I tell my Iutes to prepare. We are hidden among the trees of the wooded hill. I’m certain Odowakr knows we’re here — his spies would’ve told him of a detachment of pony riders among the Frankish host — but I hope the cover will give us at least some element of surprise amidst the chaos of the battle.
The Haestingas, formed into an arrowhead, draw a wide arc around the farm, and reach the paved road on the other side of Hildrik’s line. The Frankish reserves line up to brace for the charge, but they are wavering. They are not as good warriors as the ones in the shield wall: the line is not straight; the shields are held all at different levels, in trembling hands. They pull back too far, leaving themselves exposed, and with too little space between their backs and the backs of the front line. But it’s not all bad. By pulling so far back, they leave my riders space for an attack on the flank of Haesta’s charge.
The cavalry wedge shatters deep into the Frank line. The rider in front — he must be Haesta — reaches almost to Hildrik’s rear, before having to turn back in fear of being cut off from the rest of his men. The horsemen whip the Franks with their spathas; blood spurts from the heads of the fallen. Haesta waves a sword over his head — a signal for the others to retreat for another charge. That is also a signal for us.
“Iutes, with me!” I cry. “May Donar lead us to victory — or death! For Aeric!”
As they raise a cheer, I turn to Ursula. “And may your Roman God preserve us.”
Though surprise is on our side, as soon as we clash into Haesta’s flank, it becomes apparent how hopelessly outmatched the Iutes are compared to the mercenaries. One of my men falls in an instant, without even touching the enemy, pierced with two lances. Another manages to exchange a few blows with his foe, before having his chest sliced right across by a cavalry sword. If it were just us fighting Haesta’s men, we would have been annihilated in a few quick moments. But we’re not alone; our attack allows the Frankish spearmen to catch breath and regroup around the slowed-down riders. The momentum of their charge extinguished, the mercenaries find themselves suddenly surrounded by spears and shields. Still, it is not enough to stop them from delivering a fatal blow after a fatal blow. A third Iute falls off his pony, but this time, he drags one of the Haestingas with him. Another mercenary’s stomach is gutted by a Frankish spear. Axes clash against spathas, lances batter against the shields; blood and guts mix with rain and turn the road into the floor of a butcher’s shop.
Haesta looks around and spots me behind him. For a moment, his eyes gleam in a flash of shocked recognition, which quickly twists into a puzzled grimace. With my red hair hidden under the helmet, I must resemble my father in his youth more than I realised. A stream of Frankish shieldsmen flows between us, separating me from Haesta, and threatening to cut him off from the rest of the Saxon horde. He lets out an angry roar. He spurs his horse, and leaps over the heads of the Franks. The others follow after him, either fighting their way out, or forcing their horses to high, dangerous jumps, to avoid the spears and axes. One of the mares slips while landing on the pave stones, slick with blood, and breaks her leg. Her rider is clubbed to death before he can even draw breath. Haesta leaves three of his men dead on the road, but the rest of his band manages to break away. I take quick stock of my Iutes — three of my twelve are fallen, too. I look to my friends. Ursula and Audulf halt on the side of the road, bloodied, waiting for my orders. I search for Gille in the chaos. I cannot find him, or his pony.
A new war cry erupts to our south, from the direction of the farm. My heart sinks as I spot four black shapes: the bear-shirts, tearing through the Frankish reserves, as if they were, themselves, bears. The rest of the Saxon line follows after them, and shortly, the enemy overruns the entire farm. I look to Hildrik. The right flank of his fulcum is now laid completely bare.
“On me!” I cry with my sword raised high. The surviving Iutes gather around me. I glance to Haesta’s riders; they’re galloping towards us again, but I have no time to pay them attention this time. The bear-shirts are a more immediate threat.
I leap over the drystone wall into the farm enclosure; it’s tight quarters here, and I can sense the pony under me is nervous to be surrounded by walls, other ponies, and a crowd of warriors. I press on, slashing and hacking, until I reach the nearest of the bear-shirts. He turns to me with a roar; I see the madness of henbane in his bloodshot eyes. He holds an axe in each hand. A knife is stuck in his side up to the hilt, but he pays no attention to this wound, or any of the others visible all over his body.
