The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  We win the battle, of course. Fat Banna and Big Sulio break through the heroic blockades in the corners, and when they reach the wall of Roman shieldmen, they simply pick the boys up one by one and throw them aside until they reach Eadgith and force her to surrender. But our losses are grave; indeed, the worst we’ve ever suffered. In the end only Sulio stands fast on the battlefield, crushing Fastidius’s stick — turns out he was the one sneaking to attack us from below — under his foot.

  Eadgith helps me up. The string around her head has broken, and her long red hair cascades down her shoulders. She is a half-ling: she has her Briton father’s fire in her hair, and her mother’s Saxon skies in her eyes.

  “What happened?” I ask. “You’ve never fought like this before.”

  She nods at Fastidius. “It was the young Master, he came up with these tactics.”

  “Please,” the boy protests, as he picks himself up from the grass. “I told you, here I’m just Fastid.”

  “Yes, young Master.”

  Most of us are sons of slaves or serfs. Our captain is a freedman, as is his “Roman” counterpart, but Fastidius is the only one of us who is noble-born. Most of us are too young to care about such distinctions, but Eadgith always insists on referring to Fastidius in a proper manner.

  “You?” I ask, astonished.

  He smiles an embarrassed smile. “It’s just something I read in a book that my father got a few days ago.”

  “There are books about fighting?”

  “This one is — On Military Matters, by Vegetius.”

  Even the title sounds complicated. I know he’s two years older than me, but I can’t imagine being able to read such a treaty at his age. I look around the battlefield. Map is still lying on his back, yawning, now more interested in the red kite circling above us than in playing. Gleva limps up, rubbing his ankle. He asks the captain of the Romans for a rematch, but the boy shakes his head. “We gave our all to stop you,” he says, pointing at his team, who look much worse for wear than we do. “Let’s play something else. We’ll try this again tomorrow.”

  I notice Eadgith’s bright eyes gazing at Fastidius with admiration. She hands him her own stick, to replace the one destroyed by Sulio. At this moment, I make two decisions: tomorrow, I’m going to join the team of the Romans; and then I will ask Father Paulinus to double the hours of my reading lessons.

  “What does it mean, ARIMINVM?” I ask.

  I have just finished copying the letters onto the clay tablet. I realise I’ve been holding my tongue out between my teeth and I pull it in, pretending I was licking parched lips.

  “I already told you, it’s the name of this villa.”

  “I know, but what does it mean? I’ve never heard this word spoken by you or the Masters.”

  Two distinct ways of speaking are heard in the villa. The most common language is spoken by us, in the rough dialect of the peasants and slaves: what the people of this land had spoken before the arrival of the Romans, combined with Roman speech and whatever someone might have picked up talking to soldiers and slaves from distant lands, including even bits of Saxon, which stir some distant, faint memories in my mind. Father Paulinus calls it all the Vulgar Tongue. But he, Master Pascent and his family, and all the noble guests who visit us from other villas or distant towns, speak in the other language, in the Imperial manner, the language of officials, full of strict rules and difficult pronunciation, one that sounds at times more like the songs of angels than the speech of us, mere mortals. It is from this language that the words like villa or domus come from. Paulinus is trying to teach it to me as well, but I’m a slow learner. I blame my foreign tongue for not being able to turn and roll around the Imperial sounds as swiftly as I should, but Fastidius tells me we are all foreigners here, and though I don’t fully understand what he means, it cheers me up a little.

  “It’s a place name. A town in Italia.”

  Italia. I know that word: that’s where Rome is. That’s where the Legions have gone. Somewhere far away, across the ocean.

  “Is this where the Master is from?”

  Father Paulinus chuckles. I join him, but I don’t know why my question is funny. I no longer think of him as a god, or an angel, but he is still a mystery to me, more so than anyone else in the domus. His mind is as vast as the sky, full of knowledge that nobody else seems to appreciate or need anymore. And yet, neither this knowledge, nor his faith appear to give him much happiness.

