Betula spits a globule of pink saliva, wipes her mouth and raises her sword over her head, with a weary hand.
“I’d recognise that horse anywhere,” she says. “Come on, Haesta! Remember me?” she cries out a challenge. “Let’s get this done once and for all!”
CHAPTER XIX
THE LAY OF BASINA
I watch in stunned respect as Betula’s men, without her even having to say a word, raise shields and lock them together in front of them in a perfect shield wall. Betula pushes me towards them; a shieldmaiden’s hand drags me behind the wall, despite my loud protests.
“I let him kill your mother; I’m not going to let him kill you,” says Betula. “Get back there and don’t come out until you’re the last man standing.”
She hands me the henbane flask. This gesture says more than any orders; she expects us to die here.
Haesta’s riders, wary of charging on the Hiréd’s pikes in the tight confines of the enclosure, draw a narrow turn at spear-range and ride towards Seawine’s Iutes, clustered with Audulf next to the remains of the catapult. They pass the Saxon warriors, rushing at the shield wall with axes and spears. Seawine, taking cue from Betula’s men, rounds his warriors up into a circle of shields, but without the Hiréd’s training it’s only a poor imitation of a shield wall, and it gives Haesta only a moment’s pause.
Audulf moves forward with his great axe. Ursula stands by him, poised behind a large Frankish shield. I can’t see them well over the heads of the Hiréd. I feel a terror come over me — not for myself, but for my friends.
“They’ll get slaughtered if we don’t help them!” I cry at Betula. She glances back angrily. Already, a trickle of blood runs down her brow from some stray stone or club thrown by an attacking Saxon.
“If we move to save them, we’ll be slaughtered,” she cries back, parrying a spear thrust. I can see in her bloodshot eyes that she’s already drunk the henbane. In a few moments, she and all her warriors will turn into unflinching beasts, caring not for injuries and exhaustion. It will take all their training to hold the shield wall, even as the brew burns in their veins — lesser men would simply throw themselves into the brawl until either they or their enemies were all dead. The warriors grunt and heave under the Saxon onslaught, then, urged by Betula, start a shrieking war chant that freezes the blood in the veins of our foes, but still the Saxons come, launching wave after wave of attack on the unmoving wall of board and hide.
Stuck behind their backs, I have nothing to do except watch them die — and I grow furious. Despite Betula’s words before the battle, she still does not see me as a warrior — rather, as a child who needs protection. I look around; there’s a gap between the edge of the shield wall and the palisade where the bodies of the slain engineers and their guards are piled high enough to form a barrier for the enemy. I climb this gruesome ladder of bloody limbs and guts to the other side and rush to the aid of my Iutes.
I arrive unnoticed by either my men or the enemy — for a moment, surprise is on my side. Just as one of Haesta’s riders aims his lance at Ursula’s side, I leap and grab him by the waist. I try to pull him down, but he holds on to the reins; Ursula notices our struggle and, blocking a falling axe with her shield on one side, cuts the rider across the legs. He finally lets go and we both tumble into the blood-soaked mud. I reach for the long knife and stab him in the stomach before rolling aside from under the hooves of another horse.
I scramble up and look for another foe to fight. I notice one of my Iutes is lying in the dirt, bleeding but still moving; the others are being pushed into the corner of the enclosure opposite to where Betula and her Hiréd stand — and further away from the gate. I can’t see a way out. We are outnumbered and outmatched — there must be at least fifty of Odowakr’s warriors within the palisade — and though many have fallen already, many more are still pouring through the gate to replace them…
Until, there are no more. Shouts and cries of pain erupt at the gate, and as I plunge my sword in the chest of a small, squat Easterner — like all his kin, used more to shooting arrows from horseback, than fighting in a tight space — I glance in that direction, trying to see what’s going on at the other side.
Just then, another small group of warriors bursts into the siege camp, screaming, shouting, yelling obscenities and waving weapons — and strikes at the side of the Saxon line. The last of the band to enter is Basina — riding her snow-white Thuringian mare, its belly now painted red with blood, and releasing arrow after arrow into the backs, chests, stomachs and heads of the enemy warriors.
