The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  “But where are they going now?” asks Catigern. He glances at them with suspicion. “We razed all the old temples along this road long ago.”

  The landlady and her husband look at each other nervously. “We… tend not to pry,” says the Saxon woman. “Perhaps they’re going to the church at Dorowern,” adds the landlord.

  “There is still too much of the old way of life remaining in these parts,” says Master Pascent.

  Catigern nods. “We have neglected this countryside for too long. We need to spread the light of Faith further than just the walls of Londin. There isn’t a single chapel standing south of the Downs between Dorce in the West and Medu in the East.”

  “This is why Bishop Fatalis agreed that we should build the church by the old graveyard, to replace the old burnt out one,” replies Pascent. “Paulinus has already begun gathering the supplies.”

  I glance at Fulco. He’s standing watch by the door — the frame is built out of two halves of an old marble column. He’s looking inside now, but as soon as our eyes meet, he slips out, into the night.

  Lady Adelheid finishes sipping her cup of the sour local wine with a barely hidden wince, bows and stands from the table, announcing she will retire to the guest room. Catigern and Master Pascent finish the bread in silence. Master Pascent looks at me expectantly. I understand he wishes to discuss the secret matters now. I stand up as well, but instead of going upstairs, I claim the need to clear my head after the heavy wine.

  I know how to look for holes and cracks in any old stone building, but this inn is constructed in a confused manner I’m unused to, more a thatched barn than a house. Eventually, I discover a knothole in one of the oak beams, through which, with some effort, I’m able to listen in on what goes on inside.

  “… It would only be a small camp,” I hear Catigern speak. “Twenty families, no more. Just to try it out.”

  “And if it works,” answers Pascent, “what then?”

  “You’ve seen this place. There’s enough land between here and Ariminum to settle a whole army.”

  So this is more than just a journey to Dorowern — it’s a survey expedition… But for what?

  “The Regins will take that as a threat. This is a borderland after all.”

  “It’s also a dangerous frontier, on the edge of Andreda Forest. More and more bandits and outlaws are coming to the woods. They’ve been changing tactics recently — no longer abducting cattle, but people, demanding ransom in exchange.” A pause, and a gulp. “If the rumours are true, some of them are regular soldiers, Saxons from the mercenary camps on the coast. We will need to protect ourselves.”

  “And are the rumours true?”

  I can imagine the wry smile on Master Pascent’s face as he poses the question. I can tell by the tone that he suspects Catigern of some deceit.

  “You have better contacts in New Port than me,” replies Catigern. “I’m sure you hear all the latest news before they reach Londin.”

  “What news I hear tells me that some travellers have recently appeared on the south coast, stirring trouble between the Saxons and the Regins where there was none before. This makes the Saxons uneasy.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  I hear plates and bowls clanking on wood, followed by a period of silence, interrupted only by the sounds of biting, chewing and burping. Once they’re finished eating, Master Pascent is the first to speak.

  “We are going to pay them with land, then. How will that work, exactly?”

  “The same way it works for Elasio and his Gewisse. The same way it worked for Constantine, back in the day, or for Valentinian and the Alemanns. It’s what they do in Rome, too, all over the Empire, with the Goths and the Vandals.”

  “The Goths and the Vandals take what they want, without asking for permission. You know as well as I do the official arrangements are just for show.”

  “We have nothing else to offer, anyway.”

  “So it’s true? Wortigern’s treasury is empty?”

  “It’s been empty for years. We’ve been reusing the same coins over and over again to hide it.”

  “Can’t you raise some new taxes? Surely the defence of the city and the villas is a worthy cause.”

  Catigern scoffs. “Tax! They threw the Romans out so that they wouldn’t have to pay any tax. What do you think they’d do to us?”

  “Fair point. And your brother is fine with this idea? From what I’ve heard…”

  “Wortimer’s fallen out of favour after what he did to your boy. His word means nothing at the court.”

  “That worked out fine for everyone, didn’t it?” Pascent laughs.

