The two Franks look to me in pain and confusion.
“Do what she says,” I order. “The rest of you, grab these,” I throw them two wooden buckets I found around the house. “Is there any cold water in this town?” I ask the woman. She takes me to an ornamental wellhead, carved in marble in shapes of naked goddesses. I struggle with the chain, until somebody grabs it from me and draws the bronze bucket, full of, mercifully, ice-cold water. It’s Basina; her face is tense, her lips tight, her eyes dark and focused. She runs back to the two Franks, shirtless now, writhing in agony in the dirt, and pours water over them. They scream again, even louder than before, but before long, they calm down. The skin on their chests and backs is bright red, covered in blisters and lesions.
Hildrik grabs me by the tunic. “Now look what you’ve done! Your mercy just cost me two of my best men!”
Basina reaches out and pulls him from me. “He did the right thing,” she says. “We’ll gain more from it than your two men are worth, you’ll see. Now get in that line yourself and start passing those buckets!”
The Saxons do not care for stealth. They set up in a rambling, lazy camp on both sides of the road, blazing with a dozen campfires, with only the slightest guard, more to ward off thieves and wild beasts than any attacking army. The mood in the camp is merry and reckless. Among the plunder taken from Ake were amphorae of old, heady Gaulish wine, reduced almost to jelly, leftover from the town’s glory days. Judging by the loud singing and bawdy laughter coming from the tents, there’s very little left of it now.
“Just as I thought,” says Hildrik. “They’re not afraid of pursuit.”
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“It means the River Franks are giving them a free pass,” says Basina. “As long as they only plunder the walh towns.”
We found the Saxons a few hours past the town of the steaming waters, on the narrow, unpaved road leading back to the limestone highway. The land around us is a landscape I’m unfamiliar with from Britannia, but one that forms swathes of northern Gaul: a perfectly flat plain, a sea of grass and clumps of low trees, with little place to hide — another reason why the Saxons don’t appear worried of ambush. The three of us had to crawl through tall grass from a hazel thicket where we left the rest of our troops.
“Has this happened before?” I ask.
“Not that I know,” replies Hildrik. “But then, I haven’t been in this land in years. I only know as much as my father told me.”
“When my husband let the Rugians pass through his territory without harm, it was because they were marching against one of his own enemies,” says Basina. “The same thing must be happening here.”
We study the camp in silence, to learn the patterns of the guards and the setup of defences. The Saxons threw a barrier of logs and brambles across the Roman road, which means they aren’t completely oblivious to the possibility of an attack, but they can’t be expecting anything more than a band of Gauls seeking revenge for the destruction of their towns.
“At least we know Weldelf didn’t warn them of our coming,” says Hildrik. “Or they wouldn’t be so careless.”
“Have you noticed,” I ask, “for a raiding party, they haven’t actually been doing a lot of raiding? They seem a very disciplined band. Other than the wine, they only took the necessities — food, fodder, metal for weapons. Where are the women? Where’s the gold?”
“Maybe they’re in a hurry,” suggests Basina.
“Or maybe they’re under strict orders, and expect to obtain the real treasure elsewhere,” I say. “Where does that road lead to? Back to Coln?”
“To a crossroad at Tolbiac,” replies Hildrik. “You can go anywhere from there — east to Coln, back across the Rhenum to the north, or south, deeper into Gaul.”
“Perhaps the Saxons are marching on Gaul, then,” I say.
“They would need a massive army to try something like that,” says Hildrik. “We would know about it.”
“Not if they had allies in the South…”
“This is idle talk,” says Hildrik. “The sooner we attack, the sooner we can capture ourselves some tongue and find out everything we need.”
We crawl back to the hazel thicket. Our entire host is gathered here — and more; Hildrik’s numbers have increased by a dozen men: the vigiles, watchmen from Ake, who joined us in gratitude for saving their town — in hopes of wreaking some revenge on the Saxon raiders. Nobody expects them to fare well in the coming battle, not least the vigiles themselves — they are more used to chasing thieves and dragging drunkards out of the gutters than fighting a trained warband. But if they’re keen enough not to flee at the first sight of blood, they might at least prove a useful distraction from the main attack.
