Aleramo Scaccabarozzi known as Bonehead had tried to detach his one eyed fighters from that insane confrontation, but they had lost their minds and pushed him away with shoves that sent him flying ten yards off.
So they didn’t realize that the Huns were by now on top of them, and what followed was a massacre. Skiapods fell and giants fell, even if some of the latter tried to defend themselves, grabbing a skiapod by the foot and using him, in vain, as a bludgeon. Porcelli and Scaccabarozzi flung themselves into the fray, each to inspire his own troops, but the Huns surrounded them. Our friends defended themselves, bravely wielding their swords, but they were soon pierced by a hundred arrows.
Now the Huns could be seen driving their way forward, crushing the grasses, amid the victims of their slaughter. Boidi and Cuttica, at opposite sides of the plain, could not understand what was happening, and Gavagai had to be sent to them so they could accelerate the lateral intervention of the blemmyae and the pygmies. The Huns found themselves assaulted from
opposite directions, but they had an inspired idea: their vanguard advanced beyond the forces of the fallen skiapods and giants, the rear guard withdrew, and so pygmies on the one hand and blemmyae on the other hurled themselves against each other.
The pygmies, seeing those fowls’ heads appear from the weeds, unaware of Ardzrouni’s ruse, started shouting: “The cranes! The cranes!” and, believing they were confronting their age old enemy, they forgot about the Huns and riddled the blemmyae host with arrows. Now the blemmyae were defending themselves against the pygmies and, believing themselves betrayed, were shouting: “Death to the heretics!” The pygmies, thinking the blemmyae had turned traitor, and hearing themselves branded with heresy, whereas they considered themselves the sole custodians of the true faith, cried in turn: “Kill the ghosters!”
The Huns fell on that brawl and dealt deathblows, one by one, to their enemies, who were still striking one another. Gavagai now reported that he had seen Cuttica trying to arrest the enemies single-handed. But then, overwhelmed, he had fallen under the hoofs of their horses.
Boidi, at the sight of his dying friend, believed both forces lost, leaped on his horse, and tried to ride beyond the nubian barrier to alert them, but the ferns blocked him, as, for that matter, they also made difficulties for the advance of the enemies. With difficulty, Boidi reached the nubians, took his position behind them, and incited them to move, in one body, towards the Huns.
But once he found them, thirsting for blood, in front of him, the doomed Circoncellions followed their nature, or, rather, their natural propensity for martyrdom. They thought the moment of sublime sacrifice had arrived, and it was best to hasten it. One after another, they fell to their knees, imploring: “Kill me, kill me!” The Huns could hardly believe their luck; they drew their short, finely honed swords and began slicing off heads of the Circoncellions who crowded around them, stretching their necks and invoking the purifying bloodbath.
Boidi, shaking his fist against the sky, turned and fled towards the hill, reaching it just before the plain burst into flames.
In fact, Boron and Kyot, from the city, warned of the danger, thought to make use of the goats that Ardzrouni had prepared for that stratagem of his, futile in full daylight. They had the tongueless push hundreds of animals, their horns afire, into the plain. The sea of grass was being transformed into a sea of flames. Perhaps Boron and Kyot had thought the flames would
confine themselves to drawing a fire barrier, or would drive back the enemy cavalry, but they hadn’t considered the direction of the wind.
The fire gained strength, but it was spreading towards the city. This development surely favored the Huns, who had only to wait until the grasses were burned, the ashes cool, and then they would have the path free for their final gallop. But, one way or another, it arrested their advance for an hour. The Huns, however, knew they had time. They confined themselves to taking
positions at the edges of the fire and, raising their bows to the sky, they shot so many arrows that the sky was darkened, and the arrows fell beyond the barrier, since the Huns couldn’t know if other enemies were awaiting them.