  A cold breeze blows round my ankles and I suppress a sneeze. I listen to the conversation some more, but the two men delve into details of moving and settling a large group of men across the land, and I soon grow bored. I still haven’t heard them mention any names, but I can guess they’re talking about the Iutes.

  If so, this would be a revolutionary idea. No Saxons have been officially allowed to settle this close to Londin before. This is still a Briton land, a Roman land, even if all that’s left of its inhabitants is a painful memory. Catigern is right, though — the country we’ve passed through today is abandoned, desolate, ripe for the taking. If the Britons are not willing to move back, why not let someone else try to tame it again?

  I step away from the hole in the wall and, my head still hot from the wine, I take a stroll among the tents and beyond, along the river’s edge. An ominous owl hoots in the aspen grove by the water. Another responds to it on the bank opposite.

  I spot a light flickering upstream — it’s hard to tell in the darkness how far away, but it’s on my side of the river. I walk a few hundred feet further along the tall bank until I see an overgrown ruin with a bright flame inside, shining through holes and cracks in the wall. As I move closer, I hear quiet chanting.

  Once a rectangle of thick stone, now it’s just two roofless walls and an empty doorway facing the river. Crouching up the bank, I reach the cracked step leading to what once was a covered porch. There’s nobody standing watch: everyone gathered inside is facing away from the entrance, towards a stone altar upon which is raised a pyre of black branches. They all observe a female figure standing at the far end of the roofless hall. She’s holding a thick, round-tipped oaken staff and wears a cloak of brown hide and a horse’s head mask.

  The ceremony is already well underway. The smell of burnt meat fills the air, and several charred carcasses are scattered around the fire. The chanting is subdued, but fervent. Though I spot a few Britons among the crowd, everyone here speaks Saxon, or some form of it which I can barely understand through the roar of the flames. The only words I discern are the names of the gods — Wodan, Donar, Tiw… And Eoh, which I know means horse, but is spoken with the same awe and devotion reserved to the other deities.

  As my eyes adjust to the bright light, I recognise some of the gathered. The bald landlord is here, as are some of the guards from Quintus’s retinue. Two men, at least, I know from our villa. I spot Horsa, standing grimly in the corner, with a few other Iutes near him. But many I have not seen before. I can’t find Fulco, but I’m sure he must be somewhere in the group, out of my sight.

  I realise who the priestess must be: the landlady! I see now through the deceit. This isn’t just a wayside inn. This is a den of devilry, on an even greater scale than the one Fulco created under the chapel. Those “pilgrims” the landlady mentioned must be coming here from all over the Downs and beyond to attend to these foul rites. Master Pascent and Catigern were right to suspect the locals reverting to the old ways — or new ways, as Fulco would call them… They must be told right away. I crawl from the porch — and feel a strong hand grip my shoulder in a vice.

  “I see you’ve decided to join us, Ash.”

  “Fulco!” I wriggle futilely. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He pushes me up th
e steps. “I’m sure you won’t. After all, we’d all like to keep our secrets.”

  “I have no secrets. I told Paulinus about everything, and he forgave me.” I can tell he sees right through me. “He knows I’m a good Christian now. I have seen the light of God — I was baptised!”

  “Then what is a good Christian doing sneaking into a pagan rite, in the middle of the night?”

  He waits for an answer, but I have none to give. The truth is, despite the baptism, despite all the fervent prayers I’d whisper and holy rituals Paulinus would have me adhere to, a part of me remains fascinated with the pagan customs of my ancestors, and the dark vision of my future I saw in Fulco’s sacrificial flame. I knew the Saxon gods were demons — but they were my demons and I felt, somehow, that they still kept hold of some sliver of my soul.

  Fulco laughs and leads me inside, next to Horsa. The Iute gives me a knowing look, as if he’d expected me to arrive. Finally, I find the words to defend myself.

  “I — I was just curious,” I say.

  “I know you were, Ash.” Fulco’s voice softens. “It’s no accident you found us. It was your blood that brought you here. Your destiny. Don’t worry, we’ll soon let you go free. But if you betray us, we’ll all confess that you came with us willingly. Do you really think Paulinus is going to give you another chance?”

