“We should be much further north,” remarks one of Pefen’s companions, looking towards the forest, black now in the falling night.

  “We’ve lost no more than an hour,” Pefen dismisses his worries. “We’ll make it up tomorrow.”

  Offa approaches the Saxon chieftain and whispers something in his ear. Pefen turns to me with a suspicious glower.

  “Were you being followed?”

  “Through these marshes?” I shrug. “I could’ve been followed by a Legion and wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “At least you’re honest.” He nods. He whispers an order back to Offa, and the silent axeman mounts up and departs north, towards the forest, now only a slightly darker line in the darkness that surrounds us.

  He orders our remaining four to set up camp, but stay vigilant – and armed at all times. We light up a small fire and sit around it in such a way that each of us can observe a different direction for incoming threat.

  “I assume you’ve promised the same thing to the other chieftains,” says Pefen. He tears into an apple-sized globe of smoked ewe’s cheese and gives me one half of it.

  “I promised various things to various men.” I see no reason to keep these a secret from him – sooner or later, he’d find out from his agents in the other households. “Hrodha will fight simply to prove his loyalty, and to keep his deal with the wealas,” I say, though I omit the part where I sweetened the deal by showing the Saxon warlord an almost brand-new golden coin I brought from Wortigern’s treasury, with a promise of there being plenty more of those where that came from. It was a lie: the coin was a gift from one of the courtiers wishing to prove his loyalty after Wortimer’s coup; how he obtained it, was anyone’s guess – but there was only one such coin in all of Londin.

  “Weorth wants more land, and nearer the coast,” I continue. “Angenmaer simply asked for better weapons and armour, from the Angles – he was greatly impressed with my spear.”

  “Fools.” Pefen shakes his head. “Not a shred of ambition in any of them.”

  “I have left the ambitious one for last.”

  “You spoke to Bucge, then.”

  “Bucge wants us to get rid of you.”

  He chuckles. “Of course she does. Should you even be telling me this?”

  “I respectfully declined.”

  “Did you, now.” He chews on the cheese. It’s rubbery and stale, and smells of a sheep barn. “How did she take it?”

  “She understood it wasn’t something we wanted to involve ourselves with.” Eventually. After a lot of yelling and spitting. “But she is your greatest rival in the witan, and we will have to reward her accordingly for her service.”

  I put a chunk of bread on a stick and hold it over the campfire, and in the crackling silence that follows, I try once again to sort out in my mind the nauseating assortment of the Saxon clans, tribes, households and chieftains with which I had to familiarise myself over the past few weeks. It was, perhaps, the most gruelling and thankless task I’ve ever undertaken in the Dux’s service. My brain is filled with names and locations of which I had no idea just a month ago, and which I hope to forget a month since. Some of these men hold sway only over their small villages, others, like Bucge, control swathes of territory, long patchworks of land, weaving like salamanders between what is left of the Briton villas in the hills and along the coast either side of New Port. But all of them – even Bucge – agreed that none of the other chieftains commanded a fyrd as great and as fierce in battle as that of Pefen’s.

  “We are building this army, chieftain,” I say. “With your help or without it, it will be the greatest this island has seen in a generation.”

  “A rag-tag rabble of mercenaries and militia roughs. It still won’t be enough against Aetius and his eagles.”

  “It might make us seem unpalatable. Make them move on to an easier prey.”

  There’s the lip-pinch again.

  “There is something else you haven’t mentioned yet.”

  “I… don’t think there is?”

  “Now that the Franks hold the approaches to the northern ports in Gaul, there is only one good place for the Roman fleet to land: Anderitum. This is why you really need my help.”

  In truth, I had no idea. I was concerned only with getting the Saxon warriors on our side, as per Wortigern’s demand – I never gave a thought to where and how the Roman Legions might arrive on the island. I don’t know the coasts of the Narrow Sea as well as the Southerners; I don’t even know if Pefen’s right in his assessment – but he seems as certain of his words as he is taken aback by my surprise.

  “You may not have known,” he says. “But your Dux must be aware of this.”