I tug the reins and the pony rears; for a moment, it stands so tall, I fear we will fall backwards. But then it drops back on its forelegs, and I let the momentum add to my falling sword. The bear-shirt raises both axes, crossed, to block the blow. My blade slices through the crossed shafts but doesn’t strike the Saxon’s chest with enough force to dig in deep. Still, the power of the blow is enough to send him to the ground. My pony stumbles, trying to avoid trampling the man under its legs, just as it was trained. I pull back, not wanting to damage its hooves.
All around me, the Iute riders and the Franks are desperately pushing back against the Saxon assault, but all we can do is slow it down; behind us, Haesta strikes again. We are pushed from three sides now, with nowhere to go but into the forest. Now would be the time to flee, if I wanted to save myself. I spot Ursula and Audulf to my left in the midst of a brawl. I notice the crowd of Saxons splits around them, leaving a passage I could take if I wanted to run away.
I look back to Hildrik’s wall and find Basina; she’s still on her horse, squashed from two sides by retreating Franks, launching arrow after arrow, until the quiver at her saddle is empty. She holsters the bow and draws a long, curved sword. She glances towards me. Our eyes meet. There’s a stark warning in her bloodshot gaze.
If you flee, I will never again think of you as a man.
I look over my shoulder once more. While I vacillated, the gap through which I could have ridden to my salvation closed down. I can now only fight. Or die.
My sword arm grows weary, the hilt slippery with blood. I see another of the bear-shirts disappear in the brawl, having taken too many spear thrusts and axe blows, but the other two are still standing strong, ploughing their way through Hildrik’s flank. The Haestingas split away for another charge, with nobody able to stop them this time. Odowakr and his guard have already broken through Hildrik’s last line of defence and are now crowding through the gap between us and the Franks, pushing Hildrik’s warriors into the forest.
When I hear the thundering of hooves, and spot another wedge of riders, cloaked in crimson, coming from the direction of Coln, past Odowakr’s wagons and porters, I lose all hope; with another detachment of cavalry, coming to their help, the Saxon victory is certain. I parry a spear blade, and block a mace with my shield, but I have no more strength to strike. I can almost see Wodan’s flying riders coming down from the sky to pick me and the others up to his Mead Hall…
The crimson-cloaked riders lower their lances and smash into the rear of Odowakr’s shield wall with the strength of a charging wild boar.
There are only ten riders in this new, mysterious detachment, and by themselves, they would still be too few to turn the tide of the battle. But they are not alone. Running close after them is a troop of what looks like fifty men, all in red cloaks, silver helmets and gleaming mail. They, too, form a broad wedge and burst deeper into the hole punched in the Saxon line by the cavalry. The battle turns in a blink of an eye. It takes Odowakr no more than a breath to realise he’s lost the fight. I see him now, in the middle of the brawl, hewing a passage through the Frankish horde with his bloodied seax, until he breaks through to the other side. He’s a shrewd commander, not willing to let his men die in vain. He raises a horn to his lips and blows a retreat. One by one, the Saxons break away from the fighting, heading towards their chieftain, or if that’s impossible, turn tail and run across the field. Only the two bear-shirts remain, too deep into the henbane trance to know whe
n to stop fighting.
The withdrawal is stunningly quick and, for the most part, an orderly one. Odowakr cuts his losses, abandons the wagon train, and directs his fleeing troops westwards, towards Tolbiac — and Gaul; still, it seems, not changing his plans of invasion, no matter how diminished his force now may be. Hildrik’s Franks, relieved to have survived what moments ago seemed like a slaughter, drop their shields and heavy weapons, then fall to their knees or lie down on the stone road, with no strength left to pursue. Our saviours also appear exhausted. I see now that the men in the crimson cloaks are breathless, red-faced, as if they’d been running all day. The riders gather in the muddy field south of the farm and dismount, their horses foaming at the mouths and flanks. I call on my men, and when enough of them find their way to me, I command them to ride with me in pursuit of the Saxons.
