“Yes, he often complained about this. He called it the shrinking of the world,” I remember. “He said things are slightly better now than when he was a youth — when one village only knew or cared about what happened at the nearest village — but not by much.”
“And now, look at yourself —” she says. “You’ve sailed to Gaul on your own. You’ve been to all those strange, wonderful places we’ve only heard of: names we’ve only seen on maps. Trever — I don’t even know where that is!”
“And Coln,” adds Ursula.
“And you carry messages in the name of the Imperator,” says Audulf.
“Imperator?” Betula’s eyes widen. “What do you mean? You’ve met the Imperator?”
“No,” I laugh. “Only his legatus, Aegidius — the same who visited my father at Robriwis. But I do carry the Imperator’s seal…”
“Only the Imperator’s legatus.” Betula shakes her head. “Listen to yourself. You’re only eighteen, by Lord’s wounds. At this rate, by the time you’re forty, you’ll be the Imperator yourself!”
“I — I don’t think that’s possible.”
“By the time he’s forty, there may not be an Imperator anymore,” says Hildrik.
I turn around — it’s him and Basina, and a retinue of three Franks, each carrying an axe the size of a small tree.
“I thought you wanted to meet somewhere private,” I say.
“This is private.” Hildrik snaps his fingers, and his warriors clear the guesthouse from the patrons and staff. A minute later, we’re all alone in the dining hall — not much smaller than Meroweg’s mead hall, now that it’s empty, except for the three axemen standing guard at the door and windows.
“How much have you heard?” I ask.
“I heard you mention something about the Imperator’s seal,” replies Hildrik.
I reach into the satchel and take out the parchment scroll from its tube. The seal is stamped with a stylised portrait of Maiorianus under a mark of a cross, and inscribed with his name and title, unreadable now in the wax. I hold it in my hands for a moment before showing it to the others.
“It’s a letter from the Imperial Legate, Aegidius. I wanted to present it to your father, but I fear it might be too late. Would I be right thinking his fyrd is about to march on Trever?”
“Not on Trever, no.” Hildrik shakes his head. “But there is a great swathe of land between Camarac and Aurelianum that’s free for the taking. We could expand on Clodio’s conquests now, while the walhas and barbarians are busy fighting each other and the promised Roman fleet is nowhere to be seen.”
“The Roman fleet?”
“Have you forgotten how this entire thing started?” asks Betula. “Your father agreed to house the Roman ships at Leman, but we haven’t seen any yet.”
“The Empire’s war plans have changed since then,” I say. “The fighting moved south, to Lugdunum, so I imagine the harbour in Britannia is no longer a priority.”
“So I gathered.” Hildrik nods. “It matches the news we’ve been receiving from Odowakr.”
“And what is Odowakr’s role in this?”
“They agreed to share the North between them — Odowakr would take Belgica Prima, my father Belgica Secunda; and they would help each other defending from any Roman response.”
“This would mean the end of Roman Gaul,” I say. By now, I don’t need to look at maps to remember the shape of the province and its internal divisions. “The South is already split between Goths and Burgundians. Even if Maiorianus wins against Agrippinus, it might be impossible to reconquer it all back again.”
“I’m afraid you might be right,” says Hildrik with a sad nod. “And without Gaul, who knows how long before Rome itself falls, and for good this time?”
“And you’re fine with this?” I ask. “After everything we talked about?”
“Wouldn’t you have done the same in my father’s place? Between us and the Sequana River there are only a few small city garrisons. The Legions are far away, facing each other. It’s a ripe fruit, ready for picking.”
“What was in the message?” asks Basina.
I hand her the scroll. She breaks the seal and as she reads it, her wide brow furrows ever deeper. She gives it to Hildrik.
“I think you gave us the wrong missive,” she says. “This is addressed to Hildebert, Drohten of the River Franks.”
“Yes,” I reply. “The legate sent me to him. But I didn’t think Hildebert was the right man for this task.”
