The Songs of Slaves

by David Rodgers

  “Rome was defeated? The Emperor killed?” Connor asked.

  “A great portion of the army of the East and one of the Emperors,” Titus said, starring ahead to the trees, a frost of bitterness forming in his voice. “Yes. Perhaps our greatest defeat –but not the first and not the last. Now we seem to be constantly at war. And when we are not at war with barbarians, we are at war with each other. Brother against brother, until there is no rest in the land but the roving and raiding of armies. I lost my wife and son that way. I was twenty-four years old. I was a strong and brave legionnaire, marching in the ranks of a mighty army. But where were we? Hundreds of miles away in Gaul, fighting against other Roman legions in a dispute between two powerful consuls. We were fighting each other while the enemy was killing our people and stealing our wealth.”

  “Rome is falling then?” Connor asked. He knew well enough of raiding and rivalries between clans. In Eire it was a way of life. But he had only experienced skirmishes and quick raids bent on theft; not the widespread terror that the priest was describing.

  “No,” Titus said. “Prune the tree down to nothing, but it will still spout new growth. Man is no different. No, Rome still lives. May it live forever.”

  “But it is poor?”

  A short laugh escaped Titus. “No. The barbarians are so taken by their sudden wealth that it never takes them long to lose it. Gold finds its way back into Roman coffers even before the hordes head back north.”

  Connor shook his head. The priest made little sense to him.

  “You see, Rome is not just a city,” Titus explained. “It is not just buildings or gold in a chest. Rome is a system – a system of economics and taxation, of roads and waterways, of alliances and offices. The Emperor does not even live in Rome, but in Ravenna; with another Emperor in Constantinople. An army taking a single city – no matter how important that city may be – cannot destroy the empire.”

  Connor nodded.

  “But there is one thing that can. Indeed, one thing that is.”

  “What?”

  “Sieging armies learned long ago that the mightiest wall cannot hold if you undermine its foundations. The citizens of the Empire see the system as being the most important thing. It is what gives them their wealth, their comfort, their order. But most do not realize that the system’s strength does not come from itself, but from the ideals that it was based on. What is it that elevates man? Is it his search for wealth and comfort? Even the animals do that, in their way. No. It is thought and reason, knowledge and piety. Justice, Temperance, Courage. Rome was made great by its laws, and by its philosophers. Before Christ came to show us the truth, men still yearned for it, searched for it with every part of their being. And what elevated man elevated man’s empire, until it was raised so far above the tribes shivering in the cold that they could only envy us. But now, like the barbarians, our own people think that it is the wealth they should envy – not the wealth of spirit that made the material wealth possible in the first place. But I waste my breath. I can see that you are not listening.”

  Connor was listening, but he did not understand. They were nearing home. Connor headed for a tall ash tree at the edge of the clearing.

  “I left my javelins over there,” he said. “I was hunting today.”

  “But you caught nothing.”

  “No.”

  “Did you try?”

  “Yes,” Connor said, realizing that he had not.

  “Just porridge or bread for supper tonight. I will be grateful to God, nonetheless.”

  Connor shook his head. Why was the priest trying to shame him for not hunting? But he then thought of the others who were depending on him. He had let them down, too.

  “Teach me to fight like you do,” Connor said.

  Titus stopped, and looked almost angry.

  “I am a priest of the Church,” Titus said. “I come to you ready to teach life-giving doctrine. And when you had learned that, I could educate you in the ancient works of philosophy – Aristotle, Plato, Cicero, Emperor Aurelius, and all the others. I could teach you to read, and to speak Latin and Greek. I could teach you mathematics, logic, and rhetoric. But you look past all these things, and instead ask to be taught to fight? So that you might advance your simplicity and ignorance, and get into brawls with those you should be seeking peace with!”

  “Teach me to fight,” Connor said again. He did not know what many of these other things were, or why Titus should be so impassioned about them.

  “No,” Titus said. “I will not teach you to use your body for violence if you will not learn to use your mind for something better.”

