The Saxon Knives, page 25
part #2 of The Song of Ash Series
Fastidius stands beside me, resplendent in Vicar General’s robes, and nervous; I can see it in the twitchiness of his gestures, in the subtle movement of his jaw, betrayed in the grinding teeth; in the inadvertent scratching of his cheek and the top of his hand.
He’s not the only one anxious. From the Dux to Londin’s Bishop, we all want whatever Germanus has prepared to be over with already. Not even Fatalis is privy to the secret. Though of the same official rank as Germanus, he is quickly sidelined by the older and more experienced guests. Germanus has access to the Pope’s ear and seal, which means a lot more in the complex hierarchy of the Church, even as far away from Rome as Britannia.
“Then I was right,” I say when Fastidius explains this to me. “We thought we got rid of the Imperators, but they were only replaced by the Popes.”
“It’s Aetius and his Legions that grant him authority, not the Pope,” replies Fastidius.
“I don’t see either of them here. Only a crowd so great they could take over the city if Germanus ordered them to.”
The murmurs calm down, as Bishop Fatalis climbs the three steps to the canopy shielding the altar, to celebrate the ritual part of the Mass. Germanus stands by his side, listening to Fatalis’s Latin, and wincing whenever the celebrant stumbles upon a word. Fatalis, too, is nervous. Sweat trickles from under the golden headgear. The Mass finishes sooner than usual. We sing a quick hymn and then the Bishops switch places. Germanus gestures at the altar boys. They bring him a thick tome, a large candle, and a box of intricately carved ivory.
“That’s the box,” I whisper to Fastidius. There’s little doubt as to what the box contains, and the fact that Germanus chose to bring it out at the start of his sermon makes everyone still a little more nervous than they already were. In the silence, my whisper carries far, and everyone turns to me, including Elasio, who stands in the second row. The Comes of the Cadwallons looks at me with a mocking half-smirk. Did he recognise me after all, back at the inn?
Germanus’s commanding gaze renders the hall silent once again. He opens the book seemingly at random and, not looking at its pages, begins his speech.
“Where there is Light, there is Darkness,” he booms. “Forty years ago, this island, once a bright, young child of the Church, succumbed to the Darkness. The Darkness of rebellion. The Darkness of heresy.”
Fastidius groans and rolls his eyes. Fatalis reddens.
“When I last came here,” Germanus continues, “I hoped to stamp out the heresy of mortal free will for good – but Satan, in fate’s guise, intervened and my work was not finished. And yet God is infinitely greater than Satan, and saw it fit, in his wisdom, that I would live long enough to return to this blessed island, and to respond to your groans.”
He picks up a sheet of parchment from among the book’s pages, and though it’s too far to see, we are to understand this is a copy of Wortimer’s letter.
“It is not only your sons who wrote to me, Britons. Your Bishops wrote to me also – though, I notice, not yourself, Father Fatalis.”
The Bishop of Londin squirms and cowers under his accusing gaze.
I look to Fastidius for explanation. “It must have been the Bishops of Ebrauc and Lindocoln,” he whispers. “I heard Riotham went there after Wortimer’s coup – I did wonder why…”
“As soon as the dire news reached me, I knew I had to return,” Germanus continues. “I asked the legate at Augusta Suessionum to lend me the fastest of his ships, and I prayed for good winds to bring me here in haste. But most of all, I prayed for the letter to be false. An exaggeration. Could it really be, I wondered, that the Pelagian heresy is not only not extinct, but flourishing within the walls of this holy city? Could it really be that you’ve invited heathens into your midst? That the demons are worshipped in your villages openly, as in the old days? Beasts and men are sacrificed to the old gods, as if our Lord Jesus Christ had died in vain?”
There is a noticeable stir now in the front ranks. It is one thing to attack the way we pray and worship; it’s for the priests and Bishops to decide among themselves what is right and what is wrong, before explaining it to the faithful. But Germanus’s sermon is now moving to politics, siding openly with Wortimer and threatening to reignite last year’s bloody conflict.
