The Saxon Might, page 8
part #3 of The Song of Ash Series
That they have come in such force is bad news, not for us here in Londin but for those fighting for survival outside. Wortimer must be feeling confident to sacrifice so much of his force on dealing with a band of robbers. The last I heard from Hengist’s fyrd, they were fighting in the marshes around Dorowern, holding on to the last mainland bridgeheads guarding the approach to Tanet. Aelle’s Saxons retreated deep into Andreda, barring all approaches to the coast, especially Pefen’s fortress in Anderitum. In the North, it is Elasio who’s been making more progress against the Angles than Wortimer, but though they may be rivals in the Council, they are allies in this particular battle so it’s no consolation. With his flanks secure, Wortimer can afford to halt his operations beyond the Wall to bring peace to his own city — not for the sake of its citizens, but his own wounded ego.
“If only he knew I was here,” I say as the column of smoke approaches, “he’d send all his army to fight us, not just this rabble.”
“This rabble is enough to wipe us out, if you’re wrong,” replies Beormund.
“I’m not wrong.”
I hope he can’t sense how little confidence there is in my voice. I have no idea whether I can trust Ambrosius and his men to hold their end of the bargain. I fear not for myself — if this is how I am destined to die, so be it. I accepted my death a long time ago, in Wortimer’s dungeons; everything since then is a borrowed life. But the Iutes who serve under me and Beormund do not deserve to be victims of my foolishness.
It’s too late to escape now, and there is nowhere to escape to, with the city gates locked down until the battle is over. Wortimer has us trapped between his army and the Wall. There was always a risk we would end up like this, as soon as we’d grown strong enough for him to no longer be able to ignore us. We’ve been making ourselves ready for this battle for weeks — and still, I fear it might not be enough, if my hope is misplaced.
The head of the cohort reaches within a spear-throw of the first Iutish barricade. The river of Wortimer’s men splits into four streams, each flooding down one of the main streets which come from four directions to meet in the middle of the Iute territory. The streets of the Poor Town, bordered with piles of rubble and waste, would make for ideal ambush points — if only we had enough men to spare for each of the approaches; but we are outmanned and outmanoeuvred by the sheer number of the attackers. Focused defence is our only hope.
The skirmishers pull back behind the barricades, their missiles exhausted. Each side measures the other’s worth, jeering and throwing obscene gestures at one another. I search for Wortimer among the warriors, but as expected, he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Why is the coward not here?” Beormund asks, as if reading my mind.
He doesn’t know the details of my bargain with Ambrosius, only that it is somehow related to Wortimer’s incoming assault. I told him and the Iutes just enough to prepare our warriors for what was coming. They trusted me enough to not ask any more questions.
“I hear he’s never led a battle again after Crei,” I reply. “It scared him too much. He’s always in a villa somewhere, far from the fighting. I bet he’s in the Governor’s Palace, right now, feasting and humping some slave girl.”
“Pity. I would welcome a chance to plunge my spear into his heart even if it was the last thing I did. Maybe we should have told him you were here.”
I smile, doubtfully. Wortimer’s grown too suspicious to show himself in the open like this, even for what appeared like a decisive victory. Ambrosius admitted I was not the first to whom they reached out for help with killing the tyrannical Dux. With each failed attempt, Wortimer’s distrust grew. He moved only from one fortified villa to another. Even his own men now rarely get to see him, always from a distance, always surrounded by a retinue of well-paid Gothic bodyguards. With the war going in his favour, his presence on the battlefield is no longer necessary, so he leaves command to Brutus, his most loyal commander, with him since the campaign in Saffron Valley.
One of Brutus’s officers now barks an order, and a column of Briton warriors charges at the southern barricade. The same action repeats to our north. Wortimer’s brutes are in front, with Ambrosius’s Legionnaires holding the rear in case of an ambush. The barricades, built of overturned carts, sacks of bricks, shards of big oil amphorae and other refuse, hold, barely. The fighters on both sides are armed only with the primitive weapons of bandits and rebel serfs — clubs, flails, kitchen knives — so a breakthrough here is unlikely.
“The main assault will come from the west,” I say, pointing to the bulk of the cohort, still halted in front of the third of the blockades. “You’d better go.”
Beormund nods. As a chieftain, his place is with his men, in the heat of the battle. I’m his strategist, like Fastidius was once mine, and my duty is here, at the observation post in the centre of the battlefield, sending out runners with orders, as necessary. For now, the Iutes are doing fine without my intervention. The pressure on the northern and southern barricades slackens, and for a moment I fear my warriors are too crafty. For the ruse to work, I need the battle to be going against us. What if Wortimer’s band proves so incompetent, the Iutes defeat them on their own?
