My imagination makes the choice for me. The honey vendor… I could ask her for the lessons. She looked as though she would be willing to teach me a thing or two…
Focus! I rub my eyes and take a deep breath. I shuffle the papers. There are still two pages of prayers I have not yet fully committed to memory. Tonight, of all nights, God is watching me. My soul must be cleansed of all the sinful thoughts by tomorrow, and the Saxon woman’s kiss is the last thing I need on my mind right now.
I know now where all the building stone from the basilica and the Forum had gone.
The edifice that looms before me is grander than anything I’ve seen in Londin so far. A hundred feet wide and thrice as long, it occupies the entire top of the hill that marks Londin’s south-easternmost corner. The slopes around it have been emptied of houses, to make the cathedral stand out even more. The nearest dwellings to the west and the north are simple timber buildings, surrounded by vegetable gardens, not unlike those in the villages in the south. I’m curious to find out who are the people that live there — servants of the Bishop? Novices in training? Hermit monks?
We march up the gentle slope in a slow procession, giving me ample time to appreciate the fine details of the cathedral as we come closer. The original cathedral was built less than sixty years ago, in the times of Imperator Maximus, but it was abandoned when Rome left and the nobles of Londin reverted to their pagan ways. When Vitalinus forced the city elders to renew their baptisms, he also made them renovate the, by then derelict, temple from their own purses. It is now the most magnificent building in the city, and the only one that looks brand new.
The gable wall rises in two arched steps, to culminate in a steep roof, tiled with slate. The front gleams in black marble, polished until it resembles onyx. The arches of the doors and windows are plastered in white and red bands, mirroring the banding of tiles and stone on the old city walls binding the hill from the east. The entire façade is decorated with a chaotic jumble of old pillar heads, stucco sculptures and swathes of mosaic which, I’m guessing, were gathered, or rather, pillaged, from all over the city. One mosaic, however, seems to have been created for the building itself, and set over the main entrance: an imposing image of the Almighty Lord, holding the Gospels in His left hand and raising the right hand in blessing, all painstakingly rendered in tiny square pieces of stone in shades of blue and gold. He looks down in judgement on all who pass underneath, and as I cross the threshold I sense His gaze upon me and within me and I feel ashamed about last night’s thoughts and dreams I had about the honey vendor — and Eadgith.
The night before leaving for Londin, Paulinus spoke to me one last time.
“You will need to confess all your grave sins before the baptism,” he explained.
“I understand.”
“You’re young, and you’ve never been out of the villa for long, so I don’t expect you to have a lot to confess, other than your… incident with Eadgith.”
“I… killed a man in the Regin village.”
“In self-defence. That hardly counts. Anything else I — or the Bishop — should know?”
The moment he asked me this question, the face of my old foster-father flashed in my memory, contorted in agony. I was shocked. I never told anyone about what happened that day at the bath house… I hadn’t thought about him in years; I certainly didn’t blame myself for his death since childhood, having long ago convinced myself it must have been an accident, and that my memory of it was muddled by time.
“I… don’t think so,” I replied.
“God sees everything,” Paulinus said, staring deep into my eyes, then he laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “It’s fine,” he added. “God also forgives everything. You have nothing to worry about.”
But the memory of the old man’s cries remained with me all through that night.
Following the crowd, I enter a courtyard flanked by twin rows of columns. At the far end rises another frontage, with a shaded balcony jutting out on the second floor. The bulk of the crowd disperses to the colonnaded aisles at the sides, while I and a dozen other young men and women are guided to the front of the balcony and told to wait. I catch a glimpse of the inside of the church hall from where I’m standing. It resembles the interior of the bath house at Ariminum — it has the same vaulted ceiling, the same pillars of light shooting from the high windows, illuminating the mosaic floor and painted walls; all of it on a giant scale worthy of a house of God, rather than a house of men, all of it dripping with gold and silver and precious stones, and carved in a fine white and pink veined marble. The memory of the bath house once again makes me remember the dying old man, and I shiver in the early spring sun.
