I notice that most of the people gathered around the cauldron are fair-haired and bright-eyed.
“Saxons!”
Fastidius smiles. Never angry for long, he’s already back to his mellow old self. “Yes, I thought that would interest you.”
I approach the nearest stall, where a young woman in a white dress is selling honey in small clay pots. Her sea-green eyes remind me of Eadgith, and I feel a lump in my throat… It’s been months since I last saw her. I’m keeping to the promise made to her that last night: I’ve made no attempts to see her again, at least not until I fulfil whatever destiny God has devised for me. I know she’s fine — or she was the last time I heard news from Quintus’s villa; but knowing this is not enough to make me stop thinking about her, still, after all this time.
The honey seller spots me and speaks to me invitingly in her language.
“I’m sorry… I don’t understand.”
She frowns, and speaks in broken Briton. “I — think — you Saxon.”
“I am, but… I grew up here. I don’t speak your language.”
She notices Fastidius, in his novice’s robes, and bows deeply before him. She gives him a pot to sample from. Fastidius thanks her in her tongue and her face brightens up in a smile.
“You never told me you spoke Saxon,” I say.
“Only a few words. You pick up the basics of many languages after you spend some time in this city. Don’t you remember any of it? You were old enough when Mother found you.”
“I must have known it… once,” I say, ashamed and annoyed that he, a Briton, knows more of the language of my parents than I do. “I remember the sounds of the words, the way they roll off the tongue… but my mind chose to forget all of it.”
“Maybe it’s time you started remembering. I’m sure father will find you a teacher. Knowing Saxon might become a useful asset in the future.”
There’s that word again, asset. I haven’t heard it in a while, and I’m sure Fastidius didn’t mean it like this. Ever since the incident with Eadgith, both he and Master Pascent have been making sure to make me feel more like a member of the family than a slave. They’d call me a son and a brother. I no longer sleep on the floor, but in a bed of my own, and other serfs have been told to refer to me as “young Master”, just as they do with Fastidius. But is this all just a ruse to keep me, the asset they’ve spent so much effort on, loyal to the family — or is the affection genuine? I’d like to believe it’s at least both…
The noise of breaking pots and crashing pans interrupts my contemplation. The honey vendor cries out in fear and starts hiding her wares away into a big straw basket. A group of four young men is marching towards us, brandishing naked swords, overthrowing the stalls and scaring the customers away. Within seconds there’s nobody left in the corner of the market except for me, Fastidius and a handful of the Saxon vendors, cowering behind their stands.
As the assailants come closer, I spot that they’re wearing breastplates of boiled leather and thick leather leggings. Their swords are in the style of the old Roman spatha but are either brand new, or very well maintained. Each man dons a bronze armband, with the device of an Imperial Eagle and a letter V marked with a dot on either side.
“Hey, you two,” the leader of the group points his sword at us, “get out of here. No Christian should be buying anything from these pagans.”
I reach to the seax at my belt. Fastidius puts a hand on my shoulder. “They’re good people,” he says. He’s unarmed, and younger than the men, but the calm authority he exudes keeps the four men at bay. “They mean you no harm.”
“Well that’s too bad, because they do me harm!” shouts one of the swordsmen and hacks through the honey pot stall. The bright-eyed woman shrieks and hides.
“And what harm have these people done to you?” asks Fastidius, his voice still calm, but forceful. I know him enough to recognise he is now irritated, but the roughs don’t sense it yet, or don’t care.
“They make me smell them!” He turns to his companions and they all laugh at the joke.
I look around the tents, straining to understand what I see. These are Saxons. The name is almost synonymous with terror. Everyone knows them as pirates, warriors, raiders. There are at least twenty of them here. Even unarmed, they could easily overpower the four fools and throw them out of their corner of the market. Instead, the men just stand there, observing the disturbance with sulking resignation, while their women hide in the tents.
