The Saxon Knives, page 20
part #2 of The Song of Ash Series
I have seen my share of Roman towns past their glory – half-ruined, half-dismantled, turned into villages of timber houses – but not one as thoroughly abandoned as this one. It was once called New Market of the Regins, then simply Regentium; now it’s a nameless ruin. There are no wooden huts raised on the old concrete foundations, no new narrow alleyways and fences disturbing the old street grid; no one quarries what remained of the amphitheatre and the city baths, nobody picks at the mighty city walls to get out the quality facing stone. Even the columns of the old pagan temple – dedicated, judging by the faded markings, to Neptune and Minerva – still stand, overgrown with vine and moss, never rebuilt into a Christian church.
I can only guess at what made the Regins abandon their capital and move to New Port. It couldn’t have been the sea raiders – the new seat of the Comes is much more exposed to the attacks of the pirates; was it the blocking of trade routes along the Gaulish coast? New Port and other harbours to the east are better suited to serve the short-distance trade between Britannia and Armorica or the land of Franks than the grand harbours to the south of Regentium. Or was it that New Port was just that little closer to Londin, along a straight, short, well-defended road cutting through the narrowest part of Andreda Forest? Whatever the true reason, it all seems to me a part of this narrowing of the world that I have witnessed in the North, among the Ikens and the Cadwallons. Regentium made sense as a capital of an outward-looking province, a small part of a greater Empire that spanned the entire known world. But for a main town of a tribal land, focused on local politics and dwindling trade with only the closest neighbours, New Port, where Catuar has built for himself a tiny villa only a fraction of the size of the old palace of the Regin Council, was more than sufficient.
Not that this entire region is abandoned and uninhabited. It would be pointless – and dangerous – for me to come here if it was. There’s a small inn on the outskirts of the town, to accommodate other travellers as lost in these parts as myself. A few fields are still being tilled by serfs sheltering in huts by the forest’s edge. There are fishing villages still scattered along the meandering coast, among the ruined wharves of the Great Havens. There is even a Iutish hamlet here – where the boats sent out from Tanet to seek out a more welcoming coast landed a generation ago, only to find more mud and disease-ridden swamp they’ve been trying to drain ever since. But I am not here to visit either of those.
Ten miles north from the vine-grown ruin of Regentium, in a valley shrouded in the shadows of the southern edge of Andreda, a clan of Saxon mercenaries have made their abode. I learned about it from the Southern merchants I interrogated back at Londin, just before I left on my mission. The Saxons here, according to the rumours, are no friends of Pefen and Aelle; their fortified village withstood several attacks by Pefen’s forces over the past few years, and the mercenaries, by all accounts, remain steadfastly loyal to Catuar and the remnants of Regin Council at New Port, even if that means fighting their own Saxon brethren.
There are more such villages between Regentium and Pefen’s territory around Anderitum, most of them in the western part of Catuar’s domain, but this one is the largest and the oldest of them all. Whoever rules this band of mercenaries, has made himself the chief adversary of Pefen’s quest to unite the Saxon tribes.
I look forward to meeting him in the flesh.
“Pefen likes to think of himself as a bretwealda,” says Hrodha, using a Saxon word the meaning of which I am not yet clear on. “He commands the greatest warband, and holds the greatest fortress on the Saxon Shore. But when it’s time to tell Catuar and the Council what to do, he needs to wait for the witan of all clans to gather and make a decision, just like everyone else.”
Hrodha’s village has no Hall – we meet in his house, only slightly bigger than the others in the settlement; it’s clear that the priority of the mercenary band lies not in the objects and buildings of prestige and status, but in protection and defence. The village is accessible only from the south-east – in all other directions, it is guarded by steep sides of a narrow, wooded valley. Across the southern approach stands a ditch and an earthen wall, with a single wooden watchtower looking over the valley, towards Regentium, almost all the way to the sea.
The Saxon huts are not the only buildings in the valley. Along the road from Regentium, I passed the remains of two villas, both smaller than Ariminum, and long abandoned; the third one, on the eastern slope, though half-ruined, is still inhabited by some Briton family. The Saxon village appears to have been settled on what once must have been their land, in an arrangement similar to that between Beadda and Master Pascent.
“I don’t remember,” Hrodha replies, when I ask him about it. “This village was here before my time. But the wealas of the Domus have always been our friends. We guard them from the bandits, and they bring us news and exotic goods from New Port.”
He dabs at a tin platter of cold meats with bored expression. I notice that his silver and goblets are of poor craftsmanship, cheap and likely locally made wares – but the sword at his side and the brooch clasping his cloak are as fine as any I’ve seen on a pagan lord.
“I don’t know what Pefen’s problem is,” he continues. He strokes the back of his bald head and grimaces. “The wealas treat us well. No warrior of mine has ever been a slave. And there’s always an opportunity for glory and plunder in their service.”
“Has the witan ever openly defied him?”
He laughs. “Oh, plenty of times! The other clans know all too well how dangerous it would be to give the man too much power. He thinks we’re not aware of what he’s plotting in Andreda with that imp of his.”
“And what is he plotting?”
