David Pilling - Flame of the West

His captain barked with laughter. “Trust?” he cried, “do I trust you, Gambara? Do I trust any of the Masterless Men? Not a bit of it. I sleep with one eye open, and one hand on my dagger.”

The one named Gambara gave back, scowling, and his captain turned back to me. “I am Asbad,” he said, “leader and master of this company of rogues. Give me your name and quality.”

Asbad, I thought. A Gepid name. The Gepids were an Eastern Germanic tribe, and close kin to the Goths. In common with most German tribes, they were not particular in their loyalties, and happily enlisted under the banner of whoever paid them most.

“Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur,” I replied promptly, “a Briton, recently in the service of Rome.”

I thought it pointless to lie. Any brief fame I had enjoyed was long in the past. These men were all young, and would not have heard of me.

“A Briton, eh?” said Asbad, smoothing his greasy tunic, “and what are you doing on the Flaminian Way in time of war, alone, with nothing but that little knife to protect you?”

“I was heading to Ravenna to see my son. He lacks his father’s wisdom, poor lad, and still follows the eagle.”

Asbad smiled, and some of his men chuckled, which was pleasing to hear. With the exception of Gambara, I was winning them over.

“Your words have the ring of truth,” said Asbad, “so you’re either an honest man, or an accomplished liar. Either is welcome in the Masterless Men. How far can that pony carry you?”

I gave her muzzle a pat. “Far enough, though I would not like to push her. I am not as svelte as I once was.”

“Good. No more than five or six miles of discomfort lies before her tonight. Mount, Coel ap Amhar ap Arthur. Your son will have to wait.”

I knew better than to argue. Asbad’s friendly tone could not conceal the true nature of the man. He was a wolf, and so were his followers. Italy was full of such roving bands, the inevitable debris of a long war. Some were ex-soldiers, others merely criminals, or natives who had lost their homes and families in the bloodshed and turned to highway robbery.

They robbed and murdered and plundered with impunity, living off the land and their fellow men, until justice caught up with them. Belisarius, who had a particular hatred of deserters, used to hang them by the dozen, and leave their bodies to swing by the roadside as a warning.

I climbed aboard my pony and followed Asbad and his Masterless Men into the trees. They had set up a temporary camp in the heart of the wood, but Asbad wanted to move on.

“Too close to Rimini,” he explained, “and there has been little traffic on the road of late. Not worth the risk. We shall head inland.”

We rode east, in the gathering gloom, following a rough track that wound out of the woods and over the rolling hill country beyond. Far ahead, stretching in a rugged line from north to south, lay the Appenines.

Even though I had fallen into the hands of thieves and cut-throats, I did not despair. I was alive, and unharmed, and Asbad appeared to have swallowed my tale of being a deserter. I suppose I was, in a way, though I had not enlisted in the Roman army. There had been enough truth in the lie to lend my words conviction.

Eight men was a small enough following. I entertained hopes of stealing a horse and slipping their grasp, when the time came, but these quickly turned to ash.

A few miles east of the Flaminian Way, we arrived at the gutted remains of a little village. It had been a peaceful place once, nestled in the crook of a fertile valley, until the Masterless Men descended from the hills with fire and sword. Most of the stone cottages were blackened wrecks. The maimed corpses of their inhabitants lay scattered about, but this was not the worst horror.

One of the cottages had been spared. There were men lounging outside it, eating a rough supper of bread and cheese. They rose to salute Asbad as we cantered down the single street, which ended in a basilica.

The basilica was the largest building in the village. It puzzled me why Asbad’s men had not requisitioned it instead of one of the miserable little cottages. Though small, it was a pretty place made of pink stone, with a flat roof and a short flight of steps leading to an arched doorway.

“They tried to take refuge in there,” said Asbad, grinning at me, “the women and children, I mean. And the priest.”

I stared at him, and again at the mangled corpses. They were all men. Most had died fighting, or trying to, their fists still curled around rakes and pitchforks and other makeshift weapons.

The walls of the basilica were streaked with soot, spilling out from the narrow windows. Some dreadful urge made me dismount and walk slowly towards the steps.

“Only one door, see?” said Asbad, “they barred it from the inside. Stupid. No escape route. Every good soldier knows you always leave a means of escape.”

I mounted the steps. The nailed and timbered door had been smashed in, and its edges were burned black. I stretched out my right hand and gave it a gentle push.

The people inside had been dead for several days. Little remained of them, save a few blackened cinders and bits of bone and hair. The flagstones of the long nave were tainted with grease, and the still air carried a vague hint of roasting meat.

I should have been sickened, but I had seen worse. Such things happened in war. With terrible clarity, I saw the last moments of the villagers trapped inside the basilica. Unable to get out, clutching each other in shrieking terror as the Masterless Men hurled flaming torches through the windows.

Stone doesn’t burn, but flesh does. They had burned, these people, while their menfolk were slaughtered outside. I glanced at the charred remains of the altar, and imagined the priest, kneeling before it and muttering prayers even as the flames licked at his body.

I turned away, not wishing to dirty my already tarnished soul by looking too long.

Gambara was waiting for me at the foot of the steps. “Too strong for your stomach?” he asked, his little mouth curled into a grin, fists planted on his narrow hips.

“No,” I replied, stepping closer, “how about yours?”

The ugly lines of his face wrinkled in confusion. He was a dull-witted sort, and failed to react in time as I seized the hilt of his dagger, drew it from the wooden sheath and rammed the blade into his gut.

His little eyes widened in shock. I left the dagger buried inside him, gripped his scrawny neck in both hands and threw him to the ground.

The back of his head cracked against the bottom step. Dark blood splattered the stone. I pulled him up and smashed his head against the step, again and again, with all the violence I could muster. His body jerked and went into spasm, blood and brains spilling from the shattered pulp of his skull.

Finally, when all the rage had gone out of me, I let the dead thing go and wiped my bloody hands on the grass.

Asbad and the rest of the Masterless Men had watched the killing in silence. Not one of them lifted a hand to help their comrade. Life was cheap among such people, and Gambara was not the sort to inspire affection.

I looked up, panting with exertion, at Asbad. He, if anyone, would have avenged the dead man.

“You can have his horse,” he said, before turning away and calling for supper.

I rode with the Masterless Men for months, all through the autumn and the long winter that followed. Asbad took a liking to me, while at the same time making it perfectly plain what would happen if I ever tried to leave his company.

“No-one leaves,” he was fond of saying, “save in a box.”

This was a favourite jest of his. A Masterless Man was lucky to be buried. If he fell sick, or was wounded in a skirmish, Asbad left him to rot. He judged men by their usefulness, and cheerfully tossed them aside if they showed signs of faltering.