The Saxon Knives, page 26
part #2 of The Song of Ash Series
It is one of those last few loyal servants who finds me in the corridor. He puts up a torch to my face. “Your presence is requested, Councillor Fraxinus,” he croaks.
“At this time of night? Tell the Dux I’ll be in the audience hall in a minute.”
“Not the hall – you are needed at the Bridge Gate.”
“The Bridge Gate?” I frown. “Do you know what’s happened?”
“I do not, Councillor. All I know is I’ve been sent to bring vicar Fastidius, too, from the Cathedral. If you will excuse me…”
He brushes past me and hurries towards the courtyard, leaving me in the darkness again.
I don’t know what I expected to see at the gate, but it certainly wasn’t this: all twelve Iute hostages, led by Haesta, and with Rhedwyn in tow, in her green tunic, facing a handful of city guards, barring their way across the Bridge. The Iutes are unarmed, other than with sticks and stones, except Haesta, who found somewhere an old, rusty Briton sword. The guards wield spears, but are hesitant to use them; they pull back when Haesta steps forward with force.
“What’s happening?” I ask him. The guards look at me with uncertainty. Some of them must recognise me – I’ve passed through this gate enough times to know every guard by name – but they can’t be sure if I’ve come to thwart the Iutes, or to help them. “Did Hengist break the treaty?”
“I haven’t heard anything from Hengist, and I don’t care,” replies Haesta. “There’s nothing for us here. We’re going home. Now, tell these men to let us pass, if they don’t want a fight – if you still have any authority over them.”
“A fight?” I look him over, doubtfully. The remaining hostages are mere children – the eldest is a sixteen-year-old girl. They look famished and miserable, but their faces are glowing and their eyes are burning. Still, it would be sticks and fists against spears, and no amount of spirit would change the outcome of that battle.
I turn to the guards. “What are your orders?”
“We… we don’t know,” replies their sergeant. “The Dux told us to halt them, and then disappeared somewhere – ”
“Wortigern was here?”
“Yes, but – he’s been excommu-… excommuni-…”
“We don’t know if we should follow his orders,” the other guard interjects. “Or yours, for that matter.”
“If it was up to me, I’d let them go,” says another. “I don’t know why we need their lot in the city, anyway.”
“Quiet, fool,” the sergeant shuts him up. “We need them here so the Iutes don’t rise against us again.”
Rhedwyn comes up to me. She puts a hand on my chest. I take a deep breath. I am desperate to touch her under that green tunic. If only we were alone now… This is the first time she has let me get near her since our quarrel before Germanus’s Mass. All this time, she has remained cold and distant, waiting for me to make the first move – waiting for me to choose her over my privileged Roman life…
“Do you see now, Ash?” she says. “This is what they think of us. We’ve had enough.”
With Germanus gone from the city, the Iutes of Londin no longer need to hide – and the hostages are free to return to their cells; but other than that, their position hasn’t improved. The Bishop’s heralds joined forces with Wortimer’s roughs in spreading their message of hate and fear against all Iutes and Saxons. With Wortigern’s protection weakened, the twelve Iutes became prisoners in their new homes, unable to walk the streets openly for fear of being pelted with dung and tile shards wherever they went. Only the fear of Hengist’s retribution kept the roughs from overrunning the Cathedral compound. I cannot blame them for wanting to leave the city for good.
“Tell them to let us go,” she says. “Before the Dux returns.”
Where is Wortigern, anyway? Where did he need to go that was more important than this – and why did he call for me to handle this debacle? He knows I have no more authority over the city guards than he does. One word from him would sort everything out…
This must be a test of my loyalties, I decide. He’s sent me here to see which side I would choose when left to my own devices. If I let the hostages go, my career at the court is over. I would need to go with them, back to Tanet. Has he been looking for a pretext to remove me from the Council?
“It’s time to choose,” Haesta says, as if reading my thoughts. “Are you a Iute, or a wealh?”
