An hour passed, and Connor’s voice grew raw as Mannus listened intently. A hero was born and grew up, faced enemies and obstacles, finding rewards and sorrows alike. The tale was driving towards climax, and Connor sang with renewed energy, ignoring the pressure in his throat. There was only the rhythm and the words and the sound, the transformation of air into poetry within his chest.
But even then, Mannus jumped to his feet and pointed towards the trees. Connor saw it too – the movement of golden hair through the shadows of the wood. His song halted, dissipating into the spring air.
“It’s Grania!” Mannus said, already up and walking past him. “Come on.”
Connor had not seen if it was Grania or not, but he knew that if anyone could recognize the sunlight on the golden hair of the girl at such a distance it would be Mannus. Connor moved to catch up to his friend’s earnest strides. The boy was not running – that would not do –but he might as well have been.
“I stood behind her as we gathered last Sunday,” Mannus whispered. “She smiled at me. I’m going to marry her one day – you know, when I’m a man.”
Grania had always had power over Mannus, as long as Connor could remember. She was one of the prettiest children in the settlement – with eyes more blue and skin more fair even than her two older sisters, who had already grown into beautiful young women. But there was more to her than this – there was an air about her, a way, a quality of spirit. And though Connor was not yoked to her as Mannus seemed to be, he treasured her glances and her attention. And so Mannus’s frequent assertions that Grania would one day be his wife always galled Connor and made him testy. But Connor did not have time to make a retort without Grania hearing him; if that was she they had glimpsed walking within the trees. Connor reigned in his pride and held his tongue, and the exercise in virtue obscured the cold fact: whether the little girl grew up to love him or his friend, Mannus would inherit the wealth to support her. But Connor was only the fatherless ward of monks. He had nothing.
Mannus led him into the woods at the base of the hill. Connor reached to catch the branches as they snapped back from Mannus’ grasp. They rounded the base of a broad oak and stopped.
It was Grania, her braided hair falling down the back of her white linen dress and the forest light playing on her wispy form.
But Mannus’s merry greeting died on his lips as she turned towards him. Her face was flushed red and there were angry tears in her eyes. The furrow of her brow changed when she saw him to a look of imploring sorrow.
Connor quickly saw why. They had been in such haste to reach her, and had thrashed through the brush so noisily that they had not heard the voices. Grania stood with her fists at her sides, and Eogan, Colin, and Foin stood across from her. Eogan – the oldest and biggest of the three brothers – held a lamb roughly in his arms, clutching it to him every time it tried to break free. When he saw Mannus the wicked smile on his round face broadened.
“This lamb wandered off from my father’s flock! I have been searching for him, and finally found him, but these three grabbed him out of my hands and will not give him back! They mean to steal him!”
The words spilled in rapid succession from Grania’s mouth, and as they did the tears at the outrage welled up in her eyes anew. She was only nine, and the loss of the lamb to the ruffians was not something her family could afford easily. Eogan’s smile grew once more, and his skinny brother Foin began to laugh. Connor could see it was not the lamb they really wanted, though he was not surprised to find the three stealing. Rough as he was, the twelve-year-old Eogan was not immune to the girl’s charms. His cruelty was a fool’s way of controlling Grania’s attentions. Maybe he would have given the lamb back, eventually, and maybe he would not have; but Connor knew the entrance of Mannus had changed everything.
Even as Connor was reasoning that it might be wiser for him and Mannus to turn and go, before they added wind to the fire, Mannus strode forward.
“Give her back the lamb,” Mannus demanded. The three boys laughed, and Connor almost laughed with them; for to see the small-framed Mannus push up to the three bigger boys that had so often beat him, stolen from him, and humiliated him, was almost absurd. But it took bravery –the kind of bravery the stories were about, Connor thought; and he had never seen Mannus be this brave before.
“The lamb is on our property,” Eogan said. “It’s ours. It’s going to make a fine supper for us and our Da. We’ll send you the bones.”
