The Songs of Slaves (59 page)

             
“You know what I do not understand?” Connor said, his mood shifting back.

             
“What?”
Lucia
asked.

             
“Why did Sarus do it?”

             
Lucia
lifted up her head and sat back.

             
“I guess I do not so much mean ‘why’ in terms of motivation,” Connor said, interrupting her before she began. “That much is both as unanswerable and obvious as it ever is – greed, jealousy, anger, a skewed view of the world, a belief that you are right and that you will somehow change everything for the right even if you act wrongly – the same things that seem to be at work in every traitor and murderer. What I mean is why did he do it this way? Was he really acting on behalf of Honorius?”

             
“You said that he fled towards the city once he was beaten,”
Lucia
reminded him. “That proves it.”

             
“Yes – the city let him in. Someone at the gate knew who he was and what he was doing. And how they infiltrated the camp in the first place was brilliant – why send black-clad troops across half a kilometer of no-man’s-land to attack a camp when you could just have them casually stroll in days in advance? Ther
e is no telling how long Sarus’
men were waiting in
our
midst.
But why just Sarus’
three hundred men?
Why did the three hundred men not serve as the distraction for a large-scale attack from the Roman legions from the city? What did Honorius think Sarus could do with just a few hundred unsupported warriors?”

             
“It was just an assassination attempt,”
Lucia
said. “Maybe as such it was too big. That’s how you ran into it, besides by luck.”

             
“I don’t know,” Connor said. “If Honorius did not want peace he should have rejected the treaty.”

             
“Maybe he did want peace, but not with Alaric personally,”
Lucia
observed.

             
“So Sarus was delusional enough to think that he could just murder Alaric and Ataulf and take their place with the people, and then Honorius would grant peace with him, as King of the Visigoths,” Connor reasoned.

             
“Or maybe the
Augustulus
wanted them both dead,”
Lucia
said. “Maybe Sarus was promised Roman legions that never came. Surely Sarus could not have expected his chance of escape without help to be very good.”

             
Connor nodded. “Honorius’
plan may have been to destroy both Alaric and Sarus; and thus enrage the Visigoths so much that they attacked the walls of Ravenna, where they would be destroyed by the well-fortified defenders.”

             
“That seems as likely a plan as any,”
Lucia
said. “We will probably never know. I doubt Sarus will make the same mistake again.”

             
“No. But he will want revenge. We killed Arastan in front of him. He will not let that go. And yet, I cannot help but wonder if the Romans had anything
at all
to do with this. Despite fleeing to Ravenna and being allowed inside, could it not be that Sarus was acting independently?”

             
“And so the revenge these people are planning would not even be justified,”
Lucia
followed.

             
Connor nodded. “M
aybe it is time that we left.”

             
He stole a glance over to Valia, feeling guilty that he would think of abandoning him now. But the warlord would stand or fall based on his own fate, Connor thought, not his help.

             
“Where could we go?”
Lucia
said. “They say that Constantine has secured the passes through the Alps; so we are all trapped in Italia – though it starves under the weight of constant war and embargoes. Meanwhile the
Augustulus
has done nothing if not prove his impotence. We are sitting in the safest place in the world right now.  In any city in Italia we could be overrun by barbarians, but right here we have a hundred thousand barbarians to protect us.”

             
Until plague hits, Connor thought dourly; but he did not want to further trouble her, so he said nothing.

             
Connor saw Valia stand up suddenly. He did the same, trying to see what the matter was. The other men of their unit began to gather around as well, though no one bothered to arm themselves. The Gothic host was so vast that it took a long time for the entire assembly to stop and pitch camp. To the back of the column men were probably still marching; followed by the indigenous merchants, tradesmen, entertainers, and prostitutes that always followed large armies, regardless of allegiance. Even after travel stopped for the day, traffic along the road was not unusual, as messengers and men on business travelled back and forth. But
Connor spied a fairly large group – perhaps two dozen men coming north, towards them. As they came closer, all recognized the King.

             
Valia was the first to fall to one knee as Alaric came into their midst,
riding the same black charger that
had challen
ged the defenses of Ravenna
weeks before.

             
“Rise, my brothers,” Alaric said as he dismounted. He was dressed in a heavy chain mail hauberk, and wore his
spatha
at his hip; but neither helmet nor crown rested on his head. Like so many of them, his face was darkened by weariness and grim thoughts; and though he was only thirty-five or thirty-six he appeared much older at that moment. He searched the assembly, his gray eyes resting on many of them in recognition.

“We are honored by your presence, Lord King,” Valia said.

Alaric turned to Valia and embraced him, slapping him on the back several times.

“It is I who am honored, cousin,” Alaric said, the energy of his voice in contrast to his apparent
weariness. “You and your men saved my life, and saved us all from the treachery of evil men.”

“Will you sit?” Valia offered, indicating his folding camp stool. Alaric shook his head as one of his retainers brought up a similar chair and set it next to Valia’s. But Alaric stood and addressed Valia’s men as much as him.

“You all fought well,” Alari
c began. “You fought like lions; like demons;
like Visigoths.”

They bowed their heads, most not knowing how to respond.

