The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  “I’m sure this will change as soon as we’ve dealt with the bandits,” says Fastidius in a conciliatory tone. He pours himself a cup of ale. “Why don’t you tell us about your adventures in Andreda, Ash?”

  Little has changed in Beaddingatun since my last visit, only that the wheat in the fields has turned golden and heavy with grain, the pigs and geese have grown fatter, the children grown taller — and there’s a new whitewashed fence between the village and the church land.

  “I had it put up to avoid further incidents,” says Beadda. “It’s a reminder that a different God lives in the stone building — a God that does not like to be disturbed.”

  “You did well. Paulinus looks a lot happier now, too.”

  I can’t help thinking that this reconciliation would not have come about without the Iutes and the Britons having a common enemy.

  “How much time before you need to begin the harvest?” I ask, glancing at the golden field.

  “We’d normally start at Hlafmastide,” he says. “This year, I’m not sure. We haven’t had a wheat harvest since leaving the Old Country. At Tanet we could only grow barley and oats.”

  “It can’t be long now.”

  “No, it should be any day now. I hear they’ve already started at Orpedda’s village.”

  We reach the mead hall. On the trampled meadow before it, a handful of warriors train their sword-fighting. A great bronze cauldron is simmering slowly on the embers in the corner, attended to by a couple of young women.

  “How goes the brew?” he asks them.

  “We’ve waited for you with the leaves, Gesith.”

  They present Beadda with a basket full of crushed, wilted weeds. He invites me to throw a handful into the cauldron. I recognise the pungent smell from my last visit to the village.

  “Henbane?”

  He nods. “Something to give us a little advantage over the Saxons. You said they didn’t know of it?”

  “That’s what the Geat told me.”

  He digs into the basket and throws a generous heap. “It grows as a common pigs’ weed in these forests,” he says. “It’s better that only few know what power the gods have infused within it. We’ve learned the ritual from the Geats, and they in turn from the tribes even further north, in the land of long nights.”

  On its own, it would either kill a man or turn him into a seer, he explains, neither of which is of much use to a warrior. But when mixed with other herbs, it makes one’s spirit join with that of a sacred beast.

  “We are boar warriors, devoted to Frige,” he says, “and so we become like wounded boars under the henbane’s trance.”

  I have never heard about any of this. I’m instantly intrigued. Boar warriors… What other sacred animals are there among Iutes? Bears? Wolves? I wonder which one would suit me the most…

  “I fought a wounded boar once. I would be loath to do it again.”

  He nods, smiling. The wine, he says, makes you forget all fear and pain of injury, and makes the armour and weapons feel light as a feather.

  “You will fight like this until you’ve killed all your enemies — or are killed yourself.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “It is not to be taken lightly. We drink it only as a last resort. But it’s best to be prepared.”

  He leans over the cauldron and breathes in the fumes, his eyes closed, smiling.

  “Soon, it will be ready.”

  There is commotion on the southern edge of the village. I hear shouting and swearing, but no clash of arms. Beadda and I rush towards the noise. Just past the last hut, on the border of a wheat field, I spot two Iute guards holding tight onto a frail boy, thrashing vainly in their grip.

  “Hey, I know this boy,” says Beadda. “It’s the little beggar from Crohdene. Why do you hold him?”

  “He’s been spying, that’s why,” replies one of the guards. “We caught him sneaking around the village.”

  “He’s one of Aelle’s men, now,” says the other guard, pointing to the dapple-green cloak on the boy’s back.

  “Is this true?” Beadda draws a long knife and presses it to the boy’s neck. “Answer, or die!”

  “Wait!” I stop him. “This one belongs to me.”

  Beadda gives me a puzzled look. The boy is none other than Waerla. I doubt Aelle really sent him here to spy. Then why —?

  “What are you doing here, Waerla?” I ask.

  “I — I was thrown out of the camp,” he replies, his voice wobbling. “The chieftain said it must have been my fault we were attacked at the hill… He thought I was a spy for the Britons!”