The townsfolk wanted to throw us a feast after the flames died down, but there was no time, no matter how much I may have wanted to bathe in the steaming waters — the first proper bath I’d partake of since leaving Britannia; so to find out more about the strange town and its mysterious springs, I had to talk to their leader, Praefect Paulus, as we marched in pursuit of the Saxons. He told me that the Roman nobles believed the sulphur-smelling waters were good for their health, and back in the days of his ancestors, the rich and powerful would come to bathe in the great bath houses from all corners of the Empire.
“Actually, the only other place like this I’ve ever heard about was in Britannia,” he said. “Ake Sulis, I think; you may have heard about it?”
I had to admit that, to my shame, I had no idea of a town of this name anywhere on the island.
“The nobles would build palaces and villas all over the town,” he continued to reminisce, “dripping with gold and marble; gardens with exotic birds and individual pools filled with the steaming water, so that they could bathe whenever they pleased. Legionnaires would come here on leave, to rest and heal after battles. The taverns were full of song and beautiful women.”
“Do you remember any of it yourself?”
“No.” He shook his head sadly. “All of it was gone long before even my father was born. The villas dismantled, the treasure sold for food in times of famine and plague. The last tavern shut down after the Franks crossed the Rhenum. Sometimes we would get visitors from Coln or Trever, but they just stayed as guests in the houses of the townspeople.”
“And yet you still had enough valuables stored in the town for the Saxons to consider you worth plundering.”
“They probably took the last of it. I’m not sure if the town will survive much longer. People are moving away: to the South, or to the countryside.” He smiled ruefully. “This might well be the last ever fight of the Ake town watch.”
“Better make it count, then.”
Paulus and I watch, or rather, listen, to Hildrik’s column as it moves out, slowly and carefully, of the hazel thicket. Hildrik did not want the Ake vigiles joining him; he doesn’t trust them or their training enough, so it was decided they would march with my vanguard. I turn to my riders and order all Iutes to leave their ponies tied to the trees.
“We strike just before dawn,” I say. “None of you has trained to even ride in the dark, much less to fight, and the ponies are not used to being ridden in the darkness.”
They murmur in agreement. I can’t see their faces clearly in the gloom — we dare not light torches for fear of being spotted by a Saxon patrol — but I can hear in their voices that the confidence they gained after the previous battle is all but gone. It doesn’t take much combat experience to know that attacking a large, armed war camp, in the middle of the night, is a completely different kind of battle to charging a pack of foragers by day.
“We are not alone,” I tell them. “The Franks will do most of the fighting tonight. We’re only expected to assist them and pick out the survivors. Just stay close to me and keep a tight formation. We’ll get through this together. Donar leads us.”
“Donar leads us,” the Iutes repeat in a loud, subdued whisper. It would be better if this was a heartfelt war cry, b
ut it must wait until we’re in range of a charge.
By the time we reach the position in which Hildrik’s men are lying in wait, the eastern sky is already beginning to grow grey. A mist rises from the ground, thickening fast in the still air. Only a few campfires are still burning, and most Saxons are drunkenly asleep in their tents or on the grass under the stars. But there are more guards around the camp; the chief of the warband must have grown wary of spending a night in hostile territory. A hesitation rises in my mind. What if it’s a trap — what if the River Franks did warn the Saxons of our pursuit? What if the warriors are not sleeping in their tents, but waiting with spears drawn?
But excitement soon replaces doubt. The Franks are moving to attack. I haven’t seen them fight a battle before; indeed, this will be the first pitched battle I will have seen since witnessing Wortimer’s war as a child, and the first one I will be taking an active part in. This is my Saffron Valley — at long last, and this time, I’m ready.
