“I never want it to end,” I say. She purrs in response, and strokes my hair.
I hear water dripping in the corner. Tap. Tap. It must have soaked through the roof after last week’s rains. With nobody coming in to use the bath house, the attendants don’t pay much attention to maintenance. A cold breeze blowing about a foot over the floor tells me there’s another hole in the wall somewhere. We huddle together to keep the last vestiges of escaping warmth.
“I want us to be together, always,” I add, dreamily.
She shifts herself to her side. “We will, Ash,” she says. “But we can’t live in sin forever.”
The moment’s gone. I retreat in a sulk. She reaches for the oil light, brings it closer and looks me in the eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“We can’t get married,” I reply.
She sits up with an angry scowl. “But you promised!”
“It’s not me. Master Pascent and Paulinus won’t let us.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “I think… the Master maybe plans to wed me to somebody else. Paulinus told me he would never agree to take our vows. I tried to convince him, believe me.”
“I-I see.” Her eyes dart downwards. The redness from her cheeks is replaced by a pale cast of resignation. “Of course, you still belong to your Master. You must do as he tells you.”
She starts to put on her clothes in heavy silence. Is this it? She’s not going to protest? I would fight for her against any man. Will she not at least cry for me, as she did for Fastidius? I always suspected she didn’t love me as much as I loved her, that I took only second place in her heart…
I take her hand. “Wait. There is… another way.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Ash.” She gives up too easily. “If it’s as you said, then no priest —”
“No Christian priest.”
She pulls away. “What are you saying?”
“Fulco could wed us.”
“Fulco? The bodyguard? What does he have to do with any of this?”
In a hasty, rambling stream, I tell her of everything I’ve learned from Fulco about the Saxon gods and rituals. I tell her we don’t need a priest to be joined together before Wodan and Frige. Not noticing the fear growing in her eyes, I share with her the plan I came up with a few days ago. I’m certain it’s the right thing to do. I will not let Pascent and Paulinus use me for their plans, whatever they may be. I will not let my past, a past that I can’t even remember, determine my future.
“We could run away, to the south, where the Saxon mercenaries dwell. I hear it’s like a different country out there, without priests, without slaves and masters. They’re our kin, and we could live among them as free men. Nobody would tell us what to do. I could be a soldier, and you —”
“Ash, stop!” She puts her hands to her ears. “I can’t hear any more about this! You’re a blasphemer, you’re — you’re a demon worshipper!”
I grab her wrist. “They are not demons, they’re gods — gods of my parents, of your mother.”
She wrestles out: she’s still stronger than me, even after all my training. She shuffles away. “I don’t want this,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t want this.”
I’m stumped. I did not expect this reaction, though with hindsight, I maybe should have. Eadgith is a pious girl, always in front at Paulinus’s Masses. Still, there might be another explanation for her unwillingness to follow my plan…
“I thought you loved me,” I say, “I thought you wanted to be with me. Or maybe you were just using me to forget about Fastidius?”
I immediately feel terrible. But the outburst appears to work: she calms down and takes my hand in hers. Tears gleam in her eyes.
“I do love you, Ash. More than I ever thought possible. But this… This is too much. It’s easier for you — you have nobody here, you were always an outcast. I can’t abandon my entire family. They’re growing old. They will need me here.”
An outcast? Is that how she’s always seen me? Always just the Seaborn, a pitiful slaveling orphan… Even though I’m the one living in the domus, and she has to dwell in her father’s cramped, stuffy hovel by the forge? If only she knew… Incensed, I grab her forcefully by the wrists.
“If we stay here, they’re going to pull us apart,” I say, shaking her. “Force me to marry somebody else, decided by the Master…”
“If that is the Master’s wish, we must obey,” she replies with a sniff. “But maybe it won’t be that bad. He might yet change his mind. I will pray every day…”
“You’ve prayed for Fastidius, and look where it got you.” I scoff and push her away. I look at her again. Tears run down her cheeks. My heart melts. I wipe the tear with my thumb and calm myself down.
