The Saxon Knives, page 2
part #2 of The Song of Ash Series
“Why? What’s going on here?”
He looks up. “Oh. You haven’t heard. Why don’t you go to your brother – he’s as busy as everyone else, but I’m sure he’ll find the time to explain everything for you.”
He glances at the Pict. The young warrior straightens his back and defiantly returns his stare. The Dux smiles lightly. I grasp the meaning of that smile in an instant. I’ve been at the court long enough to know not to miss a chance to ingratiate myself before the master of the city and everything around it.
I bow, and say: “My Lord, at least let me present you with this gift. A young Pictish captive, from the dark North.”
His smile grows. He nods, appreciatively. “I will put him to good use, Fraxinus. Now, go to your brother. We’ll need you both here soon.”
I find Fastidius leaning on the table, his head in his hands. Ink and wine stains splatter the pile of parchments scattered before him, next to a half-empty goblet.
“What’s wrong with everyone?” I ask, after we exchange greetings. “They’re all running about as if our Lord himself announced His return.”
He rolls his eyes. “It would be easier if He had,” he replies, then makes a quick sign of the cross. “No, it’s just Riotham. And the Bishop has tasked me to prepare a welcome for his arrival.”
“Riotham?” I’ve heard the name mentioned at the court before – but never thought it was anyone I should be aware of.
“He’s Ambrosius’s Praetor,” he explains. “His right-hand man and second in command.”
“Why is he coming here? Why now?”
In the few years I’ve been at the court, we’ve never had an official visit from any representative of the court of Ambrosius, Wortigern’s counterpart in the western part of Britannia.
“It’s the thirtieth anniversary of the Treaty of Sorbiodun. He’s coming to celebrate and to renew the accords.”
“What’s the problem, then?” I ask.
“The problem is, it will have to be a ceremony the likes of which Londin has not seen in a decade. The problem is, we have no money or men to spare. Our borders are unguarded, our roads and bridges untended, our stores are empty. The Picts you fought have all but halted our trade with Gaul and Frankia. I’m trying my best, but it will take a miracle to make this work.”
“Then you’re the right choice,” I say, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re the only miracle-maker I know.”
“That’s blasphemy,” he replies with a smile.
“Can’t you ask Beadda for help? I’m sure he’d be more than happy to do something to further improve the reputation of his Iutes.”
He gives me a weary, impatient look, and I feel like the younger kid again, not grasping some basic tactics during one of our mock battles.
“Even among Ambrosius’s men, Riotham is known for a particular… distrust of pagans. He fought against the Scots on Ambrosius’s northern border for years. If he found out we had to ask them for assistance, we’d be a laughing stock. Besides…” He reaches for the pile of parchments and blows the dust from the top. “I hear there’s rumours of Aelle’s bandits returning to Andreda.”
“I haven’t heard anything of the sort,” I say, surprised. “And I was at the border just a few weeks ago.”
There has been no news, good or bad, from the southern border of Wortigern’s realm since our hard-won victory at Saffron Valley. As agreed, Aelle and his Saxons have been keeping mostly to themselves, licking wounds, gathering allies and waiting. I knew he was watching with great intent the development of relations between the Britons and the Iutes, but I also knew he and his father, the Saxon Drihten Pefen, were too shrewd to risk a new conflict so soon after the last one. If there was news about the bandits in the Andreda Forest, it was either falsehood spread by Wortimer, or… some new force had entered the vacuum left by Aelle.
“As I said, it’s just a rumour,” says Fastidius. “Meanwhile, I have all these documents to go through, and I fear I’m running out of time.”
“I understand.” I stand up. “I’ll be in my quarters. Let me know if there’s anything I can help with.”
Fifty slaves precede and another fifty follow the column of mounted soldiers and officials, and carriages plated – thinly, I notice – with silver and gold decorations. At its end, eight mighty lictors, all Scots captives from distant Hibernia, their hair and moustaches daubed white with lime, carry the lectica, an oak box lined with bronze, marked with the Imperial Eagles, laurel wreaths and other symbols of old Rome.