That’s easy for you to say. I grind my teeth, furious at Haesta. I can see why Hengist wanted to rid himself of the impetuous youth. My choice would’ve been far easier if this was only about my and Rhedwyn’s, and nobody else’s, future. But bringing the hostages into the mix complicates everything. There’s still a risk that with the hostages gone, the war with the Iutes might erupt again. Not because of Hengist – of that I am sure – but because of the fear unleashed by their disappearance. The hostages were always just a way to placate the Londin folk, to make them think they controlled the situation. With them gone, the Britons might be convinced towards a pre-emptive strike against the Iute villages. I have no doubt Wortimer would be quick to use this opportunity to divert everyone’s attention from the chaos and confusion permeating the capital.
And I could do nothing to stop him. Forced to hide away in some remote settlement in Cantiaca; no influence at the court, no contact with the loyal Councillors, cut off even from Fastidius… It would be so much worse than during Wortimer’s earlier coup. No, I cannot allow this. I am still of use in the city – I am still of use to Wortigern, now more than ever, since I’m not as affected by the anathema’s terrible curse as his Christian supporters.
“I… can’t let you go,” I say. “Not without the Dux’s permission.”
“Ash!” The accusation in Rhedwyn’s voice stings like a spear thrust. She slaps me in the face. Haesta raises his rusty sword against me and the guards. I reach for the seax at my waist.
“Don’t do this, Haesta,” I warn him. “You’re all going to get hurt – or worse.”
“Now I can see you’re just a wealh,” he replies. “A Iute would know it’s better to die fighting than to live like a slave.”
I hear the two men run from the direction of the Cathedral before I see them, emerging from the Wall’s shadow: Wortigern and Fastidius. They appear in the nick of time – or have they been waiting there all this time…? Fastidius, ever the peacekeeper, stands between me and Haesta. I can see a few of the hostages step back, either out of fear or respect for the priest. Wortigern towers over the sergeant of the guards, the sheer power of his stare forcing the soldier to succumb to the Dux’s authority, anathema or no anathema. The spears in the guards’ hands hold firm. There is no doubt now that they will let no one cross the Bridge without a fight.
“Out of my way, priest,” Haesta snarls.
“Peace, son,” Fastidius pleas. “Return to your homes. All will be fine, as God is my witness.”
“I am not your son,” Haesta retorts. “And your God of Peace doesn’t impress us – it never has, right, lads?” He addresses the hostages behind him, and they reply with a subdued murmur of agreement – some, I notice, less enthusiastically than the others. “Step aside, if you don’t want to get hurt.”
“Please, make him stop,” I say to Rhedwyn. There’s no point arguing with Haesta anymore; the boy has a death wish, I can see it in his eyes. Once he’s drawn a blade, he will not rest until it’s bloodied.
“Why should I?” she replies, mockingly.
“Think of your people. If anything happens to any of you, your uncle will have no choice but to seek retribution. There will be more fighting, more death. Londin is like a bundle of straw soaked in oil – a single spark is enough for it to burst into flame. Is this really what you want?”
“Anything is better than going back there,” she says.
“It will change. Fastidius and I will make sure you’re safe from now on.”
“You knew what was happening. You haven’t done anything. Why should we trust you now? Why should we trust any of you?”
I take her hand in mine. “Because I give you my word. I will take care of you from now on.”
Her lips narrow. There is no gentleness in her eyes as she takes my hand away. “Haesta, put down the sword,” she says. “This has all been a bad idea.”
“Don’t tell me you trust this… wealh!” Haesta spits out.
“I don’t,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes. “But he’s right. There’s no point starting a war over us.”
Haesta throws down the blade – it lands in a plume of rust. It wouldn’t have held even against a wooden stick. The hostages slump and turn around, resigned to their fate. I feel Wortigern’s hand on my shoulder – he was right behind me all this time.
“You did well, Fraxinus.”
I struggle to contain tears.
There are few of us left at the long Council table – too few. Only the most loyal of Wortigern’s allies remain with him: the veterans of the Gaul wars, his oldest companions, who’ve been with him through the worst – and a handful of Londin nobles who decided to join him in this strange spiritual exile, hoping for a quick solution to the conflict, old Postumus among them.
