with the Dalmatian army halfway to Atria.
They trotted past thousands and thousands of Goths, afoot and horseback. There
must have been well over fifty thousand of them. And these big, tough-looking
men had skedaddled at the mere rumor that Count Constantianus was approaching.

            The count had had only a
small force, but Padway was the only one present who knew that, and his source
of information was not strictly kosher. The Goths cheered Thiudahad and
Padway's Gothic lancers, and stared and muttered at the five hundred
cuirassiers. Padway had made his guard don Gothic helmets and Italian military
cloaks in lieu of the spiked steel caps and burnoose-like mantles they had
worn. But still their shaven chins, tight pants, and high yellow boots made
them sufficiently different to arouse suspicion.

            Padway found the two
commanders up near the head of the column. Asinar was tall and Grippas was
short, but otherwise they were just a couple of middle-aged and bewhiskered
barbarians. They respectfully saluted Thiudahad, who seemed to cringe slightly
from so much latent force. Thiudahad introduced Padway as his new prefect — no,
he meant his new quaestor.

            Asinar said to Padway:
"In Padua we heard a rumor that a civil war and usurpation had been going
on in Italy. Just what is the news, anyway?"

            Padway was for once thankful
that his telegraph hadn't been operating that far north. He laughed scornfully,
"Oh, our brave General Wittigis got a brainstorm a couple of weeks ago, He
shut himself up in Ravenna, where the Greeks couldn't get him, and had himself
proclaimed king. We've cleaned up the Greeks, and are on our way to settle with
Wittigis now. Your boys will be a help." All of which was rather unjust to
Wittigis.

            Padway wondered whether
there'd be anything left of his character after a few years in this mendacious
atmosphere. The two Gothic generals accepted his statement without comment.
Padway decided quickly that neither of them could be called exactly bright.

            They marched into Ravenna at
noon the day after next. The fog was so thick about the northern causeway that
a man had to precede the leading horsemen on foot to keep them from blundering
off into the marsh.

            There was some alarm in
Ravenna when the force appeared out of the fog. Padway and Thiudahad prudently
kept quiet while Asinar and Grippas identified themselves. As a result, most of
the huge force was in the city before somebody noticed the little gray man with
Padway. Immediately there were shouts and runnings to and fro.

            Presently a Goth in a rich
red cloak ran out to the head of the column. He shouted: "What the devil's
going on here? Have you captured Thiudahad, or is it the other way
around?"

            Asinar and Grippas sat on
their horses and said: "Uh ... well ... that is —"

            Padway spurred up front and
asked: "Who are you, my dear sir?"

            "If it's any of your
business, I'm Unilas Wiljarith's son, general of our lord Wittigis, King of the
Goths and Italians. Now who are you?"

            Padway grinned and replied
smoothly: "I'm delighted to know you, General Unilas. I'm Martin Paduei,
quaestor to old lord Thiudahad, King of the Goths and Italians. Now that we
know each other —"

            "But, you fool, there
isn't any King Thiudahad! He was deposed! We've got a new king! Or hadn't you
heard about it?"

            "Oh, I've heard lots of
things. But, my excellent Unilas, before you make any more rude remarks,
consider that we — that is to say King Thiudahad — have over sixty thousand
troops in Ravenna, whereas you have about twelve thousand. You don't want any
unnecessary unpleasantness, do you?"

            "Why, you impudent ...
you ... uh ... did you say
sixty
thousand?"

            "Maybe seventy; I
haven't counted them."

            "Oh. That's
different."

            "I thought you'd see it
that way."

            "What are you going to
do?"

            "Well, if you can tell
where
General
Wittigis is, I thought we might pay him a call."

            "He's getting married
today. I think he ought to be on his way to St. Vitalis' Church about
now."

            "You mean he hasn't
married Mathaswentha yet?"

            "No. There was some
delay in getting his divorce."

            "Quick, how do you get
to St. Vitalis' Church?"

            Padway hadn't hoped to be in
time to interfere with Wittigis' attempt to engraft himself on the Amal family
tree by his forcible marriage of the late Queen Amalaswentha's daughter. But
this was too good an opportunity to let slip.

            Unilas pointed out a dome
flanked by two towers. Padway shouted to his guard and kicked his horse into a
canter. The five hundred men galloped after, spattering unfortunate pedestrians
with mud. They thundered across a bridge over one of Ravenna's canals, the
stench from which fully lived up to its reputation, and up to the door of St.
Vitalis' Church.