  He knows the threat is real. Fastidius and Master Pascent may believe my conversion is complete and genuine, but Paulinus still doesn’t trust in my devotion, especially since I started learning Saxon and once again found myself in the company of the pagans. It would be all too easy for Fulco, Horsa and the others to prove I’ve turned to the old ways again, even if it was just their word against mine.

  Fulco hands me a piece of raw, dark red, marbled meat.

  “Now,” he says, “throw it into the fire. Remind the gods of yourself.”

  “I will not.” My protest sounds weaker than I’d want it to.

  “Do it.” The Frank twists my other arm. I close my eyes and pray silently to Christ to spare me from this ordeal. The flames burst and sizzle on the fat. I dare not ask what meat is this. The congregation murmurs another chant. Grease drips from the pyre and down the sides of the altar. I back away. The priestess dips her staff in the grease, licks the fat off the tip sensuously, then spreads her arms apart, revealing her full nakedness under the cloak. Against myself, I feel my manhood rising at the sight.

  This is a signal for the group to split: the women kneel before the priestess and her staff, while the men gather in a tight circle around me and Fulco. The landlord of the mansio raises a water-skin to his lips and then shares it around. One by one, all men drink from it, the golden liquid flowing down their cheeks.

  “Drink,” orders Fulco. He presses on the water-skin and a strong, sweet mead fills my mouth. I cough and splutter. Somebody grabs the empty skin away from me and throws it into the flames. The altar pyre bursts with a thick black smoke.

  There was more than just fermented honey in the mead. I feel sick. My head is spinning. The same feeling of awe, the same divine presence I sensed in Fulco’s underground shrine, creeps up on me again. Only now I recognise it as the presence of demons, not gods. I try to struggle free again, but Horsa and Fulco hold me from both sides. The smoke covers all and the wisps appear again, showing me a vision not of the future, but of the past: I’m thrown back in time, to a moment when others held me in the same strong grip, on the bench of a sinking ship, in a violent storm. A primeval fear grips me, fear of drowning, fear of death. I start to tremble.

  “Do not fear, boy,” I hear Horsa’s voice — or is it my father’s? They sound so similar in my mind… “Death is not the end. Wodan’s Mead Hall awaits those who die without fear.”

  “There’s nothing brave about dying at sea,” I whisper.

  “Each passage on the whale-road is a battle. We fight the gods of the sea and sky. Everyone we’ve lost in these battles awaits us at Wodan’s table. Including your family.”

  My family… Will I see them if I open my eyes? Or is it just a deceit to make me believe again…?

  “Wodan is… is just a devil in disguise,” I say, my voice growing weaker. “There is no Mead Hall, only Hell. This vision is a false dream.”

  “If Wodan’s not real, then who are you speaking to?”

  I open my eyes. I am alone in some dark place. It smells of smoke, mead and blood. In the darkness, I make out a silhouette of a bearded man wrapped in a hooded cloak, leaning on a staff of ash wood.

  “I was talking to my father.”

  “I am a father to all who believe in me.”

  “You are a father of lies. An adversary of mankind.”

  “You talk like one of the Roman priests.” The man sniggers. “But this is not Rome. Not anymore. And you —” he points a long finger “ — are no Roman.”

  “I am a Christian. And this is a Christian land.”

  “Is it?” He waves a hand. An eerie silvery light dispels the darkness. We’re in a thick forest of oaks, ashes and beeches, heavy with the scent of moss and damp soil. The sun barely penetrates through the canopy.

  “This is the North,” says Wodan. I can see him clearly now, his grey beard, his one healthy eye. “Cold and dark. No desert God will last long here.”

  “Have you seen the new cathedral in Londin?” I object. “It will stand for centuries.”

  “It will be gone within your lifetime,” he scoffs. “As will all the churches of the wealas.” The word he uses means anyone who’s not a Saxon — but in this case, he means the Romans. “Soon, all of this will be mine.” He waves his hand again, and the forest grows dark once more. “And you will help me take it.”

