The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4)

by James Calbraith

  “The design of the siege machines,” says Wirtus, looking over my shoulder. “The commander of Trever would give much to get his hands on those.”

  I rub my chin; I have grown an inch-long beard in the wilderness, and it’s beginning to itch. “Then we must make sure he gets it, somehow.” I look to the woodsmen who joined us. “Is there any way to get across Mosella, other than the bridge?”

  The woodsmen look to each other. “You could try Iranc, ten miles upstream,” says one of them. “There was a bridge there once, now just a ruin, but the current is slow there — I could swim across it when I was younger.”

  “It’s too risky right now,” Seawine opposes. “We finally showed ourselves to them. They know that we’re here, and that there’s more of us than just a handful of lost Iutes. That rider could’ve recognised you and warned Haesta that you’re still here.”

  “I’m aware.” I nod. “And before those machines are built, these plans may be of little use to anyone. But let’s keep this option in mind, just in case. For now, let us bury the dead and find another place to stay the night.”

  “My farm is just an hour away,” says the same woodsman who told us about Iranc, pointing vaguely to the north. “You’re welcome to stay there, though all that’s left is four walls and a roof — they took everything else…”

  “It’s more than enough,” I say with a smile. “What is your name, woodsman?”

  “They call me Kila.”

  “You have my thanks, Kila.”

  Wirtus shakes me by my injured shoulder — the pain wakes me. One of the Roman soldiers patched up the wound inflicted by Haesta as best as he could, but without Rav Asher’s skill, it’s taking long to heal. I hope it will only leave a nasty scar; there is no pus or ooze, always a good sign.

  I rub my eyes. It’s the middle of the night. Wirtus leans over me, holding a small oil lamp, barely illuminating his face.

  “What is it?”

  “The woodsmen are gone.”

  I get up instantly and hit my head on the low ceiling beam. The huts of the woodsmen are tiny, forcing everyone to stoop down to move around. This is the second of their hamlets that we’ve been staying at, a bit further north than Kila’s own farm. I moved here with a few of my men last night, to use as a base from which I could investigate the crossing he mentioned. He was right — the river, joined by another stream coming from the hills, spills slow and wide here, over a broad meadow, between two marshy islets, some three hundred feet apart. As I watched from my hiding place, I saw some of Odowakr’s men traversing the river from the eastern shore, and I could ascertain the strength of the current. A man on a pony should not have much trouble crossing here, I decided. All I needed now was a calm, moonlit night, with no Saxons around to spot me.

  “What do you mean, gone?” I ask, my mind still in a haze.

  “I went out for a piss and noticed one of them sneaking away into the forest. I checked the other huts — they’ve all run away. Something’s going on.”

  “Get the others. Meet me outside.”

  I strap the sword belt on, put on the helmet and the mail vest — a parting gift from Hildrik. I grab Basina’s bow and arrow bag and rush out. The others run out of their huts as confused as I am. I order them to untie the ponies and prepare for battle. I only took the Roman soldiers with me, a handful of them, leaving the Iutes with Seawine in the South, in case we stumbled into trouble with the Saxons.

  And it looks like we just did.

  All around the hamlet — five small, thatched huts and a goat pen, surrounded by a tall fence that guards it from wild animals — torches flicker up in the darkness. I count at least twenty of them approaching slowly up the hill. The ponies neigh nervously.

  “They’ll try to smoke us out,” I say. “We have to break out to the west where the wood is deepest.”

  “No,” says Wirtus. He hands me the leather bag with the siege plans. “You must get across the Mosella, while they’re distracted. There won’t be another chance.”

  “What about yourself?”

  “We’ll keep them occupied,” he says, nodding towards the torches. They’re within javelin throw now.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I say hopefully. “Wait for me at the cherry tree farm where we found you and your men.”

  He nods and salutes me with his fist to his chest. I mount up, then draw the bow and aim in the direction of the nearest light. Wirtus draws the sword.

  “We strike west,” he tells his men. “While Octa rides east. Roma Invicta!”

