He had to have a knack, a special talent, for finding himself in these situations. First Mediolanum, then Pavia, and finally Ravenna.
Always boxed in, or with the jaws of enemy forces closing in. And now, with his luck, having fled the Roman capital, dodging the encircling Lombard forces and the robbers along the way, he made it to Rome, only to find Theodelinda and young King Adaloald already gone, along with most of the Imperial family. And better yet, hot on his heels, were the first rebellious scouts from Gisulf’s forces.
“Men, it’s time, let’s get moving!” went out the order from Rodoald, the fierce dekarchos from Ravenna, who had led him and a handful of scattered survivors south, trying to regroup with a larger force, in order to launch a counterattack against the “Lombard swine.”
Sigibuld, the Lombard, nodded, and grabbed his bowl of soup, gulping down what was left quite easily. Dropping it back on the table, he flipped a follis onto the hands of the eager tavern-keeper, and set out alongside his companions. Outside, the streets were damp from the drizzle that had hovered over the city on and off since the early morning and were, for the most part, deserted. It was to be expected, as one could almost smell the fear that permeated it all since the news of the Roman Pope’s capture by the heathen Avars, while on his diplomatic mission, had arrived. But even worse, had been the advent of the Lombard vanguard to the northeast of the city, which alone seemed more numerous than the men spread thinly on the walls. Still, as if it were not enough, and to dishearten the few defenders even further, the Imperial family had been evacuated to Naples. Theodosius’ siblings and child had been sent off in a dash, to the safety of the port city in the south, in an ominous, yet telling, anticipation of things to come by those in power. The only hope for the citizens of the city it seemed, rested on the Empress Irene. She had chosen to stay behind, and inspire the scant “garrison,” and the people of Rome, with her presence, in the name of her husband.
Pulling up their hoods over their heads, the group lost themselves in the alleyways, heading east. Rodoald had decided to leave Rome the day before, after a brief stay of two days, since there was no realistic hope that the city could hold out a prolonged siege with its current defenders. Should the unthinkable come to pass, the dekarchos had argued, he rather be part of the force that removed the ignominy of “barbarian” occupation, rather than dying before being fortunate enough to see the day of retribution. And it seemed he was not alone in his thinking: since the Lombard contingent that had arrived to the northeast had pitched their tents there and showed no intention of moving further, the gates to the south remained open, giving free passage to those who wanted to leave, and letting in those who fled
into the city from the north, seeking a safe haven.
They went past the Forum, where some people, surely in preparation for the siege, were grazing their cattle, along some neglected, sparse spots where the grass had been allowed to grow. They went past the giant Colosseum, and its squatters, whence and whither a few stray, malnourished dogs darted. And finally, as they headed for the Porta Asinaria, through which Belisarius had entered the city seventy years before, they went past a large marble statue of a veiled man, his left arm missing, representing one of the past Emperors; Sigibuld was clueless as to whom [1].
Old proud Rome, he thought as he passed between the gate’s twin towers and gave the defenders therein stationed a last, pitiful look, knowing fully well what awaited them.
Living out its final days…
The way to Naples was, again, plagued with refugees heading in both directions, though the greater number was always southbound: countless numbers of men, children and women from all backgrounds dragging their earthly possessions in carts, or pulling their animals with them. In a similar fashion, they crossed paths with some of the wealthy landowners often, who deployed their private guards about them and their belongings on the move, to shield them from the masses, who marching alongside cried out for food or money. Had the situation been different, it would have been quite comical to watch.
On they went, for three days, until, oddly and worrisomely, they began to notice the scars of war in the landscape. Some of the men began to speculate that perhaps the Lombard vanguard was living off the land, and was now reaching further south, thus putting them in danger of being overtaken. A few cold bodies littered in burnt-out fields only serve to emphasize this point. It was at that juncture that they decided to step off the main road, and continue through less traveled paths at a faster speed, in order to avoid unwanted attention.
After all, twenty some men won’t be able to amount to much, he reasoned. Their route was scabrous but safer, for they noticed none of the ravages for the following day.