A man enters the balcony, wearing a vestment of white and gold and a jewelled headgear, and holding a shepherd’s crooked stick topped with a silver cross. I recognise him from Fastidius’s description: it’s Fatalis, the Bishop of Londin. Beside him stands the Vicar General, the one who came to the birthday feast. The Bishop holds out a hand in the same gesture of blessing as the Christ in the mosaic. The crowd falls to their knees. Somewhere, a choir of unearthly voices starts a slow chant; the source of the singing is hidden from view, and for a moment I almost believe it’s the angels come to Earth to sing at the Easter feast, until I spot the singers standing in the upper galleries in their snow-white raiments. The crowd soon picks up the chant, those who know the words, and those who know the melody — few are familiar with both. I join in with the Amens and Alleluias, for that is all I know how to sing.
The Mass continues apace, a familiar rite, but one I’ve never witnessed in such glorious circumstances, as part of such a crowd, and on such an important day as today. As the chants rise, so does my heart, and when the Mass reaches its climax I almost forget why I’m here. I miss the moment when the dozen of us are first called inside, and have to have the call repeated by the Vicar General. I rise from my trembling knees and follow the others into the vaulted interior, past the mosaics and paintings, through another portal in the southern wall of the nave, until we emerge inside an adjacent, eight-walled building covered with a domed roof. A pool of dark, cold water shimmers in the centre of the floor; its surface reflects another pool, one drawn in mosaic in the ceiling of the dome.
On the mosaic, the faithful are welcomed into the waters by Christ. Here on the mortal plane, we have to make do with the Bishop. He enters in silence, his vestment rustling on the tessellated floor. He looks at our dozen, and his eyes rest the longest on me, the only Saxon in the group. The corner of his lips curves in a half-smile, as he glances to the opposite wall, where the sponsors await their turn.
“I think we’ll start with this one,” he says to one of his assistants. I am called forward to the pond and stand, barefoot, on a rectangle of rough sackcloth.
“Who brings this child into the Church?” the Bishop asks.
“I do,” says Fastidius, stepping into the light.
“Under what name is he to be known henceforth?”
I hold my breath. I have not yet heard what Master Pascent and Fastidius decided to name me as a Christian. I know how this name will define me in the eyes of God, and I’m hoping they chose well.
“Fraxinus,” replies Fastidius. I breathe out. The word means “Ash” in the Imperial tongue. So God will know me for what I truly am. I needn’t have worried. My Masters have made the best possible choice.
“We are notified that you have testified to his worthiness, and guided him through his inexperience,” the Bishop continues.
“I have, Father.”
“And that he has been examined and tested, that he has repented his sins, and lived like a good Christian for the period prescribed in the holy rule.”
“He has, Father.”
The Bishop smiles again, and turns to me this time. “And do you, child, declare that you will keep the faith and the Creed and remain till the end in the doctrine of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, to whose discipleship you are being admitted?�
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In response, as I was taught, I recite the Creed. I stumble at the unigenitum bit, and glance at Fastidius in panic. He mouths: consubstantialem Patri, and the rest of the Creed flashes back in my mind and I rush to the finish. I end, and the hall stays silent. The Bishop looks at me expectantly, and then I remember I also need to recite the Lord’s Prayer, and declare that I abju… abjure Satan and all his angels and his works and worldly glamour. There are more things I need to declare, all now coming to me one by one just as I’ve read them from the parchments at the tavern. The Bishop continues his interrogation, his questions becoming more and more detailed. As instructed, I answer yes to all of them, even though I don’t recognise the names of all the demons and heretics that I’m supposed to denounce; the last name makes me pause for a moment: Pelagius. Is it the same Pelagius whose teachings Paulinus has instilled in me throughout the years? I glance to Fastidius. He nods, quickly. I decide it must be some other Pelagius and repeat the final denunciation.
