The Songs of Slaves (60 page)

“It was made especially for me long ago,” Alaric said. “I pass it on to you now; for as this weapon was meant to protect me when all else failed, you have also been my protector.”

Connor bowed low. He could see that the King had an even finer
pugio
on his belt at that moment; but still
,
being given a personal article was a high honor indeed.

“Thank you, Lord King,” Connor said. “I will use it in your service.”

The others were gathering closer around. They had wine or ale in hand. The formality of the impromptu ceremony was evaporating. Connor glanced back to see
Lucia
still gazing at him, smiling proudly that her man had been so honored – despite her grudge against those who honored him.

“When we first found this man he was lost in the woods,” Valia said to Alaric. “How was I to know that he was to become one of my most reliable warriors?”

“Life is ever unpredictable,” Alaric laughed. “How did you come to be here, Connor?”

“That is a long and winding story, Lord King.” Connor said, missing that Alaric had already learned his name from Ataulf or whoever his sources w
ere. “I should not want to bore
you with it. But suffice it to say that I was taken to Gaul against my will, and was quite lost there until my path crossed with your kinsman, Lord Valia.”

“And since then he has been like a right hand to me,” Valia effused. “At first I was not so sure, as within a day of meeting him I was in a stand-off with Sarus; but Connor defeated Arastan in single combat and humiliated him – helping to reveal those men for what they were.”

“Indeed,” Alaric said.

“Then later he spied out a
bacaudae
trap before they could ensnare us,” Valia continued.
“The very same
bacaudae
who reduced the great Sarus to penury.”

“He killed the
bacaudae
chieftain that same day,” Gaiseric chimed in.

“He trained harder than anyo
ne through the winter
,” Henric added. “When Constantine
invaded this spring, I was glad
to have Connor riding with us.”

“And through it all he has been indomitable – just a good man to have on your side,” Valia said. “He always volunteers; always finds his way to where the fight is; but also is always thinking and listening. He’s solid.”

A few of the others also offered similar accounts. Connor blushed outright. He was not used to this praise, but he could not help but be warmed by it. Here he was, standing in the very presence of the Visigoth King and one of their great heroes, being called a hero himself. What greater glory could a man
be
given?

“And through it all,” Valia was saying to Alaric, who still listened eagerly with a smile on his face “he has always had this strange asceticism – a virtue of selflessness. He’s a philosopher. He will take what he needs and he will accept gifts. But he will never take his due. When he slew the
bacaudae
chieftain he would not take a single gold ornament. Whenever we foraged he would never plunder, never so much as take a coin. You see this sword I wear? This sword belonged to a man that he killed – knocked him off of his charging horse and took half his head off with the man’s own blade. He did that while covering my back, and then he gave this fine sword to me. Now that is warrior virtue.”

“A philosopher
–warrior,” Alaric said. “Something that is difficult to attain.
Something to aspire to.”

But Connor did not hear the King’s words. The blood drained from his face and his sweat ran cold. He turned around and saw
Lucia
staring at him in wide-eyed horror. And then she was gone. 

XXVIII

             
Connor woke up alone. He sat up, trying to shake off the residue of the nightmares that tormented him. The reality that reasserted itself was much worse. It was the first light of morning of the third day since they had left the Visigoths. He could hear their two horses grazing on the lush grass just outside the tent.
Lucia
’s bedroll still lie like a shed cocoon on the ground, but her principal bag was missing. Connor crawled to the tent flap, praying that he would find her outside. They were within a few hours of Asisium
–
a few hours with her that Connor wanted more than anything else in life.

He stood up, stiff from sleeping on the ground. He was fully clothed and in his mail with his weapons still girded on, for Connor could take no chances now that they had left the others behind. He scanned the green slopes of the ravine, and then along the densely wooded ridgelines above. Then, as he turned around, he saw her.

Lucia
rose from the clear stream. Connor knelt down, captivated by the sparkle of clear water glistening on her naked body.
Lucia
did not look at him,
but kept her eyes cast down. She ran her graceful hands through her dark hair and over her body as she stepped carefully to the bank. She knelt down on her green linen dress that lay in a heap on the grass and reached for her bag. Connor stared at her openly, a great knot in his throat, a crushing weight in his chest.
Lucia
neither acknowledged him nor tried to hide herself from him as she methodically dried herself with a cloth. She moved slowly, meditatively, as if she were unaware of anything else except for the workings of her own mind – a mind that had been shut to him since the evening Alaric had come to their camp, since she had learned the truth.

He had run to her that night. He had found her face-down in their tent, weeping with her whole being. He had tried to talk to her, tried to touch her; he had attempted everything. But he did not get a single word from her – not then; and not the next morning when he came to her before dawn with two saddled horses; and not in the days that followed as they travelled the road alone. The miles had passed, the hours flown, the rains come and gone; and in time they came to the hills of Umbria, rising high and green and often shrouded by morning in mist. They had followed the winding road;
the few other travelers starring at them but giving Connor wide berth. Was it because they feared him, tall and terrible with sword, shield, and mail; or was it because they could sense that here was a man cursed? Yet, as the days of riding and walking cycled to nights camped in places like this lonely ravine – hidden from all eyes, save the foxes, owls, and morning larks –
Lucia
did not say a word, did not even look at him.

