Without the road, these mountains are as remote as the hills of Jerusalem. It may be that there is protection in such remoteness, for the Franks of Tolosa cannot bring armed men over the mountains without roads, but neither can merchants nor monks nor scholars travel as they are wont. If the road is left to wash away, all the mountains will become the harbor of wild men and the bands of robbers who even now roam the crags and valleys for the purpose of looting and killing. Surely the Exarchs cannot want this. Surely the Church cannot support so ruinous a policy. I urge you, in the name of the family to which we both are bound, to prevail upon the Gardingi and Exarchs to act now, before there is complete disintegration in these mountains, to commit themselves to keeping the road open, maintained, and safe. To do otherwise would leave the Church exposed and the markets empty of goods, which serves no purpose but to return the country to a state of barbarism. As great as the dangers have been in the past, if the road is in poor repair, there will be worse for all to bear who live along the road.
May God send you to know the right in this and in all things. May He reveal Glory to you, and bestow His Grace upon you and your sons. May He maintain your community of Christian souls in virtue. May you live in favor and die in Salvation. May you know honor in this world and the exaltation of Paradise in the next. May your flesh be proof against all illness and sin. May your prayers have the power of the Saints in them. May your name by praised from generation to generation until the Last Days. Amen.
Frater Morduc, Scribe and kinsman
at Archangeli monastery near Roncesvalles, on the 29
th
day of August in the 622
nd
year of God’s Incarnation, according to Sanct’ Iago’s calendar
“It has been more than ten days, and no one has attacked,” Csimenae said to Sanct’ Germain late in the afternoon of the mid-point of September. It was hot; the languid breeze hardly moved the air around, though all of the barn doors stood open. Odors from the creamery on the south side of the walls mixed with stench of the midden, to the north-west, away from the little stream that leaped and shimmied down the hillside a hundred paces beyond the village walls. “Are you certain of what you saw in the forest?”
“I am,” he said as he stood up, letting the mule’s hind leg drop. “They said they were going to take Mont Calcius.” The barn was lit by the slanting rays of the setting sun, burnishing everything; the animals were lethargic with the heat, only flicking their tails to be rid of flies, but otherwise drooping as Sanct’ Germain went about tending to their hooves.
“But they have not come,” she persisted; she held her son in an improvised sling, and as he struggled to free himself she confined him again. “Might they have meant another village and you misunderstood them?”
“It is unlikely. Their intentions were plain, though they have not acted yet,” said Sanct’ Germain as he went around to the off-side of the mule and lifted his hoof, straddled his leg and began to wield his rasp; in spite of the warmth of the barn and the effort of his task, there was no trace of sweat on him.
“Perhaps they will not come, after all. Perhaps the horses have kept them away. We have enough men to hold the gates, and we have weapons to fight with. They may have seen that we are prepared to fight and have looked for easier game,” said Csimenae with enough emphasis to make it apparent she was no longer convinced of the danger.
Sanct’ Germain paused in his work. “Perhaps. Or it may be that they know more than you think.” It was risky to venture so much, but he thought it judicious to draw her attention to the possibility of a spy in the village.
“Do you mean they watch us?” She nodded, absent-mindedly stroking Aulutis’ arm. “Yes. I suppose they would do. They will know we have strengthened our walls. I still think they may have decided not to bother trying to take the village. They may choose one that is not as well-defended.”
“Or they may be waiting until you drop your guard,” Sanct’ Germain said. “They may be watching more closely than you know.”
She glared at him. “You think there are spies inside the walls, don’t you? Do not bother to deny it. I can read it in your face. You are certain that there are spies.” She caught Aulutis’ tiny hand in hers and held it. “You believe that there are men in this village who will betray their oaths.”
“Yes. I do,” he said, looking up from his work. “And so do you.”
“No!” Her eyes glittered. “How can you imagine that I would hold such thoughts about anyone in the village? You should know better than that, Sanct’ Germain. I have accepted the vows of all who live inside the gates. How can I believe that they are foresworn?”
