The Iutes mark the rest of their slain with another, empty, boat-shaped pit, and then dig a separate grave for Catigern, should his body ever be recovered. They count him among their own for the kindness he’d shown them in Londin. The priestess marks the symbolic grave with a birch cross, out of respect for his faith.
I have never seen a funeral before, not even a Briton one. I wonder, if I died in the battle, and some stranger found my body, how would they bury me — in the boat-shaped pit, with my sword beside me, or under a cross, in Christian ground?
The ceremony finished, all the Iutes turn towards the hill range rising to the north and make signs of evil horns towards it, cursing Aelle and his bandits. Supernatural forces are all they can count on to wreak their revenge. I would add my prayer to their curses, but I remember that my God is not a vengeful one, and so I only whisper one for those already dead.
We march in a morbid procession across Cantiaca. It’s a fine land, a green, rolling country of well-tended fields, bright green with spring grain, and lush fruit orchards, a stark contrast not only to the abandoned desolation along the Pilgrim’s Way, but even to the surroundings of Ariminum. The ravages of the serf rebellion and its aftermath seem not to have crossed the Medu River, or if they did, the Cants have recovered much faster. The valley along which we march is also shielded from the sea by the overhanging ridge of the Downs, making it safe from the pirates and raiders. Truly, it is a piece of God’s own paradise on Earth.
In any other circumstances, I would be busy admiring the landscape, and the industriousness of its people — golden squares of barley, green eruptions of apple trees, even an occasional neat grid of a vineyard, still standing on a blazing white chalk slope. But we all shuffle on with our heads down, the grim mood rendering the bright colours around us dim and dull. We all remember the men we’ve lost in the battle at the ford, from the lowest of slaves to the noble Catigern.
“Do you have news from the Londin mission?” I ask the commander of the white riders. With Master Pascent still recovering from his wounds, and most everyone else either dead or missing, it falls to me to lead what’s left of our procession. Briefly, we consider abandoning the journey and making our way back to Ariminum — after all, we have no more gifts, Catigern and Horsa are gone… In the end, it is decided that only Lady Adelheid will be escorted back to the villa, to recuperate — the long way around, through Robriwis. She no longer has any desire to see any more Saxons — or Iutes. Once she’s gone, I convince the Master that we should at least bring the news to the Iutes ourselves, and tell the tale of the valiant deaths to their poem-writers. It’s the least we can do to honour the sacrifice of Horsa and his men.
“There was no trouble there,” the commander replies. “They should already be at Dorowern by now. No bandits dare harass the coast road.”
“What about the pirates?”
He winces. “Not at this time of year, unless they get desperate. But we’d know if they were coming.”
The white riders are, it turns out, the elite guard of the Cants’ ruler, Comes Worangon. Their main force is waiting for us at Dorowern, where Worangon’s court resides. By law, they are obliged to stay on the western side of the Medu, but the rumours of the bandits gathering in greater force than ever made them send a detachment across the river — just in time to help us escape.
I take a closer look at their decurion. There’s something familiar about him, his face, his mannerisms, his accent, his black hair falling on the shoulders in long locks…
“What do they call you, commander?”
“Odo.”
“Are you a Frank?”
“A Gaul,” he corrects me. “From Tornacum. As are most of my men.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but what’s the difference?”
“Almost none, these days.” He chuckles lightly, and I remember Orpedda, my teacher of Iutish tongue, dismissively accusing the Franks of too much mixing with the Romans. “Except that some of us can trace our ancestry to before the Romans came — and that we’re all Christians. How could you tell?”
“I knew a Frank once. He taught me how to fight.”
He nods. “We’re good at that, yes. What happened to him?”
“He fell at Medu.”
There is no need for me to say anything more. We ride on in silence, but soon my mind conjures images of Fulco’s mangled body. I need a distraction.
“Where’s Tornacum?” I ask.