Lucia
set the towel aside and pulled a small jar from her bag. She poured pale oil out into her hands and began to rub it into her naked skin; starting with her willowy arms, and then working to her small shoulders, breasts, tight belly and slender back, then down to her graceful legs and her tiny feet. Connor’s arousal added another dimension to his pain. She was his. She had given herself to him, and he had protected her against everything; and he had given himself to her, even his very soul. He had made her happy, happy enough to forget everything else. At least for a time, he thought, as he watched her work some of the perfumed oil into her black tresses. As
Lucia
began to brush her luxurious hair Connor began to sense what was happening.
Lucia
set the brush down, and pulling a
stolla
of white silk from her bag she pulled it over her head. She rose,
standing on the green linen dress and let the white dress – the Roman dress – cover her. She tied the sash around her waist, letting the fabric gather and hang perfectly on her beautiful body. She bent down to pull a wound cloth out of her bag and unraveled it, laying it on the soft grass. The rising sun caught the objects hidden within and they began to shine.

“Clever girl,” Connor thought. So she had been able to not just save her idol from her enemies, hiding them all this time.

Lucia
clasped the coin-sized emerald’s gold chain around her neck. With cunning precision she put her hair up and bound it in the net of gold wire, sapphires, and garnets Connor had seen her wear so long ago. She fastened her sandals to her feet and then walked away from the bank, leaving the green dress and bag behind.

“
Lucia
,” Connor said.

Lucia
did not answer, but began to bridle her dark mare. Once she had the head strap secured she lashed the animal to a tree trunk and went to retrieve the saddle.

“
Lucia
,” Connor said again; but he did not know what to say next. He had already said everything – filling the air with imploring, rationalizations, and appeals until he was sick of hearing his own voice. What did he really think could be said to change anything? Did he not always know which way this had to go?

“
Lucia
, I love you.”

It was not the first time he had said it – he had told her over and over again as they had passed days and nights together. He had sung it softly in her ear as they held each other in the dark.
Lucia
tightened the girth strap on her saddle. When she finally turned to him her eyes seemed moist with tears, yet her face was distant.

“I release you,”
Lucia
said. “You are free. I can find the way from here.”

“I will not leave you until I see you safe with your family,” Connor said through a dry throat.

Lucia
nodded, but said no more. Connor moved to assist her into her saddle, but she jumped up without his help.

Sick at heart, Connor hurriedly tacked up his horse. He did not bother to strike the camp. Maybe he would come back here tonight, and maybe he would not. It was impossible for him to care right now. As
Lucia
nudged her horse on to a walk and began to carefully climb out of the ravine, Connor ran to retrieve her discarded dress. He stuffed the worn g
arment into his saddlebag,
aware that soon it would be all he had left of her.

They picked their way through the forest, down the steep hillside to the white-stoned road. The morning was still cool, the mists not yet dried by the Italian sun. There were few travelers on the road; only some stragglers running from the Gothic advance and those who were too poor or too old to care anymore. Birds sang in the trees as they passed more abandoned homesteads and burned-out villas. It had been almost ten years of war. The only safe places now were the walled towns high on the hilltops. Maybe when this was all over people would come out and try again. Maybe that time would be soon – maybe Honorius would finally relent when it was clear that the city of Rome would fall; or maybe the Goths, glutted on revenge, would then move on. None of that seemed likely now,
but it was again clear as Connor rode through the ruined countryside that if an end to the hostilities did not come there would soon be nothing
left. But Connor could not bring himself to hope or fear what might come
. What reason did he have any more? Let him deliver up
Lucia
to her family and her fate, and then speed back to Valia’s side where he could be slain by a Roman arrow.
As it was written: “
Count no man lucky who is not dead.
”

The road climbed higher. The hills flanked them on either side, shutting out the world. Ahead
rose
Monte Subasio, and atop it stood the walled town of Asisium. It was smaller than Connor had expected, but the walls appeared sturdy and in good repair, and the way towards them would be difficult for an army to manage without becoming spread out and vulnerable on the slopes. The citizens and defenders of the town presumably did not know what Connor knew for certain – that for now the town was safe, as Alaric’s sole bent of mind and purpose lay on Rome.
But if Rome fell, or if Rome refused to fall, then what?
The energies of the Visigoths could be diffused throughout the land. Connor prayed as the climbed the
cyprus
-lined road that
he was not taking
Lucia
to what would become her mausoleum. 

Noon came and went. They stopped and
rested,
drinking water but neither of them eating. When the horses were ready they set out again in silence. They passed through a ghost town at the foot of the mountain, where a few old villagers eyed them furtively. Soon they were climbing Monte Subasio itself, shaded from the worst of the sun by the trees and boulders. They were alone again. Connor’s desperation was growing as time was running out. Words failed him. He had, once again, the fantasy that perhaps if he were to sing to her that
Lucia
would lose her hatred and remember her love for him. She had told him that she had fallen in love with him when she first saw him, when she first heard him singing. She had said that even when she had hated him she had loved him. But Connor could not sing – his mind was turned in on itself, his despair smothering any art. He cursed himself
–
as if songs or words could placate a woman’s hate for her brother’s killer. As if pleas or explanations could make up for him not being honest and telling her that first night back.
He never should have touched her.
It had been easy to let her believe that he was innocent. It
had been easy to just follow the path and believe it himself, but it had all just led to this. The truth could not be changed.