Many of the hamlets we pass have been recently ruined, houses burned, farms plundered and abandoned. I guess these are the remains of the war with the Huns. The frontier land itself was devastated far more thoroughly than anything I remember from Britannia, even at the height of Wortimer’s rage. On the worst stretch, on the border between Gaul and Frankia, for one full day we don’t see a single farm or a village that wasn’t touched by the destruction. But whereas in Britannia the morbid scars of past wars and rebellions remain visible forever among the empty fields, crumbling into dust without anyone taking the slightest interest in ever rebuilding them, here in Gaul, life was slowly returning to the ruins. Scaffolding rose to support the collapsing walls, thatch and animal hides were thrown over the leaking roofs, fields turned green with fresh oat and barley.
As we enter the fortress, Ingomer nods at the guards. They set us all up against the wall.
“What are you doing?” I protest.
The guard approaches me, presses my head to the wall and manipulates my wrists. The chains fall. One by one, all of us are released from the shackles. I turn around, rubbing my chafed wrists.
“You’re all free,” says Ingomer. He throws a jangling purse to the slaves. “Find yourself somewhere to stay the night. My men will pick you up on the morrow. Except you, Octa, son of Aeric. You come with me.”
I look to my friends. “Find an inn close to the gates. Stay together.”
I follow the merchant down an alleyway, between two timber walls. The guards stand at attention as we pass them.
“What was all that about?” I ask. “What’s going on here?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, aetheling?”
We reach the great hall in the centre. The guards bow before Ingomer and open the gate wide.
“Has the king returned yet?” Ingomer asks. Their Frankish speech is similar enough to Iutish for me to understand most of the words, even if I haven’t heard it often enough in my father’s court, spoken by merchants, envoys, mercenaries — and Audulf’s family.
“Not yet,” the guard replies. “But he has,” he adds with a meaningful nod. “That’s his horse over there.”
I follow the guard’s nod to see a tall, haughty, white Thuringian steed tied down before the stables, next to an equally haughty white mare.
“The Gods have blessed us today,” says Ingomer. “He’s been gone for eight years, and he’s back on the exact same day I arrive with the prince of the Iutes!”
There’s more gold leaf and silver plate inside the hall, in the carved, insect-like patterns on the pillars and supporting beams and decorating the plates and goblets on the long table. Shields of fallen warriors hang under the eaves, and below them, ancient tapestries line the walls. The tapestries must have been taken from some nearby villa, since I doubt a Frankish warlord would order cloth showing scenes from Roman farm life, as do a couple of beat-up plaster statues of Mars and Mercury which the Franks must enjoy, as they resemble their gods, Donar and Tiw.
A seat at the far end of the hall, made from a Roman magisterial chair with intricately carved oaken supports, sits empty.
“So you do believe me now?” I ask Ingomer, as we stand in the vestibule, waiting for our mysterious host.
He nods. “I sent a rider yesterday to ask around. It wasn’t difficult to find someone who’s been to Cantia recently. It’s fortunate that you’re so easy to recognise. You should make a sacrifice to whoever of your ancestors gave you this fiery head of hair.”
“It was my mother,” I say quietly. “But then, what about the slaves?”
“Meroweg and the king of Iutes are allies,” he replies. “We help your father free them and return back to Cantia. He provides the gold; we provide the dealers.”
Have I misjudged my father this badly? Aegidius was wrong — King Aeric does care for his subjects. How much gold from the pot in Ariminum has he spent on this enterprise?
“And the chains…?”
“I have a reputation to maintain.” He smiles. “If the slavemongers of Epatiac found out what I was doing with their merchandise, they’d never sell me anyone again.”
The door on the other side of the hall flies open. A young man enters, with a broad nose, sharp eyes, shoulder-length flaxen hair and a black cape embroidered with the same strange insect-shaped pattern as is carved onto the beams and pillars, thrown over what looks like a Roman officer’s clothes. The hilt of his sword is gilded and studded with garnets; the pommel moulded in the shape of two dragon heads. He strides purposefully across the aisle and approaches Ingomer. They pat each other on the arms.