“I’m sure you could go somewhere where you won’t have to smell them,” says Fastidius. “The Forum is big enough.”
He remains composed, but the grip of his fingers on my arm tightens.
“Why should I have to move? It’s my city!”
“Your city?” I blurt, unable to contain myself any longer. “What, do you own it?”
The leader tilts his head and stares at me with open mouth, mockingly.
“This dog’s bark sounds almost human!” He leans closer and taps at his armband. “I do, actually. See this, dog? This means we’re friends with Wortimer.” He says it as if it should explain everything. He raises his sword. “This city belongs to us!”
The way he’s holding the sword, the lean muscles on his arms and legs, all tell me that, despite his impressive-looking gear, he’s not a trained fighter. Neither are his companions. They all may be older than Fastidius, and their leader is taller than me by a head, but I’m confident I can take them all on.
“Oh, I know Wortimer well,” I say. “He’s the slow one of the family, right?”
His face grows red. He turns to his men and I’m guessing he makes some kind of insulting grimace, for they burst out laughing. A moment later, he swings back, his sword hand flying clumsily towards my face.
I swerve aside, grab his wrist and, just like Fulco taught me, twist and pull sharply, letting the momentum of his blow propel him forwards. I kick him in the back, sending him to the ground. I draw the seax. One of the men engages me with his sword, but the weapon soon flies from his hand. I draw a shallow scratch along his forearm, and he yelps in pain as if I cut his hand off. The other two rush at me from both sides, but the sight of blood has unnerved them, and their frail blows miss my head by a mile. I grapple with one and throw him at the other. I slap them both on the backside with the flat of my sword, until they scramble to their feet and turn tail.
The leader of the group stands up, rubbing his twisted wrist.
“You shouldn’t have done this, dog,” he seethes. He picks up his weapon, but then sees my blade aimed at his neck, and brushes past me to join his fleeing comrades.
“I’m afraid he’s right,” says one of the Saxons: a tall, hefty man with a fierce moustache and an old thick scar on the left side of his face, running from his forehead all the way to his chin. “They’ll be back,” he says, “with more men.”
He speaks a fair sounding Briton, with the same harsh accent as Weland and Fulco. He stoops to pick up a spatha abandoned by the attackers, and hands it over to one of his compatriots.
“What was all that about?” asks Fastidius. We help to set what remains of the honey stall back up. “What does Wortimer want from you?”
“He wants us gone from Londin, simple as that. And he’s using these… vermin as his private army.”
“Why won’t you fight?” I ask. “There are more of you.”
“This time there were. But if we try to resist, they come in greater packs, and at night. With torches. We have women here. Children. There are no walls to hide behind here. And the other vendors barely tolerate us anyway. If we continue to antagonise Wortimer’s minions, they might turn the entire Forum against us.”
Fastidius pauses setting up the honey jars. “I’ll have to mention this to father,” he tells me quietly, then turns to the Saxon. “Don’t worry about today. If Wortimer bothers you again, let me know — we can handle him. I’m Fastidius, and this is Ash, and we’re staying at the Sarmatian’s, by the wharf.”
�
��Thank you, my lords,” the Saxon bows, and swipes the ground with his hand.
“I’m no lord,” I laugh. “I’m just a Seaborn slave.”
“A Seaborn, you say…” The Saxon looks at me with a strange, questioning expression. “How old are you, boy?”
“Sixteen, I believe — nobody knows exactly… Why?”
He smooths his moustache, and glances at Fastidius. “You fight well for a youth of sixteen,” he says. I sense that’s not what he wanted to say.
“I had a good teacher,” I reply. What is he hiding, I wonder? Why is my age suddenly important? “A Frank.”
He grins and pats me on the back. “A Frank wouldn’t teach you how to fight with a seax like that. That’s in your blood!”