  “No, the sign was already here when Pascent arrived. The previous owners could have been from Ariminum, or maybe they had good memories about the town… Who knows? They weren’t here to ask, so…”

  “Arrived…? The previous owners…?”

  I sense a secret and I lunge at it eagerly. Is this what Fastidius meant? Paulinus puts away the reed pen and leans back. He looks out the window, taking in the sweeping view of the entire property, stretching south of the house all the way to the forest growing on the banks of the Loudborne. The glass gives the view a melancholy blue tinge.

  “You’ve heard, I assume, of Dux Wortigern?”

  “He’s the powerful man who lives in Londin that the Master sometimes goes to visit.”

  Indeed, that’s where the Master and the Lady are now, which is why we’re allowed to use their western living room for our lesson, instead of Paulinus’s own study behind the kitchens. This is the most luxurious room in the domus: the only one with a working hypocaust, although it doesn’t need to be used now, in the dog end of the summer. The heated floor is adorned with an intricate mosaic pattern, much more elaborate than the simple tiling that suffices in the rest of the building, and the walls are painted red, white and yellow. This is where the Master entertains his most important guests, and it’s a rare occasion for me to be allowed inside, much less spend an entire afternoon here.

  “He’s much more than that,” says Paulinus. “He’s…” He hesitates. “I suppose he’s the ruler of this land.”

  “Britannia?” I guess, having only recently learned the name of the country in which I’ve been raised.

  “No, not Britannia. Just this province, Britannia Maxima. But that’s enough trouble for one man. You see, Dux Wortigern’s father, Vitalinus —” He stops and points to the clay tablet. “But you’d better start noting these names down, it’s going to be a good lesson.”

  I moan inwardly and hold the stylus in a firm grasp.

  “Some ten years before you came to live here, this land was in turmoil. The serfs and slaves revolted against their masters. It was after the Legions departed, so there was nobody left to defend the villas and the towns against the mob.”

  I almost drop the stylus. Slaves… revolt? Once again, a word I know only from the ancient scrolls. But why would a slave need to revolt? In my ignorance, I deem their lives worthy of envy. They are provided for by their masters in everything they need, from clothes and food to the roof over their head, all in exchange for work. The freemen, on the other hand, while also needing to work to sustain themselves, have no guarantee of employment or profit, always living in fear that one bad harvest or a stroke of misfortune would turn them into beggars.

  “It was a different time,” Paulinus replies to my surprise. “The masters did not care for slaves as much as Pascent does. And there were other… reasons… It doesn’t matter. There was a war. The elders of the land held a council in Londin and decided to invite Vitalinus to help them defeat the rebels.”

  “Invite — from where?”

  He waves southwards. “A place called Armorica, across the Narrow Sea. We were fighting the bacauds on Empire’s orders: rebels, too, but better armed and organised. A real army.”

  “You were a soldier?”

  He nods. “Once. We all were. Not in the Legions — auxiliaries, mercenaries. Some came from Britannia with Imperator Constantine, others hailed from Frankia or Belgica.”

  “Even the Master?”

  “Yes, even Pascent, though his concerns were more supplies and strateg
y than actual fighting. He was a strategist, not a fighter.” He sighs and makes a subtle sign of the cross on his chest. “We thought we were doing God’s work in Armorica. The bacauds were supposed to be pagans, allied with the barbarians coming across the Rhenus… But they were good Christians, like us, just desperate and angry.” He taps the table. “It was even worse here: here, the masters were pagans. The rebels were on the side of the Lord, roused to fight by the example of Martinus of Turonum…” He spots my blank stare and waves his hand. “I’ll teach you about him later.”

  The word pagan is one I’ve learned only recently. Until about a year ago, I only knew of one faith, one God. Now I know that the Saxon pirates, the Franks and other peoples from beyond the borders of Rome worship many demons and devils as gods. This, however, is the first I learn that pagans are native to Britannia.

  “What did you do?” I lean forwards with bated breath.

