The men around raise a loud cheer. The Iute warrior helps me up and returns to the ring to face another opponent.
“I thought you said you’d been training!” says Beadda.
“I have,” I reply, wincing and rubbing my sore chest. I think I cracked a rib. “But since my tutor’s death I have had no one to spar with. Perhaps I should be coming here more often.”
“You’re always welcome to have your arse whipped.”
A servant girl comes by, heaving under the weight of a boar haunch sizzling on a wooden board. The meat is almost raw, deep red, dripping with blood and fat. Beadda tears out a decent sized portion, and pinches the girl on the bottom. She blushes and giggles.
“Have you found a woman yet?” he asks with a belch and a lewd smile.
“I did not.”
“If you want any from the village…”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
He doesn’t need to know. Nobody does. There’s only a place for one girl in my heart, and though I have lain with many others since first seeing Rhedwyn — I am, after all, still a man — I did not care for any of them enough to turn these encounters into anything more than brief trysts. I haven’t even ventured to seek out Eadgith, though there’s nobody left to stop me from wedding her now — I’m satisfied in the knowledge she and her family live safely among Orpedda’s Iutes in the ruins of Quintus’s villa.
Beadda belches again and sits down heavily on the damp grass. As twilight falls, the fighting winds up. The losers join the winners by the barrels, washing their pain down with profuse quantities of mead and ale. In their place, the scop, the reciter of poetry, steps into the light of the bonfire. Normally, this would be a cue for me to slip away into the darkness, but Beadda insists that I wait — he’s got a surprise for me.
The scop begins with the invocation to the gods. He’s younger and less skilled than the man I heard on Tanet. His voice breaks, and barely rises over the din of the feast and the roaring of the flames, but just as I’m about to ignore the Gesith and leave, I hear what sounds like my name recited in the verse.
“Wait —”
The scop repeats my name, alongside those of Catigern and Pascent, though he mangles the pronunciation. I sit back down.
It’s finally happened. The saga of the battle of the Medu Ford has been written.
CHAPTER XVI
THE LAY OF POSTUMUS
“I don’t suppose they mention me in the poem at all?”
Fastidius’s hand hovers over the birchwood tablet. I watch an oily drop of ink gather at the tip of the reed pen recording my testimony.
The light from the small, unglazed window falls onto the mural painted on the opposite wall, a scene of Christ at the Last Supper. The plaster is still fresh. Fastidius moved recently into this room, larger and more richly decorated than his last one. The window overlooks the square atrium of the Bishop’s new, still unfinished, house.
“They barely mention me, and I was there!” I reply. “It was mostly the story of Horsa — the ending chapter to the long story of his life. There’s a lot more of this saga, as they call it, but the battle was the only part sung on the evening.”
He scribbles down a sentence and licks the nib of the pen. “And did you meet with Paulinus again after that?”
I nod slowly, swallow some saliva, and lick my lips; the pause is deliberate. I’m not sure how to tell the final part of my visit to Ariminum without offending him.
“He held a Mass the next day, for the people of Saffron Valley and beyond,” I say. “They came in droves to the church field, maybe a hundred people or more.”
“I didn’t think he had enough strength for something like this.”
“He had not,” I say sadly. “Or at least, not for what followed. It was a valiant try at first. When he led us in the Lord’s Prayer, it was almost as in the days of our youth, when the chapel still stood. But then, the Iutes arrived.”
“They came to the Mass?”
I shake my head and proceed to describe how the Iutes, still hungover and half-drunk from the feast, lined at the edge of the church field and proceeded to mock and jeer the congregation. To Beadda’s credit, I had not seen him in the crowd, though he may have simply been too drunk to get up from the bed in which he lay with a couple of his servant girls.
I tell of Paulinus, raising his voice and urging the congregation to sing the hymns louder; in response, the Iute men bared their bottoms, and the women showed their bosoms. They shouted insult in both Saxon and what little Vulgar Tongue they’d learned over the year of living among Britons, but worse than these were their invitations to the Britons to join the Iutes, promising a welcome of meat, mead and as much laying partners as they wished.
