“A part of it, for you Christians. All of it, for us.” He puts the cylinder back and closes the cupboard shut.
“I’m not a Christian,” I say.
“You talk like one,” the old man says, surprised. “And you act like one. I saw you throw coins to the boy.”
“I lived among them long enough.”
“Did they teach you to read as well as speak like a civilised man?”
“And write.”
He smiles broadly. “Then I think you might enjoy spending the night in this house.” He points to the walls. “There is no greater library than this one anywhere north of the Alps. All the knowledge the Lord saw fit to bestow to men is within these walls.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But I don’t think I will have the time to enjoy them as well as I should.”
“I know, I know — you’re in a hurry to die in some battle, like all young men. Still, have a look through my tomes after the cena. So few people do these days.”
“No book can help me find a way to defeat the Saxons,” I say. “Even my father, with all his strategies and learning, could not prepare for what’s coming. There are simply too few of us to stand against them.”
Rav Asher runs his fingers through his long beard. “Is that why you came to Coln? To seek help?”
I tell him the same story I told Comes Pinnosa. He nods, sagely, as I describe Pinnosa’s answer to my pleas.
“Pinnosa is a wise man, and a good commander,” he says, at the end. “But he doesn’t have my people’s hope.”
“Hope?” asks Ursula.
The Rav’s wife, Esther, enters the room with plates of flat bread and pickled fish. She smiles, hearing us talk. “There is always hope,” she says. “The Lord is our shepherd. He will provide.”
“Wisdom of a woman,” the Rav says and embraces his wife’s waist with a smile.
“In the next life, maybe,” I say. “But how can you hold on to hope in this world?” I nod outside. “The Saxons are marching on Trever. The River Franks are gathering to conquer Coln. Romans fight each other. Everyone thinks the Empire is dying, and sooner or later, it will fall forever.”
He points to the cupboard. “That scroll represents millennia of unwavering hope, against odds more dire than either you or I can imagine. Before Rome rose, there was Israel. After Rome falls, there will be Israel… One way or another.”
“I do not know the stories of your people,” I say. “So they cannot give me consolation.”
“And yet you fight,” says Esther with a gentle smile. I have no answer to that.
“You are not, yourself, of Rome?” asks Rav Asher. “And Britannia is far away from the wars on the Rhenum. What do you care if there is hope for us or not?”
I look to the book-filled shelves. “My father told me how he and his people had to burn books and scrolls like these in Londin, to survive a harsh winter, in the middle of a war. How they hacked ancient statues to pieces, to sell them for food. How they wrapped themselves in cloaks of purple silk, and then tore them into wrappings for wounds.”
Rav Asher and his wife nod sadly. “Such things happened here, as well, when the city was besieged.”
“He said this was the second, most tragic thing he’s ever witnessed — after the death of my mother. He told me — ‘Men can always breed more men. It takes no skill, no training. But civilisation, once lost, takes generations to rebuild’.”
“Your father is wise,” says Esther, “but he is mistaken to think a man can stop the passage of time, if it is ordained by the Lord.”
“‘Alas, Postumus, the years fleet quickly by’,” Rav Asher recites some old poem. “‘Not even prayer can stay their passage.’ Even the heathens knew this truth.”
“I do not hope to hold back Rome’s fall forever,” I say. “But I would like my children to see what I have seen. What my father saw before me. I would like my son to still have books to read when he’s my age.”
“There will always be books,” says Asher, again smiling at the gilded cupboard. “Of that, I can assure you.”
“Where in Hel have you been?” Audulf punches me in the shoulder. “We thought you were dead!”
“We had to hide all night in a ruined farm,” I say. “We weren’t the only ones who sent patrols along the river.”
“Get your shield and lance,” says Audulf. “We march out.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“The last of the Saxon foraging parties returned today,” says Gille. He’s strapping the sword belt to his waist and slings a Saxon shield over his back. “Hildrik reckons they will break camp in the morning.”
“Gather the riders,” I order. “Wait for my word.”