“At least promise me that you’ll think about it.”
She nods, swallowing a sob. In my anger, I don’t see the fear in her eyes.
I put on the tunic and thick plaid breeches. The rough wool itches on my sweat-washed legs.
“I have to go somewhere with Fulco tomorrow,” I say, scratching my thigh. “We won’t be back for a couple of days. Will you give me your answer then?”
She leans over, our lips touch for a brief moment. Too brief.
“You will have your answer, Ash,” she says. “I promise.”
The crows gather on the black, leafless trees along the old stone road, each newcomer announcing his presence with a dispirited caw. The saffron fields spreading on both sides of the valley are drab and barren — the flowers won’t be planted until June. Right now even the weeds don’t grow in the frozen soil. A lame dog that accompanied us from the edge of Saffron Valley finally abandons its pursuit and returns to the village. The Woad Hills to our right loom grey in the haze: it’s hard to imagine that in the summer they will be covered in bright yellow bloom.
I switch the marching pole from right shoulder to the left. The cast-iron pot clanks against the side of the satchel. This is my first ever long march, and although we’re not planning to spend the night in the field, Fulco had me pack like a soldier, with everything I might need on the road, from blankets to rations, tied at the end of a long stick.
The road enters a narrow gorge, hemmed in by bald hills on both sides and soon begins to climb. Since passing a small, nameless village an hour south of Saffron Valley, we’ve seen several crumbling ruins, a few weathered, moss-covered mile posts and an abandoned sand quarry, but not a single standing house or an inhabited farm. The cluster of round mud huts and squat stone houses that is Saffron Valley, the only major settlement in the vicinity of the villa, is a lively metropolis compared to this barren wasteland. Once in a while we’re passed by a lonely goods cart heading for Londin, with a cloak-wrapped figure of a driver half-asleep in the seat. Other than that, we’re all alone, the beating of our boots on the flat cobble and the cawing of rooks the only sounds disturbing the damp, heavy greyness. The gloom of the journey is starting to get to me, and my thoughts wander back to Eadgith. What if I frightened her, or angered her too much? What if it’s over between us? I shouldn’t have forced my idea on her so suddenly… Of course she was shocked, anyone would have been in her place…
“You’ve never been this far south, have you?” Fulco’s voice snaps me out of my hopeless meditation.
“There was never any need to send me here,” I reply. To go past Saffron Valley, I needed permission of my Master. I wonder what reason Fulco gave Master Pascent to have me accompany him all this way.
“I didn’t know it was all so… empty.”
He nods. “There used to be farmsteads all along this road once,” he says, “or so I’ve heard. But it was already like this when we arrived from Armorica.”
“What happened here?”
He shrugs. “Time. People move around. Some places just die out, while others flourish.”
I sense there’s more to this than he’s telling me. The road to Londin is still here, as are the numerous springs t
hat sprout out of the white rocks, feeding a number of lively streams, all flowing into the Loudborne somewhere in the north. I can discern no reason that would cause the farmers to abandon their fields and move away from here, never to come back.
Soon, the gorge zigzags south, and so does the road, passing to the east of a looming, steep slope. Even the remnants of fields and homesteads end here, replaced by a dense, silent wood of birch and whitebeam. The silvery sheen of whitebeam leaves bestows a ghostly hue over the landscape. A light fog descends onto the road; not enough to impede our journey, just enough to blur the view ahead, and dampen all sound around us. I grow tired, not so much from marching, but from the oppressive atmosphere. A wood should not be this quiet.
“Look, up on the ridge.”
Fulco points to a heath clearing in the birch wood. Through the haze I make out the detail of several low mounds. Pale green grass still grows on them, even if the rest of the clearing is drab brown.
“What is it?”
“Barrows. Graves of the Ancients, who lived here long before this road was built. In my land, we still bury people that way.”
I whisper a prayer for the dead and draw the hood strings, to hide the mounds out of sight and out of mind. I never imagined the world outside the safety of the villa could be filled with so much dread. And we’re not even a day’s march away from the ARIMINVM sign on the gate.