  “When we realised who we were fighting, Vitalinus forced the elders of Londin into a deal. He would baptise them all, and then agree a peaceful settlement with the rebels like good Christians should. I disagreed with this plan, and so did Pascent, but we had little choice. You see…” He scowls. “We never exactly got the order to leave Armorica.”

  “You mean you deserted?”

  “The mercenaries don’t desert, they just break contracts.” Paulinus shakes his head. “We felt it was the right thing to do. Britannia was no longer under the Empire’s protection, but was that enough reason to abandon them?”

  “And did those elders agree to Vitalinus’s terms?”

  “In the end, thank God, after some… quarrels. Not all of them, mind you. This is why Vitalinus, and Wortigern after him, came to rule only a scrap of this island, centred on Londin. The richest and most populous, but still just a scrap. The others resolved to rule themselves — the old, united Britannia was no more.”

  “I’d like you to also teach me these things,” I say. “The provinces, the borders… What the towns are called, where the rivers flow…”

  Paulinus chuckles. “It’s called geographia. And after that, perhaps, cosmographia? Yes, why not. I’ll have the books brought from Pascent’s library. They’re of no use to Fastidius anymore. Good.” He slaps the edge of the table. “We spoke enough of old times. Show me your notes.”

  I slide the tablet over. As he reads the scribbled letters: CONSTANTVS, MARTINVS, I ask one more question.

  “You haven’t yet told me about the previous owners of the villa. What happened to them?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to. Things got messy during the revolt. This place was already abandoned when we came, half in ruins. For a while it was our base of operations in this area, then Vitalinus gave it to Pascent in reward for his services. He offered me a villa, too, but I didn’t care for owning one. By then I already knew I’d rather serve God than Mammon. You missed the I in CONSTANTIVS.”

  “Ah, yes.” I squeeze in the forgotten letter. “Will you tell me more about the wars you fought?”

  “No,” he replies. His face is frozen in a grim frown. “I am a man of cloth now. I don’t want to revel in these memories. Maybe one day you’ll get to ask Pascent about it, or even Wortigern himself. Now, copy this page a hundred times.”

  He hands me a long scroll. I groan. He taps me on the head — it’s a light, playful bump, nothing like the thuds I’d receive from the old man. “You’ll never catch up to Fastidius if you keep complaining.”

  Catch up? I wouldn’t dream about it, but the mention of Fastidius spurs me on. I scrub the tablet clean and start on the first line from the scroll: “OMNES VOLVNTATE PROPRIA REGII…”

  Some days later, I ask Fastidius if he’s heard any stories from his father’s martial past.

  It’s after the cena and the evening bath, and we’re making ready for sleep. I lay clean sheets and blankets on a luxurious bed raised high on sculpted legs of black wood — not for myself, but for Fastidius. My bed is a stack of sheepskin and furs on the floor. It is as it should be: he is the Master’s son, I — merely a Seaborn slave. This room is not big enough for both us. It used to belong solely to Fastidius before Lady Adelheid welcomed me to the domus. I am grateful he’s agreed to share it with me, despite the inconvenience it must be causing him.

  “Not much from him,” he replies. He unbuckles his belt and lays it on the side table, then I help him take off the woollen tunic. “But you know who won’t shut up about it? Fulco.”

  “Lady Adelheid’s bodyguard?” I shudder at the memory of the cold axe blade at my neck. “He was there, too?”

  Fastidius nods. “He is my mother’s cousin from Frankia, a mercenary in Paulinus’s unit. That’s how my father met her. Ask him about the Siege of Arelatum. That was a real battle, with siege machines and cavalry…”

  “Nobody else seems to want to talk about it.”

  “Are you surprised? They were killing Christians. These are not happy memories.”

  He kisses the silver cross on his neck and lies down under the quilted blanket. I touch my rune stone. I wonder if the cross gives him the same comfort as the stone does for me.

  “And Fulco?”

  He scowls. “He’s… different. I don’t think he follows the teachings of Christ as fervently as the others. But he’s a fine warrior, and a loyal friend, and so father tolerates his presence.”