“This is not your land,” Mannus said. “Your father forfeited it to mine years ago to pay his heavy debts. Your boundary stone is half a mile that way.”
Eogan thrust the bleating animal into Foin’s grasp and stepped forward until he stood over Mannus. His brother Colin was right behind him. Despite himself, Mannus balked and backed away a few steps. Eogan pursued.
“This has always been my family’s land. And we’ll have it again, one way or the other. And we’ll graze our sheep on it whenever we damn well please until then. And we’ll take anything we find on it. Now get out of here, before I pound the life out of you and take your whole flock.”
Mannus did not move. Connor stepped up beside him.
“Listen, Eogan,” Connor said reluctantly. “The lamb is not yours. Give it back to the girl.”
“Who asked you, No Name?” Eogan bellowed. “This is between this rich bastard and us; not some landless, singing orphan.”
Connor let the words slide by, but he could see Eogan growing more aggressive, fueled by his two brothers, Mannus’ fear, and the effect he was having on Grania. There was no going back. Connor put his hand on Mannus’ shoulder and drew him away. Eogan instantly moved in, but Connor met him. Eogan was two years older, but Connor was nearly as big.
“You’re a trespassing, lying thief,” Connor said. “You call me ‘No Name’, but I call you ‘Nothing’.”
Eogan lunged and clinched, driving his chest into Connor and pushing him back with his weight. His brothers cheered and began to move around him. Connor knew what was coming, and slid his left leg out as Eogan tried to hook his ankle. He quickly pivoted to the side and swung his fists as Eogan’s now-unopposed momentum bounded forward. He connected three times before following the boy down to the ground. Straddling his back, Connor pounded away as Eogan tried to cover up.
But Eogan’s brothers were not long in coming to his rescue. Colin ran forward, knocking Mannus back with a hard right before jumping on Connor. Foin cast his captive aside and jumped into the fray.
To Connor it was like a whirlwind of weight and fists, elbows, and kicks. But Connor had been in this kind of fight before; and though he could not remember much of his past before coming to live with the monks, he knew that the pain of a blow was only so much. Their force dissipated in his dense body, the pain only a dull sensation until the battle rush would again subside. Connor pushed into Colin as he made ready to kick, taking him down. He kicked Foin between the legs as he leapt at them. Colin went slack after five blows to the head, and Connor turned just in time to meet Eogan. He absorbed the punches he could on his arms, and let loose a furious barrage. His punches landed, pushing the older boy back. Finally, Eogan fell, covering his bleeding and swollen face. The fight was over.
Eogan struggled to his feet. Mannus pushed past him, wiping his own blood with his sleeve. He picked up the lamb gently in his arms and handed it to Grania. The creature was trembling in terror, but appeared unhurt. Grania smiled as she held the lamb to her, trying to comfort it.
“Thank you Mannus,” she said. “You are very brave.”
But if she ever thanked Connor, he did not hear her, for the air was suddenly filled with shouted curses as a man thrashed through the thicket towards them.
The three brothers rose, their mouths open in apprehension as Gannog, their father, strode up. He was a broad shouldered man, with sun-burned skin and hairy arms, and a wooly brown beard. His frame carried the thick muscles of a farmer, though the jug in his hand and red in his face showed more t
ruly what he had become. He took another swig and the amber liquid sprung from his mouth and down his filthy beard. Ois qi baha – The Water of Life they called it, and to Gannog it was all that life was. And everyone in the settlement knew that when he was drinking he was a very dangerous man.
“So, three sons of mine beaten by an orphan?” he growled. “By the ward of those queer monks?”
Eogan opened his mouth to protest, lie, apologize; but he never got the chance. Gannog backhanded him with such force that Connor winced. The boy fell to his knees and despite himself began to weep silently.
“Get up!” his father roared through a wet throat. “All of you get back to the flock. I’ll have words with you when I get home.”
