The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  I hear the unmistakable wobbling whistle of a wooden shaft flying through the air. With a thwack of a shattering rib and a splurt of a punctured lung, the steel spear point strikes the scar-face through the back and pokes out of his chest.

  Everything freezes for a moment. I recognise that narrow spear point. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a single rune carved somewhere on the barbed blade. My Anglian aesc — but how…? Why?

  The men around me stand still in shock. I wriggle out of their hold, spin the scar-faced man around and yank the spear out. The barbs tear a terrible, jagged wound in his body. Blood spurts from both sides, and from his mouth, as he falls to the ground, gurgling.

  As he hits the gravel, the others shake off their stupor. Even with my spear, I’m still just one, beaten, tired against all ten — no, nine — of them. While those in front have already realised something’s gone terribly wrong, the ones at my back are too incensed with the battle rush to care, and charge at me again. Surrounded, I don’t have enough space to make full use of the spear. I stand with my back to the hedge and wave the spear around. I feel blood trickling down my leg, and from my head; strength flows out of me with every drop.

  The group to my right pulls back and turns away from me to face a new threat: three big Saxons running at them, brandishing seaxes in their hands. One of them is the moustached man from the Forum camp. The other two I don’t recognise. Wortimer’s men don’t put up much of a fight. It’s swords versus clubs and, despite their advantage in numbers, the Britons are soon forced to retreat to join their remaining comrades. One of them falls, bleeding from a deep stab in the neck. The Saxons reach me, and I hobble up to join them in the fight, but their chief orders me to stand behind him.

  “You’re wounded, boy. We got this.”

  One of the Britons runs away — it’s the chief from yesterday, ever a coward. The remaining seven hold their ground, determined to defend their honour against the barbarians. They draw their own knives. They’re short pugio daggers, no match for the seaxes, but it’s clear that if neither side is going to give way, things are going to get very bloody very soon.

  My mind is torn asunder. Wortimer’s men attacked me without provocation, and the Saxons came to my help, so I should have no difficulty in deciding which side of the fight to join… But today I’m not a Saxon. I look at my white raiment, splattered red with blood, mine and my enemies. Any other day, I would have no qualms about siding with the pagans against Christians, but today — today I’ve become one of them. Those seven men might not see me as their fellow in faith, but it’s up to God to decide this, not them. The piety that filled me just a short time ago returns, and I’m beginning to feel remorse even for the blows I struck in self-defence. Has not the Lord asked us to turn the other cheek to our enemies? If I joined the Saxons now, it would be an act even worse than self-defence, a grave sin — revenge. And on the day I was absolved of all the sins committed until today… Should I run away back to the tavern, wait there for Fastidius…?

  A deafening battle cry breaks my meditation. Both sides charge at each other, weapons raised, eyes blood-shot. I drop my spear and stand back, a helpless witness to the carnage. I raise my arms in silent prayer.

  “Hold! Hold, you sinners!”

  The voice booms from on high, commanding, absolute, divine. It stops all men in their tracks. For a moment I think it’s God Himself come down to settle the battle. Then I see him: Bishop Fatalis, coming down from the cathedral hill towards us, his gold-stitched vestments flowing and gleaming in the sun like an angel’s wings. He’s followed closely by a group of acolytes and novices, Fastidius among them.

  Weapons clang on the gravel. The Britons drop to their knees before the approaching Bishop. The Saxons bow their heads. I make a shaky step forward, and then the blood loss and pain finally get the better of me.

  CHAPTER X

  THE LAY OF CATIGERN

  Judging by the thin veneer of the black marble on the walls, the mosaic on the ceiling and a foot-high silver cross standing on the chest by the window, the room I wake up in must be a part of the cathedral complex — somewhere at the back of the main hall, I guess, from the direction I can hear the angelic singing of the choir coming from, rehearsing for the next Mass.

  My right leg is bound in a wooden splint and wrapped tightly in linen soaked in ointment and sweet-smelling resin. With a moan, I touch the bandages on my brow; they’re soaked through. The pounding in my head almost drowns out all the sound.