  I can see he’s almost about to burst into tears. Beadda nods at the guards to let him go. He drops to his knees in the mud.

  “Yes, but why did you come here?”

  “I thought — I thought if I brought news from the Iute village, he’ll let me back in again…”

  I crouch beside him and lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “Why would you want to go back to those bandits, Waerla?”

  He stares at me with eyes wide open.

  “I have nowhere else to go, young Master. I’d rather die fighting than be a beggar.”

  “You could always go back to Ariminum.”

  “But I’m a thief… A sinner… Father Paulinus said —”

  “Father Paulinus will do what I tell him to. You’d be safe there. There are pigs that need tending.”

  “But… What about the battle? I want to help you and the others win it…”

  I rub my eyes. Of course, he still thinks I’m plotting an alliance between the Iutes and Aelle — he has no reason to suspect otherwise… If he knew the truth, what would he do? He’s never been particularly loyal to me or the villa — he’s just a pig shepherd, after all… Can I risk him finding out what’s really going on between me and the Iutes — or should I keep him as far away from discovering the truth as possible?

  Beadda notices my vacillation. He raises the knife again. Killing the boy would solve the problem in an instant. What difference does one pig shepherd’s life make? I take him aside.

  “I can’t,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve known him since childhood.”

  “Well, something must be done,” he says. “I can’t have Aelle’s spy lurking about while we prepare for war.”

  “I’ve got an idea. He might be of use yet.”

  We return to the boy.

  “Do you know how to get to Orpedda’s village?” I ask him. “Master Quintus’s old place?”

  He sniffles and nods.

  “I need you to go there and tell them to make ready for battle. We’ll send them a signal.”

  He nods again and stands up. At Beadda’s prompting, one of the guards hands Waerla back the short knife he was found with.

  Orpedda’s men are farmers, not warriors, and are not supposed to take part in the coming battle. They are already busy with the wheat harvest. The boy will be safe there — and far enough from us to not cause anyone any trouble.

  Waerla grasps my hand and kisses it as if I was a priest. I pull it back in embarrassment.

  “Go on,” I urge him. “You’ll want to get there before nightfall.”

  When Beadda told me to come to his village to join the preparations for the coming battle, I was expecting a feast lasting into the night, like last time, followed by songs, more mock fighting and, in the morning, a slow, head-pounding march out to meet with Brutus and his centuria on the outskirts of Saffron Valley. But there is no feast, and there are no songs, only a pile of weapons and armour before the mead hall’s entrance, the simmering cauldron, and a barrel of summer ale, foaming gently in the sun.

  The children, playing until now on the meadow’s outskirts, disappear, taken home by their mothers. The village grows quiet and sombre. As I watch from under the mead hall’s eaves, the warriors and shieldmaidens arrive onto the meadow. Each approaches the pile and picks up a piece, a sword, a spear or helmet, before gulping a mugful of the ale.

  The la
st two pieces of equipment remaining on the trampled grass are my Anglian aesc and the seax made by Weland. Beadda nods at me to come and pick them up. “We kept it for you,” he says, and hands me a steel helmet. “I knew you’d come back for it.”

  He puts on an elaborate headgear, a helmet laced with gold designs, with a boar figurine at its peak and a bronze eye-guard engraved in the shape of owl eyes. He slides a broad silver ring on each of his shoulders, straps on the sword belt and waits for the squire-boy to pick up his shield and spear. He raises his hands. The gathering falls silent.

  “Iutes! Hiréd! The time for battle is upon us!” he booms. “Our sentries have returned with the news we’ve all been waiting for: the enemy is heading our way.”

  Even now I still doubt that our plan will succeed, though everything so far appears to have worked. The sentries we posted in the vast forest, based on what I could remember of the location of Aelle’s camp and the likely paths his men would take, have managed to detect a warband on the march. Aelle seems to have taken the bait of the Bishop’s visit to Ariminum, and is sending the bulk of his forces towards Saffron Valley, rather than splitting it equally between the villas — and it looks like the route he’s taking will lead him straight into our trap.