“Uncle,” the young man says. “It’s been too long.”
“You must tell me all about Thuringia, Hildrik,” says Ingomer. “I see you got yourself a new horse. And a new sword.”
“These are not the only gifts I brought,” Hildrik says with a mischievous smile. “And who is this?” he asks, turning to me.
“I am Octa, aetheling of the Iutes,” I say, before Ingomer can speak.
“Then Aeric responded to my father’s request!” Hildrik exclaims. “How many warriors have you brought? Is Haesta with you?”
“Haesta?” I frown. “Why would that traitor…?”
Ingomer laughs and squeezes my shoulder. “Why don’t we all sit down and discuss this with some wine? Your father is coming soon, I hear?”
“His cup-bearer and maior are already here, preparing for the court’s arrival.”
“Excellent. That means the good wine is already here, too. I’m sick of that swill they drink at Epatiac.”
I’ve never met a man with more fascinating past than Hildrik, son of Meroweg. Even my father’s life seems grey and uneventful compared to what this young warrior, not much older than myself, managed to achieve in the eight years that he was away from his father’s domain. Hearing his tale, I’m beginning to understand what drove me to flee from Britannia. I feel a growing affinity to the man sitting on the opposite side of the table. He and I both belong to a new generation, a generation born of great movements of people. For centuries, our ancestors lived in the broad pastures and dark forests of their homelands, hemmed in by the Empire’s walls, never needing or willing to move further than was needed for the fallow fields to turn fertile again, or the burnt forests to regrow — until the winds of Fate, and the unstoppable steppe warriors coming from the East, forced them out. My father’s people sailed to Britannia across the dark and stormy whale-road, searching for a new land to settle. Hildrik’s tribe crossed the great Rhenum River and entered Roman land in pursuit of the same. And now, both he and I are driven by the same desire in our blood: to see more of the world, to experience what none of our ancestors could.
The only difference being, Hildrik set out on his adventure years before me, and not of his own accord.
When he was my age, he tells me, he went with his father to fight the Huns at Maurica. On the edges of the main battle, the Salians — the tribe of Franks settled at Tornac — fought a civil war of their own, between Meroweg, allied with Aetius, and his elder brother Adalbert, who sided with Attila. Meroweg won the conflict — but at a cost. For the price of peace, and unity of the tribe, he had to send his firstborn son to the East, to live among one of the tribes forming Attila’s Empire: the Thuringians.
“For two years, when Attila was away fighting in Italia, the tribes remained peaceful, and I was busy taming wild horses and fighting the occasional Saxon raiders,” Hildrik says. “But then, Attila died, and the tribes united against the Huns under the king of the Gepids. A great battle was met at Nedao, in the fields of Pannonia. I was on its left flank, leading a small group of Frankish riders.”
He pauses for the slave — a beautiful girl, with bright blue eyes and long, braided hair the colour of dried straw — to pour him more wine and put some carved meat on his silver plate, then continues to describe the battle in detail, using goblets and bits of bread as markers.
“We heard of this battle,” says Ingomer.
“I did wonder if you were there.”
“We haven’t,” I say. I feel left out. Most of what Hildrik talks about goes over my head, except the story of the Battle of Maurica. “We barely get any news from the Continent, beyond what goes on in Frankia.”
“And we only know of what happens in Britannia when your father sends us one of his envoys,” says Ingomer. “They may call it the Narrow Sea, but it’s wide enough for all tales to perish in its waters.” He turns back to Hildrik. “With the Huns defeated, you were free to return,” he asks. “Why didn’t you?”
“There was a war to win,” replies Hildrik. “The Huns left an empire to be divided. It was every tribe for itself. The Thuringians gave me a unit of cavalry to scour the Goth lands, all the way to Rome’s border. I won great spoils. This sword —” He taps the scabbard at his side. “ — was taken from a Goth warlord. For all I know that war is still going on.”
“Then why have you returned now?” asks Ingomer, and I sense suspicion in his question. “What’s changed?”
The hall gates burst open. There is a strong resemblance between Hildrik and the man who storms in, except the new visitor is older, stockier and wearing a golden circlet, studded with jewels, upon his head. Ingomer stands up in a bow.