Mannus touched Connor’s shoulder. Grania moved behind him, still clutching her prodigal lamb. The three sons of Gannog ran off, towards their own farm. Though his face burned and his body ached from the blows they had landed, Connor could not help but feel bad for them. Gannog spit curses at them as they ran. Then, he turned slowly around, eyeing Connor, Mannus, and Grania with bloodshot eyes. He took another swig from his jug. Suddenly he lurched three steps forward, his expression darkening and the fire in his eyes conflagrating. The violence of his face moved from all the children to focus just on Connor, then on Mannus, and then finally it rested on Grania.
“Connor?” Mannus said, touching his shoulder. Then he turned and ran, pulling Grania behind him.
Gannog bounded forward after the two.
“Stop!”
It was not what Connor shouted, but how he shouted; for the druids of Eire knew that the voice had power, beyond words, beyond the physical strength of the speaker. Gannog obeyed, looking at the boy in stupefaction.
Then his mind cleared.
“How dare you talk to me? You are a wretch so worthless that your whore mother abandoned you, and your father would not even use you as a slave. You may have got lucky against my sons – they are weak and I will punish them for it – but I will break your neck, boy, and use your rotting body as a scarecrow.”
“Leave us alone,” Connor said, trying to keep his courage close, though it was quickly slipping away from him. There was true violence in the drunkard’s eyes, and Connor feared to give ground before Mannus and Grania were safely away.
“We have done nothing wrong.”
“You still yap at me? Has no one told you to respect your elders – your betters? Well, you will respect my hand!”
Still Connor did not move.
Gannog roared in rage as he reared his fist back. Connor bent his knees and made ready to bolt to the left.
“That is enough.”
Connor and Gannog both turned towards the sound of the voice. Titus Vestius Laterensis pulled back his hood as he stepped out of the shadows of the ash trees. He regarded Gannog with cold eyes and a withdrawn countenance as he rested both hands on the cross-shaped walking staff he must have recently fashioned.
“You must be the Roman,” Gannog spat. “Does the mainland now have so many beggars that it sends them to us?”
“I am Brother Titus Vestius Laterensis. I am a messenger of Christ. This boy is a ward of the Church. He is not yours to discipline.”
The priest gestured to Connor to come with him.
“I owe the boy a thrashing,” Gannog said, moving to cut Connor off. “He’s going nowhere until I’m finished.”
“I watched the whole thing,” Titus said. “The boy did nothing wrong. Now, please, you are drunk and in no position to discipline anyone. You will excuse us.”
Gannog’s rage intensified.
“You may be used to running things. But here in Eire, Roman rule has no power. You never conquered us! And your new god is nothing but pig shit.”
“You will be silent, and you will let us pass,” Titus said. The level of his baritone voice did not change, but it held an authority and a warning that Connor had seldom heard. He pulled Connor behind him, handing him his staff. As he did Gannog moved in so close that Connor could smell the reek of alcohol and sweat. He dwarfed the Roman, not just in height, but in body mass. For a moment it appeared that Gannog would be content to continue his intimidation and his insults. His face was almost slack and his eyes clouded as he stood still.
Then the sunlight flashed on the iron of his knife blade.
Gannog lunged.
Titus turned, moving out of the way of the thrust. He caught the arm, pulling with the weight of his whole body, as he checked Gannog’s forward leg. The drunkard fell forward, and Titus rode him down, driving his knee into the small of his back and bracing the trapped arm against his shoulder. Gannog screamed as the priest applied pressure. The knife fell from his grip as his ligaments began to stretch and the joints to crack.
“Should I break your arm?” Titus asked, his voice slow and grave. “Should I pull your shoulder out of place? How will you work? How will you plant your crops? Should I move to your leg next and rend your knee?”
Gannog screamed again.
“You are a murderous, black-hearted man,” Titus continued. “And yet, Our Lord would forgive you. And so shall I.”
He released Gannog’s arm and stood up, swiftly moving away lest Gannog should find his courage again. But the drunken man did nothing but roll to his back and cover his face with his hands.