One arrow fell, hissing from above and struck the neck of Ardzrouni, who dropped to the ground with a stifled cough, blood issuing from his mouth. Trying to put his hands to his neck and extract the arrow, he saw them gradually covered with whitish patches. Baudolino and the Poet bent over him and whispered to him that the same thing was happening to his face: “You see? Solomon was right,” the Poet said to him, “a remedy did exist. Perhaps the Huns’ arrows are soaked in a poison that for you is an antidote, and dissolves the effect of those black stones.”
“What do I care if I die white or black?” Ardzrouni gasped, and he died, still of uncertain color. More arrows were now falling, thick and fast, and the hill had to be abandoned. They fled towards the city, with the stunned Poet, who said: “It’s all over. I gambled a kingdom and lost. We can’t expect much from the endurance of the panotians. Our only hope lies in the time
the flames grant us. Let’s collect our things and escape. To the west the path is still free.”
Baudolino, at that moment, had only one thought. The Huns would enter Pdnapetzim and would destroy it, but their mad dash would not stop there; they would press on, towards the lake, and invade the wood of the hypatias. He had to reach it before them. But he couldn’t abandon his friends, he had to find them, they all had to collect their belongings, some provisions, prepare for a long flight. “Gavagai! Gavagai!” he shouted, and at once he saw his faithful friend at his side.
“Run to the lake, find Hypatia —I don’t know how you’ll do it, but find her, tell her to be ready. I’ll be coming to rescue her!”
“I not know how to do but I find her,” the skiapod said and shot off. Baudolino and the Poet entered the city. News of the defeat had already arrived. Females of every race, with their babes in arms, were running at random through the streets. The terrified panotians, thinking that they now knew how to fly, were jumping into the void. But they had been taught to glide downward, not to hover in the sky, and they quickly found themselves on the ground. Those who desperately tried to flap their ears to move in the air, plummeted, exhausted, and were dashed against the rocks. They found Colandrino, desperate at the failure of his training, Solomon, Boron, and Kyot, who asked news of the others. “They are dead, peace to their spirits,” the Poet said angrily. “Hurry! To our quarters,” Baudolino cried, “and then to the west!”
When they reached their lodgings, they gathered up everything they could. Going down in great haste, opposite the tower they saw a bustle of eunuchs, loading their belongings on some mules. Praxeas, livid, confronted the friends. “The deacon is dead, and you knew it,” he said to Baudolino. “Dead or alive, you would flee all the same.”
“We are leaving. When we reach the pass, we will set off an avalanche, and the path to the Priest’s kingdom will be closed forever. Do you want to come with us? If so, you must accept our terms.”
Baudolino didn’t even ask him what those terms were. “What do I care about your damned Prester John?” he shouted. “I have more important things to think about. Come, friends!”
The others remained dumbfounded. Then Boron and Kyot admitted that their real aim was to find Zosimos again and the Grasal, and Zosimos surely had not yet reached the kingdom and would never arrive there now: Colandrino and Boidi said they had come with Baudolino and they would go with Baudolino; Solomon observed that his ten tribes could be on either side of those mountains, so for him all directions were good.
The Poet didn’t speak; he seemed to have lost all will, and another had to take the reins of his horse to lead him away.
As they were about to flee, Baudolino saw one of the deacon’s two acolytes coming towards him. The man was carrying a case. “It’s the sheet with his features,” he said. “He wanted you to have it. Put it to good use.” “Are you also fleeing?”
The veiled man said: “Here or there; if a there exists, for us it will be the same. The fate of our master awaits us. We will stay here and infect the Huns.”
Just outside the city, Baudolino saw a horrible sight. Towards the blue hills some flames were flickering. Somehow, since morning, over several hours, a part of the Huns had begun circling the scene of the battle, and they had already reached the lake.
“Quickly!” Baudolino cried, in despair. “Over there, all of you! Gallop!” The others didn’t understand. “Why over there, when they are there already?” asked Boidi. “This way, why not? Perhaps the only escape path remains to the south.”
“Suit yourselves. I’m going,” Baudolino shouted, beside himself. “He’s lost his mind,”