“How long have we been walking?” I ask.
Fulco looks up, but the sky is a uniform shade of steel. “Four, five hours?” he guesses. “I suppose you’ll be getting tired by now.”
“I’m cold, that’s all,” I say, tightening the cloak again. “And hungry.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon be staying for the night.”
“Here? In this wilderness?” I glance around doubtfully.
“You’ll see.”
A by-now familiar clicking of ironbound wheels on stone announces the arrival of another horse cart, this time from behind. It moves only a little faster than us, and it takes another half hour before the cart catches up. The box is empty, save for a bundle of the driver’s belongings, and a single amphora, rolling from side to side. Fulco waves a greeting, and the driver nods back.
“Good trade?” Fulco asks.
“What do you think?” the driver scoffs. “The Forum was practically empty. But what would you expect, in this weather.” He points to the sky with his eyes.
“Tell Verica to hold a room for us,” Fulco shouts as the cart moves ahead.
The driver lets out a chuckle. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, Frank.”
“Who was that?” I ask as the wagon disappears beyond a rise in the road.
“One of Solinus’s drivers, from New Port. He sometimes stops by the villa, to pick up lavender oil. A good man, loves his ale a bit too much.”
After about half a mile, the highway turns again and descends steeply, leaving the fog above and behind us. The wall of the Downs suddenly spreads open onto a deep, bowl-shaped valley, with a spur of a chalk hill enclosing it from the south. I spot some buildings at the bottom of the valley and instantly my pack feels lighter. I pick up the pace and head straight for the settlement, but Fulco pats me on the shoulder. He points to the summit of the chalk hill.
“This is where we’re headed tonight.”
“The top? Why not those houses over there?”
“Nobody lives there but rats. Everyone moved to the hillfort long ago.”
A hidden gravel path sprouts from the stone road, winding among the birch trees and up the chalk slope. After several turns we reach a checkpoint — a tree trunk laid across the path. The guardsman, wearing an ill-fitting old helmet and a scrap of mail over his shoulder, points his spear at us at first, but as soon as he sees Fulco, he moves to push the tree out of the way.
“It’s late,” the guard notes, looking to the sky. “Verica will have shut down the stove by now.”
“I know,” says Fulco. “We’ll be happy with a roof over our heads and some bread and cheese.”
“He’ll still have that!”
“Do you know everyone on this road?” I ask when we leave the guard and his outpost behind.
“There aren’t that many people between the villa and here. It’s easy to get to know everybody. Tomorrow we enter the pagus of the Regins, things are going to be a little different there.”
The Regins… I remember the name from my lessons. They are one of the four tribes whose lands form Wortigern’s domain, the old province of Britannia Maxima, surrounding Londin and its suburb from all sides: the industrious Regins in the south, the noble Cants in the south-east, the mighty, haughty Cadwallons in the north and the weak, loyal Trinowaunts in the north-east. I knew already we were going to cross the old tribal boundary on this journey, but hearing we’re so close makes my heart beat faster. My pace, however, slows down to a shuffling slog: we’ve been climbing the hill for at least half an hour, up a muddy gravel path, grooved almost to a swamp by the cart’s wheels.
At Fulco’s urging, I muster the last of my strength and, at last, there it is: an earthen embankment, topped with a wall of rough boulders stacked upon each other without any mortar. The gravel path leads to the enclosure through a timber gatehouse, guarded by an archer. Not only have I never seen a settlement like this, I’ve never read about such places in any of Paulinus’s books.
“This isn’t a Roman fortress,” I remark, as we pass under the gatehouse. Beyond the wall stand several round, thatched houses, larger versions of the mud hut in which I was raised, and a single, two-storey stone building in the centre. Fulco heads straight for it. “Who lives here?”
“The natives,” Fulco answers. “Britons. They built this place long before the Romans came. Later, when Rome built the highway, they moved down to the bottom of the valley. And now that they feel that place is not safe anymore — they moved back.”
