The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  “They were bought off by the Iutes. I’ll have you know, I have my own eyes on that pagan village. I know what’s going on better than anyone.”

  Wortigern lays a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Your opinion is duly noted, son.”

  “Let him have his say, Dux,” one of the Councillors speaks up. “We’ve already listened to one side.”

  It’s proof of how high Wortimer’s prestige in the Council has grown that a Councillor feels safe to openly challenge his father like this. Although Wortigern is, according to the law and custom, only supposed to chair the Council’s proceedings, it’s always been clear his role was more like that of the Imperators of Rome, a leader both in war and in peace. The expression on the Dux’s face is inscrutable. He gives his son a signal to speak up.

  “The people of Saffron Valley are hungry, father,” he starts. “The Iutes took all the game from the woods, all the best fields. The trade is poor because of the bandits — against whom the Iutes do nothing.”

  “This is slander,” I burst. “The Iutes —”

  “Fraxinus, please,” the Dux says, wearily. “You had your say when you reported to Father Fastidius.” He then turns back to his son. “What of Saffron Valley?”

  “I know the Iutes lured them with promise of food and other goods, away from the Mass and the words of the Holy Scripture. Not their own will, but starvation forced them to join in the foul rites in mockery of God.”

  He speaks with the same fiery cadence as before on the Forum. He would make a good preacher, better than Fastidius, maybe even better than Paulinus, if he so chose. The tone of his words, more than their meaning, make the Councillors listen to him with intent. He rises slightly from his chair, lifted by his own rhetoric, when Wortigern again puts a hand on his shoulder, with more force this time.

  “Is this true, Fraxinus?” the Dux asks, piercing me with his eyes.

  “My lord —”

  “Is. This. True.”

  “It’s true that the people in the villages are hungry, and went to the Iutes for meat. But not because of anything the Iutes did —”

  He raises a hand to silence me. “I’ve heard enough. Provoked or not, they have defiled the holy Mass and mocked our faith. Now, it may have been only one incident in a year of peace and cooperation, but it is one of a most serious nature. We all remember what happens when such insolence goes unpunished for too long.”

  The Councillors murmur to each other in agreement. The fear of rebellion still casts a shadow on every decision made in these chambers. Judging by their age, everyone at this table must remember vividly the chaos and bloodshed of those days.

  The merchant sitting next to Fastidius raises his portly body slowly, and with some effort, from the bench. His face is round and jovial, but his eyes are clever and calculating.

  “If I may, my lords.”

  “And you are?” asks Wortimer in the silence that follows.

  “I am Deneus of Caesar’s Market, but my friends call me Dene,” he replies with a trained smile. “I own salt pans and oyster beds on both sides of the Estuary.”

  “Have you been at this Mass?” asks Wortigern.

  “No, I can’t say I have. But I trade with the Iutes on Tanet, as well as the Angles and Saxons up and down the coast and have grown to know them all well. And what I can assure you of is that…” He folds his hands in a pleading manner. “My lords, they were only being facetious. It is their peculiar brand of humour. They meant nothing by that. They mock their own gods, their own chieftains, themselves, all the time. If anything, it was a gesture of affection.”

  “Preposterous!” Wortimer retorts with a scowl. “Affection? They’ve shown their sinful parts to the holy cross! They threw abuse and calumnies of the foulest sort at a priest!”

  Deneus shakes his head. “Believe me, they have nothing but reverence for our gods. On Tanet, they supported the monks in building the monastery…”

  “On Tanet they lived in fear,” says one of the Councillors. “They knew they had to behave, they had to respect our rules and laws. We gave them land, and they’ve grown too comfortable. Out of comfort grew impudence.”

  “We’ve never heard anything wrong from that other village, on Quintus’s land,” opposes another Councillor, the one I used to nickname “Old Squareface” but now know is named Postumus. “Maybe it’s just a few rotten apples?”

