“I will give you an escort. It will make things easier. There are still some walhas soldiers in these woods who haven’t given up the fight — they might mistake you for one of our patrols.”
I can’t help but smile. So the Romans have been following here the same Fabian tactics as we did in the Trever hills.
“Shouldn’t you be chasing after them?”
“Hildebert hasn’t ordered us to do anything yet. We just wait and watch. We’re safe in our camps — and we’re in no hurry.”
“And where’s Hildebert now?”
“Over in Coln,” he says, nodding to the North. “Still figuring out what to do with it.”
“I would have thought you’d be there as well. Don’t you want to partake in the plunder?”
I notice he’s got a new, wide band of bronze around his arm. It’s roughly cut from some larger piece, and oddly sculpted. I realise it must have been hewn from some statue or decoration. I look around, noticing more disturbing details. There’s a stack of such carved pieces of bronze lying in the corner, ready to be distributed among Weldelf’s warriors — bits of arms and legs, half of a head of some Imperator. Weldelf’s woman wears a chain bracelet with a small silver cross, taken from the neck of some acolyte. A pile of charred papers is thrown on the hearth as fuel, the spider web of black ink letters still visible on the corners, slowly consumed by the flames, the words lost to the world forever.
I say nothing about any of this to Weldelf, but he notices my gaze. He downs half a mug of ale and breathes out. “I don’t care for the walhas cities or their treasure,” he says. “I don’t like being hemmed in by walls. None of us do. I prefer the woods, the rivers, the fields. I’d rather sit on a cliff and watch the mighty Rhenum flow past and pray to Aigir that he let me see the water nymphs, than live in a house of stone, among all the noise and stench.”
“Then what did you need Coln for?”
“The walhas garrison was always a thorn in our side. We would have been satisfied with just the woods and the fields, but they could never just let us be. Now that they’re gone…” He shrugs. “The Drohten will think of something to do with Coln. Maybe he’ll let the walhas rule it in his name, as long as they give him a share of their gold.”
I scratch my nose in thought.
“Then you wouldn’t care much if the walhas offered you even more towns?”
He laughs. “And why would they grant us such a gift after we beat them so thoroughly? Has their god finally taken their minds?”
“Never mind the reasons,” I say. “What would you do with the towns if you did take them over?”
“Nothing,” he says. “If there was any gold and silver worth taking there, we would have taken it already — there are no soldiers left to stop us. All the food and ale we need is out here,” he adds, spreading his hands. “There is nothing but more stone there — and more walhas who hate us, just like the ones in Coln, or the ones hiding in the woods.”
“Is this why you still haven’t taken Tolbiac?”
“Tolbiac is like a man dying of plague — still shuffling around the village, but the flies are already around him, and the crows circle above him. Who would want to have anything to do with something like this?”
“You may as well be describing Rome itself,” I ponder.
“I wouldn’t know.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never been anywhere beyond this country. When I first saw Coln, as a child, I thought that was Rome. I could not imagine there being a greater gathering of men than this.”
“It’s much smaller than Londin, where I grew up,” I tell him. “And Rome is greater still.”
“So I’ve heard. But I also heard Rome was taken by the Vandals a few years ago.”
“They didn’t stay long once they took all there was to take.”
“See?” He raises both hands. “I say, let the walhas keep their cold, bare stones.”
We both laugh and raise our mugs. The barrel soon ends, and Weldelf calls for another, but I insist we must leave.
“The day is still young,” I tell him. “We can get halfway to Coln by dusk.”
“What about that escort I promised —?”
“We’ll be fine, I’m sure. We carry the Imperator’s seal; that should keep the walhas at bay.”
“As you wish.”
I pick Ursula up from the ground — she’s had one cup of ale too many; once outside, I tell Audulf to pour a bucket of well water on her head to sober her up.
“I thought we were staying the night here,” says Audulf, surprised. He had already untied his saddlebags and started to unpack his belongings.
“There’s no time. We’ll set up camp on the road.”