It doesn’t take much to turn what seemed like a victory into a rout; the Saxons, though they still outnumber us all, are already wearied by their relentless attacks on the grim shield wall. Their line wavers, then breaks; in their panic, they rush past Basina’s band towards the salvation of the gate — and Basina’s not stopping them, content with saving us from the immediate threat.
It is now Haesta’s turn to react to the sudden change in circumstances. His men don’t panic — but they are now alone in the enclosure, surrounded by enemy eager to avenge their fallen. Haesta calls retreat, and the horsemen leap, jump, gallop and push their way to the gate, through and over the Iutes, trampling everyone who dares stand in their way. Basina raises her bow one last time, but is too late, and her arrow hits a pole of the stockade a moment after Haesta vanishes out of our sight.
Basina dismounts, her cheeks bright red with excitement, her eyes wild and black. She kisses me passionately. “Now that’s a battle!” she exclaims. “I must have killed a score of men getting here! Look — I’m almost out of arrows, each arrow a death!”
I wipe my mouth. The taste of her lips is mixed with the taste of blood, not all of it of the enemy’s. I notice Basina’s thigh and side are bleeding from what must be spear slashes, but she’s shrugging the pain off as if she herself had drunk the henbane.
“We’re not done fighting yet,” I say. I see Betula’s men drop their shields, some of them sway to the ground. This is a critical moment — they’re weakened and vulnerable as the henbane brew stops its magic. For a few minutes, they’re the ones needing our protection. I order the Iutes to gather the wounded and form a wedge. The Saxons may have dispersed in panic at Basina’s arrival, but they’re still out there, and they’re still in great enough numbers to stop us fleeing, if they can gather their wits in time.
One last time, I raise my sword. It feels heavy in my numb hand. Audulf and Ursula stand beside me, both covered in blood. A great open gash runs along Audulf’s left arm and side; Ursula is limping; she threw away the shield and holds her spatha tight with both hands. They’re too weary to speak, but the stern resolve in their eyes is loud enough.
I nod at Basina. She leads her Franks out in the vanguard; we follow after them — and bringing up the rear, Betula and her Hiréd shuffle along, disoriented and dizzy, leaving their battered shields behind.
We run out, tired but ready to break through whoever’s waiting for us outside — only to find nobody there.
A column of riders charges towards us with their lances down. They’re neither Haesta’s nor Odowakr’s men — these are Romans, equites, wearing Arbogast’s colours on their red capes. Basina raises her bow. I run past her, and stand before the approaching soldiers, waving my arms desperately.
“Cessate!” I cry in Latin. This makes the riders slow down to a trot, but they do not stop. I remember my satchel, still at my side; I pull the letter with the Imperial seal from it and raise it in the air. This finally makes them halt.
“Who are you? Why do you have that seal?” the Decurion of the Roman riders asks.
“We came with the Frankish army to your aid. I know your Dux, Arbogast — he gave me this letter of passage.” I spit the words out quickly before the officer loses his patience.
The Decurion looks around the enclosure and notices the damaged siege weapons and the piles of Odowakr’s dead.
“Are you the ones who did this?” he as
ks.
“We are — and I gather you’re the ones who cleared our way out?”
“We had no idea there was anyone here. We saw Odowakr march off somewhere with most of his army, so we sallied forth to try to destroy that battering ram on the bridge while there was still a chance,” the officer replies. “Then the siege engines stopped, so we came here to investigate… I know you,” the Roman says, noticing Ursula and Audulf. “You rode patrols with my men.”
“We have, Decurion,” replies Ursula. “We thank you for your help.”
One of the Romans whispers something in the Decurion’s ear. The officer grimaces, annoyed.
“The Saxons are scattered, but not beaten yet — they’re gathering to strike back,” the Decurion says. “We have to go. I suggest you do the same. I’d offer to take you to the city, but I can’t guarantee your safety on the way back.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “Let your Dux know his city is safe — and if you see Legate Aegidius, tell him Octa fulfilled his part of the deal.”