“As you have abandoned Rome, so you have abandoned God,” he continues. “And the evil fruit of this decision rots everywhere outside this edifice.” He raises his arm. “Your fields lie barren; your walls have crumbled; your treasury is empty; you have to rely on barbarians to defend you from other barbarians.”
“Steady on, it’s not that bad,” I hear somebody whisper behind me.
“And worst of all, even your sons and daughters are turning to paganism, and choose heathens to lie with instead of good Christians!”
He points an accusing finger at the crowd, and though I know he can’t possibly see me, I feel as if his eyes are on me. But this last remark is aimed not just at me, but at the loyalists in the Cathedral and the crowd outside. They are mostly young men, and they are all acutely aware of what the women of Londin think of the tall, strong, fair-haired warriors from across the sea. This one bites the hardest.
“But fear no more. You will live in Darkness no longer, for I bring you the Light of our Lord – ” At this, an altar boy lights the tall candle. “ – and word of True Faith,” he adds, putting his hand on the book. “And the Power of the Saints, as represented by these miraculous bones of Albanus, gifted to me yesterday by this humblest of God’s servants, Elasio.”
Elasio bows low, beaming.
“With these before me, and with the power of Rome and the Church behind me, I implore you, Dux Wortigern, revert from your mistaken ways. Abandon the misguided doctrine of Pelagius, banish the heathens, and return to Rome’s fold as all Christians should!”
“Rome and Church as one,” whispers Fastidius. “It’s just as you said.”
“Wortigern will never agree to this,” I whisper back.
“It’s either that or facing Aetius…”
Germanus pauses, as if waiting for an answer, but no answer is forthcoming. He smiles wryly and repeats the summons.
“It is not for me to decide, Bishop,” Wortigern replies at last. “I shall call the Council and address your demands.”
“Council? Demands?” Germanus scoffs. “Are you not the leader of your people?”
“We’re not barbarians, Bishop. I am no tyrant. We have rules and laws, just like in Rome.”
“The only law you should follow is the divine law! Your very soul, and the souls of all your subjects are under threat. The longer you dawdle, the closer you are to hell.”
Wortigern hesitates. His resolve falters under Germanus’s lightning gaze.
“My lord Bishop, I must – ”
“Never!” a man cries out in the crowd. He jumps out at the altar brandishing a sharp seax. “We will never surrender to Rome’s yoke again!”
“Who’s that?” I ask, unable to see the man clearly over the sea of heads.
“No idea,” replies Fastidius, his voice trembling. “Never seen him before.”
The man leaps forth, pushes away the altar boy and plunges his seax into the Bishop’s chest. Blood stains the vestment. Wortigern’s guards rush to apprehend the assailant and wrestle him to the ground.
A great, woeful cry fills the Cathedral, but it’s stifled a moment later by an even greater wail coming from outside, when the heralds inform the congregation what’s happened. The crowd heaves. The rushing of sea waves grows into a raging storm.
“There will be a riot,” I hear Wortigern cry. “Guards, to the door! We have to get out of here before we’re trapped. Ash, to me!”
I push through to the Dux; Fastidius follows close by.
“The Iutes, are they in position?”
“Yes, Dux.”
On Wortigern’s orders, a dozen Iute warriors have been hiding among the congregation until now, in secret defiance of Germanus’s demands. They now rush to us with their weapons drawn, awaiting my command.
“Have them clear the way to the bottom of the hill,” Wortigern instructs. “Join up with Beadda’s men – they’re waiting at the Bridge. And look out for Elasio, he will…”
The Cathedral gate bursts open. The guards try to stop the crowd rushing in, but it’s like trying to stop the flood with bare hands. Wortigern and the other nobles run to the sacristy door, led by Bishop Fatalis. I scan the walls for another way out – there are windows over the altar to which I could climb over the wooden canopy. I point it out to Fastidius, he nods, and we hurry in that direction.
