I was grateful for a bowl of hot soup and some woollen rags that the guard brought me. Too weak to speak, I only managed to utter a thank you. He raised an eye, hearing my Imperial Latin, but said nothing.
One by one, the captive mercenaries are taken away — for interrogation, I guess, though none of them returns. At length, after a couple of days, the guard comes for me. He helps me up. I see pity in his eyes; I may be a barbarian warrior, but right now I’m just a shivering boy, no more of a threat that a street beggar.
He leads me out into the atrium and waits for my eyes to adjust to the light; we enter a small, cramped room to the left. Once, it was some clerk’s office, now it’s stacked with supplies, as are, I imagine, all the rooms in the Praetorium — dried meat, grain, jars of preserved vegetables, sacks of lime, amphorae with wine and oil, anything that city magistrates might need to survive a long siege in relative comfort.
The clerk’s desk is still here, squeezed between the barrels and crates; a grumpy, bald man sits on its other side. He grunts at the guard. The guard sits me down on a three-legged stool. The bald man looks up in surprise at the gentle manner with which the guard treats me.
“Namo?” he asks.
“I’m sorry?” I reply in Imperial.
He frowns. “I asked, what is your name? Don’t you speak Frankish?”
“I’m a Iute,” I say. “Octa, son of Aeric, Rex Iutae.”
He waves his hand. “Iutes.” He takes a note. “Another chief of some heathen tribe I’ve never heard of, thinking himself a king. Where did Odowakr find you all? Some northern wasteland, no doubt,” he adds, pointing at my hair with the tip of the stylus.
“I did not come with Odowakr,” I reply wearily. “I was his prisoner when your men caught me.”
“A likely story.”
“There are men in this city who can confirm this,” I say. “Find Comes Pinnosa, he’s my friend.”
He laughs. “Comes Pinnosa! Why not Dux Arbogast, while we’re at it! I wouldn’t bother Pinnosa with your allegations even if he were still alive…”
“Comes Pinnosa is dead?” I ask in shock.
“Shouldn’t a friend of his know this?”
“How was I supposed to know?” I reply. “I haven’t seen him since the bridge fell. How did he die?”
“I’ll be asking the questions,” the bald man replies grumpily. “Where is Odowakr’s camp?”
“I’ve never seen him,” I say. “I was with Haesta.”
“Haesta.” He looks at his notes. “He was the leader of your band of mercenaries.”
“Not my band. I told you…”
“Yes, yes.” He waves impatiently. “Something was odd about that Haesta. He’s a Saxon, right? From Britannia?”
“Wrong. He’s from Britannia, but he’s a Iute, like I am.”
“Ah.” He smiles. “So you were together, after all. A band of Iutes.” He makes another note.
“I wasn’t…” I sigh and cough. I’m cold again, though it’s much warmer here in the clerk’s room than in the cells below. My gaze falls on the amphorae stacked in a row behind the bald man, stamped with grape marks.
“Is that the Mosella wine?” I ask.
He stares at me, dumbfounded with my question, but quickly returns to his gruff demeanour. “Of course it is.”
“Can I have some? I’m so thirsty — and I haven’t had any wine since Coln…”
“If you ask the guard nicely, I’m sure he’ll give you some slop water.” He pauses and checks on his notes. He taps the stylus on the desk. “Do all… Iutes speak good Latin and have taste for fine wine?”
“Only the sons of kings,” I reply. I notice I have finally caught his attention and lean forward. “Look, isn’t there anyone here who could vouch for me? What about other refugees from Coln — is Rav Asher still alive? How about Praetor Paulus of Ake?”
His face twitches when I say the names, but I can’t tell which one of the two produced the reaction. He puts the stylus down and calls for the guard.
“Take him back…” He pauses. “Put him in the dry cell. I might have a few more questions for him later.”
I didn’t expect anything more to happen for at least a couple of days — but the gentle guard comes back for me before the day’s done. He takes me past the atrium this time, into a corridor with red walls, where we meet the bald man again.