“Father!” Hildrik stands up, too, and extends his arms in greeting. His father slaps him on the face.
“You! You dare come back here! After what you’ve done to poor Bisin!”
I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I’m standing before Meroweg, King of the Franks, so I bow the deepest of the three of us, trying to introduce myself; they all ignore me.
“Father, you don’t understand,” pleads Hildrik. “If you only saw her…”
“Her?” Ingomer raises an eyebrow.
“You dishonoured your host. You dishonoured your clan, and you dishonoured me. I should banish you again.”
“Brother, brother.” Ingomer wraps his arm around the king’s shoulder. “Control your wrath. You should celebrate your son’s return, not scold him. And celebrate the arrival of our ally, aetheling Octa of Iutes.”
“You, boy?” Meroweg recoils as if seeing me for the first time. “Aeric sent his son to us? This is more than I ever asked for. Is the Hammer of Saxons with you?”
“The Hammer of Saxons?”
“Haesta, boy. Haesta and his mercenaries. Where are they?”
Why is everyone asking me about Haesta?
There’s enough space at Meroweg’s great table for all of us: my three friends, whom I introduced as my followers, some of the freed Iutes, whose presence at the feast I requested as a personal favour, and scores of King Meroweg’s courtiers, advisors and family. Meroweg’s son sits at his right hand, his wife, Clodeswinthe, at his left. I sit next to them, opposite the king’s brother.
The story I tell of my arrival in Gaul, and an attempt to free Ingomer’s slaves, amuses the gathered but disappoints the king. As it turns out, he asked my father to send another band of warriors to assist in keeping his borders safe, the way Haesta’s mercenaries did some years ago.
“I was hoping Haesta himself would return,” he tells me. “He helped us greatly with the border raiders last time.”
“My lord, Haesta…” I pause to scratch my nose, “rebelled against my father one time too many. He is now with Aelle and his Saxons.”
“The Hammer of Saxons allied with them?” He frowns. “This is troubling news. But I’m sure you and your men will be a worthy replacement.”
“I’m not here in place of Haesta. This is a misunderstanding. After his feast, I’m taking my companions back to Gaul, as we originally planned.”
Meroweg winces. “Gaul… Rome… Nothing good ever comes of us allying with them, boy.”
“It might be different this time.”
He scoffs bitterly. “The hopefulness of youth. You remind me of Hildrik when he was your age.” He looks at his son. “It was he who convinced me to join Aetius instead of aligning with my brother. And look where it got us.”
“To a hall dripping with gold and silver, Father,” says Hildrik. “Bisins’s halls are like pigsties compared to yours.”
“Do not let your mouth taint this man’s name after what you’ve done to him.”
“What have you done to this Bisin?” I ask Hildrik.
The young man looks questioningly to his parents. Queen Clodeswinthe puts her hand on her husband’s hand and whispers something in his ear. The Meroweg sighs. “Fine.” He waves at the guard at the door. “Let her in.”
I hear her approach first, before I see her; I hear her in a wave of agitated murmurs rolling up the long table, of whispers of awe and bawdy shouts of approval, which turn into silence as she passes. She is a moving statue of sharp, aquiline features and impeccable proportions; she has a tall, striking brow, pushed far back, bound by long black hair flowing down to her waist; her dark eyes pierce anyone who meets her gaze.
It’s impossible to tell her age. She might be not much older than me, or she might be ageless, like an ancient goddess. She approaches the king’s seat and takes a deep bow. Every man behind her takes a deep breath of amazement.
“My herrs and noble guests,” says Hildrik as he stands up and accepts the woman’s hand. “I present to you Frua Basina of Thuringia. My betrothed.”
The gathered wait in silence. Everyone stares at Meroweg.
The king rubs the top of his nose. “You took the wife of the man I was hoping to make my ally. Now I will have to go against the Alemanns alone.”
“He was old enough to be her father!” exclaims Hildrik.
“This is no reason to disrespect him so!”
“My king,” Basina speaks in a soft, husky voice, leaning sensuously on Meroweg’s table. “Your son didn’t take me. No man ever did. I went with him freely.”