“Because they are men, and they are not alone in the world. You would be foolish not to have some doubts,” said Sanct’ Germain at his most unperturbed. “You would not guard your son as you do if you were as certain as you claim to be.” He finished his work with the rasp and let the mule’s foot down.
“You are wrong,” she said with a show of indifference. “You are not one of us. You do not know—”
“I have been about the world, and I have seen men swear fidelity with treachery in their hearts. Even the most honorable of men can turn to perfidy if he is driven to it.” Most recently had been outside Baghdad, and had led to the death of nine men, as well as his own ordeal of heat and sun. “You may be right, but if you are, you have a village of honor beyond any I have ever encountered.”
“Well, and so I do,” she asserted. “You have let yourself be misled by those who are greedy and untrustworthy. Here we know what an oath means. If I fail to keep my pledge, may I be dragged behind a horse to my death.”
“I hope, for your sake, that you are not put to the test. But I encourage you to keep the night-guards patrolling.” He went to the next mule and lifted her on-side front foot. “Think about all you have done for Aulutis, and measure your decisions against that.”
“You want to make me afraid,” Csimenae said.
“If that will keep you safe, then yes I do.” He used the rasp as he went on. “I also ask you to observe your people. Some of them have ties to those outside the gates, and they may feel that their obligations of blood outweigh the vows they have given to your son.”
“You are a horrible man,” Csimenae declared, turning abruptly on her heel and starting out into the glowing afternoon.
“Possibly. But I may also be right,” he said as he continued his work.
That night passed uneventfully, and the next, but the night after that there was a disturbance at the edge of the sheepfold that brought the night-guard running into the market square to pound on the brass shield that had been hung up for that purpose.
“Thieves! Thieves!” Henabo shouted, bashing the shield one last time. “They’re taking our sheep!”
“Taking sheep?” came the sharp cry from Csimenae’s house. “They shall have none. By my blood, they shall not!”
The uproar increased as the village roused from sleep into confusion. Shouts and alarms began to summon everyone from their houses. Rushing out of doors, the women milled around the market square, trying to keep their few children from panic. The men were not much better: they held clubs and knives but were irresolute in their manner, and one of them was already behaving as if he had been bested in battle. Frightened and dispirited, the villagers responded to Csimenae’s outrage with a lack of enthusiasm that boded ill.
If Csimenae was aware of this, she did not reveal it in her activity; she made her way to the center of the market square and climbed onto the bed of a low wagon that stood there. “You know there is danger!” she shouted aloud. “You know that we are set-upon by evil men. You must rally now, and fight them off, or you will be their slaves and worse than slaves.”
“They are of this place!” Rilsilin protested.
“Not if they come to take it with weapons and kill us.” Csimenae took the nearest torch and extinguished it. “We will not make it easy for them. Let them have as little light as possible to guide them.”
“That was clever.” From his position near the barns, Sanct’ Germain marveled at Csimenae’s steadfast demeanor. He held his Byzantine sword in one hand and a Roman dagger in the other. He was listening for the next rush the attackers were about to make, sensing that they were not quite ready to charge the walls.
“Let each of you stand to his place by the walls and use the flails on the attackers. Break their shoulders and their heads and you will have the victory, for there are fewer of them than there are of us.” Her voice was a clarion, strong with purpose. “If you defeat the attackers, you will be rewarded for your fealty to Aulutis. If you fail, you will receive no mercy from the men outside the walls.”
Rilsilin lifted his head and shouted, “Do not fight! They are our kinsmen. They will do us no harm.”
“Do you think so?” Csimenae demanded. “There are no enemies as bitter as kinsmen. But if you want to take your chances, you may slip away through the sheepfold, and pray you will be welcomed with gratitude.” Her laughter was harsh and condemning.
There was a muttering among the others, and finally Henabo shouted out, “We must fight. If we do not, we will be disgraced.” He climbed up beside Csimenae and raised his fist. “Get your flails and your axes and your hammers and take up your positions. The woman is right.”
For a long moment no one moved, and then Ione shouted, “I will take a cudgel.”