They spent that night with two men as sentinels, as they had done since their departure, and expected to continue early on the following day. But upon waking, Sigibuld immediately realized something was amiss. With his eyes unopened, he knew it was too quiet: three was no soft chatting on the part of the men standing guard. Keeping his breathing steady, he slowly moved his hand to the dagger always fastened to his belt, seized it, and jumped to his feet stealthily. No one else was up yet, and the embers from the fire from the previous night were still smoldering. But the guards were gone.
Did these cowards desert?
Without much thinking, he reached down and seized upon his sword while sheathing his knife. Still alert, and with his eyes fixed on his surroundings, he kicked the man to his left once, and then the one to his right, in silence. The two must have quickly realized the situation as well, for they jumped to their feet just as he had done. But then, disaster struck. In an instant, they were surrounded and had swords and spears levelled at them. He could feel the steel tip of one such blade on his back.
It was not before long that the rest of the men were awakened, rather brusquely, and were forced to kneel before their captors.
“Are you Romans?” shouted the man behind him, his sword still held up to Sigibuld’s back.
“Yes, we are,” interrupted the dekarchos, calmly but resolutely. “I am Rodoald, dekarchos from the sixth Ravennian turma.”
Sigibuld felt the sword dropping. “Congratulations, dekarchos. You are now part of the Imperial army once again.” The rest of the men also lowered their swords, and their lances. “The camp is but an hour from here. All citizens are being drafted to defend Italy. We march to meet Gisulf on the morrow.”
The surprise on everyone’s faces was obvious. These men were not wearing any armor or any insignia that would brand them as Imperial soldiers. But needless to say, no one was disappointed.
“Excellent!” Rodoald said, smiling for the first time since Sigibuld could remember. “My boys here have been itching to get back in the fight!”
Sigibuld’s eyes darted from the dekarchos to the man leading the detachment, who now walked around from behind him. He shrugged indifferently, without an expression telling of his thoughts, and climbing atop a horse that had been brought to him from the thicket answered coldly. “I hope the couple of deserters we had to execute earlier aren’t representative of your boys’. You’ve about a day to rest.”
“If they tried to flee, it was well deserved,” countered Rodoald, in characteristic fashion.
Amidst friendly pats on the back, and a few scattered, nervous laughs, men from both groups began to mingle. As for himself, a warm, yet alien, feeling began to creep over him. It was a sense of safety that had become utterly unfamiliar. Truth be told, it was something he had not particularly cared for since Helchen disappeared and the Franks had ravaged his land. For months, he had wandered from battle to battle, perhaps seeking death unconsciously, but always acting apathetically. Nonetheless, something had finally snapped at the moment of
this one encounter. He had come to realize that he was a Lombard by birth, and a loyalist by chance, now, though it puzzled him to no end, he was a Roman soldier by choice. And these men, unlike those of his own race, were not out to get him. He chuckled softly at the irony.
It did not take them long to pack their scant provisions, and head out towards the camp. As they began to do so, he attempted to strike up a conversation with the soldier beside him, in an attempt to pass time. “Who leads?” he asked at last, not actually interested.
The man did not even turn to reply, but continued looking ahead as he did so. “Caesar Tiberius, and strategos Domentziolus.”
“Ahhh…” he said, before doing the math in his head.
That can’t be.
“Isn’t the Caesar, like, twelve?” he asked, now half impressed, half in disbelief.
“Fourteen,” corrected him the Roman, “but at least he chose to leave the safety of Naples, and come be with the men. Unlike his father…”
He grinned. “That kind of talk can get you in trouble, you know?”
“Who the hell cares?” answered the grunt, scratching the stubble on his face. “At this point, if we outlive the Lombards, then come the Franks. And if we manage them too, then come the Avars. I came halfway across the world from Moesia…and they still managed to get to us here. ‘Treasonous’ talk isn’t much to worry about these days.”
Sigibuld nodded in silence. Though he had fought both the Franks and the Gisulf’s Lombards, he had yet to face the Avars, those hellish riders who at this very moment were probably turning northern Italy into horse pasture for their mounts. Perhaps, he wondered, there might finally be something to look forward to after all: die amongst comrades, in open battle, rather than starved and caged up in a siege.
In a true Lombard way. Thank you, God!
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[1] The Via Labicana Augustus.