The questions end at last. I glance back and catch one of the remaining dozen yawning. Are we all supposed to go through this? I’m not sure if there are enough hours in the day for the entire ritual to be repeated twelve times. I face the Bishop again, just in time for his hand to reach my forehead. His fingers, dipped in oil, mark a sign of the cross on my forehead, and I realise that this is the moment for me to take off my robe. One attendant raises a cloth to shield my nakedness from the women in the group, while another anoints me again with oil.
The Bishop speaks again, while I step into the basin. It’s freezing cold, colder even than the plunging pool in the bath house, and I can barely hear the Bishop’s litany through shivers and chattering of teeth — he says something about dying and rising with Christ, and the grace of the Holy Spirit… I reach the centre of the pool and stop, waiting for the final stage of the ritual.
“Fraxinus of Ariminum,” says the Bishop, “you are baptised in the Name of the Father…” I take a deep breath, bow until my head is under the water, and emerge spluttering and shivering even more. “…the Son…” I submerge again. It’s not getting any easier. “…and of the Holy Spirit.” I dip in for the third time, and start coughing and sneezing. I look up. The Bishop welcomes me to step out of the water and put on a new robe, of clean white wool. After I do so, he marks me again with the sign of the cross. “The Holy Spirit will be and remain with you,” he says.
I stand on the cold stone floor, trembling as if I was having a fit. I don’t know what to do next; I haven’t yet registered that the ritual has already finished. The Bishop glances at Fastidius; Fastidius looks at me, and pulls me aside.
“Is that it?” I ask, through chattering teeth.
“This is it,” he says. “How do you feel?”
“Cold,” I answer.
He smiles. “So did I, at first. When you get warmer, you will begin to realise what marvellous transformation you have just gone through. The light of God will warm you up from inside. But until then, let’s get you out into the sun.”
I look back as he leads me out of the octagonal hall. Another boy steps onto the sackcloth and disrobes before the Bishop. He recites the Creed, and I note with satisfaction that he stumbles a lot more than I did.
Fastidius stops a few feet before the exit. “Wait for me at the tavern.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Have you forgotten? I must attend to another ceremony, later.”
“Your ordination!” I grab his shoulders. “You are to become a priest, at last!”
“Indeed, today’s the day.”
“I’m so happy for you!”
“And I for you. This is a glorious day for the both of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must meditate on my sins.”
“That shouldn’t take too long,” I say.
He chuckles. “If only you knew.” He pats me on my back and pushes me lightly towards the light.
“God be with you, Fastidius.”
“And also with you… Fraxinus.”
Fastidius was right. The moment I step out into the sun, I feel awash with the warmth from the inside as well as outside. I feel the light of God’s love. I am God’s child now. He has forgiven all my sins. The old man. Eadgith. Fulco. All of this is in the past. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. The pagan demons of my kin have gone altogether from my mind. I belong to the sacred community of the Faithful now. I may be still a slave, but I feel like a Roman. I may have fair hair and blue eyes, but I feel like a Briton. God is with me and nothing and nobody can take that away from me.
They are waiting for me at the bottom of the hill, a safe enough distance from the walls of the cathedral not to fall foul of the prohibition on violence around the sacred ground, far enough not to be noticed by the crowds and the church guards — though I’m not sure how many of them would come to my help even if they saw what was about to occur.
There are ten of them this time, standing in a crescent from one side of the road to the other. Only a few of them wear the leather breastplates, but all have the bronze armbands with the Imperial Eagle, and all carry weapons — clubs, sticks and hatchet shafts. I spot a few knives in sheaths at their waists, but none in their hands. This is good news: they only want to beat me up, not kill me.
“Is that him?” asks one of the men; he’s short, but muscular, sporting several scars on his shoulders and face. He holds his club with the casualness of a professional. I make a note of him: he’s the most dangerous of the lot.
I recognise the leader of the band from the Forum as the one who answers: “Yes, that’s the dog.”
