“The Praetorium was destroyed in a fire a few years ago,” explains Bishop Fastidius; he omits to mention that the fire was started by my father and his Iute warriors as one of the final acts of the Great War. “We haven’t fully rebuilt it yet.”
“You mean you haven’t rebuilt it at all.” The messenger shakes his head. “I know how it is. There are still swathes of Gaul we haven’t recovered since the Huns. Never mind. As long as there are enough of you here to hear what I have to say and decide upon it, it doesn’t matter where we are.”
Fastidius’s gaze sweeps around the gathered Councillors. Our eyes meet and he acknowledges me with a slight nod. Without his vouching, I would never be allowed inside Saint Peter’s, even if I am a son of the Iute king — or maybe because I am one. A few of the Councillors might remember me as the Bishop’s young ward, but I was just one of many students at the Cathedral and didn’t have much chance to make friends among the nobles. A few more would know my father from his Londin days, but that’s not something any of them would want to admit to.
“We’re all here,” says the Bishop. “Say what you’ve been sent to say.”
The messenger unpins his cloak and throws it over the chair, then stands up onto the rostrum which, for the duration of the Council’s meetings, replaces the chapel’s altar.
“My name is Aegidius Syagrius,” he starts. “I am legatus vicarius of Gallia Lugdunensis Prima and Secunda. I was sent here on behalf of Imperator Maiorianus.”
“Maiorianus?” asks one of the Councillors. I know this Councillor as Riotham; he’s a Westerner — a representative of Dux Ambrosius on the Council, and one of the most learned and powerful members of the gathering. If the quarrelling factions ever allowed election of another Dux in the East, he would be the most likely candidate. “What happened to Valentinianus?”
I’m surprised any of the Councillors are able to follow the messenger’s introduction. From what my father told me, Londin nobles paid little interest to what happened beyond the borders of their domain. Clearly, things have changed somewhat since his days at the court.
Aegidius shakes his head. “Valentinianus?” he asks incredulously. “Are you so unaware of what goes on beyond your borders? Next thing you’ll tell me you haven’t heard of Gaiseric the Vandal sacking Rome.”
The news strikes like lightning. Agitated murmurs rise into a rumble, like a southern wind turning into a storm. A sack of Rome — again? I remember my history readings. Forty years ago, the news of an army of Goths sacking the Eternal City triggered the vote that pushed Britannia out of the Empire. Rome was rebuilt after that, and since then great men like Aetius helped to restore some of its power and glory, until the Legions once again marched across Gaul and, at one point, threatened even to take back Britannia — but the Empire never returned to its former greatness.
And now, if the messenger is to be believed, it has happened again — twice in one generation. By someone nobody has even heard about — this “Gaiseric the Vandal”? My father always expected the unstoppable horde of horse archers, the Huns, to be the ones who would bring down Rome one day. Judging from the agitated, confused whispers, few, if any, of the courtiers have ever heard of these “Vandals”. How many more barbarian armies are hiding in the immeasurable forests and steppes of the East?
The Bishop calls for calm. He doesn’t seem as surprised as everyone else. He is the only one who, through his contacts in the Church, would be closely familiar with the events in Rome.
“Bishop!” calls Riotham. “You are aware of this?”
“I did receive the terrible news a while ago, yes,” says Fastidius. “But it didn’t seem something that would be of relevance to the Council…”
“And you were right to think so, your Grace,” says Aegidius. “The city soon recovered, and the Vandals were eventually defeated. My lord Maiorianus beat them back and liberated all of Italia… But it wasn’t the Vandals who wreaked the most destruction throughout the Empire, and it’s not against them that the Imperator is now gathering forces.”
“Who is it, then?” asks Riotham. “The Huns?”
“The Huns?” Aegidius guffaws, genuinely surprised with our ignorance. “No, we dealt with them a long time ago… It is the Goths at Tolosa and their allies, followers of the usurper, Avitus, in Gaul, who are Rome’s enemies. And it is against them that we are looking for your assistance.”