“Not safe?” I glance down the slope. “What are they afraid of? The pirates can’t possibly get that far inland.”
“Bandits. Robbers. Wild beasts. But most of all, they fear the emptiness. You’ve felt it too, haven’t you? It’s lonely down there. Quiet. People start hearing things, seeing what’s not there.”
“Ghosts?” I shudder, remembering the barrow mounds.
“Or worse. But it’s safe here.”
He pushes the door wide open, and for a moment I’m blinded and deafened by the light and noise beaming from inside. There are maybe twenty guests gathered in the hall, all talking, singing, laughing. The smell of roast meat and digested ale hits my nose like a fist. My stomach rumbles and I remember how hungry I am.
“Welcome to Verica’s!” announces Fulco. “The ale tastes like mud and the bread is hard as rock, but it beats sleeping with the wights!”
A rough-hewn stone pillar, carved with a weaving design of a horned creature surrounded by forest beasts, shoots from the frozen, broken ground in the centre of a rectangular enclosure, bound by a low earthen wall. Its twin lies broken, two feet away. Together, they must have once formed a gateway to some long-razed timber building, of which only charred stumps remain, poking through tufts of dead grass.
Fulco stands with his hand against the pillar, his eyes closed, murmuring a long incantation. He then reaches into his purse and takes out a small, round, white pebble. He puts it onto a pile of identical pebbles at the foot of the pillar.
“Was this a temple?” I guess. “Of the old gods?”
“It was, but that’s not why we stopped here.” He climbs to the top of the embankment, and I follow. “I fought a battle here. I lost eight men. Good men.”
“To the rebels.”
“They were good men, too. The only bad men were those we were here to defend.” He points down, to where another stone road, running from east to west, crosses our route. “This is an important cross-road, and this — ” he nods to the pillars “ — was once a major shrine. It marks the northern border of the Regins. The rebels wanted to raze it be
fore moving on Londin. We were ordered to make a stand.”
“How many of you were there?” I ask, eyeing the enclosure. It looks like it wouldn’t hold more than two dozen warriors, even without the main building taking most of the ground in the centre.
“Not enough,” replies Fulco. “In the end, I told my men to flee, abandon those we were supposed to protect. No money was worth dying in service of people we despised.”
“Why did you despise them? I thought they were pagans, like you.”
Fulco spat. “I don’t care what gods you believe in, as long as you’re a decent man. These… half-Romans were anything but. They grew rich and fat on the blood and sweat of the serfs, giving them nothing in exchange, not even protection from bandits and pirates. And when the serfs revolted, the landlords paid us to subdue the rebellion and keep things as they were, even as the entire old order of the world crumbled around them.”
I step away, taken aback by the tirade. I have never seen Fulco this incensed. There are matters in his speech that I understand only vaguely, and I dare not ask more for fear of further stoking his anger.
“What happened after the battle?” I ask instead.
“We returned the next day with Vitalinus. The bodies of the slain were strewn everywhere, all torn from limb to limb.” He stoops to pick up a handful of dirt. “It was a cold day, not different from today, on the day of Martinus. Blood did not soak in the frozen earth, but formed pools, like rainwater.
“I buried my men by the roadside and wanted to leave the rest to the crows,” he continues, as we descend back towards the highway. “But Paulinus insisted on giving them a Christian burial, even though they were pagans. I knew then that he would not last long as a soldier.”
The landscape changes again. The chalk downs give way to a dry, sandy flatland, and we enter a thick, dark wood. The wood is so vast and ancient, Fulco tells me, that the locals treat it as almost a living thing in its own right. It has its own name, so old that nobody remembers its meaning: the Andreda. The trees grow tall and broad, their branches reaching over the road to meet above our heads. In summer, I imagine, they must form a beautiful, if stuffy, tunnel, but now it’s a delicate vaulted ceiling woven out of black cobweb. The surface of the road here is in worse shape than in the north, the paving stones wobble loosely and more than a few are missing altogether. Weeds grow in the gaps.
The Saxon Spears Page 9