Basina smiles. “So you’ve decided you’re a better diplomat than the Imperial Legate.”
“I…” I stutter. She struck right at my uncertainty; what right did I have to decide by myself what I did with the message? What if, through my arrogance, I just signed off a death warrant for the city of Trever and everyone in it — what if I sealed the fate of Gaul, the fate of Rome itself?
“I just didn’t think Aegidius and Maiorianus were familiar enough with the situation in the North.”
“Hmm… no, I’m pretty sure they are more than familiar with what’s going on here,” says Hildrik. “I told you, Maiorianus served on the Frankish frontier in his youth. And Aegidius fought at his side.”
My cheeks burn. I rip the letter from his hands. “It’s not too late yet for me to return to Coln.”
“Hold on,” says Hildrik. “Let’s not be too hasty about it.”
“What did Aegidius promise the River Franks, anyway?” asks Basina.
“Recognition of his rule in the entire province. A title of a Comes. Control over taxes and customs. Garrisons removed from border forts.”
Hildrik and Basina look to each other. “They’re really afraid,” says Basina. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“There’s nothing here that would interest Meroweg,” says Hildrik. “Not when he can take it with his own hands.”
“And waste time and men capturing all those fortified towns I saw on the map?” I say.
“All the more glory for his warriors,” he replies, rubbing his chin. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice: if it was up to him, he would take the deal.
“Your father gambles on Rome being a spent force,” I say. “But what if he’s wrong — what if this new Imperator is as good a commander as the walhas claim? You yourself told me he could be the new Aetius. He’s defeated you once before. There’d be a bloody war — and all your father’s conquests could be for naught.”
“And even if we win, there will be widespread devastation,” says Hildrik. “The land has barely recovered after the Huns. It will not survive another war.”
“Then stop your father and convince him to take Aegidius’s offer.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing will convince him to trust the walhas. He would just dismiss it as another trick. And maybe he’d be right — what guarantees can they offer on this deal? They fear us now — if we help chase Odowakr away, what leverage will that leave us?”
I look to Basina pleadingly. She’s the only one here who can help me change Hildrik’s mind.
I’m not sure why I insist so much on convincing the Salians to march to Trever’s help. Part of it must be unwilling to accept I’ve made a mistake; but that’s not all of it. I don’t know this Hildebert — I haven’t even met him — but from what I’ve seen of the River Franks, I believe Hildrik, if not his father, is far more suited to play the role of the saviour of Gaul. The River Franks seem to me true “barbarians”, almost caricatures of the kind described by the ancient Roman writers; living in camps and villages, rather than walled towns, not caring for the value of art and culture they inherit from the people they conquered, interested only in glory and plunder…
“It must be nice to be able to make such important decisions on your own,” says Basina. “Without always checking with your father…”
“Oh, I’m sure my father —” I start, but Ursula squeezes my hand under the table to stop me from talking.
“My father is the king of the Salians,�
�� says Hildrik. “The tribe is his to command.”
“And are you his to command, too?” asks Basina. “I did not choose to marry a man who takes orders from someone else.”
“I doubt Octa could do what he does without his father’s permission,” snarls Hildrik.
“Actually, my father and I have always had an understanding about these things,” I say, releasing my hand from Ursula’s grip. “He promised he would never order me to do anything against my will.”
“Nonsense,” scoffs Hildrik. “He’s been indulging you. It’s not like you can take the Iute fyrd and march them on Londin.”
“No, but he can command us to march with him wherever he wants,” says Betula, guessing what I’m getting at with my argument. “Don’t you have a warband of your own?”
“What about those men who went with us to Trever?” asks Audulf.
“Look, I don’t know how they do things in Britannia, but I was banished once already. Eight years among the Thuringians is a long time — even if I did find my beloved there.” He tries a smile at Basina, but she’s having none of it. “I don’t want to end up like your Haesta, running a mercenary band, looking for coin on the outskirts of the Empire.”