“Octa. I’ll try to remember.” The officer salutes me, then waves at his men to turn back. A small crowd of Odowakr’s men gathers on the road, still wary of our combined force, but looking ready to strike as soon as the Romans depart. I can’t see Haesta or his mercenaries anywhere — he must have realised that without the machines, the campaign is over and there’s no more reason for him to stay with the Saxon army.
The equites turn around in a neat wedge formation and launch into a gallop back to Trever. The Saxons pull back to let them through — none are willing to face a Gaulish war horse in full charge.
“This is our chance,” I tell Basina. “Now, run for the hills!”
The cold Mosella wine tastes sweeter and runs thicker than mead. I gulp an entire mug before Ursula manages to tear it out of my hand.
“Careful!” she says, laughing. “It’s a precious bottle.”
“I drank it before, you know,” I say, wounded.
“Not this one,” says Dux Arbogast. “It’s the last flask of the winter wine. I bet you’ve never tasted anything like it — and you probably never will.”
“Winter wine?”
We are gathered in the dining room of his palace — just me, Ursula, the Dux and Rav Asher. A few rooms away, Audulf, and two more of my Iutes recuperate from their wounds; in the yard, Betula trains the Hiréd, not letting them rest even for the day of celebration. Outside, the city is almost empty; the people of Trever were cooped up inside the stone walls for too long, and now they have all left to wander the fields and forest, to stroll the shores of the river, to check what’s left of their villas and farms, to breathe in fresh air, to swim in the cold waters of Mosella.
“From grapes cut by frost. Makes them sweeter than honey. Few remember how to make it — and fewer still knew how to keep such vines…” He sighs and looks at the dusty bottle in his hand. “And now, the barbarians trampled the last of the winter vineyards. Another wonder lost to the world forever.”
“At least your city survived,” I say.
“This time.” He nods.
“But that’s it, then, isn’t it?” I ask. “The war is over.”
“For now,” Arbogast says. “Odowakr doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up this easily. He’s young, he still has most of his men with him — and most of our gold. It’s only time that he ran out of.”
“Gold?”
“We may have won the battle, but I still had to pay him off to make sure he doesn’t return as soon as I march off to Maiorianus’s help. We bought ourselves a year’s respite. He will try again.” He throws back his head and laughs. “Though next time, he might go straight for Rome instead, like the Goths and the Vandals before him. Gaul has become too complicated. Too many tribes, too many kings — too many Imperators! — to keep track of. And the weather in Italia is nicer!” He pours me the rest of the wine. “Drink up, hero. You deserve it. You saved us all.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I protest. “It was Hildrik who led his army to your aid — and Betula and her Hiréd who destroyed the machines…”
He waves his hand. “Nonsense. I’ve heard the stories. I know how much the city owes you. Name your prize. My treasury is yours — what’s left of it.”
I shake my head and fall back into the chair.
“I don’t need your gold,” I say. “Give it to my men instead. I was promised a different reward.”
“Of course,” says Rav Asher, stroking his beard. “My books. Come to my house tomorrow. I will have everything ready. Is there anything particular that interests you?”
“Anything you may have on the art of war,” I say. “Especially, how to build those infernal machines.”
Rav Asher and Arbogast look at each other nervously. I laugh.
“Don’t worry — it’s a long way to Britannia,” I tell them. “You’d never see these engines here. My father could use a couple in his fight against the Saxons — our common enemy.”
“Very well — a promise is a promise,” says Rav Asher. “I’ll see what I can find. Though I thought, as the heir to a young kingdom, you’d have been more interested in the writings on governance and statesmanship. I have a collection of Cicero’s letters unparalleled north of the Alps…”
“Men —” scoffs Ursula. “Is war and politics all you can talk and read about? It’s not the art of war that you need to learn about, Octa,” she adds with an impish grin. My ears burn.
“What — what are you talking about?”
“You may have impressed Basina in the battlefield… But not where it really mattered.” She stares at her fingers in feigned disinterest. “Women talk about these things, you know.”