A gawking throng lines both sides of the Callew Highway, the main road west out of the city. Even the noble landlords from the villas along the route – those who were not invited to the cena at the palace, at least – come up to the borders of their properties and lean nonchalantly against the hedges and fences as the carriages and the litter move past. They might be curious of the procession, but it does not sit well with them. Most still remember how Ambrosius’s father, Aurelius, and his court departed the city – in infamy, fleeing, taking all their treasure with them, to the west, to their new capital at Corin. The return of the Praetor is almost triumphant, as if he was back to survey the city for his master’s conquest, rather than graciously allowed a one-time anniversary visit.
All along the road, young slaves, dressed in theatrical costumes, present fancy tableaus, living sculptures, illustrating the events leading to the Treaty of Sorbiodun, the reason for Riotham’s visit. It all happened long before my birth, before even the serfs’ rebellion and Wortigern’s arrival in Britannia. I learned some of this story from Paulinus, back at Ariminum, and the rest of it during my time at the court, but to many in the crowd, those from Wortigern’s and Pascent’s generation, these are all still vivid memories.
The first tableau, set up at the city gate, shows the Roman Legions leaving Britannia: soldiers in gleaming mock armour, with brightly painted wooden spears, led by Imperator Constantine onto boards of their striped-sailed ships, never to return. This is followed closely by images of a weeping populace, abandoned to barbarian raids and other calamities.
At the next crossroads stands a reconstruction of the last united Council of all Britannia: the two conflicted factions, one led by the last Governor, Aurelius, the other by rebellious nobles, demanding a Britannia free of Roman rule and taxes; the crucial final vote, and the expulsion of the loyalist Magistrates from the city.
The tableau that follows is not flattering to Aurelius and the other members of the losing faction: their ignominious escape to the West. Though the slaves in the living image do not represent any particular individuals, I imagine Riotham must see himself somewhere among the refugees. The fleeing loyalists established themselves first just off the western border of Britannia Maxima, and from there launched attacks on the new regime, hoping to sustain the campaign only for as long as was necessary for Rome to come to their help.
But Rome never came back. Several amphorae of red paint and pigs’ blood has been used to prepare the largest of the tableaus, along the final stretch of the road leading towards the Praetorium: the five-year-long civil war, bloody, cruel and ultimately inconclusive, culminating in the Battle of Guolopp, where the flowers of both armies fell. By this time, the exhausted serfs in the eastern part of the island rebelled, and the economy of the west, cut off from its usual markets, was in tatters. Any further conflict risked plunging both sides into an irrecoverable disaster.
On a hill of Sorbiodun, shown at the entrance to Wortigern’s palace as a tall heap of dirt with a clay model of a fortress on top, Aurelius’s court and their Londin counterparts signed a ceasefire, which was supposed to be only a temporary respite, until the two enemies were ready to resume the fighting and settle the matter, once and for all.
The ceasefire has now lasted thirty years.
The procession reaches the entrance to Wortigern’s palace. Bare-chested female slaves scatter rose petals before the litter, as Riotham climbs out of the vehicle. The crowds gasp; it seems, like me, everyone was expecting to see some fat old dignitary. Instead, Riotham is a handsome, athletic man in his early forties, with a chiselled jaw, sharp aquiline nose and well-trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. A slave boy carries the hem of his cape of bleached wool, lined with a stripe of purple, to keep it from the filth of the street. Under the cloak glistens the bronze of a sculpted breastplate. A spatha, its hilt studded with jewels, hangs at his belt. It’s as if one of the old statues of Roman heroes has come to life and descended upon Londin.
With his hands behind his back, he treads, alone, the path of cracked paving stones which runs through the middle of what was once the palace courtyard. He stops halfway and takes in his surroundings with a scowl. Nothing is left of the arcades which once encompassed the main square, the rubble of the foundations grown over by hedgerow and thorn. Beyond the path, the yard is dirt and mud; the worst filth has been washed and dusted away for the visit, but very little here tells the story of the old Roman grandeur. A small group of town folk waits in line before the quaestor’s stand to pay their annual tax in kind, too tired and confused to pay heed to the commotion around them; they hold on to their lambs and goats as if they were made of gold.