“You mean you’re scared to stand against Meroweg,” murmurs Basina.
Hildrik stands up, overturning his stool. Red-faced, he slams his hands on the table. “I am not scared of anyone — not even you, Basina! As long as my father is alive, he is in charge of everything and everyone around here. What do you want me to do? Kill him?”
A silence falls on the table. I glance nervously to the door — the guards don’t budge, and don’t change the bland expressions on their faces.
“That would make you the king of Franks,” says Basina quietly. She licks her lips in excitement. “I haven’t slept with a king since my first husband.”
“I am not going to kill my own father.” He sits back down and rests his head on his hands.
“Wait,” I say. “Nobody said anything about any kingslaying.”
“Oh, but we have,” says Basina. She turns back to Hildrik. “We talked about this before, didn’t we, my love?”
“You — you thought about murdering your own father?” I gasp.
“Hildrik has no love for Meroweg,” Basina explains. “He barely even knows him. He was just a child when he was sent to Thuringia.”
“This isn’t how I imagined my return to Frankia,” says Hildrik, so quietly I can’t hear him at first, staring into the table. “I thought Father would make me his second in command. Give me an army of my own. Give me a seat at his Council. But I was just an errand boy. When we returned from Trever, he took the warband from me. He called the fyrd against Rome without asking for my opinion.”
“You’ve always disagreed with the way he led the tribe,” says Basina.
“Betrayal at Maurica poisoned his mind,” says Hildrik. “And he’s jealous of Hildebert’s successes. He would rather see all the Franks perish than seek peace with Rome.”
“Then somebody must stop him,” I whisper. I can’t believe I’m saying this. It could be my father we’re talking about. How different is what we’re discussing from what Haesta did? He, too, believed my father, and Hengist before him, were wrong in how they led the tribe. He, too, had grievances that he felt were justified and went unaddressed. Is this why my father never fully committed to destroying him and his band of mercenaries?
“I — I don’t think I should be involved,” says Audulf, leaning away from the table. “I have relatives here. What if they somehow end up connected to this?”
“Calm down, Audulf,” I say. “Nobody’s getting involved in anything. We’re just talking, right? Right?” I plead with Hildrik.
He stares at his hands for a long time. “If my Franks and I came to Trever’s help instead of Hildebert, do you think Aegidius would honour the deal? Do you think the Empire would make me a Comes?”
“I… I don’t think he would have much choice,” I say, my lips suddenly dry. “They are desperate over there. If we don’t bring reinforcements in…” I count in my head, “two weeks, at most, it’s all over, one way or another.”
“What do you mean, one way or another?”
“There is something else I haven’t told you about yet,” I say. I glance at Ursula. She nods. “Odowakr proposed to declare Arbogast Dux of Trever, an Imperator, and support his claim, in exchange for surrender.”
Hildrik breathes out aloud. “A third Imperator! As if we didn’t have enough trouble. It’s all become tangled like a knot on a ship’s rope.” He taps on the table. “Odowakr said nothing of the sort to my father. Maybe if Meroweg finds out about it, he might change his…”
“No,” Basina interrupts him. “It’s too late for that. Two weeks is barely enough to reach Trever with the entire fyrd if we march out tomorrow. You need to take over. You need to cut that knot. And do it fast.”
Hildrik reaches for the last sausage left on the plate. He munches on it in silence, then turns to me.
“I will need your help with this, Octa.”
“Me? No — I will have no part in —”
“Yes, Octa,” says Basina, her stare drilling into the back of my head, seductive and insistent. “We will need your help with this.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE LAY OF MEROWEG
In the middle of a fallow field, several miles outside of town, on the other side of the river, rises a great mound of earth, taller than the tallest tree. Bound by a rim of weathered drystone, surrounded by ancient tombs popping out of the grass, it spreads the same air of piety and mystery as the old barrow mounds I know from the hills of Britannia. Somehow, even in the middle of the summer day, its base is shrouded in thick mist, rising from the marshes around it.