Wortimer is here, too. He would not pass an opportunity to gloat over his defeated father. He sits back with his legs on the table, playing with the fruit knife, with a lingering smile on his face.
“And now, the bones of Saint Albanus have cured his son,” the Dux says, mockingly. “I bet it was just a cold.”
“I didn’t know his son was ill,” says one of the nobles.
“I didn’t even know he had a son,” replies another.
“Shows how much you know, Nemmonius,” the Dux scoffs. He reaches for the silver jug – there are no servants left to do it for him – pours the last drop of the wine into his goblet, then throws it on the floor. The jug spins with a whistling clank.
“That was the last of the Burdigalan,” he grunts.
“Wine is the least of our problems,” replies the praefectus of the granaries. “The harvest has passed, and the wheat is wilting in the fields. The grain stocks will run out long before the winter at this rate.”
“The Gauls will not sell us any more,” complains another nobleman. “They’ve been ordered not to by their bishops.”
“What about the pagans?” asks Wortigern. “The Saxons shouldn’t care about the Church’s edicts.”
“They’re gouging us dry,” replies the praefectus. “They know how bad our situation is.”
“Last night the last of my serfs fled North,” adds one of the veterans. “Even though I had one of them whipped the week before for attempting to do the same. All I have left are my slaves – and they’re awful workhands.”
“Even the slaves are no longer bound to obey us,” says the praefectus, “but I’ll be damned if I let them run away.”
“We’re all damned anyway,” says Postumus, and spits a half-chewed piece of gristle from a badly cooked haunch of some grey meat.
The others murmur in agreement. It’s a tale they all share. The anathema is a terrible curse to the loyal noblemen: it leaves them with no trade, no workforce, and no revenue.
“You will all be compensated generously once this is all over,” Wortigern says and waves a hand dismissively. He puts on a brave face, but it’s clear to all he’s as rattled as everyone else.
“And when will it be over?” asks the grumpy veteran. “How long can we keep this up?”
“Well, what would you want me to do?” the Dux erupts. “You know this is about a lot more than grovelling before Germanus and his friends in the North. Shall I surrender to Aetius without a single spear throw, and bring back the Roman yoke? The Roman taxes, the Roman Magistrates to bleed you dry? Roman press gangs coming for your sons? Because if that’s what you want – and God help me, I wish you would – I will have the carriage ready by evening prayers!”
“Maybe it’s better to pay taxes and live, than to starve and go to Hell,” whispers one of the courtiers, but the others promptly silence him. If they wished to surrender to Rome’s bullying, they would’ve ordered the Dux to do so a long time ago.
I did not understand this at first, even after all my years at the court. Shortly after the excommunication scandal erupted, I confronted Wortigern in his throne room. It was a moment of startling honesty for both of us. In this dire moment, we could no longer afford wasting time on decorum and deception.
“What’s so bad about going back to Rome?” I asked. “Is it just because you fear punishment for your usurpation?”
The Dux scoffed. “Usurpation? The Governor’s seat was empty when I entered the Praetorium. Those who wanted it weren’t strong enough; those who were strong enough did not want it. All they did was vote this way and that until they almost voted themselves into oblivion. Just about the only thing they could agree on was that they needed a strong man to help them against the rebels. And still they shirk from any responsibility! Only my son has enough ambition to wish to take my place.” He brushed his hair from his forehead. “No, I don’t fear Rome, Germanus or the Pope. If I thought it’d make a difference, I’d give Britannia back to them tomorrow.”
“Then why not?”
He looked to the ceiling, then down again. A hole in the roof, unfixed for weeks, was letting in a jagged ray of sunshine. It danced on the floor, covered half with a remnant of a mosaic and half with a straw blanket shrouding a broken pavement.