I search out Hildrik, already on horseback and in full armour. Basina is beside him, as always. Her gaze, when she sees me, is indecipherable. The Franks gather around them in force, grim faced and silent. The mood in the camp is dark and heavy. They expect no triumph.
“The Saxon camp is fortified with wood and ditch,” I say to Hildrik. I did not waste my entire journey — I did ride close enough to the Saxons on my way back to gain at least some intelligence. “What is your plan to capture it?”
“There isn’t one,” replies Hildrik. “They did not come here to stay behind a palisade forever. There’s only one road leading to Trever. We will meet them there.”
“A pitched battle?” I may have no experience of command, but even I see the folly of his plan. “In an open field, with nothing to guard our flanks, against an enemy with horses?”
“We, too, have riders.”
“They are sailors and peasants on moor ponies. They have never fought against real cavalry.”
He glares at me. “Do you have a better idea?”
“We could pull back. Let the walhas deal with the Saxons first. They will not capture Trever overnight. Gather a greater army, and then come back.”
“Run away, you mean,” says Basina.
“There’s no dishonour in retreat against such odds,” I reply. “The situation’s changed. We were supposed to pursue a raiding warband, not a conquering army.”
“I don’t know how you do things in Britannia, but the Franks do not retreat from the Saxons,” says Hildrik.
I glance to Basina. Her stare is defiant. Is Hildrik doing this because he wants to impress her? Or does he really believe a warrior’s honour obliges him to lead us into this forlorn battle?
“Why are we doing this, really?” I ask.
He bites on his lower lip and stares at the low-hanging clouds coming fast from the East, laden with rain. “If we go back to Tornac now, my father may not let us march out again any time soon,” he says at last. “And Hildebert may not look fondly at an army of Salians at his back when he’s busy besieging Coln. This could be our only chance to slow these Saxons down. Our only chance to do anything.”
I nod and make my way back to my men.
“When I asked you to follow me out of Meroweg’s capital,” I tell them, “we were hunting a band of Saxon raiders out on plunder. Today, Hildrik is asking us to fight a pitched battle against a seasoned army, maybe twice as large as ours. Therefore, I feel I must ask you again if you are still willing to follow my lead.”
The faces of the Iutes grow pale at the news. They knew the Saxons we faced were a stronger force than we first expected, but I doubt they were aware just how strong. Our two easy victories gave them a sense of invincibility. Now, I was telling them we were likely to suffer defeat, if not death.
“Do you think Hildrik can win this battle?” asks Seawine.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “He’s earned a name as a capable commander in Thuringia, but I have only seen him fight once, just as you have.”
“Would you win it?”
“I don’t think I would,” I reply. “But I’m just a youth with little experience in war.”
“What else can we do?” asks a burly Iute, called Oxa. “We’re in the middle of hostile land, weeks away from home, and the o
nly road back is through Tornac. If we defy their call to arms, won’t the Franks hunt us, like they did the Saxons?”
“There are other roads back to the coast than through Tornac. If we go south, it will take longer, but we’d cross through Gaul rather than Frankia.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Oxa shakes his head. “I think I’d rather face the Saxons with the Franks at our side, than the wealas without them.”
“We came here to fight,” says Audulf, shaking his sword. “A warrior knows death awaits him, always.”
The others join him in a war cry.
“I say we take the chance,” says another rider, a girl called Haeth. “And if it looks like the Franks are losing, we can always run away,” she adds, patting the neck of her pony.
The other Iutes murmur in agreement.
I shake my head. “It’s harder to flee from a losing battle than you may think,” I say. “But if this is what you all want, I will lead you once again, to the best of my abilities.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” says Audulf. “Let’s go kick some Saxon rears!”
We march all night down the Trever Road, in the pouring rain, seeking a suitable place to make battle, until Hildrik at last decides on a location. About halfway between Coln and the crossroad of Tolbiac, we find a low, wooded hill rising to the north of the road. To the south, a large, abandoned farm, surrounded by a solid drystone wall. The rain has turned the fields around the farm into a mire, which we hope will at least slow down Haesta’s horses. It is not a mountain pass or a ford, but it’s as good a choke-point as can be found in this flat, featureless country.