  CHAPTER XII

  THE LAY OF AELLE

  I wake up at dawn, in a filthy ditch by the inn’s wall, with a pounding headache. I wade into the river, to wash off the reek of smoke and grease from my body and clothes. By the time Catigern and Master Pascent come out of the inn, I’m sober enough to pretend I’ve spent the morning helping with the horses.

  As we pack up and prepare for further journey, I manage to avoid getting close to Fulco and Horsa. I can’t avoid the landlord and landlady, however — it might raise suspicions if I try. As the two of them bid us farewell, I catch a knowing glint in the woman’s bright eyes. Had I really seen her last night leading a dark pagan mass, wearing nothing but a cloak and a horse-head mask, or was it just my fevered imagination? The whole thing seems unreal to me now. Perhaps all that happened was that I drank too much of the sour wine, walked out of the inn, fell into the ditch and had a bad nightmare…

  She leans over my shoulder, her bosom almost touching my face. “We will pray for your safety,” she whispers, in the same pious voice she used at the ritual. I smell the smoke, blood and grease on her skin and a shiver runs down my spine.

  Then it wasn’t a dream after all. But there is another mystery here, one that I’m raking my mind to solve as the carriage trundles further east along the ancient trackway. Quintus said the owners of the villa had perished defending the old faith — and the lands were razed by God-fearing Christian peasants. How had this place succumbed again to the devilry so fast? Where were those peasants now? Some of those gathered in the ruined temple were unmistakably Britons. Were their minds so fickle, their faith so shallow, that it took a mere generation for them to forget what they had fought for?

  My confusion must be reflecting in my face, for Master Pascent asks what’s the matter. I can’t confess to my dilemma, so I make up a vague theological problem I supposedly discussed with Paulinus before leaving the villa. He smiles and nods, satisfied with my answer.

  By mid-day we reach a roadside village, the first significant settlement since the crossroads with the ruined temple. It’s somewhat larger than Saffron Valley, but markedly poorer. We pass barely any craftsmen stalls, there doesn’t seem to be a dedicated marketplace, and between the rows of old wattle round huts and a couple of dilapidated stone dwellings I spot the tur
f-roofed, wall-less dug-outs of the same kind I’ve seen in Weland’s village. A small group of children runs screaming and laughing after the carriages. They are as mixed in appearance as the village’s architecture — fair-hairs, black-hairs, there’s even a little red-haired girl among them. Were their parents at the temple last night, I wonder?

  A tall stone cross stands in the centre, marking the place as an abode of Christian folk, and I breathe in relief. But soon after we pass it, another monument rises out in a bleak, barren field: a cluster of stones standing in two lines, like crooked teeth, forming a long, narrow gate leading to nowhere. A black crow sits on top of the largest stone, cleaning its beak, and I’m reminded of Wodan’s words: this is the North.

  The carriage stops abruptly, as if the sight of the crow made the driver pull on the reins in fear.

  Master Pascent leans out. “What’s going on?”

  A moment later Fulco appears at the door. “The Medu River,” he says. “It’s swollen.”

  We all climb out of the carriage and join the others on the shore of what should be an easily passable ford. Instead, the river spills wide between the steep banks, and over them, flowing through the fields and threatening to flood the village itself. On a hill rising above the opposite shore I spot more ancient stones, standing in several scattered groups. For a moment, it feels as if the evil spirits that inhabit them were holding us from crossing to the other side.

  “I don’t understand,” says Catigern. “This is no season for floods. There were no heavy rains recently.”

  “Something must have blocked it downstream,” says Master Pascent. “It doesn’t look that bad. Maybe we can still cross it.”

  We empty one wagon, lash a single horse to it and have the driver wade into the water, holding the beast by the reins. Less than halfway through, he stops. The water is up to his chest, and the current is threatening to overthrow the carriage. He looks helplessly to us and Master Pascent hails him back.

  “There used to be a wooden bridge some six miles downstream from here,” says Fulco. “But I’m not sure it’s standing anymore.”