  “Water…”

  Fastidius hands me the mug, and I gulp it in one. My head clears a little. I notice he’s wearing a priest’s robe and a silk stole around his neck. I look down: I’m clad in the grey tunic of a novice. It looks like it might be Fastidius’s size.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “You’re sorry? For what?”

  “I got blood all over the raiment.”

  He smiles. “It will wash, don’t worry.”

  “I fought them while wearing it… When I should have turned the other cheek.”

  “We all saw what happened. It was self-defence. And, thank the Lord —” He raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Nobody died.”

  “The scar-faced man…?”

  “He’ll pull through, I’m told, though he’ll never hold a sword again. Besides, Horsa tells me you stopped fighting and started praying as soon as your life was no longer in danger. Like a good Christian should.”

  “Horsa —?”

  I rise on the elbow and take another look around the room. The Saxon, who led the warriors to my aid, sits awkwardly on a stool by the chest. He keeps smoothing his moustache. He seems uneasy being in a place as affluent and holy as this, in the presence of a Christian priest.

  “This is Horsa, Comes of the Iutes colony in Londin,” Fastidius introduces him, and the Saxon rises to a clumsy bow. “Or Drihten, as his own people title him.”

  “You saved me,” I say. “How did you know where I was? Come to think of it, how did they know…?”

  Horsa leans on the chest, careful not to touch the silver cross. “They came to the camp last night.”

  “You were attacked?” I ask. “Because of us?”

  He nods. “There were dozens of them. Must have been all of Wortimer’s band, led by that scar-faced man. They destroyed the stalls, set fire to a couple of tents, and threatened to destroy the entire village if they weren’t told…”

  “Those bastards,” hisses Fastidius. I glance at him in surprise — I didn’t think priests were allowed to swear.

  “I wasn’t there when they came,” Horsa adds. “Or I would never have allowed them to force my people to reveal where you two were staying. It is a stain on our honour.” He clenches his fists.

  “You’ve more than made up for it,” says Fastidius. “But, where were you if not at your camp? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “He was with me.”

  Standing in the door is a man who looks like a slimmer, fairer, taller version of Wortimer. He’s got the same black curly hair, tied neatly with a cloth ribbon, the same green eyes, but gleaming with pure wisdom instead of sly cunning. He’s wearing a dark red robe, flowing from his shoulders all the way to sandal-clad feet.

  Fastidius and Horsa both stand up and bow before him. He gestures at them graciously.

  “Please,” he says. “I’m not my father. There’s no need for any of this.” Then he turns to me. “I’m sorry we have to meet in such dreadful circumstances. I was hoping to welcome you at my father’s house.”

  I glance to Fastidius in confusion.

  “This is Catigern,” he says. “The oldest son of Dux Wortigern, and brother to Wortimer.”

  “To my woe,” adds Catigern with a smile. “I came as soon as I heard. Rest assured, those responsible will be punished. Severely.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, weakly. All thought of revenge has long vanished from my mind. “As long as they repent their sin…”

  “That’s between them and Go
d,” says Catigern. “Meanwhile, here in the Earthly realm, it does not befit a ruler to let his subjects riot as they please, so near a holy site, and on such a sacred day like this. Especially when they purport to act in his family name.”

  He looks around and pulls up another stool. He nods at Horsa.

  “But, I have interrupted the tale of your rescue. Please, I am keen to hear the rest of it.”

  “As soon as I returned in the morning and found out what happened, I sent men to the Sarmatian’s, to find out if you two were safe,” the Saxon continues. “We learned that you went to the cathedral hill, and that there’s a grand ceremony happening today, to which you were not allowed to take your weapons…”

  “So you decided to bring me my spear,” I say.

  He scratches his cheek. “That was the innkeeper’s idea. I just hoped we’d reach you in time to warn you of the attack. We were almost too late.”

  “You were just in time,” says Fastidius. “My father will reward you richly for your help.”