“The… horsemen…” pants Seawine, pointing with his sword towards Haesta. The mercenaries form a tight screen between us and the fleeing Saxons. Ours are the only two groups left on the battlefield who are still ready and willing to fight. Haesta raises his helmet and lifts his sword high in a clear challenge.
“Don’t do it, Octa,” says Ursula.
“I know,” I say. “I’m not a fool. I stand no chance in a duel against him.”
I bite my lip. Looking at my men, then back at Haesta’s, I see no way for us to pursue the Saxons without incurring heavy losses, even if we did somehow manage to break through the mercenaries. Suddenly, I feel tired again. The rush that came from having my life saved by the sudden arrival of the red-cloaked warriors, recedes. I can’t even find enough strength to sheathe my sword — I let it fall to the ground. Haesta, seeing this, scoffs, puts the helmet back on and turns around.
“There will be another time,” says Ursula, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“We live. That’s all that matters,” I reply.
“Not all live,” says Audulf grimly. I follow his gaze and spot Gille’s pony, walking away from the battlefield in a bloody daze, riderless.
“Poor boy,” says Seawine, finally catching his breath. “He was a good rider, but not a strong enough fighter.”
“And yet, he goes to drink with the greatest warriors of our tribe,” I say. I’m too weary to feel the full shock of the loss yet, but I feel I must say something powerful for the men around me not to lose hope. “There will be a great feast at Wodan’s Mead Hall tonight. For him, and for everyone we lost today.”
CHAPTER XI
THE LAY OF PAULUS
“Octa! Young Octa!” I hear a cry of joy. “Thank the Lord, you’re alive!”
I turn to see one of the red-clad riders dismounting. He throws off his helmet, wipes his spatha from blood and strides up to me in confident, military steps.
“Comes Pinnosa!” I bow, hiding my surprise. Ursula bows beside me; the others, perplexed, glance from me to the rider and back. “I… don’t understand… I thought you said —”
He smiles. “Let’s just say, after you left, I had an inspiring conversation with my… librarian,” he says.
“Librarian?” I ask, confused. “You mean — Rav Asher?”
Before he can answer, I spot Hildrik and Basina ride up to us.
“Who are you, lord?” Hildrik asks in his rough Latin. “To whom do we owe our deliverance?”
“Hildrik —” I say, “this is Hlaford Pinnosa. Comes and Bishop of Coln.”
Hildrik straightens in the saddle and looks to the red-clad men. “Then these men must be…”
“Coln garrison — those that could get here on time. More are coming.”
“How — why?”
Pinnosa pats me on the back. “You owe it to young Octa,” he says. I catch Basina’s raised eyebrow and a smile. She seems suitably impressed, but as puzzled with what’s going on as Hildrik.
I smile back impatiently. I want to look for Gille among the wounded, hoping he’s out there somewhere, gasping for breath, bleeding, rather than dead in the field. I want to see the three fallen Iutes; perhaps they, too, can be saved.
The Comes takes a look around. “You have lost many men, chieftain,” he says, as if reading my mind, “but some may still live, if you hurry. We can use the Saxon wagons to transport them to Tolbiac.”
I look to Odowakr’s supply train. The porters fled into the woods, leaving their sacks and crates behind. Some wagons lie overturned on the roadside, the load spilled, others got dragged by panicked oxen into the field, but a few still stand on the road, abandoned by their drivers in the retreat.
“They won’t let a Frankish army into Tolbiac,” Hildrik says grimly.
“They will if I tell them to,” replies Pinnosa. “Gather your dead and your wounded, chieftain, and I will do the same, and then we must march onwards.”
Hildrik hesitates. He looks westwards. “My men are weary. We need to rest.”
“So do we. But Tolbiac is a small town. If Odowakr decides to take it, even with his depleted force, it shan’t take him long, and we’ll be trapped here. One more push, and we can rest — in beds. I’ll introduce you to Tolbiac’s best taverns.”