  “If he is, he hasn’t shared this knowledge with me.”

  “Perhaps you were not the only one sent to negotiate with me,” he says, somewhat mysteriously; it resonates with something Fastidius told me when I was leaving Londin. But before I have time to ask what he meant by that, the forest around us spews forth a band of silent warriors, clad in darkness and mail.

  There are nine of them, all armed with good seaxes. One of Pefen’s men, who had the misfortune to sit with his back to the attackers, falls at once, pierced through the kidneys. He wrestles his attacker down to the ground with him. Pefen grabs a burning log from the fire and waves it before him, keeping three of the enemies at bay. Dodging a blow, I roll over to my bedding where I keep the Anglian spear, swirl it in my hand and throw without aiming. In this close a brawl, it’s enough for the leaf-shaped blade to slice through a thigh of the assailant nearest to me.

  Another one leaps at me from the left. I parry, barely; my sword hand wobbles. I step back, trip and fall, inches from the campfire. I grab a handful of hot ash and throw it in my foe’s face; we both scream in pain. I slash at his leg. My blade chips on bone. He staggers, and I finish him off with a two-handed blow across the side.

  I drop the sword from my burning hand and gasp for air. I crawl a few feet away from the fire and glance to my right. Of Pefen’s remaining warriors, one is assaulted by two men, and pushed back, bleeding from several wounds. Pefen himself is injured, but one of his attackers lies dead. Furthest from me, the third of Pefen’s Saxons grabs his foe by the neck and thrusts the seax through his stomach – only to be himself slashed in the back by another enemy, appearing out of nowhere behind him.

  I scramble up and rush to Pefen’s aid, but one of the men he’s fighting with spots me and whirls his sword at me with a great force, like an axe. With a crash of metal on metal and a shower of sparks, my seax flies away. The returning sword whizzes inches from my face. I lunge to hook him and pin him to the ground, but he stands firm like an oak tree. He bashes at my shoulder with the pommel, until I drop to my knees. I leap away and reach for the last weapon in my arsenal, the pugio in my boot sheath, but I can no longer hold it firmly enough and the blade slips from my hand, leaving only a scratch across the enemy’s arm.

  The enemy kicks me away and turns around just in time to block Pefen’s incoming slash. As I lie in the dust, I sense an approaching vibration in my back. I roll over to see what’s coming. A charging pony rushes past me; Offa’s axe flies over my head and into the back of the man I just fought. A fountain of blood blinds me for a second, and when I wipe it from my eyes, I see another enemy fall, with a black bolt in his chest.

  Pefen raises the sword over his head and drops it down on the head of the last foe still standing before him. The last of the attackers has just dispatched a third of Pefen’s men, but seeing he’s now outnumbered, drops his weapon and launches into a desperate run. I find my spear in the mess of mangled limbs. Offa turns his pony around. I hear the twang of string and the whistle of a flying bolt passing me as I release my missile. The leaf-shaped blade, the black bolt and Offa’s axe all strike the runaway at the same time, turning him into a heap of shattered flesh and spurting blood.

  It’s too late to help two of Pefen’s warriors, but the third one still moves. More of Aelle’s men appear, rushing to help us with our injuries.

  “Careful,” Pefen says. “There may be more hiding in the woods.”

  By the light of a blazing log, he leans over one of the fallen.

  “I know this man,” he says, pointing. “He’s one of Bucge’s.” He turns to me sharply and presses a point of his seax to my neck. “You led them here.”

  “I didn’t! I had no idea!”

  “Then how come you’ve survived while three of my best men were slain?”

  “Providence?”

  He punches me in the face and orders the others to hold on to me.

  “Father, wait.”

  Aelle kneels down by another of the dead foes – the one I scratched on the shoulder with my dagger. He tears off the rest of the tunic sleeve.

  “What is it?” Pefen asks.

  “See for yourself.”

  In the light of the torch, a golden shimmer glints around the dead man’s arm. A bronze armband – marked with a letter V.