  “I will then,” Connor said. “Teach me these other things, too, if you want. But teach me to fight.”

  “And you will learn willingly?”

  “Yes.”

  Titus placed his hands on Connor’s shoulders and looked hard at him. The priest’s gray eyes seemed to smolder, but Connor stared back into them.

  “Very well,” Titus said at last. “I accept you as a pupil. But you will learn the arts of the mind first. Every day that I am content with your progress, I will teach you a little of Pankration. If I am not pleased with your progress in either discipline I will release you. Do you understand? You will have to work very hard. You will have to work every day. And you will have to be diligent in your other duties – I do not want to eat porridge when I smell meat cooking on the fires of those around us. Do you agree to these terms?

  “Yes,” Connor said. And he felt that he was entering into a solemn pact.

  “Bind on it,” Titus said. Connor did not understand what this meant, but Titus gripped his right wrist, shaking arm to arm in the manner of the Imperium.

  “Let us return,” Titus said. “It is growing late.”

  They made for home without saying another word. The gray cloud wafting from the smoke holes of the huts dissipated into the twilight sky. Titus had not yet made a convert, but he had accepted his first student. And Connor had found his teacher.

  II: Hibernia, Late Summer, 408 AD

  The sun broke the crest of the mountain, dawning light into the gloomy wood below. Connor welcomed its warmth on his face. He had slipped into the forest long before dawn, as the others still lay in drink-deepened sleep. Now, hours later, he bent his head forward and dug his heels into the damp ground as he drug the slain beast behind him.

  The boar was not the biggest he had ever seen, but even gutted it weighed nearly as much as he did. The litter he had lashed from sturdy branches lifted much the animal’s weight off the ground, but pulling it out of the forest was daunting task even for the strong. Connor did not think of the work as the ropes bit into his shoulders. He was content that the hunt had been successful. He had found his prey and slain it with a single javelin throw, even as the angry male charged at him. Mannus and Grania would now have their wedding gift – the only one that he could give them, unless they wanted Latin lessons, he mused. Once the preparations were done, they would have fresh meat for now and salted pork and cured sausages for weeks to come, and trade what they could not use.

  It was the least that he could do. Not only had Mannus always been his good friend, but he and Grania both had treated him like a guest of honor at the wedding feast last night. He had stood off to Mannus’s side as the young man had his hand bound to Grania. Four virgins in white stood in the four directions, guarding against any mischief from the spirit world and ushering in luck and prosperity on the new man and wife. Dervel had performed the ceremony, but all noticed that Mannus’s father had a druid standing by. His family name and fortune were too important to not have recognition from all gods and men. Afterwards, the entire village had feasted on lamb, calf, and venison; bread, butter, and honey; ale and of course mead flowing endlessly, until night fell and the dancing began. Connor had been at Mannus’s side when the beaming groom’s father had gifted him the fine, milk-white stallion. Such a well-muscled and spirited animal Connor had never seen before. Mannus scrambled up
into the saddle and rode it around proudly; but then dismounted.

  “You ride him, Connor,” he had said. “You are a natural with horses. Show us what he can do.”

  Connor needed no encouragement, but leapt up in the saddle and let the incredible beast find his pace as much as he dared in the failing light. It had been like flying.

  Connor had expected to feel the familiar pang in his chest in knowing that Grania was once and for all marrying his friend and not him. In truth, when he saw her in her white dress, with flowers woven throughout her hair and the hems of her garments, and with the radiant light of a young woman totally happy and in love; he had never been more affected by her. But at the same time, when he saw the lovers have their hands fasted together and saw their eyes lock – their souls lock – all he wanted was their happiness. Grania was for Mannus. That was the way it was supposed to be. Whatever envy may have been in him left him for good; but as the moon-cast night slipped by and the revelers danced around the bonfire, Connor felt an emptiness take its place. It was nothing close to bitterness, only the strong sense that he did not know what he was doing or where he really belonged.