Hildrik may have spent the last couple of years in command of Thuringian troops, but he is just as skilled leading his kin. In the gloomy, hazy darkness, it’s impossible to see the Franks clearly as they sneak through the tall grass. Hildrik’s men carry axes and long knives, having left the spears, useless in close combat, back in the thicket. They spread out in a broad crescent around the camp, invisible to the guards; if I didn’t know they were there, I don’t think I would be able to spot them myself. I wonder how they’re managing to stay in formation in the darkness — my Iutes and I have to walk in single file, each warrior holding on to the arm of the man before him, like blind leading the blind. I’m in front of the column — Ursula’s hand rests on my shoulder. Once in a while, she gives me an encouraging squeeze. We move in a broad arc around the camp, until we reach the road on the other side.
Just then, I hear the echo of a distant war cry. Hildrik has launched his assault. The time for secrecy is over. I command my men to spread out across the road and move in the direction of the camp, but not to charge; not yet.
“Look out for any Saxons running your way,” I tell them. “Our main task is to pick off the survivors.”
As the Iutes and the vigiles move forward, I gather my friends around me. “We need a few of them alive,” I say. “I have to know why there are Aelle’s men among them. Audulf, you’re the strongest of us all. Try to find me someone who will talk.”
“I’ll do my best,” says Audulf. I pat him one last time on the shoulder; he draws his sword and disappears into the dark fog.
She runs out of the shadows straight at me, half-naked, wild-eyed, with her hair loose, holding a short seax in a bloodied hand. She spots me and slashes at me without stopping. I take the seax on the shield — I picked it up from one of her dead kinsmen back in Charcoal Forest — dodge aside and cut her across the back. She cries out, runs a few steps more, then stumbles and falls. She jerks twice, before turning still forever.
I take a deep breath and hold my right wrist with my left hand to stop it from trembling. This is the third Saxon I have slain today. The second one took me longer to kill, an exchange of several blows, before I got in with a fortunate thrust to his arm. So far, I haven’t yet stumbled upon any hardened resistance. It’s clear that my doubts were misplaced. The attack appears to be progressing with little trouble. I can hear the cries of pain and death, the gurgles of agony, the clash of weapons coming from the direction of the Saxon camp, but I can’t see any of the fighting clearly, now that the campfires and braziers have been trampled down by the fighting warriors.
I see the backs of three men before me, and I drop to the ground. They’re moving slowly backwards, their gaze focused on the direction of the camp and to their flanks; one is holding a spear, the other two have axes. The left arm of one of the axemen hangs loose; they’re all splattered with blood and, judging by the red on the blades of their weapons, some of it, at least, must be the blood of the Franks.
When they get within ten feet from me, I leap up. I strike at the nearer of the axemen. I stab him through the kidney and pull away as he flies his axe before my face. I immediately regret having launched the attack. Though I managed to quickly dispatch one of the three, the other two now focus all of their attention on me. The spearman charges at me with great skill, and I can only dodge and block the blade as I back away before his onslaught. His thrusts get around my shield and under my parries; one well-aimed strike reaches my outer thigh. I don’t know how deep the wound is, but it hurts more than any injury I’ve ever suffered. I hiss and stumble away. In the corner of my eye, I spot the second Saxon approaching on my flank, with the axe held in both hands, raised to strike.
Paulus appears behind the axeman, and jumps on him, pulling him to the ground. This distracts the spearman enough for me to shorten the distance in one leap and plunge my spatha in his stomach. The Saxon gurgles blood and slides off my blade. I turn around. The praefect wrestles with his enemy in the mud. I run back to them and grab the Saxon off Paulus. I whack him across the head with the pommel of my sword. The Saxon sways, concussed, and collapses.
I help Paulus off the ground. “You saved me,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I guess we’re even now,” he replies.
I kneel down by the fallen Saxon. His cloak and brooch are of the Briton style; I’ve seen men in Dorowern wear similar garments. It’s of course possible he obtained his clothes from a trader or in a raid on the Cantish coast, but I decide to take my chances.
“He’s coming back,” I say. “Give me the other one’s belt.”