  The Saxon straightens himself proudly. “I did not do this for the wergild. You two are friends of my house. It was my duty to protect you.”

  His indignation is praiseworthy, but he’s not fooling anyone. We both saw him eye the silver cross with envy. It would be enough to buy his entire village, with interest. If only his pride allowed him to accept the payment…

  An inkling of an idea sparks in my head. I sit up with a hiss. “Fastid, before all this happened, I was wondering… ” I shift myself on the bed, and my foot explodes in pain. I take a deep breath and ignore it. “… I’d like to learn the Saxon tongue, like you have.”

  “It’s not a bad thought.” Fastidius nods, grasping my meaning immediately. He glances at Horsa. “You would need a teacher.”

  “Can you spare one of your men for this task?” I ask the Saxon. “Or women.”

  His face brightens in visible relief. Teaching me Saxon would be a proper job, likely to be paid in metal, rather than barter, and it’s clear that few of his people can boast such employment. I’m sure it would bring coin to the entire settlement.

  “I will find you the best teacher there is,” he assures me with a relieved smile. “You’ll be speaking our tongue like one of us in no time. Although…”

  “What is it?”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer an Anglian for a teacher? Their speech is a little different to ours, I’m not sure if…”

  I don’t understand. “Why would I? I’ve never even met one.”

  This is the first that I hear of any difference in speech between Saxons and Anglians. Until now, I thought it was just a name for a particular clan or tribe of the Saxons. All I know about the Anglians is that they have their mercenary camps in the north, beyond Dux Wortigern’s domain — and that they make good weapons.

  “I thought —” He looks at my aesc, then back at me. “— that spear is Anglian. I thought maybe it’s an heirloom.”

  “The design is from the North, but a Saxon smith made it for me in the South,” I explain. “I don’t know anything about my origins. I told you, I’m a foundling, washed out in a storm.”

  “A storm?” His eyes gleam.

  “Is that important?” asks Fastidius. I notice he’s growing impatient — all this hassle must be stopping him from important priestly duties. After all, he has just been ordained: I’m sure there’s plenty for him to do today other than taking care of my injuries.

  Horsa stares at both of us. “How much do you know about my people, the Iutes?”

  “I know that you live in Cantiaca, the pagus of the Cants,” I reply, “and that you have some customs and laws different from those who settled on the south coast.”

  “It’s not just our customs that are different,” he says. “It’s our entire way of life. The Southerners have always been mercenaries, invited to fight for Rome even in the days of the Imperators. We are peaceful people. We came here to seek refuge.”

  “Refuge? From what?”

  A shadow mars his face. He smooths the tip of his moustache. “There’s a war in the East, a war few here know or care about. Hordes of horsemen riding from the Steppes, burning and pillaging everything in their path. They are unstoppable — you might as well try to fight the wind, or the sea. They’ve been pushing against our borders for a generation, forcing us out of our homes, our lands, ever westwards. In the end, we had nowhere to go but the sea.”

  The horseman on the dune top. My earliest memory.

  “That’s how you ended up in Cantiaca,” said Fastidius.

  “Not at first. We didn’t want to live off the charity of others, so we sent messengers to your southern coast, to see if we could get ourselves hired out as fighters, like the other tribes. But the messengers never came back, and the horsemen hordes attacked again, and so we gathered as many sea-going ships as we could find and prayed to our gods for guidance.”

  He now looks only at me. “It was thirteen years ago, but I remember it as if it was yesterday. We lost many in the storms in the dark sea, women, children…” He falls silent. Fastidius makes the sign of the cross on his chest and whispers a wordless prayer.

  “Thirteen years ago…” I realise. “You think I’m one of those lost Iutes?”

  “Do you remember anything from before arriving in Britannia?”

  “I do remember a storm… And three ships, thrown about by the waves in the darkness…”

  Horsa nods. “We set out in three ships at first — a lucky number — to guide the way: me and my brothers, Hengist and Eobba. Eobba’s ship never made it out of that storm — all but a few perished in the waves. Then we sent for the others. At length, all the Iutes either arrived here, or perished at sea along the way.”