  “What does it mean?” Pefen demands with a frown.

  “It means Wortigern is not the only one gathering an army to welcome Aetius,” I reply.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE LAY OF HRODHA

  A sea of tents and campfires stretches as far as the eye can see along the broad pebble beach. This is what a thousand-strong army looks like; restless, waiting. They’re all here – the loyal Saxon clans, the Iute Hiréd, town militias, old Briton veterans, those of Wortimer’s cohort who were forgiven their part in the coup and renewed their vows of allegiance to Wortigern. There’s even a small detachment of Angles and Ikens, sent by Una in gratitude for the victory at the beach.

  The largest single contingent of them all is that of the pagan mercenaries from Frankia and further afield, lured not only by money and plunder, but by the prospect of fighting Aetius again. The very mention of the Roman commander’s name brings their blood to the boil. Not long ago, his Legions destroyed the army of King Clodio and forced him to pay tribute to Rome. And now, if the reports are true, they are poised across the sea, waiting for a good tide to strike at our island. Wortigern, the very last of his treasure to pay them an advance on their fee – the rest of it they were promised to receive from their share of plunder, if there is a battle. I can only hope the Dux has a plan for what to do with the mercenaries if Aetius decides not to come after all…

  But perhaps just as important as who is present on the beach, is who hasn’t shown up to the gathering. Elasio sent only a token force of archers, to minimally fulfil his obligations – and excused himself from coming with them, due to a sudden illness of his only son. And, crucially, Pefen’s Saxon army remains hidden behind the walls of Anderitum, watching us from a distance, warily, both guarding and blocking our eastern flank.

  Pefen was right; the coast of Anderitum is the best and most likely place for Aetius’s legion to land. With the fortress in allied hands, even this “rag-tag band of mercenaries and roughs,” as Pefen called it, might stand a chance at holding back the invasion. Without it, all of our effort is just for show. Even the most cautious estimates of Armorican merchants and Frankish spies put Aetius’s force in Gaul at four times as big as ours. I doubt he’d even bother sending his entire army against us – not while there are still Franks and Goths to deal with to his North, and an ominous rumour of the Huns riding again from the East – but whatever he’ll send will be likely more than enough to deal with Wortigern’s band, if we can’t convince Pefen to join us…

  At night, the beach gains a certain beauty, as the myriad campfires blaze up along the waterfront. But with each passing week there are fewer of those lights, as the nights grow warmer – and the fuel grows scarcer.

  I go into the dunes for a night’s piss. As I lace up my breeches, I sense a presence. I reach for the dagger. Aelle comes out into the light, his right hand raised in greeting, his left, cautiously, on the hilt of his sword.

  “I didn’t expect you this far from your woods. What are you doing here?”

  The last time I saw him, he was leaving Anderitum in a huff. The disagreement he had with his father over how to deal with Wortigern’s demands turned into a loud quarrel. I had never seen Aelle so angry before – not even when he lost the Battle of Saffron Valley.

  In the end, we both failed to convince Pefen to join Wortigern’s new army, though my failure was not treated as such in Londin, since I have managed to secure a substantial contingent of other Saxon clans in exchange. Only the Dux and a few of his courtiers most familiar with the situation in the South knew the potential impact of Pefen’s decision.

  “I’ve come to try once again to talk some sense into my father,” he replies. “And to check on your forage parties. They have been ravaging Andreda all along the Downs. It’s become hard to even catch squirrels.”

  I know he’s not exaggerating. The multitude of men we’ve gathered has come with its own set of problems. The warriors need shelter, and sustenance; many have brought or built their own tents and huts, but others, especially the Frankish mercenaries, have to be accommodated at Wortigern’s expense. Food is another matter – not only have the foragers brought doom to the game of the Andreda Forest, they’ve been trampling the adjacent countryside, leaving barren fields and orchards of the nearby villas, to the rising groans of the Regin landowners.

  “You’ve come to complain about it to Wortigern?”

  “No, I just wanted to talk to you.”

  He sits down, cross-legged, on the sand and gestures for me to join him.