There are blank stares throughout the gathering. This is too much information even for the learned Councillors — but they understand the last sentence all too well.
“Assistance?” one of them asks. “Rome… asks for our help?”
“Yes. Your position is uniquely suitable for what we require.”
“We have no soldiers to spare,” says the Bishop. “You took the last of them forty years ago, if you remember? We have barely enough warriors to defend our own land from barbarians.”
“You should’ve gone to my master, Dux Ambrosius,” says Riotham. “He will gladly share a few centuriae with you — if you can provide the transports.”
“We have been in contact with your Dux, Councillor — as, I note, has the Usurper,” says Aegidius, his voice lowered at the last part of the sentence. “And we are aware of the Council’s precarious situation. We’ve all heard of the terrible losses you suffered from the heathen hordes a few years ago, and how much land you’ve lost to them.” His eyes fall on me, the only fair-hair in the room, and he stares at me far longer than at anyone else. Has anyone told him who I am, or did he single me out just because I don’t look and dress like a Briton?
“We are merely looking for a harbour to refit and resupply our ships for the war in Gaul,” he adds, after a pause. “And Britannia is the ideal place for it. One of the old Classis Britannica harbours on the southern coast would suffice.”
“This is how it always starts,” a Councillor harrumphs. “First a naval harbour, then a fort to defend it, then a road to supply it and, before we know it, the Legions are marching up and down the province again.”
“We don’t do that anymore,” says Aegidius. “We are prepared to officially recognise this Council as rulers of a Free Britannia in exchange for your help. And we would, of course, pay for the use of the harbour.”
He raises his hand. Two slaves enter the chapel with a great iron-bound chest. They open it up and spill the contents on the floor: it’s full of gold and silver coins, jewels and trinkets. The heap raised before the Council is a fortune, even compared to the riches of the city’s wealthiest nobles.
“You cannot buy our freedom with such trinkets,” somebody scoffs.
“Rome has no right to decide who rules Britannia,” intervenes another. I’m guessing he’s been sent here to represent one of the Comites, rulers of Briton tribes surrounding Londin. “The coast belongs to the Cants and the Regins. This Council has no authority beyond the city’s walls.”
“With our help, it might have it again,” says Aegidius slyly.
“Divide et Impera!” one of the men shouts. “This is Rome’s motto! You’d have us fight each other again and then come to pick up the ashes!”
“Please, my noble lords,” Aegidius raises his hands, “I understand your fears. But perhaps, you are misjudging how far Rome’s arms can reach. Winning back Gaul — or what’s left of it — is a difficult enough task. It seems to me that you need some time to decide the answer. I’m willing to wait until Easter. If any of you sirs would have any questions, I’ll be staying on my ship.”
He steps off the rostrum and in confident strides walks past the Councillors, past the heap of gold, and past the Bishop, towards the exit door.
Bishop Fastidius leans down to me and whispers in a conspiratorial tone. “Well, we know how this will end, don’t we?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow…”
I feel an oncoming headache and dizziness. It would’ve been difficult for me to follow Aegidius’s High Imperial tones even without the torrent of new names and events he introduced. I�
�m trying to remember as much as possible for my report before the king’s court, but I feel the details are already fleeing. What was the name of the new Imperator? Maior…inus?
The Bishop raises an eyebrow. “Oh, right. I’m sorry. For a moment there, I thought I was talking to your father.” He sucks air through his teeth. “It’s times like these that I wish we could use his mind on this Council…” He waits until Aegidius leaves the chapel before continuing. “I doubt this is the only chest of treasure he brought with him to Londin. The likes of Riotham or Celanius might scoff at the gold, but not everyone here is as rich as they are.”
“Bribes?” I guess.