“Across the Narrow Sea, on an old river crossing. About as far from the coast as Londin is on this side. The Franks have made it their capital now.”
“Is that why you came here? To escape the Franks?”
“We came, like so many others, because there’s good, empty land here.” He waves around the green fields. “We don’t mind the Franks, but with them around the place got too crowded. Back home, I shared a stony barley field with two of my neighbours. Here, I own a vineyard.” He points east, where the line of the hills turns southwards in a great wedge. “Some ten miles that way.”
I gaze at the lush, fertile landscape again, and see that, as we get nearer the coast, there are swathes of it lying fallow, untilled, begging for a plough. What was it that Horsa said? All we have is a squalid, marshy island. Mud and rock.
“Have you been to the Tanet Island yourself?” I ask.
Odo’s expression turns dour. “I have.”
“What’s it like?”
“An unhappy place, settled by unhappy people. You’ll see soon for yourself.”
“Why won’t the Cants give some of this land to the Iutes?” I point to the fallow fields.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just a soldier. You would have to ask the Comes and the Council at Dorowern.”
I can’t get him to say anything else on this matter. I see my questions make him uneasy. I imagine he’d rather not think of the fate of the Iutes, as it prevents him from enjoying his own good fortune, and I can’t blame him for this. Whatever the reason, it was up to the Cants to decide how to reward Odo’s Gauls over the Iutes. It may have been because they were better, more reliable warriors, but I sense there’s more. The Gauls used to be Romans, like the Britons. They worship the same God, a Roman God. There are bonds of blood here, and others, even stronger than blood. There is an ancient kinship here that’s absent where Iutes and Saxons are concerned.
Once a Saxon, always a Saxon…
We soon reach a gap in the chalk ridge of the Downs, cut deep and steep by the River Stur, and turn north, following both the current and the road itself. After some ten miles, we emerge on the other side, with the broader valley of Dorowern spread before us in a wedge, widening to the north-east until, far on the northern horizon, the River Stur joins a shimmering, murky brown strip of water; an unimposing sight, but one that makes my heart skip, for I know that these murky waters are my first glimpse of the ocean — since that fateful stormy night, thirteen years ago.
A damp, southerly wind blows into the valley, rustling the leaves of the aspens and willows. It leaves a salty, weedy taste on my lips. I pick up the pace. With luck, we’ll reach Dorowern in time for the evening meal.
There is much wailing and cursing at Comes Worangon’s suburban villa when we arrive. Though a fast courier has reached them a few days before us with the terrible news, it’s hearing the tale from the eyewitnesses and seeing the wounded up close that makes the real impact. The men raise their fists and vow revenge, the women pray aloud for the souls of the fallen. Dread takes over everyone. My description of Catigern’s dead body and the empty grave at the standing stones silences the room and greys the faces. Immediately, couriers are dispatched to Londin. Amid the despair, I take a small satisfaction in knowing that my words will now be committed to birch in the Dux’s archive, perhaps for a future historian like Tacitus to discover when writing the tale of this woeful time.
The reaction to the news is more severe than I expected, considering only a few of these people knew the victims personally.
>
“It’s the spectre of rebellion,” explains Master Pascent. “It was always their greatest fear. They can deal with the sea pirates — it’s been a part of a way of life around here for centuries. But the interior, beyond the Downs, is where they’ve always looked for peace and safety — and wealth.”
“The old revolt never reached here, then?”
“Not as badly as elsewhere. The nobles here are good Christians, the first ever to be baptised when Rome came. It was always a point of honour for them. But that was before. Their faith saved them from the serfs once — but it will do them little good if the serfs turn to heathenry.”
“And these new bandits are proudly pagan.”
He nods. “You see the problem.”
“I also see why they might not be keen on letting Iutes settle as they please.”
“It will be a challenge to convince them otherwise. Especially without Catigern’s influence…”
The Council splits in the wake of the tragic events. Those who have come straight from Londin want to combine forces with Worangon’s troops and march out against Aelle and his army of rogues. Comes Worangon and Master Pascent oppose this idea, each for their own reason.