  Again Connor adjusted his burden, and let his mind wander to what Titus had said the night before. Connor was happy that the old priest had returned from his missions inland. It had been a year or more since he had left, and Connor could not help but notice how the time had changed him. Despite himself, the proud Roman had accepted the vertical tonsure line that marked a holy man in Eire. “Less explaining this way,” he had responded gruffly. But beyond that, the years were definitely catching up with Titus Vestius Laterensis. His frame was leaner than it had ever been, and was starting to bend and to bow; his long hair was completely gray; and he had a hoarse cough that would seize hold of him. He had stood at the edge of the crowd, a look of mild disapproval on his stern face. Undaunted by his teacher’s ubiquitous austerity, Connor had greeted him with an embrace. The old priest showed him the books that he was carrying – two leather-bound volumes of finely pounded sheep skin pages.

  “This is the Gospel of Mark,” Titus had said. “And this is the Gospel of John. They are made here, in Eire, by my disciples in Lothnehara.”

  “I have never seen such a thing,” said Connor tracing the Greek script. Indeed he had not. Not only was the script uniform and vibrant on the delicate pages, but the new monks had ornamented the pages with colored pictures, swirling symbols, and intricate designs.

  “It’s a beginning,” Titus said. “There are men of your people that have a gift for printing. Who knew, since your countrymen hardly write at all except for fencepost-like tallies and cue words? But I should have seen it long ago, in your art! It was all around me, and yet I did not understand it.”

  The crack of a branch well off to his right brought Connor back to the present. He stopped and turned, trying to see what had made the noise. It was only then that he realized that he had heard no other sound for some time. The forest should have been full of the singing of birds of the scurrying of squirrels, as its inhabitants searched for food in the morning light. But the only sound was coming from his right, and as he listened he knew that it was the sound of two or three men walking in attempted stealth. Perhaps it was a pair of hunters, taking advantage of the lull in work that the wedding feast had provided. For a moment Connor thought of going towards them, to see if it might be friends of his. But as the sun cut through the shadows, Connor saw a momentary flash – the reflection of light on iron.

  Connor let the litter down and crouched close to the earth. The flash might have been a javelin head, or the hilt of a knife. None of that would have been out of the ordinary. And yet, a strong sense of misgiving squeezed his heart. He dipped his body lower into the brush, slowed his breathing, and watched.

  Three shadows emerged, crouching low and moving carefully. Connor’s eyes were drawn instantly to the naked blades of their long swords. He drew in a breath, trying to stifle his alarm. His pulse began to beat wildly; pounding with such force that he feared the men would hear it. For a second, Connor took the men as cattle raiders – men from a nearby clan who would try to carry away whatever livestock or moveable wealth they could lay their hands on. But even as the thought registered, he knew that this was not true. As his eyes moved away from the long swords to the large frame of the men; their straw-colored hair and thick beards – and above all, their heavy coats of chain mail that hung down to the corded muscles of their thighs – he knew it was much worse than that.

  These were not thieves from a neighboring clan, looking to grab some unguarded goods. These men were foreigners, outsiders from the sea. They had not come just for some cattle. They had come for everything. And they were not alone.

  Screams broke through the valley, some of terror, others of rage, carried on the wind. The raiders began to run towards the settlement, brandishing their swords in the air and slinging their round shields into position. Their stealth was gone. They crashed through the forest, hungry to join the attack.

  Connor leapt up, freeing himself from the ropes that bound him to the litter. He grabbed his javelins and raced towards home.

  His weariness was forgotten. He rushed through the thickets, heedless of the branches that snagged at him. His village had never been attacked from the sea before in living memory, but Connor had heard the tales of those who had. They came rushing to the fore of his mind, screaming to him to run faster. Whatever happened, he had to reach his family before the ironclad men.

  But the roars and shrieks carried to his ears told him plainly that he was too late. The attack was joined. His only hope was to get whomever he could to safety. The homes and the animals would be at the savages’ mercy. This thought renewed his strength as he burst up the hillside and broke through into open ground.