  Still, I am not allowing myself the futility of hope. Hope leads to carelessness. Careful planning is the only guarantee of success. While Paulinus prayed in his chapel and Beadda dug his fingers into the entrails of the sacrificial horse, Fastidius and I pored over maps to determine the best place to snare Aelle’s army, counted the men in every army, devised stratagems for any eventuality.

  “Warriors!” Beadda continues, pacing across the meadow, “when I asked the gods today for advice, they replied:” He shrugs, theatrically, to a burst of laughter from his men. “And let me tell you, this is the best oracle we could get! For it means that the victory or loss is all in our hands. The outcome of the battle depends on nothing else but the might of our arms!

  “We have lost many comrades to these bandits this year,” he goes on, once the applause subdues. “So you know these men are fierce enough to give us a proper fight. Some of you will dine in Wodan’s Hall tomorrow instead of our village. But the Saxons are mercenaries — they fight for pay, they fight for their masters. We fight to defend our land. And this is why we will be victorious!”

  The cheer of the twenty men and women booms like rolling thunder, and for a moment I am buoyed into believing we might win — even though I know there will be only twenty of us against Aelle’s entire warband.

  Of the many gorges and valleys carved into the northern flank of the Downs by ancient rivers, three have been used by the Romans to build their mighty stone highways: the road to Regentium in the west, where we fought the Battle of the Stone Bridge; the road to New Port, which I know so well; and, a few miles further east, an old road to a place called Mutuanton, now disused and overgrown with weeds and bramble, as the settlement at its end decreased in importance from what was once a garrison town to a mere crossroads village. It is on this road that our sentries have located Aelle’s band, heading northbound at a steady pace. Past the ridge, the road swerves north-east, so anyone who wants to reach Saffron Valley needs to turn west, following another narrow gorge.

  The gorge is hemmed in by steep hills on each side. The hilltops around here have long been held sacred, with ancient barrows, graves and painted stones scattered among the oaks and whitebeams. Nobody ever dared to settle at the bottom of the grassy valley, at least not since the barrows were raised by the nameless race who ruled this land before the oldest of oaks were acorns. The path that runs along its bottom, linking the two Roman highways, is rarely trodden, but well-kept. It is a perfect route to take for an army wishing to march on Saffron Valley and any settlements further west and north — and a perfect place for us to spring an ambush.

  Which is exactly what we mustn’t do. Aelle knows this place. He’ll be expecting a trap; he will send patrols along both ridges, looking for troops hidden in the forest. Instead, we meet him in the open, without subterfuge, at the centre of the valley — me and all twenty of Beadda’s warriors, with Beadda himself among them, disguised as just another warrior; his rich helmet and arm rings are hidden in a sack at his belt, next to a silver-bound blowing horn and a water-skin filled with henbane wine.

  “Aec!” Aelle greets me with a generous embrace. I wince as my chest wound flares up. “You survived! And you brought friends! Where is their Gesith?”

  “He could not break his oath to the Briton Dux,” I say. “He chose to remain at the village.”

  “I understand. I would’ve done the same in his place,” he says. He studies the men with admiring gaze. “They look as fierce and stout as I imagined. As fine as our own Hiréd.” He gestures at Offa. “They will fight alongside you,” he orders.

  The Iutes mingle with their Saxon counterparts and exchange greetings. They study each other’s weapons, noting similarities and differences in how their swords and spears have been wrought. Aelle observes this for a while with a satisfied grin, then calls on them all to hurry up and return the column to marching formation.

  I search for familiar faces in the warband, but it seems neither Eirik’s nor Nanna’s troops are here. I ask Aelle about their absence.

  “Waiting in reserve west of the stone road,” he says. “If we can’t break through here, at least they will be able to do some pillaging over there. I’d hate for us to go back to the forest empty-handed.”

  It’s too late to send out a message to the villas in the west. They will have to fend for themselves. I don’t know whether Brutus spared any of his soldiers to defend them, or if he committed his entire army to destroying Aelle’s warband — and I’m not sure if it would make any difference…

  “What do you know about the Briton troops?” he asks me.