Fastidius lifts the final pot from the ground and puts it onto the stall. He puts a small coin in the honey vendor’s hand, despite her protests. He then looks at the sun. “We have to go back, Ash. You need to prepare for tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
We head towards the Forum gate, when I feel a hand rest lightly on my hip. I turn to face the honey vendor. She smiles and leans towards me. Her lips land briefly on mine, soft like a moth’s wings, and sweet like her honey.
CHAPTER IX
THE LAY OF FATALIS
The candle flickers in the draught. The tavern’s windows are glazed with only the flimsiest excuse for a glass pane, cracked and ill-fitting, more for show than for isolation. The sounds of the harbour district outside carry deep into the night: the drunken singing of the sailors, the fake moans of the whores, the shouts of some ruffians arguing over gambling winnings. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, to shield myself both from the noise and the cold. It’s hard to believe it’s almost Easter — the morning before I woke up to frost painting flowers on the pane.
There’s no table in the room, so I spread my notes on the floor. I have copied these, under Paulinus’s watchful eye, from musty old tomes onto brand new birch-bark tablets, in my best cursive. The prayers take up the bulk of the notes. I know them all by heart, but I can’t leave anything to chance; I will have to speak in Latin, the Imperial tongue, and if I get nervous I might misspeak a word or two before God and who knows what disaster or curse that might bring upon my head.
The remaining sheets contain the details of the ritual, the sequence of questions and answers. There is more leeway for mistakes here, as I’m told the priest will guide me to the correct response if I get flustered, but I’d still rather have everything go without a fault. After all, I will be representing my Master before the congregation. Making sure I become a good Christian in as perfect a way as possible will go a long way towards repaying everything he and Lady Adelheid have done for me.
The idea came from Father Paulinus. Not long after my return from Quintus’s villa, he approached me, his face bearing the most sorrowful expression. I was still mad at him for Eadgith, and afraid of his wrath, but the grief in his eyes made me stop and listen.
“Everything that happened was my fault,” he said. “I have grown lax in my duties. I focused too much on teaching you worldly knowledge, and too little on nurturing your soul.”
I knew then that he had discovered my involvement with the pagan shrine. I shrugged, pretending not to know what he meant.
“I should’ve noticed this earlier,” he said, raising his eyes to the sky. “You have become a man, yet I have not made you a Christian. And with your turbulent spirit, this must have been most troubling for you.”
He laid a hand on my shoulder. “I have sent word to Londin, and I have some good news for you. Your name has been written into the book at Saint Paul’s.”
I frowned. “What does it mean?”
“It means your initiation has started. By Easter next year, if all goes well, you’ll be ready to be accepted into the arms of the Church.” And then he added, “Fastidius insisted on being listed as the sponsor of your baptism.”
Good old Fastidius; he would never hold a grudge for the cut I gave him across the chest. The wound healed soon, but an ugly scar remained, forever a reminder of my madness. He was even more apologetic than Paulinus: after all, he and I lived in the same room, and he still failed to take notice of my perturbation. It was pointless to protest. His sponsoring me into the Church was, he claimed, the least he could do to make up for his neglect.
I wasn’t interested in any of it at first, still incensed with the perceived mistreatment of mine and Eadgith’s love. Her memory troubled me vividly in dreams, the visions of her pale flesh, panting and heaving that last night, her words of love whispered, then screamed into my ear, belying the calmness of the decision she’d professed to make earlier. I knew she was lying, I knew she was forced to leave me, by her parents, by Pascent, by what her faith told her was right and proper. I wavered between cursing the God of Romans and fearing Him and any plans He may have had for me. I’d lash out at Paulinus, his closest representative on Earth, in futile anger. He would stare at me with patience and remorse, and that would make me even more furious.
“Why does Christ even allow us to be slaves?” I railed. “The books you have me read, all they speak of is liberty and free will; but how can I have free will if I have to obey my Masters?”