That ended the reluctance: the men and youths surged forward, all trying to show their courage as they shouted their new-found determination aloud.
Sanct’ Germain kept his attention on the sheep, watching their nervous behavior, their surging from one side of the sheepfold to the other, listening to their bleating; they were as useful watchmen as dogs, or geese. “Not yet, not yet,” he said quietly, wondering what the attackers were doing that kept them in the trees.
There was a flurry of movement as the villagers hurried to take up their posts, weapons at the ready. Everyone was excited, their senses keen; they kept their fear at bay. Csimenae shouted to them, putting them on their mettle, exhorting them to be vigilant, not to slack in their purpose.
But the men in the forest did not move for some time; the village defenders grew edgy, then sullen, at last becoming sleepy and inattentive. As exhaustion seduced them, their fears returned as they waited, their imaginations increasing the number and ferocity of their enemies with every suppressed yawn. As the delay lengthened, two of the guards drowsed off into fitful slumber.
Csimenae had gone back into her house to tend to her fussing son when there was an eruption of men at the edge of the trees, and more than a dozen of them charged the walls, a log slung on ropes between them to use as a battering ram. Those awake enough to cry out did, and in the space of two quick breaths all was confusion.
One group of attackers made for the gate with the intention of breaking it open while a second group ran at the barn with axes swinging. Wood splintered and a mule screamed as a curved blade bit through the rough plank, embedding itself deeply in the animal’s flank; the mule kicked, breaking the wall open for the men outside. The second mule brayed and began to strike out with her hooves, her teeth bared in warning. The horses milled in their end of the barn, eyes showing whites and necks craning as they sought to flee.
Sanct’ Germain moved quickly to the edge of the barn, his weapons ready to swing. The long Byzantine sword hummed as he sliced the air with it. Then he turned and brought the sword up in a smooth, backhanded stroke that stopped as it struck one of the marauders who had hidden in the overhang of the barn roof. In the next breath, Sanct’ Germain had brought his dagger into play, driving back a second man before the first had finished screaming. He advanced on the men—there were four of them on their feet—his sword driving them back. One of the attackers landed a lucky blow on Sanct’ Germain’s forearm, and was rewarded by a thrust from the dagger that left him on his knees before Sanct’ Germain, his eyes dazed and blood spurting out from between his fingers. Sanct’ Germain ducked an axe-swing that caught the kneeling man on the temple; he went down without a sound. The third attacker shrieked and struck at Sanct’ Germain with a long-handled axe. Sanct’ Germain slapped the axe away with the flat of his sword and then lunged with his dagger. The metallic odor of blood was thick in the air.
Shouts and shrieks filled the night as the fighting continued; one of the two torches lit in the village was doused, so that most of the skirmishing was done in darkness. When two of the attackers attempted to scale the walls, the guards fell on them from their watches above them and brawled with fists and feet with as deadly intent as those with actual weapons in their hands.
Sanct’ Germain continued his progress along the side of the barn, driving back the attackers as he came upon them. Two more men lay wounded by the time he reached the creamery door and signaled to Rogerian to admit him. He paid little heed to the wound on his forearm, and none at all to the blood that dripped from it; there would be time to heal after the town was safe.
Rogerian noticed the wound, but said only, “The villagers are holding their own.”
Nodding, Sanct’ Germain said, “They will prevail if they do not let fear overwhelm them. The attackers are not prepared for resistance.”
At the gate there was a sudden shout of dismay, for the attackers had smashed one of the horse-skulls that hung over it. The omen was plain and the villagers all but lost heart as the skull was battered to shards by the men outside.
“Go,” Sanct’ Germain said to Rogerian, cocking his chin in the direction of the market square. “I will brace this door.”
“Do not falter now!” Csimenae was shouting. “If we fail now, then we deserve to be slaves! We deserve death!”
There was a bit of a rally, a few of the defenders taking up her challenge; the rest were too disheartened.
Then Rogerian came running up with two new torches in his hands. “You must uphold the horses,” he shouted to them. “Their spirits will not spare you if you do nothing to preserve their home.”