Rhedwyn. All the other Iute hostages have hidden themselves among the abandoned houses in the western part of the city, just as I asked them to, but Rhedwyn remained in her house next to the Cathedral’s walls, believing herself protected by her high status. Now, with the furious crowd surrounding the temple, her life might be in danger. I must get to her as quickly as –
“Halt!” a voice booms. “Behold, the power of God!”
The might of the call stops all of us in our tracks. I turn back to the altar to see Germanus stand up, leaning against his companions, blood still soaking through his vestments. But the paleness on his face retreats, the strength returns to his limbs. He’s holding the box of bones in his right hand – it seems to be glowing from within with a mysterious light.
“A miracle!” he announces. “A true miracle! Albanus brought me back to life!”
The call is repeated by the acolytes, then by heralds, and then by the crowd of commoners. They all fall to their knees in the face of the wonder. Reluctantly, the nobles follow their example, their heads lowered before the triumphant Bishop. I wait until only Wortigern remains. He looks around, notices me standing by the canopy with one leg on the timber beam, and smiles.
“Wortigern!” Germanus addresses the Dux directly. “Your foul plot has failed. The Lord himself intervened to thwart your devilry. You have all witnessed the miracle of Albanus. Now will you repent your sins and return to the flock?”
“What plot? I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” replies Wortigern.
“My lord!” the assassin wails. “I only did what you ordered me to!”
“Your servant’s words betray your satanic intentions, Dux. Repent!”
The crowd raises their voices in the repeated cry. “Repent! Repent!” Wortigern’s face turns wine red. His knees begin to crumble. Germanus looks around triumphantly and spots me.
“You, half-heathen! Kneel down before the miracle of God!” he booms.
I drop to the floor and stare at the black marble floor. The multitude of the voices crying “Repent!” rings in my ears, echoing from the Cathedral’s walls, rumbling in my head. Tears well up in my eyes. I cannot comprehend what’s going on; I don’t know what is happening between Germanus and Wortigern. Who’s the assassin? Was he sent by the Dux – or by one of the nobles, in a show of misguided loyalty? And what about the miracle – did the God of the Romans really bring the Bishop back to life? Is this the light of divine favour shining inside the box – or just a candle hidden within?
Something glints by my left knee. It’s the assassin’s knife. He must have thrown it away in the commotion. I pick it up without thinking. There is no blood on it – and the third of the blade is snapped off cleanly at the tip.
“Repent! Repent!”
The Dux kneels and opens a trembling mouth. I raise the seax closer to my eyes. It’s not easy to see in the dim half-darkness of the Cathedral, but as I run my finger along the snapped edge, I become certain.
“My lord,” I cry. Wortigern turns to me, and I slide the knife along the floor to him. He studies it for a moment, then realises the truth. He stands up from his knees.
“Just as I thought – it’s a trick!”
“How dare you – ” Elasio stands before him, but Wortigern pushes him aside and raises the blade to the light.
“This is a theatre knife, made to break off. And I bet that’s pig’s blood on your vestment. This is no miracle. This is fraud, plain and simple!”
We all expect Germanus to burst in anger – but instead he shakes his head sadly. The light inside the reliquary grows dim.
“I see the Adversary has already taken over your heart. You would even refuse to believe the testimony of your own eyes. So be it. I have given you one last chance – you chose not to take it.” He steps over to the altar and raises his hands. “In the name of God the All Powerful, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost…”
“No – stop him!” shouts Fastidius, but everyone just looks at him in confusion. He and Bishop Fatalis are the only ones who realise what’s going on. Germanus might be a fraud but he’s still a Bishop, and a representative of Rome. Even Wortigern sees no harm in letting him finish whatever ritual he is performing; it can’t possibly be any worse than what’s already occurred in the Cathedral. I look to the crowd at the door – the heralds stopped translating the high Roman speech into their common tongue, and they’re having a hard time following the unfolding events.
“…by the Blessed Peter and of all the saints, I deprive you, Wortigern son of Vitalinus, and all who aid and abet you, of the Communion of the Body and Blood of Our Lord.” Germanus speaks quickly, foregoing his usual stentorious manner. “I separate you from other Christians and exclude you from the Church in Heaven and on Earth.”