“Surely it could not last forever,” says Fastidius. I see his hand trembling. “Did Paulinus finish the Mass?”
“He bravely reached the end, and even performed the communion, as the Iutes were growing tired of yelling obscenities. But then, something terrible happened: a few of the Britons stepped out of the crowd and crossed the meadow to the Iutes’ side.”
Fastidius halts and puts away the pen. He hides his face in his hands. “Do you know why?”
“I asked some of the people later… It was the meat, mostly. Last year’s harvest was poor in Saffron Valley and the villages around it. The saffron crops failed altogether. Few could afford meat.”
“And the Iutes could?”
“The Iutes know how to hunt game better than most Britons. They don’t fear going into the woods. There was plenty of boar and deer left after the feast.”
“Then all is not lost — it was their stomachs, not their souls, that were empty. This can be remedied.”
“Not by Paulinus. He was in so much shock after the Mass he could hardly speak.”
And, I omit to say, too drunk on the mead Beadda sent him eventually as an apology for his men’s behaviour.
“No, not by Paulinus.” He picks another piece of birchwood and starts writing anew. “The Bishop often expressed his impatience with him, and I fear this will be the final straw. Between this and his insistence on Pelagius…” He looks up sharply. “He’ll have to focus on managing our villa, rather than the souls of the faithful. We’ll find another priest to take his place at the church.”
“It’s only fair.”
“Why did they do it, Ash?” he asks, rubbing his nose with a tired gesture. “After everything we’ve done for them… When word of this reaches the court, Wortimer will be triumphant. We will never get another settlement agreed upon.”
“They were drunk,” I try an excuse. “And some of the fault must lay at Paulinus’s feet. He knew it would provoke them. He… He has become almost like Wortimer’s men. It was no holy day — there was no reason for the Mass to happen right after the Iute feast.”
Fastidius writes quickly now, not in the majuscule of record-keeping, but in the hasty, personal letters. The ink splashes from the nib in a black streak across the table.
“I have to make sure our version of events is the official one,” he says. “Before Wortimer twists it to his needs. A drunken brawl, that’s all it was.” He signs the letter and seals it with his personal stamp. He stands up from the desk. “I will take this to the court myself. Can you send a messenger to Hengist, too? He needs to know what his Hiréd are up to.”
I nod.
“Devil’s work!” he exclaims, tearing at his hair. “I should go to Ariminum myself, to see what’s going on there with my own eyes… But I just haven’t got the time. No time.”
We’re too late. The news spreads like summer wildfire around the city, and by the time we reach the Forum, we are stopped by a great crowd gathered around Saint Peter’s Chapel. In front, on top of a broken column base, stands Wortimer. It’s difficult to recognise him at first — he’s dressed in the garb of a common merchant instead of his courtly robes, with his face deliberately smudged and hair dishevelled; he speaks — shouts, rather — in the Vulgar Tongue that mos
t of the townsfolk understand, rather than his usual haughty Imperial. As always, he’s railing against the Saxons and Iutes, waving towards what’s left of their trading camp in the corner of the market.
It’s an act he’s been polishing over the past year. Unable at first to influence the politics of his father’s court directly, he’s chosen instead to become a public orator, a tribune of the people, like in Rome of old. And the new tactic is already beginning to bear fruit.
“The Dux and his nobles give them our land,” he cries, waving a fist in the direction of the southern gate, “our fertile fields, our woods full of game. And how do they repay us? While you’re all starving, the pagans are feasting on boar and mutton! While you go thirsty, they get drunk on fine wine!”
The crowd murmurs in agreement, though looking at the gathered townsfolk, I’m certain they’d have no idea what to do with a fertile field or a hunting forest. The fields and pastures south of Loudborne lay fallow until the Iutes settled them, not through some deceit or mischief of Pascent’s, but because there weren’t enough people left in the surrounding villages to till them.