  I let the arrow fly. To my surprise, it hits the target. The warrior cries in the darkness and drops the torch to the ground. In response, the others start to charge. I shoot one more time, but this time, I hit nothing. Some of the torches fly through the air, landing on the ground and on the roofs of the huts around us.

  Wirtus leads his men towards the western side of the village. They raise wild war cries, to make the Saxons aware of the direction of their attack. I retreat into the shadow of the nearest hut. The straw on its roof catches fire, but it does not yet blaze bright enough to reveal my position. For a brief moment, as I lose sight of the Romans, I’m alone in the silent darkness, with the flames crackling just a few feet away, and the old terror creeps back… Then the first of the Saxons run into the light, in pursuit of Wirtus’s men. The sounds of battle erupt at the far end of the hamlet. I count — four, five, six warriors pass me by, not noticing me in the shadow. The seventh spots me and raises a shield and axe to face me. I ride out and strike at him before he can call the others for help. He takes my sword on the shield and staggers away. I leap out into the path. There are still more men here — how many warriors did Odowakr send to get us? I swerve between them, not slowing down, parrying the axe blows to my left and right. A spear blade hits my side but slides off the mail. I whisper a thanks to Hildrik for his gift. Eventually, I charge out of the encirclement into the open glade. I glance back — I hear the cries of the fighting men, and I recognise Wirtus’s voice calling increasingly desperate orders to his men; his cry is cut short mid-word.

  I turn back and ride down the hill. In the darkness, I need to move slowly and carefully — but so do my pursuers. I see three dots of torches behind me. The pony under me snorts, nervously, as it keeps tripping over the roots. The tree branches tear at my face. I close my eyes; sight is useless now, so I just let the pony guide me down. I hear one of the Saxons fall and curse.

  At last, I sense a breeze on my face. I open my eyes again. I’m out on the swampy flood plain, a few hundred feet from the river. I spur the pony; its hooves splatter in the mud. I can now leave any pursuit far behind me. The torches follow me for a while yet, then give up, just as I splash into the freezing cold river. I gasp and cling to the pony’s mane as I float from the saddle.

  The current is strong; stronger than I expected. But it’s the cold that gets me first. The water surrounds me. My teeth chatter. The skin on my fingers shrivels. My hands are cramped shut on the reins. I reach the first island and halt for rest. I take a deep breath before I take the plunge again. The current drags me away from where I think the second island should be; I feel an onset of panic. I can’t see the other side, or anything, except the dark water around me. My limbs go numb. I can’t feel my face. I hold on to consciousness with great effort, barely warding off sleep. My pony snorts, desperate to get out of the water. I pray that it holds on — racing in the Medu may have turned me into a decent swimmer, but in this cold, in heavy armour, I’m sure I will sink to the bottom like a stone as soon as I let go of its reins.

  Suddenly, the pony stops. We’re still in the middle of the river, but no longer in the water — the pony is standing on something, just inches above the surface: the half-sunken supports of the old Roman bridge. Built of wood, rather than stone like the great bridge at Trever, it must have collapsed a long time ago in some flood. But the supports are still here: a thick wooden board parallel to the current, linking the remains of two surviving piers
.

  We can’t stay long here; I can sense the rotten wood giving way under our combined weight, but it’s enough for the pony and me to rest briefly before taking another plunge. I think I see some lights in the distance, but my eyes are swollen with cold and tears, and I can barely see anything at all. Either way, there’s only one direction left for me to go. The western bank is too far away to return, and my pursuers might still be there, patrolling the shore. I tug at the reins; the pony snorts and splashes back into the water, with me in tow.

  It doesn’t take long before it starts climbing out again: along the shallowing river bed at first, then up the steep bank, between two rows of rotting piers. We’re out at last — the pony stops and shakes the water off. I slide from the saddle and into the mud. For a while, I can’t move, catching my breath, the mail shirt heavy on my chest. I throw off the helmet and wait for a semblance of warmth to return to my body.