  “What about?”

  He doesn’t answer outright. Instead, he nods at the flickering campfires. “This can’t last long,” he says.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “My father has friends across the sea. He says the Romans are not coming.”

  “That’s not what the Dux’s spies report.”

  “I don’t know who’s right. What I do know is that sooner or later, with or without the Romans’ help, your Dux will run out of money. And then food.”

  I know how right he is – and that irritates me. I do not wish to be reminded of our predicament. Aetius doesn’t need to attack us – he just has to wait us out. With all his immediate enemies defeated, and the wealth of all Gaul at his disposal, he can sustain himself until winter if he so wishes; meanwhile, we’ll be forced to disband our army in a matter of weeks – and deal with the mercenaries, one way or another. Was this the Roman plan all along? Was this Wortimer’s plan? He is not here – he’s been sent, with the small army he’s started building again from the ruin of his cohort, to the Cantish coast, to patrol another possible landing site near Rutubi; but he could be back here within days, to take advantage of the chaos that would no doubt erupt once the situation worsens.

  “They will be looking for someone to blame for this failure,” Aelle adds. “And they will turn against us. All of us. It’ll be the end of your little fairytale. No more peaceful Iute villages. No more cordial wealh friends.”

  “We’ve beaten Wortimer once. We’ll beat him again.”

  “It won’t be just Wortimer this time. All wealas hate us, and fear us – and envy us. We are virile, strong, fertile, fearless.” He shakes his fist, and his eyes gleam in the starlight. “My father says that to every child born in the Briton villages, our women give birth to two. And they know this, too.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  He laughs, which makes me even angrier. “Because – you’re one of us, and that’s what they’ll see when the time comes! You’re not even one of those mongrels from the villages in the Downs. You’re pure-blooded. They’ll never let you live once the fighting starts for good.”

  The fighting?

  “You’re wrong,” I say. “I have seen it, Aelle. Iutes and Britons, living together, side-by-side. Not in the cities – but in the villages. In Saffron Valley, and up on the north coast, by the Robriwis Fortress. These common, simple folk will not join your war. There is no fear or hatred in any of them.”

  “That’s because the Iutes are still weak,” he replies. “But note, if the wealas may live freely among the Iutes, why not the other way around? Why has Wortigern banished your people from Londin? You know they are rattled by your rising power.”

  I say nothing. These thoughts are not alien to me, but they make me too uncomfortable to dwell on them for long.

  “And it’s getting worse here,” he continues. “You’d have seen it if you only had your eyes open. Why do you think my father keeps us in those old ruins, instead of moving to a palace in New Port?”

  “It’s a good defensive position,” I say. “And these are dangerous times.”

  “We don’t need an old heap of rubble to defend ourselves,” he scoffs. “You must have noticed how we’re hiding the real number of our warriors. Scattered among the clifftop villages, and in the forest bands, so that there are never more than a handful at one time at Anderitum.”

  “I did wonder about that.”

  “Everyone else does the same, even those loyal to their Briton masters. We may control Catuar and his courtiers, but we can’t make them like us.”

  “You’ve hardly been out of sight in Andreda.” Suddenly it strikes me. “Is that what you were making ready for? A war with the Britons?”

  He nods. “We’ve been hard at work. We’ve fortified the entire northern frontier. Reinforced the old hillforts. Built up supplies. Dug up the forest roads, filled them with traps. If it comes to the worst, we can hold out there for months, maybe longer.”

  “What about Catuar and the Regins? Don’t they get to have a say in anything?”

  “Once we cut them off from Londin, the wealas here will fold like a lean-to in a storm. They have depended on our arms so long, they’ve forgotten how to fight.”

  The scope and audacity of what he’s taking about leaves me breathless. Here we are, preparing to defend against the Roman Legions, and all the while Pefen’s Saxons have already been making plans to defeat and conquer an entire Briton pagus.

  “So that’s why your father didn’t care about Wortigern’s offer,” I say. “He will take the Regins on his own terms.”

 

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