“We need to continue the mission,” my Master says. “Tanet is just across the channel from here. This is what Catigern would have wanted.”
“I have no warriors to spare for combing all of Andreda for some elusive Saxon band,” adds Worangon. “I need them to protect us from the pirates and sea raiders. So unless you want to lead the charge yourselves, I suggest you wait until you have orders from the Dux.”
“The Iutes would want to avenge their fallen, would they not?” asks one of the Londin officials. He’s short and fat, and his arms jingle from the silver and copper bracelets. I take an instant dislike to him: he was the first to cry vengeance, but as soon as it turned out he’d need to do the fighting himself, he retreated to the back of the audience hall.
Worangon scoffs. “Send a Saxon against a Saxon?” He spits. “They’d sooner unite against us than fight among themselves. No, you can’t trust a Saxon dog to do a man’s work.”
There are no Iutes here to defend themselves against this slander, so I stand up and step forwards.
“That’s a lie! Horsa and his warriors gave their lives to save us!”
My hands are shaking. I reach for the seax, before remembering I left it outside. Worangon gives me a startled stare, then waves his hand.
“Only because they counted on a reward. Aelle must have paid them too little.”
“What good is a reward to a dead man?” asks Pascent. He, too, stands up shakily, leaning on a servant. “Horsa was a friend to me and Catigern. You dishonour his memory with these accusations.”
“It doesn’t matter why they fought,” says Odo, in a reconciliatory tone. “What matters is that they lost. I know these Iutes. They are brave and quick to brawl, but they are no soldiers. They’ve lived in peace too long. From what you tell us, this Aelle has a regular army at his disposal — and a fortress. It would be a pointless slaughter.”
“That settles it,” says Worangon, glad for the matter to be resolved without further quarrel. “Of course, if Dux Wortigern orders us to join the fighting, I will gladly send a detachment to assist him, but for now, I agree with Master Pascent: it’s best for the mission to continue as planned — what’s left of it.”
The men grunt and grumble, but they accept the resolution more eagerly than one would expect from their shouting and thumping just moments earlier. Clearly, they are satisfied with having played the part of outraged citizens, but now that they have an excuse not to follow that up with any action, they are keen to just move on with their plans.
I am appalled by how soon they forgot about avenging the dead. As they split into smaller groups, discussing the changes to the minutiae of the mission — who will speak in Wortigern’s name instead of Catigern? Can Worangon lend some of his treasure to make up for the gifts looted by the bandits? — I lean over to Master Pascent to express my indignation.
“I never expected otherwise,” he tells me. “Catigern wasn’t popular among the nobles. His friends were of lesser stock, small traders, old soldiers, common town folk. His fondness for the Saxons didn’t help.” He coughs, his voice weakens. “I fear his legacy will be dismantled before we return to Londin.” He takes one last look of disgust at the quarrelling delegates, then asks me to take him back to his room.
“You did well, Ash,” the Master says, as I help him to bed. I see in his eyes and the movement of his lips that he’s looking for more adequate words of praise, but can’t find any.
“Thank you, Master. I only did what I had to.”
He winces. “Don’t call me Master.” He lays his trembling hand on mine. “Everything we’ve taught you… Fulco would be proud. I’m sure Paulinus will be, too.” He coughs again. He’s weak and tired. Some of the wounds inflicted by Aelle’s tortures have still not healed, seeping green, foul-smelling ooze. His voice is hoarse, his throat filled with phlegm. His lips tremble. Only in his eyes do the strong will and wisdom still gleam through.
I realise with surprise how old he looks. His face is a sagging web of wrinkles. What’s left of his hair is thin and as white as a dove’s feathers. Has the ordeal of the past few days aged him so, or have I only now started noticing his age?
