Andrew Offutt - When Death Birds Fly

As swiftly and bluntly as that, it was put to them. The Frank Clovis meant to move on and overthrow the last Roman ruler; to end what Roman Julius had begun 500 years agone. They gazed upon him, and the lamplight danced on eyes of grey and blue.

Ragnachar of Cambrai grinned. “I awaited this. The time is ripe. As for the Roman kingdom… it is falling-ripe! It wants only knocking from the tired old tree. None of us could take it alone. In concert, though-I am with you, cousin.”

Ricchar spoke not, but inclined his head in agreement.

Chararic, eyes shifting and hooded, scratched nervously in his armpit. “This is rash talk. Syagrius is the Emperor’s man.”

Clovis snorted. “The Emperor! Zeno rules afar, in Constantinople! He can do naught here. If we do not take Soissons, some others will, and leave us with empty hands. I say strike now.”

“And I say nay! The Goths would welcome the excuse to crush us in the Emperor’s name and he’d give them his sanction with a joyful heart. I shall have no part in this.”

Now it was Ragnachar’s turn to snort, while Clovis stared, looking implacably grim. Ricchar remained silent and seemingly impassive.

All three knew well that Chararic was not so pitifully timid as he wished them to believe. The Goths under their present weakling monarch were no threat. Chararic knew that. Emperor Zeno could send his distant subordinate no aid that mattered. Chararic knew that. No; Chararic’s real motives were plain. He wanted his cousins to take the risks of waging war, and bear the losses. Were they defeated, and did the Roman King Syagrius drive them back into Frankish domains, Chararic would be waiting to complete their destruction, to his own lasting profit. Should they win-

“Think again, Chararic,” Clovis said softly. “Think of the loot of Soissons! Think of the glory we four will share.” His eyes stared hard.

Stubbornly Chararic shook his head. “You will break your strength on Syagrius’s legions, and the earth will cover you, Clovis.”

Ricchar spoke at last. “Syagrius’s legions!” he mocked. “Standstill fighters! We will mince his horsemen, and then our axes will smash his legions flat and trample them!”

“Bah. You talk a great victory, cousin; but I think not.”

“Enough,” Clovis said, showing his impatience. “My lord Chararic, you have answered us so that we are left in no doubt. Let it be so.”

Something in the younger man’s pale, deadly eyes and whetstone voice froze King Chararic to his treacherous soul. Instinct told him-too late-that here sat his master in double-dealing, in war, and indeed in all things; here was one who would remove him the moment it was convenient. What made Chararic so certain of this he could not have said. He knew. Clovis had uttered no threat, veiled or open. He had simply looked at his craftiest cousin. And Chararic was hideously sure. A death sentence had just been passed.

Feeling a sudden urgent need of wine, Chararic poured himself a tot with an unsteady hand.

“We waste time,” Clovis said, softly, so softly; butter sliding along the whetstone. Somehow, Chararic had been excluded from further talk. “My lords, we must raise our forces, combine them and march as soon as may be. Who shall lead them?”

’Why, the three of us jointly!” Ragnachar said. “Are we to arm a host and then give it to you to use as you please? Ha! Would you do such a thing for us?”

“I would not,” Clovis said grimly. “Nor was I proposing that you should. It is my dearest wish that one of you accompany me to this war, and lead his own warriors. Aye. Both, however, were neither needful nor wise. One should remain at home and guard the kingdom.”

His meaning was clear. Clovis did not trust Chararic, were he left unwatched behind their backs to be at the making of mischief. Likely he did not trust his allies overmuch either, and wished to separate them. Besides, the twenty-year-old king of five years had shrewdly guessed that Ragnachar did not altogether trust his own brother Ricchar. In that case Ragnachar would be certain to bring to war every able-bodied man, lest Ricchar prepare for him a stronger triumphal welcome than he wanted. When one was a Frankish king, one did not leave a knife even in the hand of a brother while one turned one’s back.

They talked.

Clovis used all his harsh powers of persuasion to get his way, and had it at last. Ragnachar agreed to leave Ricchar in charge of Cambrai, whilst he and Clovis led their combined forces against the Roman kingdom.

They parted next day in bright sunlight of no boding. Watching Chararic and his hunting party take their own road, Ragnachar smiled bleakly.

“We had better win our war, cousin,” he told Clovis. “I’ll not relish having ’hararic at our backs, an we should fail.” He scratched the back of his scalp, under his mass of corn-hued hair.

“Failure is not part of our plan,” Clovis said. “We will succeed-and even then, we will be better off without yon snake-eyed daggerman. When we return in the splendour of victory, my lord cousin, I will see to that myself.”

“You seem very sure of winning,” Ricchar grunted, and received hard looks from Clovis and his brother. He traded them glower for glower. “I should be pleased to know why.” And never for Chararic.

“ Why , you sluggard? Are we not Franks?”

“Easy, Ragnachar,” Clovis advised, with a tiny smile. “Ricchar may be more subtle than you grant, for there are other reasons why I be sure of victory.”

The two brothers stared at the young king.

“I’ve had spies at the court of Soissons for some time,” Clovis said with a completely open face. “One master agent in particular. Think you I rose one bright dawn and said, ‘Would be a fine thing were I and my kinsmen to conquer Soissons! I shall put the matter to them and discover whether they agree!’“

Despite his slowness of thought, Ricchar was not easily swayed from a point. “This agent of yours…”

“A courtier. He has worked with great care to suborn the men who lead the Frankish auxiliaries in Syagrius’s army. I chose him well! He has been discreet and successful. When Syagrius marches against us, my lord cousins, his Frankish contingents will desert him and fight with us, which is fitting. You will see why I had no wish to talk of this whilst Chararic was with us, and him uncommitted.”

Ricchar considered that, and smiled broadly. “Good! Good!”

“There is more,” Clovis said coolly, hardly basking in this praise. “Know ye the Bishop of Reims?”

“I have met the man,” Ragnachar said, looking intent while he scratched his outer thigh.

“As have I. So too has my spy. My lord Bishop is a most practical churchman who also desires my conversion to his god. On my spy’s advice, I made him offers in the guise of interest in his faith, to gain some notion of how he might respond to conquest. No fool he! He sees as surely as I that the Roman kingdom cannot last many years longer, and that we are the most likely ones to seize it. I can get along with him. Will be needful, you know. We can conquer the Roman kingdom methinks, but lacking the Church’s aid, cousins, we should find it difficult to hold .”

Ragnachar laughed shortly. “And shall we make submission in name to the Emperor at Constantinople?”

“Aye,” Clovis said most seriously indeed, “and mayhap receive the cloak and purple robe each, proclaiming us consul. Why not?”

There was one whelming reason why not. In each man’s mind was a picture of himself as Consul of Gaul officially and king in fact, and no thought of sharing the honour. What was more, each of them knew that the other thought thus.

Ricchar asked, “What of this spy of yours now?”