“Put this on,” the clerk tells me, giving me fresh clothes. It’s a drab tunic and plaid, woollen breeches, grimy and stained, but they’re dry and warm, and that’s all that matters to me right now. Once I’m done, he leads me further down the corridors of the Praetorium, until we reach an elegant room with a large window coming out onto a garden. From what I can glimpse, most of the once-lush garden has been turned into vegetable patches.
A table and two heavy chairs of dark oak stand in the middle of the room. On the table, I see a small marble statue of a goddess, a platter with bread and pickled olives and a goblet of rock crystal, filled with wine.
“I heard you like Mosellan.”
The man who speaks these words stands by the window, holding the other crystal glass. He’s tall, red-haired — though it’s a pale, dull hue, rather than my mother’s fiery crimson — and green-eyed, with a long, straight nose and ruddy cheeks; he’s wearing a purple-lined robe and a golden chain around his neck.
I sit down, take a bite of the bread and gulp some of the wine before answering. It’s cool, sweet and fresh, even better than the one Pinnosa served me in Coln.
I share my observation with the man at the window. He chuckles.
“A man of taste. Fascinating.”
He takes the seat opposite, puts down the goblet and steeples his hands.
“Severus tells me you claim to be a friend of poor Pinnosa.”
“I may have exaggerated.” A faint smile appears on his lips. “I met him just before the fall of Coln; we’ve been travelling and fighting ever since. We got separated at the battle of the bridge.”
“Unfortunately, Comes Pinnosa died a week ago during a sally, so he can’t confirm your tale.”
“I’m… sorry to hear that.”
The man nods sadly. “It was a great loss. It was he who convinced me of the value of these sallies — and they proved his undoing. Personally, I was hoping we could just sit this one out, as usual.”
“Usually the barbarians don’t come with siege engines,” I note.
“Ah, yes.” He comes up to a cabinet by the wall and takes out a pile of papers. He throws them on the table. “We found these in a bag at the mercenary camp. Do you know anything about them?”
“My men and I took it from one of Odowakr’s engineers.”
“Your men, is it? How many of you are there?”
I take another sip of wine. “Am I still being interrogated?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a conversation among friends.”
“I don’t even know who I’m speaking to. I assume you’re a Comes of this province?”
“Where are my manners?” He grins. “I am Arbogast, Dux of Belgica Prima. And Germania Prima, for that matter, ever since we lost Argentorate.”
“I am Octa, son of Aeric, Rex of the Iutes,” I reply with a bow. “And I am not your enemy. I came here with my men to assist Comes Pinnosa, not for mercenary pay, but out of respect and friendship. If you ask any of his men, they will tell you how we fought with them side by side at Tolbiac.”
“I already have. It’s the only reason I’m talking to you. They agreed that there was an Octa among the barbarians accompanying Pinnosa. But most of them are still out on watch, so I couldn’t get any of them here to confirm it’s really you. I’m sure you understand, we can’t risk having a spy in our midst.”
“Of course, Dux.”
He taps the table’s edge with his fingers, then looks me over again. “I don’t think you belong in that cell,” he says. “But I would like you to stay here as my guest for a couple of days.”
“I have nowhe
re else to go.”
“I’m having a small event tomorrow with a few officials,” he continues. “Nothing grand — we are under siege, after all. But whoever you are, I’m certain you’ll make a great diversion for my guests. A heathen boy who speaks pure Imperial and knows his wine! You have no idea how boring it gets here.”
“I’m a prince of the Iutes, not a performing dwarf,” I reply, indignant. “But I will gladly come to your feast. Perhaps one of your guests will recognise me.”
“Splendid. I’ll send you some better clothes — and a barber,” he adds, rubbing his smooth chin.
“Some food wouldn’t go amiss,” I say. I don’t know when it happened, but the plate before me has been cleared of all the bread and olives.
“Yes, of course. It’s late, but I’ll have the kitchen prepare something warm.”
He watches me intently as I rise from the chair. I wobble as blood runs from my head, then stand straight again. The guard returns to lead me to my new room.