Late in the morning, Odilia returns from patrol with news of the Saxon horde approaching. Hildrik’s line unravels slowly across the Roman highway: fifty men in a double fulcum formation, with the second line ready to press their shields against the backs of the first. The rest of the Frankish force remains in reserve, tasked with defending our southern flank and rear in case the Saxons overrun the farm.
Only two corner walls remain of the farmhouse, with the ruins of a stove built into one side. I see myself making a final stand between these two walls, once everything fails, spears piercing me from both sides. I shake my head to get rid of the grim image. Instead, I try to imagine the fight itself. This is not going to be a battle of manoeuvres. Neither Saxons nor Franks are used to such refined tactics. The two forces will clash on the road, and push against each other with shields and spears until either of the lines breaks — or until Haesta’s horsemen fight their way through our flanks, to rip at the rear of Hildrik’s spearmen. I remember my father telling me how just three of Haesta’s riders almost destroyed a Saxon shield wall twenty-men strong. It is the task of my pony riders to see that it does not happen again.
It is unlikely that we will succeed.
“Have you planned our escape yet?” asks Ursula with a wry smile.
“We could reach Tolbiac’s gates in an hour, if we ride fast,” I say. “I wonder if they’d let us in or watch us get slaughtered.”
“Do you really think Haesta would slay his fellow Iutes?”
“I doubt he’d even know who we were. To him, we’re just some fair-hairs on ponies. Mercenaries, like himself.”
“You could surrender to him. He’d spare your life for ransom, I’m sure.”
“Or send my head to my father.” I scowl. “Don’t tempt me. If we die, we die together.”
“But you’re more important than any of us. You’re an aetheling, the only heir to your father’s title. We’re just some commoners. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“My father became the Rex by accident of Fate, not by blood right. I am no more a noble than any of you.” I draw my sword and test the sharpness of the blade on my finger. “How can I prove that I deserve to inherit my father’s circlet if I run away from danger?”
“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.” She puts on a helmet and fastens the strap under her chin. She lays her hand on my shoulder. “But I’m glad you decided to stay and fight with us. God willing, we shall prevail.”
“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” I laugh. “We’re not just two bands of heathens, fighting it out for Wodan’s pleasure. With you, we have the God of Rome on our side!”
First, two lonely riders appear on the horizon. They spot our shield wall and ride closer to investigate; too close. Basina’s bow twangs, and one of the riders falls off his horse. The other turns around in place and gallops away, before Basina can draw her bow again.
Before long, the entire Saxon host marches up towards our line. The short train of ox-driven wagons and porters sets up at the back, waiting for the warriors to clear the way. The front of the army spreads out across the road, at a distance of a hundred paces — twice as long as ours, and three men deep — and stops. Haesta’s cavalry pulls up the southern flank, opposite the farm. A handful of archers and javelin-throwers moves in front but, seeing the shields of the Franks perfectly raised to counter their missiles, they pull back. A single rider splits from the line and stops at the midpoint between the two armies, waiting. I notice Hildrik putting on his bull’s helmet and mounting up to meet the enemy envoy, and I ride out to join the two of them at the meeting point. The Saxon gives me a wary stare.
“Hael dir,” he greets us. He’s surprisingly young, roughly Hildrik’s age, with dark eyes, short dark hair under a plain helmet, a pointy chin and a thin moustache. Up close, he doesn’t look much like a Saxon. “I am Odowakr of Skiria, son of Edeko,” he introduces himself, speaking with a hard accent I don’t recognise. “Why do you stand in our way, Frank? I have no quarrel with you.”
“Hael, Odowakr,” Hildrik replies. “I am Hildrik of Tornac, son of Meroweg. You have no right to be here. This isn’t Saxon land.”
Odowakr looks around. “Neither is it Meroweg’s,” he replies. “Have the walhas hired you as their guard dog, Hildrik of Tornac?”
Hildrik’s face twitches at the insult.