“Wha-ss the rush?” slurs Ursula.
“Just follow me, and don’t ask questions. Trust me.”
We mount up, bid farewell to Weldelf, and ride out towards Coln. Once the camp disappears out of sight, I turn away from the road into the fields. The others follow me in silence, but I can sense their questioning stares on my back. We ride in a wide westward arc around Tolbiac, until we reach another Roman road.
“This isn’t the way to Coln,” notes Audulf.
“No, it’s not,” I reply. “It’s the road to Tornac.”
“Tornac —” Ursula tilts her head, then grins. “Oh, I see. You want to take back the bow to its mistress.”
“This has nothing to do with Basina,” I say, red-cheeked, and kick the pony’s sides.
There is an army at Tornac. A warband, at least a thousand warriors strong, gathered in a great camp sprawling all around the walls. The field smithies and campfires spew black smoke in a cloud so thick and tall that from a distance we take it at first for the smouldering of a burnt-down town. The camp is like a second town in its own right; we move through it slowly, passing warriors in training, merchants hawking cheap goods, women of pleasure seeking custom; the air is filled with the grinding of whetstones, clucking of hens being slaughtered for food and for auguries, clinking of hammers against anvils and thuds of wooden swords against wooden spears.
The guard at the top of the gatehouse refuses to let us in at first.
“We’ve had enough of your sort,” he says enigmatically. “There’s no place inside for any more mercenaries.”
“We’re not mercenaries,” I cry back. “We are messengers. Let your Herr Hildrik know Octa is back from Trever.”
“Trever?” This gets the guard’s attention. He leans over the battlement. “You’ve come a long way.”
“We have — and we are weary.”
“Has the city fallen, then?”
“Not yet. But I will only bring my news to the ears of your masters.”
He mulls my answer, then nods at the guard at the door to wave us through.
I can see why he was reluctant to let us in; there isn’t a foot of grass inside the fort that isn’t covered by a tent, a weapons rack, or a pile of supplies.
“Looks like we’ve arrived just in time,” I say. “They’re all ready to march out.”
“You still haven’t told us why we came here,” says Audulf. “It was a long detour — I thought we were in a hurry.”
“We are. Now doubly more so.” We pass the door of the guesthouse where we stayed the last time — it’s barred now, with a sign saying “no rooms”.
“Look,” Seawine says, pointing to the stables, “aren’t these… moor ponies?”
“They sure look like them,” says Ursula. She swerves nearer the stables to take a closer look. “They must be ours,” she reports back. “I’m certain of it.”
“Maybe my father sent another shipment to Meroweg,” I say with a frown.
We reach the mead hall. Another grumpy guard tells us to wait, longer this time. Audulf grows impatient. “I’ll go find us some lodgings,” he says. “There must be some rooms in the town.”
“Maybe those kindred of yours can take us in for a few nights,” says Ursula. “We’re not going to be staying here long, are we?” she asks m
e.
“No, I don’t think so,” I reply. “But then, by the looks of it, neither will anyone else.”
A good hour passes before we’re allowed into the hall. We enter in the middle of some heated debate between Meroweg and his counsellors. There have been some changes since our last visit. The long table is gone, replaced by what looks like a mosaic of hides and furs on the floor. As I look closer, I recognise it as an ingeniously devised rough map of northern Gaul, with rivers and roads marked in stripes of ox leather, and forest and hill ranges in swathes of different coloured fur. Tokens carved in horn and bone mark towns and fortresses.
“Rex Meroweg,” I announce with a bow. “I see you’re in the middle of a war council.”
He lifts his head and stares at me for a long while with narrowed eyes.
“You’re that young Iute,” he says eventually. “The one who went with my son to hunt the Saxons.”
“That’s me. Octa, son of Rex Aeric.”
“I thought you stayed at Trever.”