“Those siege engines…” I say, turning back on the threshold. “Will they be as troublesome for you as I fear?”
He rustles the papers. “I shouldn’t tell you this, in case you do prove Odowakr’s spy, but…” He sighs. “If we let them finish even one of these machines, the city is as good as doomed.”
The guard takes me down the broad corridors of the palace, through the atrium, to another corridor, which comes out onto a grand balcony, with three sides open, overlooking a large, flat, oval space, bound by several rows of seats. As I stare at it, I realise with surprise that it must be the circus I saw from the cliffs above the city — a chariot-racing stadium. I’ve never seen one up close before; I’ve only read about them in the ancient chronicles. To my even greater astonishment, there are preparations for an actual chariot race going on at the starting line, with two competing crews making last checks on the horses and their single-axle vehicles, one dressed in red, the other in green. I pause to reflect how even after the centuries of barbarian raids, plagues and civil wars, even this far North, the ancient customs of Rome are being preserved here, albeit in a reduced manner — while in Britannia, they’d been all but forgotten within a generation. For the first time on this journey, I feel I am truly within the borders of the fabled Empire.
The stadium itself, the stands, the balcony, as well as the arena, are in such a bad shape that at first I take the damage for the result of the ongoing siege — before I remember that the city was already razed by Attila’s Huns, years before Odowakr’s arrival. Black soot stains peer from under the hastily applied white plaster all over the walls. Brighter rectangles mark spaces where rich tapestries once hung. The beams once supporting the cloth canopies hanging over the top row of seats are charred and burnt-down to half their original size. Remnants of mosaics adorn the floor of the entrance corridor, shattered and plundered of all precious stones beyond recognition. The only remaining decoration is a great map of Gaul, drawn in charcoal on calf-skin, hanging on the wall over the Dux’s carved oak seat.
There is plenty of food on the several small tables set up around the stands, but it is not what one would expect at a Dux’s feast. Scraps of salted meat thrown over groats, some boiled roots, cabbage, rounds of fresh goat cheese, and a small bowl of pepper for seasoning, to share between everyone — this is all more suitable for a dinner at a merchant’s house, and one that’s not very well off. But then, the city is in the second month of siege, and though there are still plenty of essential supplies left, the luxuries must now be in short supply…
I enter the balcony with apprehension, not sure what to expect of the guests and the purpose of Arbogast’s invitation. But the fear turns into relief as soon as I hear a familiar, hoarse voice.
“Young Octa! It is you! Lord be praised!”
Rav Asher, in his resplendent robes and with the beard finely combed, sits at the far end of the balcony, a bit to the back, on account of his prominent belly. I rush to him, but I’m stopped by a guard’s spear. Arbogast nods to let me through. I glance at the rest of the gathered — at first, I don’t recognise anyone else, but then, to my shock, I spot a man I haven’t seen in months, sitting at Arbogast’s left hand. He’s talking to some magistrate when he notices me enter.
“Aetheling. We meet again — what an auspicious day.”
So much has happened since we last spoke — so many new faces and names to remember — that it takes me a moment to dig up his name from the depths of my memory.
“Legate Aegidius,” I say at last. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
Arbogast laughs out loud and claps his hands with glee. He’s acting more like a heathen chieftain than a Roman magistrate — and perhaps that’s exactly what he is; now I see how different he looks to a full-blooded Roman like Aegidius, with his dark curly hair, dark eyes and aquiline nose in a sun-bronzed face. There must be barbarian blood flowing in Arbogast’s veins, perhaps even that of the Franks? Quite a few other officials at the table look more Frankish than Gaul or Roman. I’m guessing there must have been plenty of mixing the bloods in this frontier territory over the generations, even among the nobles.
The Dux invites me to take a seat at the foot of his chair and, as he starts nibbling on what looks like a roasted mouse, invites Aegidius to explain his presence in the city.