“I don’t need the walhas to tell me a Saxon army on our southern border is a threat,” he says. “Go back where you came from, or raid somewhere else. You will not take Trever while I’m alive.”
“Why not join me, son of Meroweg?” Odowakr waves an inviting hand. “I remember your name from Nedao — you led your cavalry with great skill and courage.”
“You were at Nedao?” Hildrik raises an eyebrow. “You must have fought on the Hun side.”
“The Hun side, the Gepid side — it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s our turn for glory now. Come with me, son of Meroweg — together, we could take all Gaul, and share the spoils as equals.”
“Is this what you promised Hildebert for letting you through his lands?”
“Hildebert was just happy not to have to waste his men on fighting me, and for me to draw the walhas’ attention away while he takes Coln,” replies Odowakr. “He’s a more honourable man than you give him credit.”
“You speak like a Drihten,” I say, “but we know this is only a raiding party — the main force is still across the Rhenum. Who’s the real commander?”
He turns to me with curiosity. “And who might you be?”
“I’m…” I hesitate. If he doesn’t know who I am, neither would Haesta, and it might be best not to let them know there’s a potential hostage among the Frankish host. “…Beormund of Cantiaca.”
“Another visitor from Britannia?” He smooths his moustache. “You know much, but you don’t know all. I am the commander of this expedition. The army on the other side of the Rhenum is marching on my orders. And it’s not just Saxons that are in it. We are Alemanns, Rugians, Longbeards, Werns… Salians could come with us, too.”
“I do not share my glory with others,” replies Hildrik. “Franks don’t need alliances. We will take what we please, as we please — and make sure nobody else reaches out for our plunder.”
“Oh, is that what it is?” Odowakr smiles. “You want Gaul all to yourself? I’m afraid I can’t let you have it.
” He looks at the line of shields, then at the open field to the south of the farm. “You know, I could just have my men march around your little blockade.”
“You could try.”
Odowakr grimaces impatiently. He smacks his lips. “Fine. Make sure you keep that helmet on. I want to send your head to your father when this is all over.”
He turns the horse and trots slowly back to his men. Hildrik and I do the same.
“Either he’s very arrogant, or he knows his worth,” Hildrik tells me. I nod. “Either way, this one won’t be easy. Have you seen that cavalry?”
“Yes.”
“Great horses,” says Hildrik. “Thuringian mares among them. I wish I could have taken more with me when I… went home.” He pats his own mount on the neck.
“There were fewer of them than I feared.” I counted only twelve horses. More must have accompanied Odowakr’s greater host. One of the men may have been Haesta, but I have only ever heard about him in tale, so I could not recognise him from other helmeted riders.
“Will you cope?”
“Donar will decide.”
“Indeed.”
We reach our lines. Hildrik leaps off the horse and looks over his shoulder. The Saxon wall is already on the move.
The earth shudders as the two lines of shields clash. The two hosts are well matched. The Saxons are more numerous, but they are a mass of different warriors from different clans, mismatched in training and equipment, whereas the Franks are some of Meroweg’s finest, trained both in Roman and barbarian manner, almost as fine as the king’s household guard itself. Odowakr’s line is loose, disordered; Hildrik’s men stand in a Legion’s fulcum, a solid wall of mail and sword. They don’t budge an inch under the Saxon onslaught; indeed, it seems that as long as the attack comes only from the front, the Franks might withstand it all day. From the second line, Hildrik’s men reach out with spears and long-shafted axes between the shields of the first line; once in a while, one of them reaches a target and a Saxon disappears from sight, trampled under the feet of his brethren.
The Franks may be standing their ground valiantly, but soon enough the sheer numbers of the enemy are beginning to make a difference. The extended flank of the Saxon line reaches the farm’s unguarded drystone wall. The warriors clamber over the stones, pushing against Hildrik’s reserves. Just as the first Saxons leap into the enclosure, I see Haesta’s cavalry ride across the rain-sodden meadow to our south, the hooves of their mounts raising great clumps of fresh mud.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 18