  “It only takes one rotten apple to spoil the whole basket!” replies the previous speaker. “We’ve given them a chance — I never agreed to this in the first place, as you remember — and now the time has come for a reckoning. We don’t need those pagans here.”

  “If not them, who will protect our property from the bandits?” scoffs the other. “You, Laurentius?”

  The others at the table think the remark hilarious. They laugh, while the one named Laurentius turns red-faced.

  “I will protect you, Postumus,” says Wortimer. He stands up, staring intently at the Councillors, his hands spread flat on the table. “I have a centuria of men training as we speak. Give me some of your silver, and I will have another centuria ready in a couple of months.”

  Postumus smiles wryly. “At last, the truth is revealed. This is nothing more than extortion. The Romans promised us just the same: give us your money, and we will protect you! But of course, you’re too young to remember that…”

  The Dux leans over, with his elbow on the table’s edge. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t accuse my son of behaving like a Roman Magistrate, Councillor Postumus. I believe his heart is in a good place. He only wants to help, however… misguided his efforts may seem to you.”

  “Father!” Wortimer moans and rolls his eyes.

  “My lords Councillors,” the Dux continues, ignoring his son’s bleating, “I believe we’ve heard all we need to hear. I have my thoughts on this, I’m sure you have yours. It is time now to discuss these thoughts among ourselves, as is our custom.” He looks to me and Fastidius. “Will all who are not members of the Council leave this hall.” He then turns to Wortimer and waits until the boy’s permanent scowl turns into a grimace of fake filial piety. “That means you too, son.”

  “This is bad,” says Fastidius. “Really bad. Did you see their faces when Wortimer spoke?”

  We’re standing on the second floor of what’s left of a gallery of pillars that once linked the central hall with the western wing of the praetorium. Below us spread the remains of the Roman Governor’s rear garden. It’s almost impossible now to imagine how it looked in its heyday. A great lozenge-shaped pool still fills most of the space; a long time ago, according to the drawings I found in the archive, it was filled with fresh water from the Tamesa, and lined with weeping trees and flowering bushes. In the middle of it stood an ingenious machine that spewed water high into the air. Exotic birds kept in cages hanging from the trees sang incessantly throughout the day, as the Governor and his courtiers dined in the sun on the porches and verandas built all around it.

  Now all that is left of the machine is a broken lead pipe sticking out of the pool’s floor. The channel linking it to the river silted up. What water there is comes from the rain puddles and from groundwater, seeping through the cracks in the stone. The trees have all been cut down for firewood; bramble and vine sprawls where the caged birds once sang. There are no porches or verandas: the entire rear wing of the palace was turned to rubble a long time ago by the wrath of some Imperator angry at one of the Governors for some perceived transgression, and never rebuilt.

  “What do you think they will decide over there?” I ask. “They can’t just tell the Iutes to pack up and go back to Tanet.”

  “What would happen if they did?”

  “I don’t know. They are decent people, and know they are only guests here, but… I sparred against Beadda’s warriors, Fastid. There may be only twenty of them, but nothing short of an army would dislodge them if they choose to fight. Certainly not Wortimer’s band of roughs.”

  “This will not stop the Cou
ncil. A threat of rebellion would only provoke them into more serious action.”

  “Surely some of them still support the Iute settlement. They can’t have all changed their minds in a year.”

  Fastidius sighs and gazes at the empty pool. “It was so much easier with Catigern around. A change of an heir means a change in policy, now that the Dux is so old. Most of them have no mind of their own, they will vote for whatever they think will keep them in power longer.”

  “Then, is there any hope?”

  I force my voice not to wobble when I say it. The matter of the Iutes is more personal to me than anyone, even Fastidius, suspects. I have some sympathy to the plight of the settlers in Beaddingatun, my fellow people, but I would not risk my head for their sake. However, what’s also at stake is Rhedwyn’s arrival in Londin.