It was the legate who arrived in the gold-trimmed carriage, after a long drive from Mettis, on the day the bridge gate closed. For that brief moment, when Ursula, Odilia and I watched the commotion caused by the arrival of the new Saxon warband, we were only a few hundred feet apart…
Ursula and Odilia. Seeing Rav Asher and the legate is a pleasant surprise, but it only reminds me that my friends, if they live, are likely still somewhere in the city. I need to find out where, exactly, as soon as I’m allowed to leave the palace.
“We drove right into that Saxon warband, and had to retreat to Biliac,” Aegidius recounts. The others nod, having heard this story before. “My carriage almost fell into the river through a hole in the bridge, but we got through just in time.”
“Didn’t you know the barbarians were coming to besiege Trever?” I ask.
“We had no idea,” Aegidius replies, shaking his head. “I came here to request Dux Arbogast’s assistance in our fight. Now I’m stuck here, waiting for the siege to end, one way or another.” He chuckles. “I don’t even know how the war with the Burgundians is going.”
“There’s a war against Burgundians now?” I ask.
A fanfare of single trumpet announces the start of the race. A roar of a few dozen throats echoes throughout the circus, and I notice there are some townsfolk scattered around the auditorium, sitting in small groups or alone, watching the chariots perform a trial lap around the circuit. I express my amazement that a city in siege can afford to organise an event like this.
“People need their spirits sustained, as well as their bodies,” the Dux explains. “It’s the least we can do. I already had to ban theatre plays. How do you do things in Britannia?”
“There is nothing like this in Londin anymore. The theatre was quarried for stone; the amphitheatre is a crumbling ruin… I don’t even know if there ever was a circus — I suppose there must have been, but any trace of it was lost long ago.”
“Enjoy the spectacle, then, young Iute.”
The race starts in earnest. The small crowd of spectators erupts in applause, cheering their favourites and jeering at the opposition. After four laps, the green-clad charioteers move far ahead of the reds. Arbogast winces and loses interest in the race. He leans back in the seat. “The Greens lost their best driver in the siege,” he says. “They haven’t been the same since.”
With more wine poured into our cups, we start picking at the meat and groats. The Dux picks up the story told by Aegidius, with news the legate brought to the city.
“Imperator Maiorianus should have been here months ago,” he says, “but he got delayed fighting off anoth
er invasion of the Vandals and Alemanns on Italia. At long last —” He points behind his head, at the map on the wall. A slave puts a pin with an eagle’s badge into it, somewhere in Italia between the long arch of the Alps and the sea. “— he is setting off for Gaul. In response, Magister Agrippinus declared himself an Imperator and called on his barbarian allies: the Goths, the Alans and the Burgundians. He gave Arelate to the Goths, Aurelianum to the Alans, and barricaded himself at Lugdunum with those he trusted the most, the Burgundians.”
I look at the map hanging above his head to make some sense of his words. The city of Arelate is the only one I’m familiar with; it lies to the south, near the coast, at the gates of Italia — it’s where the poet Rutilius started his journey across Italia, and it’s where I hoped my friends and I would have landed with Aegidius had we not tried to free the Iute slaves. I’m struck by the inevitability of destiny; if we had kept following Aegidius, we would still have ended in the besieged Trever… Nothing would have changed, no matter what we would have chosen to do — except, maybe, poor Gille would still be alive.
Lugdunum lies on the main highway between us and Maiorianus’s army, on the crossroad of several main highways. It’s easy to grasp its strategic importance, and the difficult position in which the Imperator found himself through the cunning of his enemies. If he wants to march on Arelate first, he will expose his right flank to the Burgundians at Lugdunum. If he chooses Lugdunum, the Goths from Arelate will be free to strike at his rear. Judging by Aegidius’s mission to Trever, the Imperator decided on the latter direction for his campaign — choosing to deal with the Usurper first, before turning on the Goths.
All of this is a moot point as long as the siege lasts. I can see now why no relief has come for Trever; Aegidius and his entourage may have reached the city via minor roads, but any greater number of troops would need to go past the enemy-held Lugdunum.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 26