“What about the other one?”
“Forget him. It’s this one I want.”
How did they know where to find me? I don’t remember talking to anyone about the ceremony. They must have followed us from the Forum and found us at the tavern — then tracked me to the cathedral this morning…
“Are you sure? He looks like a puppy. Look, I think he’s wet himself!”
The scar-faced one points and they all laugh. Water from the baptistery pool drips from my shivering body onto the gravel, marking a damp patch around my bare feet. I’m still wearing only the white raiment of baptism, and with my wet hair and the wet cloths clinging to my shivering skin, I must indeed look wretched and terrified of them. I need to disavow them of that notion, make them doubt themselves; that’s half of the battle, according to Vegetius’s Military Matters.
“Don’t underestimate him,” says the boss. “He’s used some of their pagan witchcraft on us.”
“He don’t look pagan,” somebody at the back remarks. “Those are church clothes.”
“Shut up,” the chief snarls.
I burst in laughter. “Witchcraft? I beat you fair and square, and I’d do it again, if you weren’t hiding behind the others.”
“Are you calling me a coward?” He steps forward, his face crimson. “My father died fighting you pagan dogs on the Saxon Shore!”
“What happened, he got drunk and fell off a pier?” I goad him. It’s not the best response, but my mind is occupied with other problems, chief among them my own survival. The spot where they set up their ambush is walled in between the thick hedgerows of two villas, too tall for me to leap over. To my back rises the cathedral hill, and I doubt I can outrun the enemy up the slope, barefoot and in the cumbersome robe. I have no weapons — I left them all with the innkeeper at the tavern, for safe-keeping. There aren’t even any stones to throw on the gravel road. Not that it matters: even if I had my spear, I’m not sure I’d manage a fight against all ten of them. All I can do is to try to make them suffer as much as possible as they beat me up.
I stand in the pugil stance, upright, fists clenched, arms raised. The chief roars and starts after me, but the scar-face holds him up. He studies me with an assessing look.
“Wait. I see what you mean now. There’s fire in this one.”
He orders the first five to charge. In a split-second, I make the decision; I c
hoose the enemy who looks the weakest: a pudgy, narrow-eyed boy. Bracing for the blows, I anticipate his strike. As the clubs and sticks of the others fall on me, I reach for the pudgy boy’s hand and wrestle a thick oaken cudgel from his grasp. I don’t hear his scream as the wrist snaps — all I hear are cracks and thuds of wood on my bones.
That I’m still standing after suffering this barrage is a good sign: if they knew what they were doing, my legs and arms would already be shattered. I swing the cudgel around; it hits a bone with a satisfying crunch, and one of the men pulls back with a howl. But the satisfaction is short. The others strike again. One of them lands a lucky blow on the back of my knee, and my leg buckles. I grab somebody under the knees and throw him over me, wrestling-style, then kick fiercely forwards. I feel a fibula snap from the power of the kick, but so does a bone in my foot — I forgot I’m not wearing boots. I bite into my lower lip to stop from screaming. A shower of hits falls on my arms and head. I don’t think I can take any more. I scramble on the gravel and shuffle under the legs, kicking, punching and biting my way out of the brawl. In confusion, I lose all sense of direction and emerge right before the second group of the enemies, led by the scar-faced man.
He looks at me with a mocking smile. He orders the men to grab hold of me. I’m too weakened to resist anymore. With deliberate slowness, he pulls the knife from the sheath and steps up to me.
“Let’s carve the dog up, boys. Slaves used to be branded in the old days. How about a sign of the cross for a start, to always remind him of his newfound faith?”
“Wait —!” I protest. This is too serious for a street brawl. I can live with a few broken bones — but not with a mark like this. He nods and a hand covers my mouth, to stop me from screaming. I stare at the blade as it closes in towards my forehead, keen to keep my eyes open, not to show fear before these roughs — but I’m terrified, of the pain and of the shame.
The Saxon Spears Page 14