I was talking about the writings of Pelagius, a Briton whose work Paulinus valued as highly as those of the Apostles. Paulinus and Pascent had met him once, in Gaul, and both remained in awe of his teachings. It was due to Pelagius’s influence, Paulinus claimed, that the slaves at Ariminum were regarded as equal to freedmen in all but their legal status — in contrast to how they were treated in other villas.
“We all have to struggle with these questions,” he’d reply. “Even Pascent is not free to do as he pleases, even Wortigern, even the Imperator in his Mediolanum palace. They cannot fly in the air, or walk on water. We are all bound by worldly limitations, slaves and masters alike — but despite them, we must strive to be the most virtuous of men. And obedience of your betters is one of God’s most beloved virtues.”
There was no way I, an angry child, could out-argue one as wise and erudite as Paulinus. Slowly and surely, like water on stone, he penetrated my defences, extinguished my protests, smothered me in attention and showered me with affection. Before long, I began to feel embarrassed and humbled, to slowly transform from a rash, rebellious youth back to the grateful student I once was, only now focused on religious texts rather than ancient classics. The memory of Eadgith no longer drove me to distraction, replaced by the fervent pursuit of faith. As proof of God’s all-encompassing forgiveness, even Fulco was allowed to return to the villa, and continue to train me; neither of us ever again dared to speak of the old gods.
And four months later, here I am, in Londin, memorising the final lines of the prayers and creeds required by the baptism ceremony. Or rather, that’s what I should be doing; instead, my thoughts wander again, back to the Saxon camp at the Forum.
Wortimer. I thought the antipathy the young prince displayed at Pascent’s birthday party was reserved only for me; some strange, personal grudge I could not understand. Now it appears not only that his malice is directed towards all Saxons, but that he’s gathered a band of underlings who share it.
I have never encountered this sort of attitude before. There were always only a few people of foreign blood in and around Ariminum, not counting Master Pascent’s family — Eadgith’s mother, Fulco, Waerla the pig shepherd, a couple of families on the outskirts of Saffron Valley. I felt a kind of affinity with them, being a Saxon foundling myself, and I used to treat a visit to the villa from anyone different to the local Britons as a cause to celebrate, rather than fear. I would have loved to have seen so many of my kin in one place as there were in the market. Why would anyone have a reason to dislike them this much? Then again, I realise, I know nothing of this city, its inhabitants, their rules and traditions. Perhaps the locals do have a reason to resent their presence in the city — perhaps the moustached man hasn’t told us everything? I did sense him
hiding something after he asked me for my age… What could it have been?
I remember what Paulinus told me after the birthday feast: it is the politics of Londin that stops Master Pascent from freeing and adopting me into the family. Is this what he meant? What if Dux Wortigern shares his son’s views? And if he does, where does that put me? In the eyes of those four armband-wearing men, or that bladesmith earlier, I was nothing more than a Saxon slaveling. My hair, my eyes betray my origin, no matter how well I speak the Imperial tongue, no matter how versed I am in the classics — and I’m fairly certain my knowledge of Tacitus is superior to those brutes — no matter even if I’m baptised or not. Of that I am sure.
I dip the reed in ink and, on an empty margin on one of the tablets, I write down the sounds I heard Fastidius speak to the honey vendor. Ich the thankung. I remember it now — through the haze, I hear my mother say those words to somebody. I remember their meaning… If I could talk more to one of them, perhaps I would recall more of my people’s speech.
If others will always see me as a Saxon no matter what, perhaps I should embrace my heritage, instead of fighting it. While trying to follow their gods and rituals was a costly mistake, there shouldn’t be anything wrong in learning the language. Even Fastidius decided it was worth his while. He also proposed that I should learn it myself. Should I go back to the camp, after the ceremony, and ask for their help? Master Pascent might agree to pay for my lessons, and these people seemed like they could welcome any additional income. They certainly didn’t strike me as a bunch of blood-soaked pirates grown fat with loot, as one would expect from all the rumours folk in the south have been spreading about their kin.
The Saxon Spears Page 13