The Praetorium looks even more squalid and dilapidated than when I first saw it – or maybe I’ve just grown so used to it over the years that I can see better past the remnants of the ancient splendour. A timber construction now rises in the place of the western wing, a roof on oak pillars, a poor imitation of the old arcaded market. A few merchants have set up their stalls between the oak pillars, counting on Riotham’s visit to bring in some badly needed trade. Ducks and goats bleat and quack and shit all over the place, only adding to the filth. Everything around us is crumbling, falling apart in the wind.
“It’s worse than I remember,” Riotham says to himself. His voice is clear, ringing, stentorian; he speaks in a lofty-sounding mix of Vulgar and Imperial tongues. “Does nobody care to repair these old walls?”
He shakes his head and moves on. Wortigern steps forward to greet him at the threshold of his palace. The two men eye each other warily. Riotham takes a long glance at Wortigern’s jewel-studded diadem.
“On this auspicious day, I bring greetings from my lord Ambrosius, son of Aurelius,” declares Riotham with a slight nod. “Governor of Britannia Prima, Dux of the Britons in the West, Comes of Dobunnia, Cornovia and Durnwara – to Wortigern, Governor of Britannia Maxima, Dux of the Britons in the East, Comes…”
“Welcome back, Riotham,” interrupts Wortigern, his manner far less formal than Riotham’s. “I hope your journey was swift and pleasant. You must be wanting a bath.”
“Have you travelled all the way in the lectica?” asks one of the younger courtiers.
Riotham chuckles and wipes the wine from his lips – not the sour local drink, but one poured from Wortigern’s own cellar, from the ancient amphorae he’d brought with his army from Armorica.
“I doubt my rear would have survived it,” he says, and we all laugh, as we do on his every joke. Charm and confidence are oozing from his every pore. I glance to my left, where Rhedwyn is sitting, resplendent in her finest linen gown and a sheer veil; the only female at the table, as a sign of respect to her uncle. Even she appears impressed by Riotham’s demeanour, even though she can’t possibly understand much of his antiquated speech.
“I dismounted at the ford at the old tidal mill,” he adds, then leans towards Wortigern. “Wasn’t there a bridge there once?”
The Dux shrugs and twirls the point of his grey beard. “The road is not as frequented as it used to be.”
“I’ve noticed.” Riotham nods. “It’s a pity – we should work on increasing the trade between our provinces. We have many goods to offer, as you can see.”
He points to his plate. Like all the crockery on the table, it’s a piece of coarse black pottery, glistening with mica and decorated with scenes of deer hunting rendered in white enamel. It’s part of a set Riotham brought with him as a gift to Wortigern. It’s not as delicate and precious as the old Roman ware, but it’s well made – and, what’s more important, it’s a brand-new pattern, something not seen in Londin for years.
“As long as your master insists on only taking coin in exchange, we have nothing to pay you with for these goods,” the Dux replies.
“Then it’s true – your treasury is empty.” Riotham looks to the damp, cold, bare walls of the hall. “I should’ve guessed.”
“We have enough for our needs.” The Dux’s voice grows snappy. “But not enough to spare for buying pots that are a slightly different colour to ours.”
“And what about your treasury?” asks Wortimer. “Where does Ambrosius get the coin? He can’t be minting it all himself – that old mine at Iscalis must be all but depleted by now.”
“Unlike in some places, our people have not forgotten their duties and continue paying tax the usual way.” Riotham reaches to his purse and throws a handful of coins on the table. There are two gold pieces among the silver, and none are clipped. “You won’t find bleating goats before Ambrosius’s palace in Corin.”
The Councillors eye the money with greed, but Wortigern makes a secret gesture round his ear: he’s bluffing.
“Our people have always prized their freedom over gold,” replies old Postumus. “As well you remember.”
“Yes, I remember.” Riotham’s face twists in an unpleasant grimace, the first time this evening. “Though I was just twelve when the townsfolk came before the Council, demanding freedom from Rome and her taxmen, even as the rebels ravaged the countryside.”
“We all voted,” Postumus reminds. “Your master lost his case fairly.”
“Fairly? You were too scared of the mob outside to think of the future!” Red-faced, he raises his hand towards the door. “The mob you yourselves whipped into a Rome-hating frenzy! You squandered your wealth and the safety of your children, for what? Damp, crumbling walls and wind howling in the streets! This crown should, by right, be on Ambrosius’s head!” he shouts, pointing at Wortigern’s jewel-studded diadem.