“What about Coln?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be going back to defend it from Hildebert?”
He shakes his head with a sad smile. “Coln is coming with us.”
He points to the east; in the shimmery haze of the evening, I see what first appears like a dark line of an approaching army. As my eyes adjust to the distance, I recognise it as a packed mass of marching men, horses and wagons, a few hundred at least, moving slowly, but surely towards us.
“This can’t be the whole city,” I say.
“No, it’s not. But it’s a start. Though it may also be the end, if we let those Saxons take Tolbiac.”
I turn to my Iutes. “Get back on those ponies, warriors,” I tell them. They raise a groan. “I know you’re weary. But so are the Saxons, and they’ve just lost one battle. Wodan willing, all we have to do is show them we’re serious to send them flying again.”
How long can a single day last?
I’m certain I was never as tired as today in all my life. Indeed, I’m surprised I can still find strength to stand. A long march in the rain, followed by a long, bloody battle in the mud. Then, another, shorter march and another skirmish with the rear guard of Odowakr’s surviving army; mercifully short, this time, since as soon as the Saxons realised we were serious in our pursuit, they abandoned their half-hearted attempt at capturing Tolbiac and fled again, leaving only a few harassing stragglers to make sure we wouldn’t go after them.
There is no threat of that. We are so exhausted at the end of it all, that when the town, on Pinnosa’s command, opens its gates to us, many of the Frankish warriors have only enough energy to reach the nearest open space — which happens to be the town’s small market square — and lie asleep wherever they can, in the dirt among the stalls. Those of us with more strength left, help unload the wagons filled with dead and wounded and lay them out in the courtyard of the town’s only church, helped in the gruesome task by the first of the arriving refugees from Coln.
It is there that I finally find Gille. He’s still alive — barely. I doubt he’s going to make it till morning. It’s difficult to tell at first what his injuries are, until I find a blood-soaked wrapping on his inner thigh — a neat, well-aimed spear stab. Just one wound, not much bigger than any of the ones I suffered in the battle but placed so unfortunately that the boy would have bled out in seconds had some kind soul not taken care of him in the midst of battle, giving him at least this one day more of life. How many men did he fell before dying? I can’t find his sword, but the legs of his breeches are splattered with the blood of the enemies he’d have hacked at from pony-back.
I, too, I notice, am covered in a layer of blood and dust as thick as the cloth of my tunic. I need a wash — and a bath. I can’t process what happened while I’m in this state. As soon as we entered the town, my attention was drawn to one particular building, standing between the church and the market
hall, with its unmistakable three vaulted roofs. It appeared to be in surprisingly good condition.
“Are these baths working?” I ask a church acolyte, skulking past in a drab robe.
“Yes, but they are only for the Church’s use…”
I stop listening after he says yes. I grab an axe and stride up to the bath house’s door. There is no guard here, but the door is locked. I hack through the lock — nobody around is foolish enough to try stopping an angry barbarian warrior from getting what he wants — and push the door open. I take a deep breath: the smell of mould, rancid olive oil and sweat tells me the bath has recently been in use. But the damp air inside is cold.
“You there!” I call out at who I at first take to be another acolyte. “Get me someone who can heat this thing up!”
The man looks up, startled, but also curious, not least at my speaking to him in Latin. “I can warm up a tub for you in the sacristy, warrior.”
“You have a working bath house, and you want me to wash in a tub?” I snap. I grab him by the robe and notice embroidered vestments underneath. I realise this must be the priest of the church and let him go.
He staggers away. “Of course, lord,” he says with a frightened bow. “I’ll get the servants on it right away.”
I feel sick at myself for threatening a man of the cloth over nothing; but the desire to wash off the grime of the battle is stronger than shame. “Make it quick!” I call after him. “I need to be clean for the feast.”
The bath house is not heated by a wood-burning furnace, but by an offshoot of the same hot spring that powers the palaces of Ake. The acolytes only needed to roll away the boulder blocking the spring’s outlet for the steaming stream to come gushing through the lead pipes into the hypocaust.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 19