  I have waited patiently for her to come. A year ago, she was too young for the long journey, too inexperienced in the ways of the Britons to be of any use at Wortigern’s court. But now, according to the agreement between Hengist and Wortigern, she is about to move from Tanet and come to live with us here, in the capital. My dreams were filled with the visions of meeting her again. If the deal with the Iutes is broken, Rhedwyn will stay on the island, forever away from the city… Away from me.

  “There is always hope, while we have strength to play. But, I can’t see a clear way to it.”

  I hear soft-leathered boots on the crumbled stone. I turn, expecting to see a messenger boy with words from the Council — but it’s the oyster merchant, Dene.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve overheard some of your talk,” he says, smiling.

  “Not at all,” replies Fastidius. “If we wanted secrecy, we’d have gone somewhere with a door.”

  Dene comes up to the railing and stares down at the ruined garden. “My father was a Councillor. In times of Vitalinus. I used to come here as a child. There was still water in this pool, enough to wade in, though it was stale and murky.”

  We all keep silent for a while, watching a redbreast leap from twig to twig in the holly bush.

  “You’re a Iute yourself, aren’t you, boy?” the trader asks me.

  “I believe so. I can’t be certain — I was a foundling.”

  He nods. “I like your people. Sometimes, I like them better than my fellow Britons. There’s an honesty about them. No Iute has ever cheated me on trade. I hate to see them treated like this.”

  “There is nothing we can do about it,” says Fastidius. “All is now in the hands of the Council — and God,” he adds, glancing piously towards the heavens.

  “There is, I believe, a way to convince the Council to at least postpone their decision,” Dene replies. “An old procedure — it might not be in use anymore, but this lot doesn’t like changing old ways… You’d just need to find one Councillor willing to present your case before the others.”

  “And what case would that be?” I ask.

  “Give the Iutes one more chance to prove their worth to Londin.”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

  Postumus scratches what little is left of the grey hair on the top of his square head and takes a bite of the honey cake with which we’ve lured him out of the Council meeting.

  “But, you know what the likes of Laurentius will say to that,” he says.

  “I know,” I reply. “That the Iutes are allied with the Saxons. That all fair-haired pagans are the same. I’ve heard it all before.”

  He chuckles and points me out to Fastidius. “He’s no fool, this one. Would make a good Councillor when he’s older.”

  Fastidius smiles and puts another piece of the honey cake on Postumus’s plate.

  “But this is exactly what we would set out to prove, either for or against,” I say. “If the Iutes are in league with Aelle, they can hardly do anything worse than they’re already doing now.”

  Postumus bites on his lip and sucks air through the few teeth he’s got left. “And what makes you so sure they will be able to find those bandits — and if they do, defeat them? From what I’ve heard, they might be as fierce warriors as these Hiréd.”

  “They will find them,” I assure him. “I will personally make sure of it. As for the battle itself…”

  “Whatever happens, the Councillors should be happy with the outcome,” says Fastidius. “If the Iutes win against Aelle, they will prove their loyalty — and rid Londin of a nuisance. If they lose… they will no longer be a problem to anyone.”

  He casts me a silencing glance. I don’t know how much of his cynicism is an act for the Councillor’s sake, and how much of it is real. He’s always been more pragmatic than I ever was, in all matters except those of Faith.

  Postumus chuckles again, but his laugh is more cautious this time. I sense he’s started treating us more seriously — at least Fastidius. He raises one last objection.

  “Wortimer will oppose this idea with everything he’s got. It would ruin his plans.”

  But we’ve thought about that as well. The oyster-trader, Deneus, needed only to prod us in the right direction with his suggestions — the rest was all Fastidius and I, throwing ideas at each other, our minds sparkling, thinking almost as one.

  “He could go with us,” I say. “With this newly trained centuria of his. Prove their mettle, avenge his brother, destroy the pagans in God’s name.”

  “Unless he thinks they’re not fit enough to fight alongside the Iutes, of course,” adds Fastidius. “We’ll understand.”