  “He’s a pagan?” My grip tightens on the rune stone. If Paulinus was right, the pagans have, not so long ago, inhabited this villa… Maybe even slept in this very room. But I had no idea they still lived among us.

  “I’m not sure. I never see him at the Mass. I never see him pray. He sometimes disappears into the oak grove across the river where, Paulinus claims, used to be an old shrine.” He shrugs. “We can’t convert everyone… not yet. There are still more pagans — or hidden pagans — in Londin than good Christians, according to my father.”

  “I thought Dux Vitalinus forced them all out.”

  “He did as much as a soldier could. It’s now up to men like Paulinus, or — or me, to change their minds, by the power of words, rather than arms.”

  He glances towards me and, seeing I’m already lying under the sheepskins on the floor, blows out the oil lamp. In the pitch blackness that falls in the instant, the smouldering wick remains the only visible point, a bright, pulsating red dot.

  “You’re going to become a cleric, after all?” I ask. “I thought you liked playing war with us. And you read all those books about strategy.”

  “‘Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit’,” he recites.

  “What does it mean?”

  He scoffs. “It means I don’t have a choice. I would never be strong enough to be a real soldier — and so, never an officer. I can only be a warrior of Christ. It’s fine. I will be of more use this way.”

  He doesn’t sound fine, but I let it pass. The red dot disappears, leaving the thick smell of burnt oil wafting through the room.

  “What about you?” he asks in the darkness. “Would you rather be a soldier, or a clerk?”

  “Me? I’m only a slave.”

  “What if you were free to choose?”

  “A sol…” I start, but I hesitate. Is this really what I want? I find studying with Paulinus just as fascinating as fighting with Gleva and the other boys.

  “I like to win battles,” I say.

  “But not all battles can be won. No matter how brave and strong the soldiers are.”

  “That’s true,” I reply, and, remembering the defeats of Fastidius’s team at the game field, I add, “Though usually it’s enough.”

  I hear his soft chuckle. “The barbarians certainly seem to think so.” The rustle of quilts and his voice muffled against the wall tells me he’s turned his back to me. “God always wins in the end,” he whispers. “Remember that.”

  I stare at the unrolled parchment scroll in dumb amazement. It spreads across the entire desk, with curved-up edges reaching beyond
its ends. It smells of mould and ancient tales. A complex, jagged line, drawn seemingly at random in black ink, divides the area in several unequal parts. To the left and in the middle, two spots of dark blue, like splotches of ink. Another, larger one, covers the entire bottom right corner. Everything else is white, cut through with more zigzagging blue lines and stains of faded brown.

  There are words scattered everywhere, in Roman writing, words that mean nothing to me, but nonetheless, stir some indescribable longing deep within. LIBIA INTERIOR. EVXINVS PONTVS. BARBARICVS. And underneath it all, in faded writing, running along the torn and burnt edge of the parchment, the most mysterious of all — TERRA INCOGNITA.

  “This is all the world we know,” says Paulinus. “Or rather, what the Greeks and Romans knew back when they were yet interested in what lay beyond their borders.”

  The white area is mostly empty in the centre, until it reaches places marked as SERICA and INDIA at the rightmost edge.

  “Do people live even there?”

  “Yes, even there.” Paulinus nods. “But they are all pagans and barbarians, living among beasts, in the darkness.”

  “And where are we?”

  He points to the top left corner. Squeezed between the two edges is a tiny white splodge, narrow in the middle and wide at the top — like an inverted letter L, or an upturned boot.

  “ALVION INSULA,” I read the feather-thin letters.

  “The Greeks called our island Albion,” Paulinus explains. “Britannia to the Romans. We are somewhere here.” He points to a spot where the stretch of dark blue separating “Albion” from the remaining expanse of white is the narrowest.

  “And Rome?”

  “Here.” A long-necked dog, its maw wide open, juts out into a narrow sea. The writing here is almost rubbed out, and I barely make out the word ITALIA.

  “It doesn’t seem that far.”

  “It would take you two months to reach it on foot,” Paulinus says with a smirk. “If the brigands or wolves didn’t get you along the way.”