  Slowly, I rise back to my knees. The light of torches blinds me. I look up and see half a dozen spear blades aimed at my neck.

  “I got you now, aetheling.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE LAY OF ARBOGAST

  Haesta draws the bow, aims carefully and shoots. The arrow flies an inch above my head and digs deep into the trunk of the ash tree to which I’m tied.

  He studies the bow and nods, impressed. “This is a good weapon. Almost as good as Aelle’s stick thrower,” he says, referring to the strange device my father told me about so many times: a black repeating ballista wielded in battle by the Saxon Rex. “We don’t have anything like it back home.”

  “No, we don’t,” I agree. “And I’d rather you took good care of it. It was a gift.”

  “A gift from that Hunnic wench?” He laughs and throws the bow into the grass. I wince, but notice he was careful not to damage it.

  “So, you’ve been keeping friends with Aelle?” I ask.

  “Aelle doesn’t know how to keep friends,” he replies with a scowl. “Or allies.”

  “He kept you close enough to send you here. Or did Odowakr ask for you personally?”

  “Nobody sent me,” he snarls. “I was in New Port when the messengers arrived. I talked to them before they got to Aelle.”

  “Messengers — plural?”

  “One from Odowakr, the other from Meroweg, both looking for mercenaries for this warring season. I’m glad I chose to go with the first one, otherwise I’d never have found you.”

  I’m surprised he’s speaking with such honesty. I was expecting a brutal interrogation, but though I got the brutal part right — my nose and ears still hurt from the gratuitous punches he and his men threw at me as they carried me from the riverside to their camp — he doesn’t seem interested in anything I’d have to say; instead, it’s he who’s been speaking all morning, as if for the first time in a long while he had somebody to talk to about his woes.

  I sneeze. I’m still in my cold, wet clothes, shivering; I sense a fever coming. I sit too far from the campfire for it to warm me.

  “What were you doing in New Port? Isn’t your land near Leman?”

  His face turns sour. “My land is a patch of sand and marsh. Nothing grows there but oats and glasswort. I have to go to New Port every year after the harvest, begging the merchants for help, and then look for work as a mercenary. I’m in debt up to my ears.” He speaks with such sorrow that I almost feel sorry for him and his men, until I remember what he did to my people — to my mother. “But not anymore,” he adds. “Not now that I have you. Now I can go back home, and I don’t have to fight for Odowakr’s silver anymore.”

  “What do you need me for? I’m as poor as you are. Even if you get my father to pay the ransom, that’s not going to last you for long.”

  “I won’t need your father’s gold when I get you back to Cantiaca. I will demand that he gives me the throne in exchange for your life.”

  The audacity of his demand is so absurd, it makes me laugh out loud.

  “I think you put too much faith in my father’s fondness for me,” I say.

  He comes over. His limp is even more pronounced than when I saw him last time. I flinch, expecting another blow, but he crouches, clumsily, beside me.

  “And I think you don’t appreciate his love enough,” he says. “I don’t know Aeric all that well, but the only time I’ve ever seen him truly angry was the first time I tried to abduct you.”

  “The first time?” I frown.

  “He never told you?” It’s his time to laugh now, with bitterness. He sits down, cross-legged, picks up an arrow from Basina’s arrow bag and uses it to pick at his dirty fingernails.

  “It was a few months after he brought you back from Londin,” he says. “He took you to New Port, to show you off before Aelle.”

  “I remember.” I nod. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened, other than Aelle being silently furious at my father’s circlet. The witan had just refused naming him Rex again.”

  “It was the last time they dared defy him,” Haesta remembers. “When you were coming back, you camped in a village at the Downs, on the edge of Andreda — close to my land. Too close. I took it as an open challenge and struck at the camp at night.”

  “I don’t recall anything of the sort.”

  “Somehow, you must’ve slept through it all.” He shrugs. “We were trying to be stealthy… Until I got too close to the hut where they kept you. Aeric came down upon us like a wounded boar.” His eyes glint. “I thought he was on henbane. He slew two of my men before we pulled away.”