  “How many of you are there?” asks Fastidius. “The camp at the Forum seems to have grown a lot since I last saw it.”

  “Too many to fit on Tanet — the scrap of land the Cants gave us,” says Horsa with a scowl. “All we have is one marshy island of mud and rock, and this little plot of land in Londin, where I already feel we’ve overstayed our welcome. We are a proud people, yet we’ve lived like beggars for the past thirteen years.”

  Catigern leans forwards. “This is what we were discussing last night. The Iutes need us, and we might soon be needing them. But Wortimer’s men are looking to sow discord among us.”

  As he speaks, the cathedral bell rings out, nine times. Fastidius looks out the window. “I have to go. I am to lead today’s Nones.” He briefly touches my shoulder. “I’ll be back after the Vespers. The Bishop said you can stay here as long as it takes.”

  “I’d rather go back to the tavern.”

  “We’ll see about that in the morning.”

  He leaves me with the two strangers. Catigern observes me curiously. The Saxon — the Iute, I correct myself — stares at the floor. I’m slowly taking in the story he told me. Roused by all the new information, I’m trying to imagine the life he and his people led over the past thirteen years: a life of flight, misery, squalor, hopelessness; a life from which I, by God’s will, was spared.

  Are the Iutes really my people? My tribe? Does that mean Horsa and his brother are my chieftains? Not that it changes anything — Master Pascent bought me fair and square, and I still belong to him by law; in my heart, I belong to his family; and since this morning, my soul belongs to the Church and God. I don’t think there is any part of me left that could promise its allegiance to the Iutes.

  “Why does Wortimer hate you so?” I ask Horsa, but Catigern replies instead.

  “My brother longs for the old days of the Imperators. He dislikes all change. He tolerates the Saxons as mercenaries, as long as they are far away from the city, because that’s how things used to be in Roman times. But he does not want them, or any of their kin, to come here as peaceful settlers, farmers, traders… And I’m afraid, he’s not the only one.”

  Horsa sighs. “I fear we will have to go back to Tanet after all. There’s no place for us in Londin. Not after
yesterday.”

  “I will do all I can to keep Wortimer and his band of roughs at bay,” replies Catigern. “I am still the older son. Father listens to me, not him. You will be safe, I promise.”

  I come to a sudden decision.

  “How far away is this Tanet place?” I ask.

  “Eighty miles down the Rutubi Road, then across a narrow strait,” answers Catigern. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’d very much like to go there,” I say. “As soon as my leg heals, that is. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to find my real parents there, find out who I was…”

  It can’t hurt, can it? Finding out about my roots is not going to make me any less Briton. It’s only natural to be curious. Researching the Germans did not turn Tacitus into one…

  The two men look at each other and smile. “I’m sure that can be arranged,” says Horsa.

  “I was planning on going there myself soon,” adds Catigern. “It’s not a bad idea for us to make the journey together. But… Will your Master agree?”

  “He will be honoured, I’m sure,” I say. “If he receives an official request…”

  Catigern smirks. “I see. I’ll make sure that he does.”

  Horsa claps his big hands in glee. “Good tidings, at last! I will send a message to my brother. We’ll start the preparations right away. By Wodan and Frige, this has turned into an auspicious day!”

  Catigern clears his throat and glances at the silver cross, reminding the Saxon we’re in the house of the Lord. Horsa turns red and mumbles an apology.

  My bones and bruises take longer to mend than I had hoped. A cracked foot and a smashed collarbone are particularly stubborn.

  I have not been wasting my time during the recuperation. Soon after my return to the villa, a man arrives from Londin, one known as Orpedda, to teach me the Saxon tongue. Fastidius was right: the more I hear of it, the more I remember of it from my brief life before the storm. Orpedda tells me the speech of the Iutes differs in some ways to that of the Saxons, and of the Angles, but that they can understand each other with little effort. He also teaches me more about the lost, old world, beyond the ocean.