In a land that’s been inhabited by Roman citizens for centuries, this is one of the few, and the most conspicuous, remnants of the ancient heathens who lived here before Rome’s conquest. When the Franks moved to Tornac, they took the tombs to have belonged to the ancestors of some of their tribes, and so they chose to venerate it as their own; they started burying their own dead around it and built an altar to their gods on its top.
It is by this altar that we watch Meroweg and his retinue arrive in an ox-driven cart along the riverside road. The cart stops at the bottom of the mound. Meroweg leaps out and climbs hurriedly to the top, followed by half a dozen guards.
“Make it quick,” he snaps. “I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, of course, Rex,” I say with a bow. “Once again, we are most grateful you’ve agreed to this ceremony.”
“Yes, yes.” He waves his hand. “And you’re sure your folk will be fine with that? I wouldn’t want to risk my good relations with Aeric over some youths’ tryst.”
“No, we have been betrothed for years,” says Ursula. “Everything is arranged for us back home — it’s just…”
“I understand, you want to be wedded before the coming war.” Meroweg nods. “Clodeswinthe and I did the same before her father had us march against Aetius.”
The ruse was a simple one. I did not think it would work, at first, but Hildrik knew his father well, and thought carefully about the plan’s every detail. In Tornac, the conditions of the settlement did not allow for heathen priests — this was still a Christian town, albeit with only one church left, and only a handful of the congregation still living with its walls. In their absence, it was up to Meroweg to conduct the few important rites for his subjects — including prominent weddings, such as that of the son of an allied king and his Briton betrothed.
Ursula embraced the idea with surprising enthusiasm; it was she who eventually convinced a reluctant Meroweg of our impatience. We were about to join Meroweg in his march on Gaul — Betula, her Hiréd, and my remaining Iutes; after our experiences at Trever, we feared the upcoming war with the walhas. We both wanted to be wedded before our death. First in the pagan way, before the gods of my people, then at the town’s small church, in a Chris
tian manner. Back in Britannia, we claimed, our marriage would have united the houses of Iutish kings and Briton city magistrates; here, it was just an expression of our great love. The story impressed the king enough to agree to our request — and Hildrik slyly suggested the great barrow mound as the only place fit to celebrate our union.
Meroweg, in a white, ceremonial robe thrown over his tunic, marches down a short avenue between two rows of Iutes — my riders on one side, six of Betula’s Hiréd on the other. Together with the three axemen guarding Hildrik and Basina, the forces of the conspirators easily outnumber Meroweg’s retinue; he suspects nothing. Even if he doesn’t trust me and the other Iutes, he’s certain his own son and his men would defend him if this wedding was to turn out to be some kind of Iutish trap…
The Rex reaches the altar, a great flat stone, carved with red runes and scattered over with sprigs of oak and mistletoe. Hildrik helps him light up a small charcoal brazier. Meroweg nods at me and Ursula to come closer and throws more herbs and sprigs on the brazier. The humid air stifles the flames; the brazier belches black smoke. Meroweg mumbles an invocation to the divine couple, Wodan — whom he calls Wuotan — and Frige, whom he calls Frouwa.
Ursula squeezes my arm, grinning. She’s been oddly excited about the ceremony all day, even though for her it is doubly fake — after all, she does not believe in the heathen gods. As for me, I’m still not sure what to make of it all. I take a deep breath; the thick smoke enters my nostrils, making me dizzy. My father never instilled in me piety for any gods — neither Roman nor Iutish — even though he himself often played the role performed by Meroweg today, that of the high priest, when the custom called for it. But does my lack of piety mean the wedding is any less real? Meroweg is not a fake priest; he might be in a hurry, but I can see he’s taking his duty seriously, more seriously than my father ever did. The ritual he performs, the names he invokes, are real enough. What if I really am marrying Ursula today?
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 31