Not that any of it matters to the swaying crowd. As Wortimer agitates them further, I fear they will soon rush at the Iutes and force them out of the Forum camp.
“The Council tells us they’re there to protect us,” Wortimer continues, “but have you seen them fight anyone? The bandits are still in the forest; my brother’s body still lies unburied, unavenged. What good are these pagans for?”
“These city people are no fools,” Fastidius says. “He’s been here every week, and never managed to rouse more than a few shouts from them. They know better than to try to get rid of the Iutes. They need them. Who else is going to buy all those shoddy wares, those cracking pots, snapping ropes and chafing cloth they can’t pawn to other Britons anymore? Some of them have even grown fond of those stews the Iutes brew…”
He tries to sound reassuring, but I can see he’s just as worried as I am. He’s glancing around, looking for the city guards, but there are only a couple of armed men standing at the crossroads, and they’re both wearing the V-armbands. He mutters a swear word.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he says. “Don’t do anything rash.”
He rushes off towards Wortigern’s palace. My skin rises in goose bumps. Has he seen something in the crowd I can’t spot yet? I reach for the hilt of the seax at my belt, but it does not bring solace: there’re maybe fifty people gathered here, all increasingly angry and frustrated. What could I possibly do against them alone — and should I even try? They’re only confused city folk, not enemy warriors…
Wortimer’s voice rises to new heights. He’s now shifted to accusing the Iutes of pillaging and stealing from the villas, of fighting in the streets, of, perhaps, who knows, he has no evidence but he wouldn’t be surprised, killing decent, God-fearing Britons. This falls on fertile ground: in the city with too few guards, and far too many people, crime is an everyday occurrence. Everyone here knows someone whose house was plundered, or whose relative was beaten up in a dark alley by perpetrators unknown. The crowd heaves and totters at his every word, every gesture. I see, across the Forum, the Iutes have gathered at their stands, watching the Britons from a distance. I can’t see their faces, but I imagine their worried frowns.
Something is happening. Wortimer changed his tone; he no longer waves his fist in the air, instead he’s pointing at something. The crowd shimmers and parts, following his gesture, and in the gap I see what it is they’re all looking at: an old, bearded Iute, a heavy sack on his back, trying to sneak past the angry Britons along a ruined brick wall.
“There’s one of them!” somebody in the crowd cries. “What’s that in his sack?”
“It’s his spoils!” reply the others. “He’s robbed somebody! He’s a thief — they’re all thieves!”
They close in on the old man, still not daring to assault him, their faces twisted in anger, their fists clenched. “Please,” the Iute cries in bad Briton, “I — don’t know —”
A clump of mud flies in his direction, missing his head by a few inches. This is too much for me to bear. I draw my sword and run up to position myself between the Iute and the crowd. The sight of cold steel calms some of them down, but it’s not enough. More mud flies towards us, mixed with gravel and broken tiles. I shield the Iute from the missiles with my body. A stone, or a piece of brick, hits my shoulder, drawing blood.
“Wortimer, you bastard,” I yell, “call your mob off before somebody gets hurt!”
He laughs. “They’re not mine, Ash. They’re just worried, law-abiding citizens! You’re the one protecting a criminal.”
“Criminal?” I grab the Iute’s sack despite his protests, and empty its contents onto the pavement. It’s full of all sorts of filth: animal bones with specks of rotting meat still on it, torn pieces of old parchment, shards of broken pottery, bits of metal, rusted and twisted beyond recognition.
My eyes water. I’m reminded of the old man, my surrogate father, rooting for similar refuse in the hypocaust. I know all of this is treasure to somebody as deprived as the old Iute. Many in the crowd are taken aback by this display of wretchedness. Many, but not all.
“He’s been rooting in our waste! What else did he find there? I don’t want some dirty Saxons so near my house!”