Like all Saxons, he is as quick to turn serious as he is to laugh. “This does not concern you. It’s a matter between the clans.”
He rolls a slice of meat into a ball and pops it into his mouth.
“We remain loyal,” he adds. “We have no quarrel with the wealas. And there are more of us than Pefen thinks. Tell your Dux we will deal with him when the time comes.”
The mighty fortress at Anderitum is now manned by the very same Saxons against whom it was originally constructed. There are too few of them to man the entire length of the immense, crumbling wall, almost comically vast for its intended purpose – instead, the guards are clustered around wooden watchtowers raised in the corners on top of the Roman foundations, an earthen embankment extending the perimeter in a defensive ring, and under a timber roof shielding the ancient gatehouse, of which twin turrets only one still stands, like a gaping, toothless skull.
The new embankment, spanning both sides of the causeway, guards the fortress from the side which the Romans neglected in their time, choosing instead to focus their efforts on protecting the harbour from sea raiders. It’s proof that to Pefen and his army, the real enemy comes not from the sea, but from the land – his fellow Saxons.
The guards at the embankment nod us through. Not just because they know their chieftain is expecting me – I’ve made sure my journey from Londin was well advertised and promoted as if it was an official embassy, although I have not been granted any privileges by the Dux, nor do I bear any gifts to the Saxon chieftain – but because they recognise my guide, a boy from New Port who led me here through the network of narrow causeways winding through the surrounding marshes.
He is a typical New Portian, in that in his veins flows the blood of all the peoples who’ve ever passed through the harbour city. He is part Briton and part Saxon, part Frank and part Armorican, there’s even a dash of a Syrian centurion, if the family memory – which he shared with me in detail along the way – is to be believed. He is the living proof that some Saxons at least have always dwelled in the South, before they came in greater numbers as mercenaries: they passed through as merchants or travelling craftsmen, settled as serfs or fishermen, hired themselves out as bodyguards, or got themselves captured as slaves. But there were always a few of them, mingled among the native majority, and they were never united – not the way Pefen set out to unite them, into a single force, able to challenge Briton rule.
As we pass through the embankment and the fortress gate, I try to spot whether the warriors manning the barricades come from different clans, but I see no totems or other markings, except an ubiquitous banner of a white seax painted on woad-dyed cloth, a clear sign to all who would bother to make the arduous journey from New Port that here live the Saxons; the people of the sword.
The resemblance is strong. Pefen is an older, wiser, taller and more battle-scarred version of his son. He has the same square jaw, the same long, golden locks, and a similar scar-mark of diagonal dots, only his runs along both cheeks. The only feature Aelle seems to have inherited from his mother – if it is she who’s standing beside the Drihten – are the deep blue eyes, where Pefen’s are watery green.
We meet not in Pefen’s Great Hall – a majestic building nestled in the south-eastern corner of the fortress, with its back to the ancient wall, and a painted gable carved into dragon heads – but outside, on the outskirts of the small hamlet that grew around it. The settlement is surprisingly small for what has supposedly been Pefen’s base of operations for the past twenty years. It occupies maybe one quarter of the entire space bound by the Roman wall, extending eastwards towards a single-pier harbour at the bottom of a low cliff. It’s not only smaller than the several bustling Saxon villages I passed along the coast, between New Port and the great white cliffs; it’s even smaller than the Iute villages in the North. I’m sure there isn’t enough space here to house the number of warriors that man the ramparts and the embankment. Where does Pefen’s army live?
“Whatever it is you’ve come to tell me, you’d better hurry, boy,” he says, with his back towards me. He is saddling his war pony, and his wife is helping to strap his saddle bags. Five other men are preparing to ride out with him wherever it is he’s going; one of them is Offa, Aelle’s one-time bodyguard. He gives me a blank nod of recognition when he sees me, but there is no malice in his eyes.
I have marched from New Port for half a day, across marshes and tall, wooded hills. I am tired and I am hungry. Pefen knew I was coming, and yet he chose this day to leave on some errand; I will not let him make a mockery of me and my mission.
I step closer to him. Offa’s hand moves to the axe, but Pefen stops him.
“I bring word from my lord Dux Wortigern of Londin, the commander of Britannia’s armies, to whom your Comes swears allegiance,” I say in my most commanding voice. “You will hear out what I have to say.”
Pefen smirks. He turns to face me with an amused smile.
“Aelle warned me about you. Ash, is it?”
“My name is Fraxinus, and I would prefer to continue this conversation in your Hall.”
He stares at me for a while; I stare back. I must look up a little to meet his gaze – he is taller than most Saxons I know. I stand tall, but he must see I’m holding back from slumping and swaying after the long journey. My left leg trembles, and the scar on my arm, from the duel with Wortimer, is blazing up as it tends to do when I’m weary.
He looks to his men and rolls his eyes. “Fine. Flaed, give the boy some bread and cheese,” he tells his wife, “And last year’s mead – the good one.” He turns back to me. “You have half an hour to feed and rest. If you want to talk, you need to ride with us.”
I nod. At least the man knows how to compromise.