He leans forward heavily on the pedestal. “I lay an anathema upon you, Wortigern! You are condemned to the Eternal Fire! By my command, your soul and body will be delivered unto Satan. So be it!”
“So be it!” repeat Germanus’s acolytes – and the crowd behind us, goaded by the heralds, though they know not why. The Bishop slams his book shut, and his acolytes throw down the candles around them and stamp their flames out.
Silence and darkness fall upon the Cathedral. Germanus and his retinue storm down the aisle – followed closely by Elasio and his Cadwallon nobles. The crowd parts piously to let them all outside. Their murmurs rise again, threatening to erupt into another riot – but for now, everyone is mostly mystified by what has just happened.
“Fatalis, Fastidius!” Wortigern calls. “Explain.”
“I feared this would happen. We’ve been excommunicated,” says Fastidius, his face pale like a funeral shroud. “You and all those who serve you.”
“Excommunicated?”
“The harshest of punishments,” adds Fatalis. “Reserved only to the worst heretics and enemies of God. You are to be shunned by all Christians. I… I can no longer even talk to you, Dux.” He turns his back to Wortigern and gestures at Fastidius to do the same. “Now please, leave, before all of Londin suffers the same fate.”
PART 3: 449 AD
CHAPTER XVII
THE LAY OF POSTUMUS
The echo of my sneeze reverberates throughout the cold, empty, unlit corridor.
I stumble in the dark. I’m still unfamiliar with the road back to my chamber from the latrines. I was forced to move here, to the eastern wing of the Praetorium, after the innkeeper at the Bull’s Head refused to serve me anymore. “You must understand, Councillor,” he said, all in apologetic bows, “how bad it is for my business to host someone like you. The guests are afraid your… unique situation will affect all of them.”
He wasn’t the only one in the city struggling to find the correct way to deal with Bishop Germanus’s strange pronouncement. It took a couple of weeks for most cityfolk to even register what really happened at the Mass. Wild rumours persisted – many still believed for days that Germanus was dead, slain by the Dux himself or one of his Iute allies. The excommunication order, once distributed throughout Wortigern’s domain, was confusing and unfamiliar. What was the punishment for associating with the Dux and his Council? Who would execute this punishment? Were slaves and servants released from their duties – and if so, what were they supposed to do with themselves in their newly found freedom? And most importantly – and mysteriously – was the Dux’s soul really damned for eternity?
I pass more empty rooms on my way back. One by one, as the effects of the anathema began to sting, Wortigern’s courtiers fled not only the palace, but the city – moving north, to Elasio’s court at Werlam. There, bathed in the holy light beaming from Albanus’s miraculous bones, the Comes of the Cadwallons raised a new stone chapel to house the relics, and a new dwelling to house Bishop Germanus and his acolytes after they stormed out of the Cathedral, declaring it a den of devilry. With all this activity, Werlam, already one of the largest cities of Britannia, is dangerously close to overshadowing Londin – and as its prestige grows, so does the fame of its ruler.
There is one light still shining from under the door: Wortimer’s room. He received a dispensation; the Bishop hopes he will influence his father to change his mind and repent; but Wortimer doesn’t seem interested: neither in this, nor in running the city in his father’s place on a daily basis – not until he can officially claim the seat of the Dux. Instead, he lets those of us who are still left on the Council stew in our own juices and observe with mocking indifference as we struggle to control the city against the odds. The result, predictably, is total chaos.
The capital outside is as cold and dark at night as the Praetorium. There’s no one left to keep either of them heated or lighted. No merchant is willing to sell us enough fuel. The townsfolk are forced to burn their furniture – and they have to do it themselves. The slaves and servants may have been just as confused about what excommunication really meant as everyone else, but they soon grasped that it meant freedom – if they were lucky enough to have masters who decided to weather the storm in the city. Most of these slaves fled to the countryside or hired themselves out to new masters in Werlam; the few who stayed did so only because they had nowhere else to go. Only a handful remained to serve Wortigern and his family out of loyalty.