  “They’re waiting for you at the end of this valley,” I reply, truthfully. “Half a centuria is here. The rest are in reserve at Saffron Valley.” There’s no point hiding the truth — his patrols would soon have spotted Brutus’s forces, hidden behind a makeshift barricade. It’s not like Aelle’s warband has anywhere else to go from here — other than back where they came from.

  “How did you get past them?” he asks.

  “They know me. I told them we wanted to check the valley. And they wouldn’t care about some Iutes deserting anyway — they do not appreciate them as warriors.”

  “Then they are fools,” he says and laughs. “Anyone can see any of these Iutes is worth ten Briton roughs.”

  He turns back to his men. “You hear that? Looks like there is plenty of wealas to slay before us,” he tells them. “And once we do, there will be nothing left standing between us and the riches of the Britons!”

  Even the Iutes cheer at that. It is as I feared. They have quickly become friends with the Saxons. For the first time in a long while they feel truly appreciated. I can only hope their loyalty to their Gesith will prove strong enough to keep them at our side throughout the coming battle…

  There is no place for strategy in this fight. The far end of the valley, lit up bright orange by the afternoon sun, is cut through by a palisade of rough-hewn three-foot stakes, square in section and sharpened at both ends. To our left and right, the slopes rise too steep and too wooded to mount an effective flanking manoeuvre. Other than sending some skirmishers to the hills to harass the Britons from the sides, all Aelle can do is charge head-first at the Briton fortification and try to breach it with the sheer force of our arms. Replace the swords and spears of our warriors with sticks, their armour with padded tunics and their shields with squares of lime wood, and we might as well be on the Ariminum pasture, playing at war.

  Only this isn’t a game. The blades are sharp, the wounds are real. Javelins fly from behind the palisade, felling most of the first line of Saxons — young recruits, just as I myself was just a few weeks before, in Eirik’s band. The stakes wobble under the impact of our charge. There are gaps in the s
tockade, wide enough for spears and knives to get through. Blood stains the ground under my feet. A man to my right is speared through his chest. As he falls, he grasps the shaft and yanks it towards him, pulling the enemy with him to the ground along with a couple of stakes.

  I have to admit, Brutus has trained his men better than I’ve given him credit for. But they are no legionnaires. More bodies fall on the other side of the sharpened stakes. Soon, the palisade itself will fall, and once it does, the Britons will be easily overrun by the more numerous enemy.

  The time has come. I seek out Beadda in the fighting crowd. We nod at each other. He steps back, reaches into his sack and takes out the boar-helmet and the arm rings. Once he has these on, he puts the silver-bound horn to his lips and blows three sharp tones — an arranged signal. This is the crucial moment. Will the Iutes heed the order? Or is the battle rush in their veins burning too hot already — will they choose to follow Aelle, instead?

  I needn’t have worried. These are the Hiréd. They were members of Hengist’s household back in the Old Country. They faced the whale-road at his side. Their loyalty cannot be so easily swayed. They fall back from the palisade. Not all at once, but one by one, slowly, careful not to raise the suspicions of those fighting beside them. They let the Saxons move in their place at the frontline. Short swords in their hands, each of the Iutes chooses a target.

  Aelle is mine. He stands further at the back, higher up the slope, aiming his black weapon between the slits in the stockade. With each press of the trigger, with each fly of the bolt, another Briton falls. I pray that he’s too busy shooting to notice me sneaking up on him through the throng…

  Beadda blows the horn again, and each Iute strikes the Saxon standing beside him. I leap out of the crowd, aiming at Aelle’s back — and my falling seax is stopped by another weapon. I glance up: it’s Offa and his great axe.

  The Saxon lets out a great roar and pushes me away. Our weapons clash again. The seax almost falls out of my hand. I stand no chance against this mountain of a man. The Frankish axe is almost as big as me. I duck the swirling blade and leap aside.