  “How did you know it was my hut?” I ask. I find it hard to reconcile his description with the man I know as my father.

  “Give me some credit.” He gives me a wounded look, and I’m reminded he’s the man in whose captivity I now find myself, not the other way around. “We didn’t just charge into that village blindly, without surveying it first. I knew we couldn’t defeat Aeric’s guards, but I hoped we could get away with a few precious hostages.”

  I find nothing to say to that. Haesta hisses, pricking himself on the sharp point of the arrowhead and throws the missile into the grass.

  “You don’t believe me,” he says.

  “It just doesn’t sound like him at all.”

  He sighs and sits lazily back. “You’re fortunate to even know him,” he says. “My father died at Aelle’s Ford. Defending your father, when Aeric — Ash — was still a child. If he had lived, Hengist wouldn’t have dared to treat me so poorly…”

  I don’t know much about Haesta’s relations with the previous Drihten, or his family, and I don’t much care. “Your men killed my mother,” I remind him.

  His lips narrow. He stands up and starts to walk away back to the campfire.

  “Even if you force my father out, I doubt the witan would look kindly upon a man who sells our secrets!” I shout after him.

  He turns around. “What are you talking about?”

  “The henbane,” I say. “You gave the recipe to Odowakr.”

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?” he scoffs. “I may have my disagreements with Aeric, but I’m still a Iute. If I am to rule the tribe one day, I’m not going to give away our greatest weapon.”

  “I’ve seen those bear-shirts that fought with the Saxons. You’re the only one who could’ve given it to them.”

  “I brought a barrel-worth of dried herbs with me from Britannia, and I shared it with the Saxons. They’ll be running out of it soon. But I never told them what it was made of. Those bear-shirts normally eat some mixture of wild mushrooms to achieve a similar effect, but it only gives them the madness, not power — and they’re sick for days afterwards.”

  “So they can’t brew any more if they run out?”

  He opens his mouth, then closes, realising he’s told me too much already. One of his men appears on the glade, runs up to Haesta and whispers something in his ear. Haesta scowls.

  “Get him out of here,” he says, nodding at me. The warrior cuts the binds at my legs and pulls me up.
With a knife pressed at my back, he leads me to my pony, tied to another ash tree on the edge of the glade. Haesta picks up Basina’s bow off the ground; his hand hovers over the leather bag with the siege engine plans, but he decides he doesn’t need the burden and hobbles in haste to his horse.

  One of the camp guards leaps out onto the glade, stumbles and falls face-down, with a short feathered metal shaft sticking out of his back. As I’m forced to run past his body, I notice it’s a plumbata dart.

  At least I’m finally in Trever.

  Trever prison, to be precise. A proper prison, a carcer — not a reused bath house, like the one my father was kept at in Londin. I must be somewhere in the bowels of Trever’s Praetorium. I hear other prisoners moaning and cursing around me. To my right are the petty criminals, awaiting trial or execution. Life in a city this size, even under siege, must continue, and so the thieves, burglars and black marketers must still be punished.

  To my left are a few of Haesta’s mercenaries, captured with me in the attack on the camp. Fleeing the Roman soldiers, the group of riders with which I was forced to run away, split off from Haesta as we entered the wooded foothills east of the river. In the chaos, I tried to get away from my captors — but I only managed to ride a few hundred paces through the sparse heath before stumbling upon the pursuing Roman troops. With my hands still tied, I was unable to defend myself — and the Romans were not interested in my protestations. To them, I was just another barbarian warrior. With the stroke of a lance butt, I was thrown off the pony and hit the dirt. Exhausted and in pain, still wet, still cold, still tired after a night of running away from one foe to another, I drifted in and out of consciousness as the Roman patrol carried me back to Trever. I remember almost nothing of the city itself — passing through the great gate, riding down a broad avenue, reaching the Praetorium — and being thrown into a cell locked with iron bars. At least my hands were free now, so I could take off my wet clothes; though I soon grew to regret it in the cold, damp cell.