            There were a score of guards
at the door, through which organ music wafted faintly. The guards brought their
spears up to "poise."

            Padway reined in and turned
to the commander of his guard, a Macedonian named Achilleus. "Cover
them," he snapped.

            There was a quick, concerted
movement among the cuirassiers, who had been sorting themselves into a
semicircle in front of the church door. The next instant the guards were
looking at a hundred stiff Byzantine bows drawn to the cheek.

            "
Nu
," said
Padway in Gothic, "if you boys will put your stickers down and your hands
up, we have an appointment — Ah, that's better. Much better." He slid off
his horse. "Achilleus, give me a troop. Then surround the church, and keep
those in in and those out out until I finish with Wittigis."

            He marched into St. Vitalis'
Church with a hundred cuirassiers at his heels. The organ music died with a
wail, and people turned to look at him. It took his eyes a few seconds to
become accustomed to the gloom.

            In the center of the huge
octagon was a pickle-faced Arian bishop, and three people stood before him. One
was a big man in a long, rich robe, with a crown on his dark graying hair: King
Wittigis. Another was a tallish girl with a strawberries-and-cream complexion
and her hair in thick golden braids: the Princess Mathaswentha. The third was
an ordinary Gothic soldier, somewhat cleaned up, who stood beside the bride and
held her arm behind her back. The audience was a handful of Gothic nobles and
their ladies.

            Padway walked very
purposefully down the aisle,
thump, thump, thump
. People squirmed and
rustled in their seats and murmured: '"The Greeks! The Greeks are in
Ravenna!"

            The bishop spoke up:
"Young man, what is the meaning of this intrusion?"

            "You'll soon learn, my
lord bishop. Since when has the Arian faith countenanced the taking of a woman
to wife against her will?"

            "What's that? Who is
being taken against her will? What business is this wedding of yours? Who are
you, who dares interrupt —"

            Padway laughed his most
irritating laugh. "One question at a time, please. I'm Martinus Paduei,
quaestor to King Thiudahad. Ravenna is in our hands, and prudent persons will
comport themselves accordingly. As for the wedding, it isn't normally necessary
to assign a man to twist the bride's arm to make sure she gives the right
answers. You don't want to marry this man, do you, my lady?"

            Mathaswentha jerked her arm
away from the soldier, who had been relaxing his grip. She made a fist and
punched him in the nose with enough force to rock his head back on its hinges.
Then she swung at Wittigis, who dodged hack. "You beast!" she cried.
"I'll claw your eyes —"

            The bishop grabbed her arm.
"Calm yourself, my daughter! Please! In the house of God —"

            King Wittigis had been
blinking at Padway, gradually soaking in the news. Mathaswentha's attack
shocked him out of his lethargy. He growled: "You're trying to tell me
that the miserable pen pusher, Thiudahad, has taken the town?
My town?
"

            "That, my lord, is the
general idea. I fear you'll have to give up your idea of becoming an Amaling
and ruling the Goths. But we'll —"

            Wittigis' face had been
turning darker and darker red. Now he burst into a shocking roar. "You
swine!" he yelled. "You think I'll hand over my crown and bride
peaceably? By Jesus, I'll see you in the hottest hell first!" As he spoke
he whipped out his sword and ran heavily at Padway, his gold-embroidered robe
flapping.

            Padway was not entirely
taken by surprise. He got his own sword out and parried Wittigis' terrific
downward cut easily enough, though the force of the blow almost disarmed him.
Then he found himself chest to chest with the Goth, hugging the barrel torso
and chewing Wittigis' pepper-and-salt beard. He tried to shout to his men, but
it was like trying to talk with a mouth full of shredded wheat.

            He spat out, it seemed, half
a bale of the stuff. "Grab ...
gffth ... pffth
... grab him, boys!
Don't hurt him!"

            That was easier said than
done. Wittigis struggled like a captive gorilla, even when five men were
hanging onto him, and he bellowed and foamed all the while. The Gothic
gentlemen were standing up, some with hands on their sword hilts, but in a
hopeless minority, none seemed anxious to die for his king just then. Wittigis
began to sob between roars.

            "Tie him up until he
cools off," said Padway unfeelingly. "My lord bishop, may I trouble
you for pen and paper?"