  “Ho-ho!” Postumus claps his hands, now genuinely amused. “Now you’re talking. I’d like to see the brat’s face when I propose that.” He stands up, picks up the rest of the honey cake, wraps it in a piece of cloth and takes it with him. “Boys, you have found your envoy,” he says. “Leave that to me. If I can’t convince the Council to your idea, no one can.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE LAY OF VERICA

  I spend the first couple of nights outside in the rain, sleeping on the threshold of Verica’s inn, watching everyone come in or go out, learning their faces and, where I can, names. Most of the patrons ignore me. A few throw me scraps of their food. One pelts me with mud and gravel. All of this means my disguise is working.

  In the morning, I enter inside, trembling and wet, dew dripping from the torn hem of my un-dyed, grime-caked tunic. The landlord, Verica, spots me, skulking among the tables.

  “Hey, no beggars here!”

  “I’m not a beggar.”

  I approach the counter and, with shaking hand, take out a silver coin from a leather purse and put it gingerly on the top.

  “I can pay for myself.”

  Verica studies me suspiciously. A silver coin of this quality must be a rare sight in these parts. Even the passing merchants would rather pay with copper — or barter — for the meagre services offered by the inn. For a moment I’m worried he might recognise my face under the layer of mud and dirt. But he’s only ever seen me once, years ago, when I stayed here with Fulco.

  “Where did you steal it from, boy?”

  “I didn’t,” I stammer. “I got it from my Master.”

  He looks around the hall. “And where is your Master now?”

  “De- dead.” My lips wobble.

  He grips my hand tightly. “Who was your Master?”

  “Sya- Syagrius.”

  His face grows gentle. He lets go of my hand, and presses the silver coin back in it. “Keep it, boy. Don’t show off. You can stay in the stables for the night, I’ll bring you some bread later.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “And, boy —”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Better stay away from that bunch in the corner.”

  I bow and retreat deeper into the hall. The ruse worked. Syagrius was a merchant from New Port, ambushed a week ago by the forest bandits, halfway between the bridge on Arn and Verica’s inn. The attack shook the local communities; it was the boldest showing from the bandits in months — and the bloodiest. Six men were known to acco
mpany Syagrius, not counting the slaves. None returned. Everyone along the New Port road was now familiar with Syagrius’s story.

  I search for the men the innkeeper warned me about. There are three of them, all scar-faced Saxons, sitting at a round table and playing knucklebones. Even without the innkeeper’s warning, there’d be little doubt about who they were. Underneath their green-dappled cloaks one wears a thin mail shirt, the other two have leather arm guards; all carry small axes at their waists. The spears stacked in a tripod next to the entrance must belong to them.

  I’m surprised by how easy it was to find the elusive forest men. I’ve heard rumours of them frequenting the roadside inns, but I didn’t expect to stumble on a whole group of them merely two days from Londin’s walls. For over a year Wortimer’s men, tasked with discovering Aelle’s whereabouts, claimed they couldn’t find a clue. It’s taken me less than a week to locate these three warriors.

  The fourth chair at the round table is overturned. I approach cautiously.

  “Missing a player?” I ask, pointing at the chair.

  They laugh. “Yeah, Watt couldn’t take the heat. What’s it to you, slave?”

  I put the silver coin on the pile of copper that is the pool of the wagers. It is another coin — I have several of them in my purse, each wrapped in paper to stop them jingling and bringing unwanted attention. This one has Constantine’s visage on it, and is even heavier than the one I showed the innkeeper.

  Their faces, their entire bodies are drawn towards the shining piece of metal. Unlike Verica, they do not question where I got it from. They are bandits themselves — they recognise a thief when they see one. They could take the coin from me and throw me out into the mud — but I can see in their drunken eyes they’d rather indulge with me as a play thing.

  “You know how to play these?” the one in the mail shirt shakes the cup with the knucklebones.

  “I dabble.”

  “That coin is too much for one wager.”