“I did — until about a week ago. But I came here to bring you important —”
He stops me and waves at the servants. “Sit down, please,” he says, pointing to a bench in the aisle to the side. There’s a small desk there, with a bunch of papers which a servant rolls up and takes away to make place for pitchers and mugs. “You must be tired after the journey. I will speak to you presently. For now, have some warm ale. Or maybe you’d prefer wine?”
“Ale is good,” says Ursula eagerly.
Meroweg adjusts the diadem on his head and sits back on the carved magisterial seat.
“Now then, remind me again, Herr Richomer,” he addresses one of the counsellors, “how many alae of horse archers do the Alans have around Aurelianum?”
“I came as soon as I heard. I’m glad to see you alive.”
Hildrik reaches out to embrace me and pats me on the back. When he moves to greet Ursula and Audulf, Basina steps in his place. Hildrik’s embrace was brief, perfunctory, a greeting of warriors. Basina’s is warm, long, her hands roaming on my back, her breath in my ear.
“I saw your pony outside,” she whispers. “I see you took good care of my bow.”
“Pity about the string.”
“Don’t worry about it. The string is not important. It’s the… shaft that’s irreplaceable. I missed it,” she says, and I hear I missed you in her voice. Hildrik glances at us, and Basina pulls away from the embrace to tap Ursula on the shoulders.
“Where have you been all this time?” Hildrik asks when we sit back down at the small desk. He nods at Meroweg, still arguing with his men at the far end of the hall. “Don’t tell me you stayed in those woods around Trever all this time.”
“Some of it, yes,” I say. “And then in Trever itself. We’re here with a message from the walhas lords.”
“Have you spoken to Father about it?”
“I have not had the chance yet,” I reply.
He rolls his eyes and stands back up. He strides across the hall, trampling the hides, stepping on the carved tokens and pushing the elders out of his way.
“Father!” he speaks in a voice that makes the timber walls shudder. “Octa rode here across half of Gaul with his message for you! Why haven’t you heard him out yet?”
Meroweg wearily looks up from the map.
“And what news could he bring me from Trever that I would not already know?” he says.
“You only know what Odowakr tells you. Octa came from inside the city.”
Meroweg turns his attention towards me. “Why don’t you talk to him, then? He’s your friend. Find out what he knows.”
Hildrik throws his hands in the air and comes back. “I’m sorry for my father. He’s busy, as you can see. We’re almost ready to march out.”
“It’s alright,” I say. “It looks like it will be better if I talk to you anyway.”
“What did you mean about Odowakr?” asks Ursula. “You’re getting messengers from him?”
Hildrik glances around. “I think it might be better if we discuss this somewhere more private. Go to the guesthouse, I’ll meet you there.”
“The guesthouse is full.”
“I know.” He smiles. “My men are staying there.” He summons one of his warriors and whispers something in his ear. “Berhtwalda will go with you. He’ll find you a room.”
Berhtwalda bangs on the gate of the guesthouse. I hear several locks and padlocks crack open. A head of white hair appears in the door.
“What do you want, Berht — Aetheling?” she exclaims.
“Betula? What in the — is it really you? What are you doing here?”
“Come inside! The others will be so happy to see you!”
“The others? The Hiréd is here?”
“I told you those were our moor ponies,” says Ursula with a grin.
“The first news we got was from the merchant, Ingomer,” says Betula. Just as Hildrik promised, his men clear three rooms for our use, on the guesthouse’s second floor; as Seawine and his Iutes set themselves up there, my friends and I come down to the dining hall and sit at a large, round table, around a great plate heaped tall with local sausages and sour cabbage.
“Your father was losing his mind with worry. All we knew was what Bana told us — that you stowed away on that Roman ship… But we didn’t know where he took you, or why.”
“My father, worried?” I chuckle nervously.
“I’ve never seen him like that — not even when your mother died.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Aetheling… Octa —” She puts her hand on mine. “I know he doesn’t know how to show this — he wasn’t there when you grew up — but he loves you dearly. You’re all he’s got left. Of course he’s worried about you.”