“You catch on quickly.” He smiles. “I think you’d better go back to your king and tell him what happened here. If Rome wants a port on the southern coast, the Iutes might end up involved in this whether they like it or not…”
CHAPTER V
THE LAY OF INGOMER
It’s an odd feeling, standing on the deck of a ship as large as Aegidius’s liburna. Though my mind tells me I’m on water, my senses tell me otherwise. The ship doesn’t roll on the ripples of the tide, like a Iutish ceol; if I focus on my feet, I can sense a gentle wobble, but otherwise, it’s indiscernible from walking on dry land.
Aegidius’s cabin is furnished like the finest room in a Londin inn, and the large oaken table at which we meet is stacked with soft bread, several kinds of cheese and meat, some strange sauces in little bowls, small plates of preserved fruit, and pitchers of fine wine.
“I know you,” the legate says. “I saw you at the chapel. Odd fair-haired boy. What were you doing there? Aren’t you too young to be a Councillor?”
“I’m too Iutish to be one,” I reply.
“Iutish,” he repeats, and bites on a piece of cheese in thought. “One of the heathen tribes on this island, isn’t it?”
“Not just any heathen tribe,” I say. “We hold most of the southern coast, in Cantia… Cantiaca.”
My stomach rumbles. He nods at me to sit down and gestures around the table invitingly. I take a piece of chicken — a delicacy which I’ve only ever tried in Londin. I missed its sweet taste.
“What do you mean, hold?” asks Aegidius.
I feel cold. The chicken sticks in my throat. I asked Bishop Fastidius to help me prepare for this conversation; I wanted to impress my father with something more than just a dry report from the Council’s meeting with the Roman messenger. From his tales, I know it’s the sort of thing he would’ve been doing all the time back in his Londin days. If I can’t make him proud of my prowess as a warrior, maybe this, at least, would make him appreciate me more? But now, I’m not certain I can handle the situation, even with the Bishop’s training.
I finally swallow the chicken.
“Whoever it was said the Council has no power outside Londin’s Wall, was right,” I say. “The pagus of Cantiaca is independent of the Council — but the Iutes are independent of the Cants. We have our own land, ruled by our own king, and we man the forts of the Saxon Shore. Dubris, Leman, Rutubi… We control access to the old naval harbours, such as there are.”
“And you are telling me this… why?”
“It just so happens that the king of the Iutes — is my father.”
“I see.” He smiles knowingly. He pours me some of the wine. “I wonder… It’s possible you just saved me a lot of gold — and Lord knows Rome could find a better use for it than bribing some backwater magistrates.”
I gulp the wine and let the alcohol rush through my veins to gain the courage for the next question. Still, it comes out with a stutter.
“Wha-what makes you think dealing with us will be any cheaper?”
He gives me a sour wince. “Leave these things to the adults, boy. I can tell you’ve been prepared for this by someone else. You’re out of your depth! Why don’t you tell me instead where can I find this… king of the Iutes?”
“Robri —” I blurt out. “I mean… I need to know more before I tell you.”
He waves his hands. “Keep your secrets. It can’t be that hard to find out. But you’ve impressed me, and I’ll indulge your youthful curiosity. What do you want to know?”
“What is really going on in Gaul? Why is an Imperator preparing a fleet to attack it? Are there no harbours in Gaul?”
He laughs. “I could explain, but if those educated fools at the Council couldn’t keep up, I doubt you’d understand.”
“Try me.”
He sighs. “Very well.” He stands up and walks up to a map of the Empire, rendered in gold and jewels on the wall of his cabin. “This is Gaul.” He points.
“I know that,” I scoff.
“The Goths, much like your Iutes, I’m guessing, have settled in this corner, around Tolosa and Burdigala, first as allies of the Empire, now rivals,” he says. “The Burgundians, another troublesome tribe of fair-hairs, are here, West of the Alps.”
“That leaves only a narrow corridor to link Italia to Gaul,” I notice.
“You’re quick! Yes, others have noticed that, too… Including the previous Imperator, Avitus. When he was deposed, he fled to Gaul — and to cut off the route of his escape, he granted that narrow corridor, called Lugdunum, to the Goths and the Burgundians.”
“Then it’s a civil war,” I say. “A clash between the Imperators. I’ve read about these things.”