Rav Asher bursts in a fit of coughing, disguising laughter. “I’m — I’m sure Esther can find something among my books that will help you with that, as well.”
Everyone laughs — except me. I sulk into embarrassment, and into memories of the last night with Basina.
She’s gone now, taking her Hunnic bow and her strong white thighs with her. She’s returning to Tornac, to recuperate from her wounds — the injuries proved so severe she had to be carried on a wagon, to her great annoyance — while Hildrik’s fyrd, Falco’s soldiers, and most of Arbogast’s surviving garrison went south. The Imperial Legate, Aegidius, is with them, too, leading them towards Lugdunum, to help Imperator Maiorianus fight the Usurper. It’s a long way to go, far longer even than the one we marched from Tornac, and time for campaigning is running short, so the combined armies left as soon as they were ready — and as soon as we made sure that Odowakr’s men had indeed gone beyond the Rhenum.
“Tell me, Dux,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Would you have taken Odowakr’s offer if we hadn’t come?”
Everyone falls serious again. Arbogast studies the grain of the table.
“Only if it meant I would have saved the city,” he says. “And, believe me, my heart would not have been in it. If I wanted to be an Imperator, I had plenty of chances to try it before the Saxons arrived.”
“No need to dwell on what hasn’t happened,” Rav Asher says. “The Lord saw to it that we didn’t have to make these difficult choices.”
“The war’s not over yet,” remarks Arbogast. “We may have to make difficult choices again, depending on what happens in Lugdunum.”
Ursula leans back, lazily, and yawns. “I’ll be glad to stay away from all these politics,” she says quietly. “When we’re finally back home.”
“It’s decided, then?” asks Arbogast. “You’re going back to Britannia?”
I nod. “As soon as we’re all healed and rested… Aelle’s Saxons will be coming home, too, now that Odowakr’s campaign is over — my father may need his household guard again.”
“And his son, no doubt,” remarks Rav Asher.
“I… don’t know about that,” I say. “If he had wanted me home, he’d have had Betula take me back.”
“Come now, Octa,” Ursula drapes her arm across the ta
ble to hold my hand. “You’re returning a hero. You saved Trever — maybe even Rome itself. You have nothing left to prove.”
“Lady Ursula is right,” says Arbogast. “You’ve made your father proud — and your entire tribe. From now on, the Iutes will always be welcomed warmly in Gaul. Another toast for the hero of Trever?” He reaches under the table and takes out another grime-caked bottle.
“I thought you said that was the last one,” I say.
“I lied.” He grins. “But this one is.” He opens the flask and takes a sniff. “And looks like this one’s even better.”
The entire length of the road from the river plain to the narrow pass is splattered with blood, scattered with hacked-off limbs, dented helmets, pieces of armour, scraps of mail and cloth, shards of broken weapons. Both sides have gathered their dead and wounded, so at least we don’t have to wade through bodies, but it is still a gruesome sight.
We pass a few camps of stragglers, left by Hildrik to guard the road, bury the dead, and scavenge whatever useful items they could find on the battlefield that might be sent back to Tornac as spoils of the battle. The Franks give us friendly nods and wave as we trot past. Eventually we pass the last of them, and enter the empty, desolate, quiet stretch of the old Roman highway. It’s hard to believe that just a few miles back, a couple of weeks ago, two great barbarian armies clashed in a flurry of hacked limbs and bloodied blades.
It’s just the ten of us again — Ursula, Audulf and I on ponies, and the remaining Iute riders walking leisurely behind us, leading their beasts by the reins, enjoying the late summer sun. I told Betula to march back to Britannia as fast as she could, in case Aelle tries to use her absence and the return of his warriors from Trever to cause more chaos at Cantia’s frontiers. She also took a wagon filled with gifts from Arbogast to King Aeric, and with books I took from Rav Asher’s library. I’m not in as much of a hurry to return, and we no longer need Betula’s protection; the road back should be safe from any danger, at least until Icorig.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 36