“Was that why he sent you here?” asks Ursula. “To find us?”
“Not at first,” says Betula. “When Ingomer told us you reached Meroweg’s capital safely, we all breathed out in relief. Aeric was even glad to hear you set out on a raid with Hildrik. We both thought you could use an adventure like that. After all, when he was your age…”
“Yes, yes,” I interrupt her impatiently. “We all know the heroic deeds my father performed in his youth. Why are you here, then? What changed his mind?”
“A second messenger arrived a month ago — from someone called Paulus of Ake.”
“Praetor Paulus! He’s kept his word, after all!”
“The news of Haesta and his mercenaries fighting on the side of the Saxons greatly disturbed your father,” she says. “It’s one thing to have him harass our borders in Britannia, and work with Aelle against us — but to transport this conflict to the Continent, where it might involve Franks and maybe even Rome… He was especially incensed when he learned Haesta shared the secret of henbane with the enemy.”
“That — that isn’t quite what happened,” I say. “The Saxons still do not know how to brew henbane.”
“Nevertheless — having the Saxons from the Old Country at Haesta’s side could change the entire balance of power in Britannia. This is something your father could not abide.”
“Then he did not send you here to find me and help me — but to fight Haesta and Aelle,” I say. My voice comes out grumpier than I wanted. “So much for him worrying about me.”
“You are not a child anymore, Octa,” says Betula. “You are a Iute warrior. Your father may be worrying about you, but he understands you are free to make your own choices — even if it means you get hurt or die.” She picks up a link of sausage and tears at it with her teeth. “But you’re wrong. We were ordered to find you first, and then start looking for Haesta and his men.”
“You haven’t done either, I notice.”
“We’ve only been here a couple of weeks; we’re still getting our bearings. It’s a strange land. This is the furthest anyone of us has ever been,” she says, and I stifle a snigger. We’ve just been marching for days to get back to Tornac, a place that seems almost l
ike home compared to the vastness of Gaul beyond…
“When Hildrik returned from Trever, he told us what happened there. We were supposed to follow after you, but we cannot move without Meroweg’s permission — and he does not want anyone leaving the town, not until his fyrd marches out, at least.”
“And where is he sending his fyrd?”
“You’ll have to ask him about that yourself.”
“Hildrik will know,” says Ursula. “He’s supposed to be here soon.”
I reach for the meat; my hand hovers above the plate. “Now that you found me, what are you going to do?”
“Whatever you order us to do.”
“Me?”
“You are the aetheling. The Hiréd is yours to command. Your father told us to obey you — within reason.” She grins.
I scratch my head a few times. “But I… I’m not a commander,” I say. “I’m barely even a warrior.”
“That’s not true. You’ve already led men,” says Audulf. “To victory.”
“A handful of farmers and sailors, a few lost Legionnaires,” I say with a scoff. “You can’t compare them to a Hiréd. And we were only accompanying Hildrik’s warband. By the time he was my age, my father had already fought at Saffron Valley and Crei. He must think everyone —”
Betula bursts out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry.” She wipes a tear. “It’s just — do you really think you’re still living in Aeric’s shadow?”
“He is a king.”
“He is now, yes. And a Gesith before that, and Londin Councillor before that. But when he fought at Crei, he was a nobody. A green warrior, running errands for his brother. I was there, too, you know — a young shieldmaiden, fighting in the front line.” She lifts her tunic up to show off an old scar under the stump of her arm. “A wealh spear, on the shores of Crei,” she says. “I hadn’t even heard about him then. Indeed, I didn’t hear about him until I met him in Londin.”
“What are you getting at?”
“At your age, his world — our world — was confined to Wortigern’s realm. Cantiaca, Londin, maybe New Port if there was a reason to get there. By the time Hengist ceded the diadem to him, the furthest your father went was to Wecta and the land of Ikens. Even as a Rex, he’s only been abroad twice — both times here, to see Meroweg.” She waves her hand around the hall.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 30