He catches Wortigern’s warning eye and calms down. “I’m sorry. What’s done is done – there’s no point bringing it up all over again. You know better than I do what really happened – after all, most of you were here when the vote passed.”
The Dux sits quietly throughout this exchange, not showing any emotion. These are old animosities, in which he took no part – he was still fighting the Bacauds in Armorica when Londin voted to break its ties with Rome. To him, Ambrosius is just a ruler of a neighbouring country, not the traitor and coward some of the courtiers call him.
Riotham looks around until he spots me and Rhedwyn. “Though our Saxon friends might want some of these matters explained.”
He speaks that last sentence in pure Imperial, in a deliberately lofty manner. Rhedwyn stirs, noticing she’s being talked about, and irritated that she can’t understand his words.
“Thank you, Praetor, but I’m well aware of what you’re talking about,” I reply, in similar style, coldly. In an instant, he’s lost all my sympathy. I can see Fastidius was right – he’s no different to Wortimer, or rather, he’s what Wortimer wishes he could be. “Also, we’re Iutes, not Saxons.” My pronunciation is coarse through lack of practice, but still, I can see I’ve made a desired impact, not only on him, but on all the courtiers. I glance at Rhedwyn; she, too, seems suitably impressed.
Wortigern smiles lightly.
“You haven’t met Fraxinus yet, have you?” the Dux says. “He’s a ward of one of my best officers. And this is Rhedwyn, the niece of the chieftain of our Iute foederati. A guest, like yourself.”
Riotham flinches. Being compared to a barbarian does not sit well with him.
“Iutes,” he repeats. “Forgive me, I’m not familiar with the divisions among your pagans.”
“Of course.” Wortigern nods. “You must have your own share of problems with the barbarians. Scots, I hear? And Picts?”
“Yes, though unlike you, we fight them, not dine with them. The Picts have not bothered our borders for years.”
Riotham picks up a grape and pops it in his mouth, looking straight at me. I glance at the Dux and our eyes meet. Is this why the Picts have come to our shores, instead – looking for an easier quarry?
“You have an army?” Wortimer asks. His eyes gleam. “A proper army – not just mercenaries?”
“A mere two Legions,” Riotham replies. “Led by my master’s two sons. Utir, the younger, took my old command in the west, while Aurelius holds our northern border against the Brigants and the Picts. Why do you ask? How many Legions does Dux Wortigern command?”
There is silence around the table. This is an outright challenge – Riotham must know Wortigern has no army beyond his own household guards and the unreliable militia. The tribal pagi under his ostensible rule must look to themselves for defence.
“Enough for our needs,” replies Wortigern.
“I’m sure, I’m sure.” Riotham swallows another grape and gulps some more wine. “Oh, I’m sorry, I all but forgot – my master sends condolences for the loss of your son. We always respected young Catigern in Corin.”
Wortigern’s face reddens. The cheese knife in his hand clanks on the black plate.
“You have my thanks,” he says through teeth.
Riotham’s confident smile vanishes as he senses he’s overstepped his mark. He hides his face in the wine goblet and for a while, he’s saying nothing, letting the courtiers and Councillors pick up the discussion of taxes and standing armies. I’ve heard this debate several times already in my time at the palace and the consensus is always the same – soldiers need a salary, and there is none to give. The nobles of the villas and landlords of the palaces of Londin, even those who sit at the Council, are unwilling to part with what silver and gold they still might have in their chests. The only levy they agree to pay is the Wall upkeep fee. Ever since Aelle’s attack on their countryside villas, they have been steadily moving their businesses behind the safety of the mighty Roman defences and war machines, leaving their serfs and slaves to tend to their property beyond this secure perimeter. The only offensive unit at Wortigern’s disposal – other than the veterans of the war with the rebels, who have by now all grown too old to be of everyday use – is Wortimer’s cohort, a mere centuria of bored noble-borns, who provide their own weapons and armour. After the victory over Aelle’s Saxons, for which they took full credit, their ranks have swollen – but there are only so many young nobles in the city willing to waste their time on training to fight a phantom enemy. Those on the Council who did not fall for Wortimer’s charm know full well his soldiers would not stand a chance against a real threat.