Another of my father’s predictions coming true — the bleeding beast of Rome is eating itself, while Gaul, the jewel in the Empire’s diadem, ruptures into ever tinier splinters.
“Avitus is gone,” Aegidius continues. The way he says it, I can’t tell if the Imperator died of natural causes or was dispatched on the new Imperator’s orders. “Maiorianus’s rule in Rome is unopposed. We just need to pick up the pieces after Avitus’s unfortunate rule. Beat back the Goths, pacify the Burgundians… and take Gaul back from Agrippinus, his magister militum. You’re still keeping up?”
“I… I think so,” I say. I pick up one of the strange, dried fruits: a small, brown disc. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. For a moment, I can’t speak as saliva fills out my mouth.
“Of course, there is something else I haven’t told the Councillors. I saw the way they reacted to any mention of armies and fighting…” He comes up behind me and lays his hands on my shoulders.
“What is it?”
“A good navy harbour is a useful thing to have,” he says, “but what we really need are warriors. Fine barbarian warriors like yourself.” He gives my arm muscles a squeeze.
“Even heathens?”
“God guides the arrow’s shot even from heathen bows. Rome knows full well how useful your kind can be in battle — and how to reward such service.”
“I will… relate all this to my father.”
“You do that, boy.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I’ve got the feeling we’ll be seeing each other soon.”
“Why would you do something like this?” my father fumes. “Why would you invite a Roman official here?”
I don’t understand his anger. I was sure I did everything right. The Bishop even praised me as I departed Londin. “You have your father’s mind,” he said. “I always knew that. I just pray you haven’t inherited his… other traits.”
“I have enough trouble without your interference,” Father continues. “I don’t need to get entangled in Roman politics.”
“Trouble?”
He waves his hand. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I just received an envoy from Aelle. He’s playing his war of words again. It’s all just a game for him.”
The erstwhile alliance between Aelle’s Saxons and the Iutes turned into a hostile truce after the Saxon ruler gave assistance to Haesta’s rebellion; but the two have been waging a silent war of words and influence ever since, competing ceaselessly over who is the superior leader of the heathens in Britannia.
“The border raids,” I guess.
“He claims I sent the men who attacked the Saxon farms, not Haesta
. And spreads rumours that I’m selling my own people to the slavers, to fund my lavish feasts. If I don’t deal with it soon enough, he’ll set the frontier burning all over again.”
“This is why we need this alliance, Father!” I say. “You should’ve seen the amount of gold in that chest. We could hire an army of mercenaries to deal with Haesta once and for all. And the prestige — dealing with the Imperator himself over the heads of the Britons… This would surely silence Aelle for good!”
“You’re young, Octa,” the king replies. “It took me years to grasp the complexities of Roman politics, and I was in the Council, at the right hand of the Dux.”
“Aegidius didn’t seem to think I was too young to talk to.”
“He was just playing with you. Filling your head with words and ideas. And you were so quick to believe him.” He shakes his head. “I can’t have the Iutes get involved in a clash between Imperators, son. We would be crushed like grain between millstones.”
“Imperator Avitus is dead. This is just…”
“Avitus, Honorius, Valentinian… Yes, Fastid keeps me well abreast of the goings on in Rome. There have been at least three Imperators in the past three years. At least! These men come and go, but we must live with the consequences of our choices.” He catches himself. “Don’t tell anyone about this, boy. As far as everyone knows, Bishop Fastidius and I don’t speak to each other.”
“Of course, Father. But I still don’t understand what the harm is in making a deal with Rome. We give them a harbour; they give us some gold. And if we don’t offer them that harbour, Aelle might. New Port is better suited for the purpose anyway.”
He grimaces. I can see mentioning his rival riles him, but not enough to make him agree with me.
“We don’t even have a harbour to offer. Dubris and Leman belong to the Cants.”
“Aegidius doesn’t know that. And I’m sure you could use your influence on the Dorowern Council…”
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 8