“Forty years ago, when the Legions left,” he answered at last, “the Britons understood something about Rome. It didn’t want to rule them as equal – it no longer had the resources for it. What it wanted was to drain them for its wars. Take their gold and their young men and shore up the defences on the Rhenum and in the Alps, guard Gaul and Italy from the barbarians, Britannia be damned.”
“What if it’s no longer like that?” I protested. “What if Aetius is going to bring back the Empire of old? What if Britannia is left out of it?”
“Ah, bring back the Empire…” the Dux replied wistfully. “You younglings can’t even imagine what it was like. To live in houses that weren’t ruins, to have hot water to bathe every day, to drink wine that didn’t taste of vinegar, eat food that tasted of foreign spices, not just of the swill the pigs muck about in…”
“I’m not that young,” I reminded him. “I remember the baths at Ariminum when they still worked. And the feasts.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand with impatience. “The point is, I would love nothing more than to bring it all back. But it’s not happening. Did Germanus promise us anything in return for allegiance? Was he open to negotiations? No, he only had threats and insults. Why? Because he has nothing to offer. Why doesn’t Aetius invade yet, instead sending that fraudulent priest? Because he can’t afford it – it would leave his flanks open to the Franks and the Goths. He’s struggling to keep Gaul as it is. No, they don’t want us to be part of their new Empire… They just want to use us to help them save themselves, what’s left of them. Mark my words. Sooner or later, Germanus will have to admit what they really came here for.”
“And what if you’re wrong, Dux? What if all that is needed to bring back the glory of Rome is Britannia’s renewed allegiance?”
He gave me a wry smile. “Then we’re all doomed, boy.”
“We could start by getting rid of the barbarians, as Germanus demands,” remarks a man sitting closest to Wortimer. He casts me a sly look. “That might placate the Empire somewhat.”
“Banish the pagans, you say? Get rid of your bodyguards, your blacksmiths, your craftsmen?” Wortigern mocks him. “And then what – send off your flaxen-haired wives and daughters? I know all about your… predilection, Nemmonius. Don’t think I wouldn’t make sure your mistresses would be the first to go.”
The Councillor falls silent, red-faced. Wortigern now points to Fatalis. The Bishop sits at the opposite end of the table, as far away as possible, as if we were all stricken with a plague. He’s come here in disguise, after repeated summons from the palace turned to desperate pleas. Fastidius sits beside him, with parchment and stylus ready to jot down any decisions made.
“Aren’t you a Bishop, too? I am your Dux – I command you to reverse this.”
“I’m afraid I have no such power, my lord. Germanus speaks for the Pope. Only he can reverse the decision.”
“Blood and guts, Fatalis, this is all your fault. Why didn’t you warn me this could happen? We all knew he didn’t just come here to preach.”
“Excommunication is a tool used against the gravest, most unrepentant of heretics, lord,” the Bishop replies, twitching. “I didn’t expect the Church to use it as a weapon against secular rulers.”
“There was the precedent of Imperator Theodosius,” remarks Fastidius.
“What is it, boy?” Wortigern leans forward.
“Some sixty years ago, Imperator Theodosius ordered his soldiers to massacre the population of some small city in the East. The Bishop of Mediolanum excommunicated him for this atrocity.”
A grim silence falls briefly, interrupted by Fatalis. “But that was different. It was a clear crime and a clear punishment, and nothing else came from it. It’s only a footnote in canonical history now.”
“There is no difference in the law,” objects Fastidius. “On that, all books and treatises are clear.”
“I expect the Imperator had the Bishop’s head on a stake the next day?” I ask.
“No, lord. He repented before the Council of all of Italia’s Bishops in Mediolanum.”
All are taken aback by the revelation. If not even an Imperator is free from the heavy justice of the Church, what chance is there for a mere Dux? But in their astonishment, they fail to notice what seems to me an obvious solution to the crisis. I wait to see if anyone else spots it, but they all sit in stunned silence. I look to Fastidius, but even he doesn’t say anything. Can nobody see it?
I raise my hand. “Could we not get a Council like that set up in Londin?”
Wortigern looks at me, then at the Bishop, then his face lights up. “The boy has a point,” he says.