“Somebody find him another horse!” Pefen cries. “The rest of you, go back to your wives for one last cuddle,” he adds, to a roar of bawdy laughter.
“You must know how little I care for Catuar and whomever he swears allegiance to,” says Pefen. “Why would you bring him up?”
“You still take his money,” I note. “And live on his land.”
We ride single file across the narrow marsh causeways, Pefen in front, me just behind him, so we have to shout our responses over each other’s backs.
“I haven’t taken pay from Catuar in years,” Pefen scoffs. “And we’ve earned our land in his service. He’s welcome to take it back, if he so wishes.”
He looks over his shoulder and flashes his teeth in the same mischievous grin I recognise from Aelle.
“I am not here to settle your arguments with the Comes,” I say. “But to bring a proposal from Wortigern.”
“A proposal?” Pefen slows down and turns around again. “You mean Wortigern would talk to me over Catuar’s head?”
I now have his attention. I reach for the mead skin at my side and take a deliberately long sip.
“Tell me, chieftain, how goes your plan of uniting the Saxon tribes?” I ask. “How many clans have you gathered under your sword banner?”
“This is not knowledge I would share with a wealh courtier,” he replies, grumpily.
It’s fine. I come prepared.
“You know I’ve been to Regentium before coming here,” I say. “And to Weorth’s place – and at Angenmaer’s village.”
He scoffs, but I can hear in his voice that the news has not left him unperturbed.
“Whatever it is you need, these cowards cannot give it to you. They can only hide behind their walls for so long before I pick them out, one by one.”
“What I – what my lord Dux – needs, is loyalty. And arms that can bear swords.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place. You should’ve stayed at Regentium.”
“You haven’t heard yet what we have to offer.”
“There is nothing I need from the wealas that I can’t take myself.”
I kick my pony’s sides. The causeway here is just wide enough for us to ride side-by-side. We are heading north-east, towards the wooded hills and slag fields of Andreda, along the brackish marsh edging a shallow, silted sea. The wind smells of salt and mud.
“You can’t take the entire pagus by yourself.”
I see his chin tense up.
“Nonsense,” he says.
“Wortigern has no use for a Comes who’s under the pagan heel. He’d much rather do business directly with the heel itself.”
“He would make me a Comes? A barbarian?”
“Rome is gone. We are all barbarians now. Look at me – I’m a Councillor in Londin, yet in my veins there is not a drop of Briton blood. And if I play my cards right, even I could be a Comes one day.”
He raises his hand, and the cavalcade stops.
“This is about the Roman Legion at Suessionum, isn’t it?” he asks.
“You know about them?”
“Everyone knows about them, boy. They have all the Goths and Franks in Gaul shaking in their breeches. They say the Roman commander has never lost a battle – even in an ambush.”
“And now he’s coming here,” I say.
“Is this confirmed?” He frowns.
“Reasonably,” I lie. “He could be here in a matter of weeks.”
He pinches his lower lip between his thumb and index finger.
“I have no quarrel with the Romans,” he says. “The Saxons weren’t the ones who threw them out.”
“Do you think they will let everything stay as it is, once they’re back? They’ll put their own in charge. Wortimer…”
“What about Wortimer?”
I lower my voice. “We think it’s Wortimer who asked them for help.”
But this revelation has the opposite effect to what I intended. “Then they already have friends on the island. And you expect me to stand against them? If I welcome them, they might reward me. If I fight them, and lose, they will destroy me. I know Rome’s wrath.” There’s a painful glint in his eyes, and I remember Aelle telling me his father fought against Romans in the service of Franks, and against Franks in the service of Romans… He knows the Legions better than anyone on the island, with the exception of Wortigern and his veterans.
“But if you fight them and win?”
“Win, against Aetius? Win where the Franks and the Goths failed?” He shakes his head. “I’m not too keen on the odds of that.”
His recalcitrance surprises me. I expected him to lunge at this chance. He is a Saxon warlord – even in loss, there is glory, even in death, a victory. But he’s as cunning and cautious as a Briton. I can see now how he’s managed to gain such a following… But also, why he hasn’t yet triumphed over the remaining clans. There is such a thing as being too cautious in war…
“Think about what that would mean for your position in the witan – ” I start, but he waves me away.
“Enough. I need to think about it. Let’s move on – unless you want to go back to Anderitum, now that you’ve spoken your piece.”
I look back at the winding causeway. There’s no way I would be able to make my way back to the fortress alone – and it’s already getting dark.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask.
“Haven’t you guessed yet? We’re going to meet with my son and his Hiréd.” He chuckles. “I imagine you two will have a lot to talk about.”
The marshes turn into low mounds, then into taller hills, pocked with heath and beech wood, the edges of the great forest beyond. We halt at the bottom of one such hill, in a broad gap cutting through a tall, sharp ridge of chalk downs. To the south is the sea of reeds and swampy islets, to the north – the dark, ominous line of Andreda, shimmering in the hot, humid wind. There are boulders and crumbling setts sticking randomly out of the path, but if the Romans ever deemed this pass useful for building a road, they must have abandoned that idea centuries ago.