They come still nearer. A few of them are holding clubs. Wortimer is silent now, letting the tension he’s built bubble over on its own. He can’t be seen to agitate against me — my position at the court is too prominent for that. Still, he’d be only too glad to see me torn limb from limb by the mob that, he would claim, got out of control.
I lunge forwards and wave my sword at one of the club-wielding men. He pulls back, trips and falls on his arse. The crowd around him laughs. I use the distraction and push the Iute out of the way, towards his compatriots. “Run,” I tell him. “Don’t look back.”
The mob spots this and now turns against me. More stones, mud and rotten vegetables flies at my head. Just as the men with clubs prepare to charge at me, I hear the sound of a battle horn.
A detachment of city guards runs from the direction of the palace, brandishing spears and swords, with Fastidius in tow. By the time they reach the Forum, the crowd is gone. So is Wortimer — and the old Iute. Only the pile of refuse remains, strewn by the wind across the cracked pavement.
After the basilica, the praetorium, the old palace of Londin’s governors, raised on the river bank to the west of the Bridge Gate, is the second greatest Roman building in the city. And just like the basilica, it is half-ruined.
The old main hall, where Wortigern set up his throne room, still stands proud, though leaning slightly to one side, with holes in the tiled roof and windows on the unused top floor all boarded up. Of the two wings, only the eastern one remains, where the Dux had a home made for himself and his family. The west wing was dismantled already in Rome’s day. Wind now blows among the fallen columns and rubble.
Wortigern’s throne room doubles as the debate hall when the Council gathers for its sessions. It is going to be busy tonight. It’s not difficult to guess the topic of discussion. There is only one matter anyone who’s anyone in Londin could be talking about.
I take my seat at the back of the hall, by the wall, far from the debating table, and watch the Councillors arrive. The only other people who sit with me are a couple of foreign traders waiting to present their gifts to the Dux, and a scribe, taking notes of the proceedings. At the opposite wall sits Fastidius, representing the Church, Brutus, a centurion of the palace guards, and another man whom I haven’t seen here before, a trader by the looks of him.
Of the dozen nobles and wealthy merchants who form the Council, those who live the nearest to the praetorium will arrive late, forcing the others to wait for them, to underscore their high status. They belong to the oldest and most respectable of the city’s clans, and it is for the others to wait for them, not the other way around. Most of the Councillors have s
econd houses in the suburbs, south of the river, where they live away from the squalor and noise of the inner city; but all come to stay in the central district, between the palace and the Forum, when the Council is in session.
I have neither a villa in the suburbs, nor a house in the city. I reside with my servants on the top floor of the Bull’s Head, a large tavern straddling the eastern side of the Cardo, the main north-south road linking the Bridge with the Forum. It is a respectable establishment, serving those of the Dux’s guests for whom there’s not enough room at the palace. But that happens rarely, so most days I have the tavern pretty much to myself, and then it feels almost as if all of it was my home.
The Dux himself enters last, wearing a woollen cloak of Imperial Purple and a bejewelled silver diadem on his head. His only remaining son takes the seat to his left. Wortimer seeks me out in the dark and casts me a look full of mocking scorn. The chair to Wortigern’s right is empty.
“Lords Councillors,” the Dux begins and waits for the nobles to fall quiet. He nods at the foreign traders: “And other esteemed guests. I believe we all know why I’ve gathered you all here today.” He sits down and sighs heavily before continuing. “A year ago we asked the Iutes to send us their best men to settle near our great city and defend our subjects. I believe it is time to assess how well they have fared in this task.”
“And you’re certain they were provoked to this by Father Paulinus?” asks Wortigern after Fastidius ends reading his report on the events in Beadda’s village.
“The witnesses all agree.”
“Witnesses!” Wortimer scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Ash is the only one who was there, and he’s practically one of them.” He spits out the last word like a curse.
“There were also locals from Saffron Valley at the Mass. Britons,” Fastidius adds and looks apologetically in my direction. I’m a Briton, my eyes tell him. I know, his eyes say back. “They confirm Fraxinus’s report.”
The Saxon Spears Page 24