I tie the Saxon’s hands with his own belt, and his legs with the belt of his fallen comrade. “Can you keep watch over him?” I ask Paulus.
“It’s what I do for a living,” he replies with a grin.
I look to the south. The morning mist is clearing, and the dawning sun shines a dim, grey light on the grassy plain. Smoke rises over the Saxon camp in thin, black wisps. The Saxons still fight for their lives in pockets around the trampled tents, but most survivors have now decided to flee. Now that the cover of darkness and fog is gone, they are easy pickings for my Iutes, hunting the enemy in groups of three and four. I notice the Iutes, where possible, just beat the Saxons down into submission; they have no hatred for the men they fight, and no desire to kill. The Saxons are beginning to notice that, too, and as they flee from the Franks, they surrender to my men for protection.
One of those Saxons runs towards me, with no weapon drawn, his hands spread wide apart. I make ready to accept his surrender, when I hear the whistle of an arrow and a thud of missile hitting flesh. The Saxon falls dead just a few paces from my feet.
I search for the archer: it’s Basina, standing on the edge of the Saxon camp. She draws the bow again and scans the field for a new target. She shoots, and another fleeing Saxon hits the ground.
I run to her, waving my hands and shouting for her to stop. Before I reach her, she downs yet another fleeing Saxon. She sports a broad, satisfied grin on her face, which turns to surprise when she sees me.
“They’re surrendering,” I tell her.
“We don’t need slaves,” she replies. “And we can’t let any of them warn the others.”
She raises the bow to her eye again. I push it away.
“We’ve killed enough. Save your arrows.”
“What are you, a Christian?” She scoffs. “And here I thought you were strong.”
I tell her something Bishop Fastidius taught me: “Only the strong can show mercy.”
She stares at me with a puzzled expression. Behind her, Hildrik’s blade pierces the last of the Saxon defenders — a giant of a man, wrapped in a cloak of bear fur, with a bear’s head for a helmet. He’s already bleeding from many wounds; shafts of several arrows stick from his body. The Frankish prince watches him fall, slowly, to the ground, then approaches us, wiping blood from the sword and sweat from his brow.
“It’s over,” he says. “That was the last one.”
Basina scowls and lowe
rs the bow. “A few got away.”
“It’s fine,” says Hildrik. “We won’t be able to keep what happened here a secret for long, anyway.”
“If you say so,” says Basina. Just then, she spots a movement in the grass: the wounded Saxon, trying to crawl away from us. Before either of us can stop her, she draws the bow and shoots him in the back.
“He was suffering,” she says, and looks me straight in the eyes. “It was mercy.”
CHAPTER IX
THE LAY OF PINNOSA
By midday, we are joined by a group of Ake townsfolk, arriving to pick up their fallen and to help us bury ours.
Praefect Paulus got his revenge on the Saxons, but at a heavy price. The enemy warriors, even in panic, even in flight, proved too fierce an enemy for the inexperienced vigiles. Half of Paulus’s men lie dead on the battlefield; of the rest, many bear crippling wounds, rendering them unable to ever return to their duties. The town watch of Ake is no more.
“Was it worth it?” I ask Paulus as he begins to dig a grave for his men.
“Of course,” he replies. “The town is dying. Gaul is dying. One day, some other barbarian warband will come and raze Ake to the ground, with us in it. At least this way, we got our chance to die in a fair fight.”
“You weren’t always a watchman,” I note.
“I was a centurion once,” he says. There is darkness in his voice, of a man who saw everything he once held dear destroyed. “At Mogontiac. A long time ago.”
The soil is wet and loose, and digging the graves is short work. Before long, a pit is dug large enough to fit all the fallen Saxons; we drop them in, stripped of weapons and jewels, and cover with a thin layer of dirt — all of them except four, whom Hildrik deems worthy of a separate burial, with their weapons beside them.
These four were the last to succumb to the Frankish assault. They all wore the thick coats of bear fur over fine mail shirts, and carried long, good quality seaxes, unlike the rest of the Saxons in the band, who wielded only spears, axes and clubs.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 15