“If you had not come when you did and fight like you did, then I do not know what might have happened. I might not be standing here today. But what is much worse than that is to think that the worms in the court of the mongrel that is unworthy of the air he breaths would all have their way. They sought victory over us. They sought our destruction. They found the edges of our swords instead.”

Some of the men cheered. This was turning more into the type of speech they were used to. Connor,
Valia, and the many others remained quiet though, humbled by the praise.

“You all risked your lives,” Alaric continued. “And you did not risk it for me, but for the cause – for our people, for our future; for respect and for a homeland; and for a time when our children can hold their heads high and tell their children of the glory of their ancestors – men like you who changed the world into a place where we could live in freedom.”

Alaric paused, seeming to collect his thoughts.

“I know that you have lost many brothers,” he continued. “I weep for them too. I buried them with you. I promise you, we will avenge them.”

There was a strong cheer at this, though Connor wondered what the point was – their vengeance lay with Sarus or maybe Honorius. The ones who would feel their vengeance would probably not even know what had happened.

“We will avenge them!” Alaric said again, and then a third time. Everyone hung on his words now. The men were bristling with energy. Some of the widows began to weep.

“I bring each of you a small gift,” Alaric said. Two of his retainers approached, each holding a wooden chest.

“It is no recompense. It never could be. But it is something so that others will know that you are the brave men that stood with me in the shield wall as the enemy was trying to steal our future. You are the brave men who fought with all you had, and pushed that enemy back to Hell where they belong. And you continue to be the strong men of the Visigoth nation that secure this future from all of our enemies.”

As the men shouted, Alaric opened the first chest. He turned to Valia and solemnly placed a gold chain around his neck. The kinsmen embraced once more. Then Alaric indicated for the others to approach him in line. As each warrior approached, the King put a gold chain around his neck, saying “You are the heroes of the fields of Ravenna.”

Connor was momentarily reminded of receiving the lifter’s gift at the end of a long work day, but as he drew closer to the front of the line the honor of the recognition started to sink in deeper. He felt his spirit lift as he stood tall and proud. Soon he stood before
Alaric, looking the King in the eyes. Through all the year of his slavery, Connor had heard of this man as an outlaw and a brigand; but now he was filled with a sense of the man’s greatness – an overwhelming greatness that Connor himself was a part of. He believed in him, believed in his words.
As  Connor
bowed his head and was bestowed the sign of glory, he felt that he would proudly follow Alaric through any tribulation. Connor bowed again and filed out, feeling the fine gold around his neck. It had to be expensive – almost definitely from the tribute the city of Rome paid the Visigoths two years before. Though full of thoughts of grandeur, part of him realized that he had it now
–
this gold would buy Dania back. This gold could certainly get them home. When they were done here, Connor thought, when things had been made right.  

The warriors stood, all fingering their chains with pride shining on their faces. Alaric was working his way through the second chest. As he reached the end of the warriors, he began bestowing the same gift on the widows of the men that had fallen. He touched them on the shoulder and offered his thanks and condolences for the bravery of their men. Only a fraction of the seventy three dead had women in the
camp, and so this did not take long. The surviving Visigoths had already begun taking care of these women and orphaned children. They would soon be assimilated into new families, most likely. These people had not survived decades of nomadic wandering and war by being loners. But the gift of gold would help sustain them, and if they were able to keep it and pass it on to their children, then the sons and daughters may be somewhat consoled that their fathers had died as heroes of their people.

“Now there is one thing that remains,” Alaric said, after sipping from the drinking horn that Valia offered him. “It has come to my ears that you were alerted by one of your own who had the luck to see the traitors at work, the wit to see it for what it was, and the valor to fight his way through in time to bring help. Is that man here?”

All eyes turned to Connor.

Reluctantly, Connor took a few steps forward and bowed. He felt his face flush at the attention.

“Come forward, brother,” Alaric said. Connor complied. He glanced back to see
Lucia
standing tall,
watching him proudly. Alaric reached out and clasped his wrist.

“I am glad to meet you,” Alaric said. “I remember you from the battle. You gave my daughters the use of your horse. You fought savagely and captured Arastan. I am glad that you fight for us.”

“It is my honor, Lord King.”

“Are you a Briton?” Alaric asked, inclining his leonine head. “Your speech is strange.”

“I am a Hibernian, Lord King.”

“Hibernian?
You are a long way from home.”    

“As we all are, Lord King.”

Alaric smiled.
“Hopefully, not for long.”

Alaric turned out to better face everyone, and raised his voice.

“You all deserve honor for what you have done,” Alaric said. “I bestow on Connor a second honor for warning us, for being the right person in the right moment.”

One of Alaric’s men handed him an object wrapped in red silk. Alaric unraveled it to reveal a
pugio
– a short sword jus
t under half the length of a
spatha
. He presented the weapon to Connor. Connor bowed and accepted it, taking it up by its ornately-carved scabbard. It was much heavier than he expected, as it was not only meant to be a back-up weapon but a weapon for use in tight quarters. The very broad blade and the tang were one solid piece, in the old style, with a grip of bone riveted onto it. Connor had heard that the famous Spartans
Hoplites
of centuries ago had used a similar short, heavy sword to punch through armor in the confines of the shield wall. He wanted to draw it to better ap
preciate the blade, but remembered
just in time that one should never draw a dagger in front of a king.