“Come, let us go,” Titus said. “Hibernian, thank my God that He is merciful, and for that I did not harm you. When you are sober we will speak again.”
Titus took his staff back from Connor. Connor looked back to Gannog, who had climbed up to his hands and knees but made no move to follow them.
“The boy, your friend, is a coward,” Titus said as they emerged from the woods.
“No,” Connor said. “I was supposed to run, too. I just didn’t.”
“You were too proud. ‘Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ I am thankful that I came when I did; for I fear that man would have caused you serious harm.”
Connor said nothing. He had recognized the hatred in Gannog’s eyes. He knew that he had been in danger. But it seemed that the priest was suggesting that he should have fled. Connor could not do that.
“You are a strong boy,” Titus continued. “But you have no technique. You only won that fight because you weathered the storm of blows and kept swinging back. That is how a barbarian fights. What if they had weapons? Where would your bravery have taken you, then?”
“How long had you been watching?”
“Since you confronted the three boys. Brother Dervel asked me to go find you, and told me where to look. I was eager to stretch my legs; and I think they were eager to be rid of me for a while.”
Connor was about to protest politely, but Titus raised his hand.
“How did you do that back there?” Connor said instead.
“He was drunk, slow. I could read his intention before he even moved. The Lord protected us.”
“But you beat him so quickly. There was nothing he could do to you. Were you really going to break his arm?”
“Another time I would have.”
“But he’s so much bigger than you.”
“It does not matter. I applied the strength of my whole body against the strength of his one isolated part of his. And so I used strength against weakness. Once I had him, all his strength could not help him. It is part of the science of combat, an ancient way the Greeks call Pankration.”
“You learned that as a priest?”
“I was not always a priest.”
“You were a warrior, then?” Connor said, the fabled idealization of Romans springing back into his mind; for if this small, aging man could so easily defeat one of the most feared men in the settlement, then what could an army of them do?
But Titus said nothing.
“Why do you not answer me?”
“Why do you ask so many questions? Why do you speak to your elders as if they were your equals? As if they owed you explanations? In that respect the drunken Pagan was
right to be angry with you. But I suppose that the Brothers have been too lax on you because you were not their own. Now that you are so nearly grown up there will probably not be time to teach you real manners.”
“I do not see why you will not tell me,” Connor said. The man apparently had come to tell them everything they were not doing right, but was now unwilling to tell him of the one thing he did want to hear about.
“Very well. Yes. I was twenty-five years under the eagle of Rome. I fought in her legions when I was young and sinful. But Pankration I learned from my father and my grandfather. When my grandfather had been a young man he had competed in the Olympic Games, so he was an excellent man to learn from. I broadened what I knew when I fought beside the foederati mercenaries of the Sarmatians, the Sueves, even the Huns. But battles are not won by individual fighting skill. Battles are won with the strategy, and with the shield wall – with every man knowing his job and every man trusting the men beside him to do theirs. Discipline wins on the field, and that is what has made the Roman Army succeed wherever Roman diplomacy may fail. But you barbarians celebrate your individual prowess and are out for your own glory, and that is why we almost always defeated you. Unity is a concept you do not understand, and so the power of your individuals combines to make your collective weak.”
Connor did not like being called a barbarian, whatever that word might mean, and resented the insinuation that Rome would have conquered Eire if it had wanted to. Everyone in the land knew that would not happen – Eire was blessed. But he did not interrupt as Titus began again.
“Until recent years. Now the Romans are too rich and lazy to fight their own battles, and we rely on the barbarians to do it for us. It is often hard to tell the difference when the hordes meet on the battlefield. Even when I was in – almost a dozen years ago now – only a fifth of the empire’s forces where of Rome and the central Roman states. Citizens spurn the army now, as they spurn every kind of discipline. They pursue only their own wealth, their own desires, their own sinful pleasures. Even now that we are fraught with enemies on every side, now that even our great eastern army was crushed by Goths, and the Emperor himself fallen on the battlefield, they have not learned God’s lesson.”
The Songs of Slaves Page 2