  Leaving the dark forest behind, he ran towards the huts of the monastery, visible just ahead. They appeared quiet, as if those inside just slept. But as Connor looked down to the beach he could see three dark ships – the biggest by far that he had ever beheld, their wide, square sails still in the sorrowful air. He could see flames emerging from the thatched roves of the village below, springing up one by one to join in a macabre dance. Black smoke rose up to meet the rain clouds as the sounds of ruin joined the chorus of voices from the settlement. At once, the lay of the attack was clear to him. The ships had ridden the storm winds here. They had entered the shallows together, after landing some men – like those he had seen in the wood – just out of sight from the village. Those men had taken to the forest and encircled the settlement, moving in even as the remainder of the men attacked the ring fort. Perhaps the boy who was to guard the gate had slept as the men climbed in; and now Connor could see that the gate was flung open as the men from the sea descended like wolves on the fold. The blaze of fire was bright, as his people – his friends – found their escape cut off by the very palisade and earthworks that were meant to protect them. Yet he could see many managed to flee the village and the farmhouses outside, unaware that more enemies moved in from the forest to intercept them. A great wail grew in Connor’s chest, but he turned it into a roar that pushed him finally to the crest of the hill, within the fences of the monastery.

  Connor lifted a javelin in his right hand, but the hilltop seemed empty. There was no sound from the huts. The doors were all broken into shadow. He turned towards the animal pens, where many of the livestock lay dead or bleated in agony as their lifeblood flowed from hasty wounds. Connor stormed ahead, resisting the urge to call out. He moved towards his hut at the other side of the pen.

  Connor stopped mid-stride. Dervel lay on the wet grass, his arms spread and his eyes towards heaven. His white robes were stained brightest red. Connor fell to his knees, unable to stifle the anguish that split out of his soul. Dervel’s pale face was passive, serene, and lifeless. Connor reached down to close the green eyes, but the lids opened again as the dead priest looked up at him.

  He fought back panic as he leapt to his feet. He
left his guardian, storming ahead through the yawning door. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light, though he knew what he would see. The one-roomed hut was wrecked. The simple furniture was broken, the clay pots shattered, and the clothing and goods strewn on the earthen floor. They had been looking for gold, for valuables, Connor realized. The fools thought that they would find them here, in a lonely church at the edge of the world.

  As Connor moved forward through the gloom, something caught his foot mid-stride. He fell forward over a body on the ground. As he hit the floor his hand felt the coldness of metal – a mail shirt. Connor rolled to his back and tried to bring his javelin up defensively, but the bearded face that stared back at him was as pale as Dervel’s. The raider’s head was angled grotesquely, and one of his eyes was smashed and ruined in its socket. One of his comrades lay beside him, his own long sword impaled in his chest.

  Just beyond them Titus lay. Connor tried to stand, but his strength abandoned him as his eyes took in the sight of his mentor’s corpse. The priest’s head was separated from his body – almost severed – his arms and trunk cruelly hacked. His staff was broken beside him. Connor struggled up and moved towards him. Titus still wore the satchel, as if he were preparing to leave with the books. But now the books were gone, in the red hands of murderers.

  Connor stood up straight. He made the sign of the cross over Titus, as the priest had taught him to do years before.

  Rain hit his face as he emerged again into the open, but it would not be enough to put out the fires below. Connor ran across the clearing to Cumragh’s house, trying to steel his heart for what he may find within. He found it ransacked, but the room was empty of the dead. Connor dared to think – to believe – that Cumragh may have gotten his family out; that he and his fair daughters had not been here when the murderers had come. But what of the men coming in from the forest? Connor ran outside again, looking around wildly. There was no way to tell which way Cumragh had gone. There was no way to know if they would be safe, or if there were any more raiders in the area. Though all had transpired perhaps minutes before he arrived, the hilltop appeared as if it had been hours ago. Connor tried to steady his thinking. If Cumragh and his family were hiding in the forest, there was a chance that they were safe. By now most of the enemy must be converging on the settlement below.