She turns around to address the rest of the gathering. “My husband lost the war against the Gepids. He is a doddering old fool, and I had no more need of him. I sought the hand of the mightiest man in the land,” she proclaims and holds Hildrik’s hand high. “And I found him in King Meroweg’s son.”
She leans to kiss him, and twenty men imagine themselves being kissed by her at the same time, and sigh.
The feast in the hall ends by midnight — but that doesn’t mean the feasting itself is over. The gates of the fortress are flung open, and the king invites the townsfolk, Franks and Gauls alike, to join the reluctant celebration of his son’s return by the bonfires and meat-roasting pits scattered throughout the fort’s grounds. My friends and I find a small pig spit, turned by a golden-haired slave boy — he might well be a brother to the girl who served at Meroweg’s table — to sit around and dip our bread in the fat dripping into the flame below.
“How are we going back to Gaul?” asks Gille.
“I will ask the king tomorrow. I’m sure there are merchants sailing from some harbour in his domain.”
“Do we have to go back?” asks Audulf. “The king said something about needing warriors. And I think I found some family here.”
“I promised Aegidius,” I say. “And the whole reason we came here was to convince my father to help the Empire, not assist the king of Franks in some border skirmish.”
I notice the servants around the spit are suddenly bent in bows. I turn around to see Hildrik and his betrothed approach us.
“Is there a place for two?” Hildrik asks. I move away from Ursula. Basina sits beside me. Our knees touch, briefly. My breath shortens.
“I hear you, too, are the son of a king,” she says. I can almost feel her breath on my cheek.
“King of the Iutes,” I say. I thrust forward my chest. “The mightiest tribe in all of Britannia.”
“Then it looks like my father chose his allies well,” says Hildrik.
“Your father is not the only one who chose us as allies,” I say.
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard.” He nods. “The invasion of Gaul.”
“I’m surprised the Romans didn’t ask you to
help them,” I say. “Your kingdom is in the perfect strategic position for a pincer manoeuvre.”
“A student of war, I see,” Hildrik says with a smile. “They have. My father refused.”
“Refused? Why?”
“Because of Maurica, no doubt,” says Basina. “The tale of Rome’s betrayal reached even us in Thuringia.”
“Not just that,” says Hildrik. “My father spent his childhood among the walhas. He was a hostage in Arelate. He admires them. He knows this is how Rome works, and he never expected them to behave otherwise. Divide and conquer. Lie and cheat. They have been too weak to win through sheer force of arms for generations.” He shakes his head. “If it was up to him, I believe he would send an army to help Maiorianus.”
“Up to him?” I ask. “Isn’t a king free to do as he pleases?”
Basina scoffs at my ignorance. I feel my cheeks burn red and bury my face in my knees.
“A king has a duty before the gods and the people,” she says. “I don’t know how they do things in Britannia, but here if a king doesn’t lead his armies to glory, he loses the respect of his subjects. This is why I had to leave my husband.”
“Glory, spoils, land to settle,” muses Hildrik. “There is nothing to gain from helping the walhas win this war. Not with this Imperator.”
“What’s so different about this one?”
“His predecessors gave away Rome’s land to whoever asked. Goths, Longbeards, Franks… This is how we got this town in the first place. Maiorianus comes to take it all back, and he’s not going to share any of it with us. His envoys told us as much. This is why he can’t find any allies in these lands; this is why he had to send his legatus all the way to Britannia. Indeed, I would be surprised if my father wasn’t planning to march against him, if an opportunity appears. We haven’t had time to discuss the war plans yet.”
I stare into the fire. It explodes in little bursts every time a drop of pig fat falls into it. I turn to Hildrik again.
“Thank you. I think I understand now.”
“Understand what?”
I straighten my back. “I lied. We weren’t sent to Gaul by my father. King Aeric was also raised among the walhas — or wealas, as we call them. He also admired them, once… But then the Britons attacked us and nearly destroyed us. Now he just mistrusts them. Or so I thought. But now, I wonder if this was the only reason why he didn’t want to send his warriors here.”
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 11