“I spoke to Adelheid before she left,” he continues. “We both agree we’ve waited too long for this. It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“You’re free, Ash. No longer a slave. Of course, you’ve never been one to us, but now it’s formal. I have sent the Manumissio letter by courier to Londin.”
I drop to my knees, unable to speak. In truth, I don’t even know why it’s such a shock to me — I haven’t thought of myself as a slave for so long, I almost forgot I still was one. I always thought of Pascent more as a father than a Master; at the villa, nobody treated me any differently to Fastidius and other free boys. In Pascent’s household, slaves and free men were equal, as the Lord created them, just like Pelagius taught. If I had any of my rights limited by my status, it never affected me in the least — except the marriage with Eadgith, but then, it would’ve been the same had he really been my father. And yet, these simple words, you’re free, strike me with the intensity of a lightning bolt.
Free. Even though they did not affect me in Ariminum, I know the laws that separate slaves from the masters. Nothing I owned was my own by law, not even my spear and the seax. I could not take part in the political life of Londin, I could not perform any trade in my own name, I could not travel long distance without my Master’s permission. My life, my name, my will were worth less than that of a lowliest free man. All this has changed with one move of Master Pascent’s pen. I am now a citizen of Britannia.
The old man has still more to say.
“So never call me your Master again,” he says. “Call me father instead. You were always like a son to me, and like a brother to Fastidius; but this time, I’m going to make this official. As soon as we return, I’ll take you before the Magistrate and declare your adoption into the family.”
I kiss his hand, and he pats me on the head. “You’ve done us all proud, Ash. Now, leave me. I’m still weary, and I’m looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed at last.”
I make sure he’s swaddled warm in the woollen blankets — the walls of Worangon’s villa are porous like a sieve and there’s a cold breeze blowing from the sea — and quietly close the door behind me.
This is the last I see him alive.
CHAPTER XIV
THE LAY OF WYNFLAED
The simple stone church, dedicated to the Holy Saviour, stands on top of a tall hill in the north-eastern corner of Dorowern. From here, I can see the entire city, all the way to the wharves on the River Stur.
Unlike in Londin, the ancient, tight, rectangular grid of Roman streets is still perfectly preserved here. But, also unlike Londin, the spaces between the streets
are either empty fields of rubble overrun with vegetation, or filled with a jumble of poorly built houses of timber and straw, each tiny plot marked with a simple wall of piled debris. In the middle of it all, adjacent to a vast square of what once must have been a Forum rivalling that of Londin, rises the monumental half-circle of the old theatre — or rather, what’s left of it; only the outer wall still stands, all three storeys of it, with arcades shot through its circumference. From afar, one could easily believe the plays and fights are still taking place within the arena. But from where I’m standing, I see that the interior has been hollowed out, and the theatre, like most of the city’s Roman remains, has been turned into a massive quarry of quality stone.
I recognise this place. Deep within my memories, the shape of this Forum, of this half-circle of theatre, emerges from beyond the veil of time and tears. There was more of it back then, and it was busier, but there can be no mistake. This is where I stood, a child of three, chained to the other slaves, waiting for some kind soul to notice me and buy me out. This is where Lady Adelheid found me. There is a market on the square even now, a handful of stalls shielded from the elements by colourful cloth. I wonder if any new slaves are being sold today…
It’s hard to tell at first where all the stone from the quarry has gone. Holy Saviour’s is the only new building in the city, and it’s nowhere near the scale of Londin’s new cathedral or the palaces of the nobles. When my eyes turn west, to the river wharf, I find the answer in the form of flat-bottomed barges filled to the brim with marble. I’m guessing their destination is Londin — the boats don’t appear seaworthy, and there aren’t any other cities of note they could reach from here. When I realise what it means, I grow even more melancholy: the people of Dorowern are selling out the walls of their very homes, just so the rich of Londin can add more rooms to their lofty palaces. I have a vision of the capital as a voracious dragon, swallowing all the wealth still left around it to fill its insatiable belly.
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