But I needn’t worry. The charge against the western barricade starts in earnest, and here Wortimer’s officers are throwing his best men. The first blockade falls in a matter of minutes. Beormund orders a retreat to the second line. I turn to the east — here, the fourth and last branch of the attack moves up and probes our defences, but only just enough to tie up the Iutes here from helping their comrades in the west. My attention returns to the main assault. The second line holds, but the Britons spread out and climb over the rubble of the demolished insulae, to flank the barricade. I send out an order: retreat to the third, and last, line of defence.
Now the battle will be decided. The third line is crucial. Not just because there is nowhere to fall beyond it — but because reaching it is the signal for Ambrosius.
I count the excruciating seconds from when the first of Wortimer’s warriors climb onto the third western barricade, throwing stones and javelins over, wrestling with the Iute shieldmaidens, parrying the blows of the clubs and maces. How long will it take before Ambrosius’s commanders realise it’s time to give their orders? I count to thirty. Still nothing. Sweat trickles down my forehead as I reach a full minute. The Iute line begins to falter. I order some of the men from the northern and southern approaches to move to reinforce this last stand, even if it means they, too, have to retreat to their respective rear lines. A minute and a half.
A whistle sounds out in the west. Then another to the south, the north and, finally, in the east.
Ambrosius’s soldiers drop their spears and draw their long cavalry swords. They are more use in close combat — and there is no closer combat than having to stab your comrades-in-arms in their backs.
Death and chaos spread faster than the panic. It takes time for the head of the column to notice what’s going on at their rear guard. When they do, it’s too late. The slaughter is one-sided. On my order, the Iutes push forth from the barricades. Now is the time for those hidden in ambush to spring from their hiding places. Raven and his fellow hunters pop up on the roofs, picking out the fleeing enemy with their arrows; young, green warriors leap out from under the rubble, their task — to make sure that not one of Wortimer’s roughs escapes to bring word of the betrayal to the palace.
Blood flows down the narrow streets so deep, Ambrosius’s men are slipping in it. They hack and slash their way through the enemy from one side; the Iutes smash and club from the other. I climb down from my post and run into the brawl. I reach the front line just as the two sides meet in the middle, the tall pile of dismembered bodies between them.
“Stop!” I cry in Iutish. “Enough!”
The warriors halt, their arms still raised to strike. They eye Ambrosius’s soldiers suspiciously. The same order is repeated three times on other sides of the battlefield. Slowly, the fighting quietens down. Only twanging of bows and short cries of agony mark the deaths of fleeing marauders.
An officer, clad in a purple cloak, steps forward from the ranks of Ambrosius’s men. He wipes blood from under his shiny brass helmet. He looks at me with a grim, unforgiving expression. I know him — I fought with him against the Picts, on the Iken beach. I’m glad to see he decided to throw his lot with Ambrosius, rather than stay with Wortimer. That was a tough, but glorious struggle, worthy of song. The battle we just fought brought neither of us any joy or glory.
“Are you satisfied, Iute?” he asks.
He may have even fought at Saffron Valley. If so, like me, he must appreciate the bitter irony of Britons betraying other Britons to aid the same Iutes they stabbed in the back seven years ago.
I look around. Moans of the dying fill the air, silenced by whacks of clubs on skulls as the younger Iutes finish off the wounded. My boots are soaked with blood. The tenement walls are splattered with it up to the ground floor windows. The entire slaughter couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes.
How easy it is to kill.
“Yes,” I reply. “Tell your Dux I will do what he wants.”
How did my life lead me to this?
The thought distracts me as I plunge into the raven-black, ice-cold, sludge-like waters of the Tamesa. The darkness is absolute, as if the world had disappeared, leaving me alone in the abyss, the nothingness. I am surrounded by a distinct lack — a lack of light, lack of sound, lack of any sensation other than cold. Am I still alive, or have I died already? There seems to be no difference between the two states. My only connection to the world of the living is the bank of caementicium I touch with my right hand as I swim alongside it.
Somewhere around here there’s an opening of a sewer leading from the fountains in the Governor’s Palace gardens. It’s hidden under water during the highest of tides. There are only two days in a month when it happens, one at Full Moon, one at New Moon. The Full Moon is in two weeks — I cannot wait that long, especially since this is only a reconnaissance mission before the real strike.
At least, I hope the opening is still there. I studied the pipes and connections linking the defunct ponds and fountains in the Praetorium for many bored evenings, as I waited for Rhedwyn to arrive to our reading and writing lessons. I even tried to make some of the hydraulics work again, but the muck and sediment had grown too thick, the sluices rotted through, the siphons broken apart. Only the main sewer was kept clean by the gardener, to prevent flooding of the palace during the great summer storms. Would Wortimer have still bothered with such details?
My fingers feel like icicles, tracking the cracked caementicium, searching for the opening. I can’t stay in this freezing water too long; I feel life and warmth seep out of me with every passing second. Something slimy touches my leg. I hope it’s an eel. My teeth chatter so loud I fear I will attract the attention of a guard, but there are no guards out in this cold, windy night.
At last, a hole. I touch around. It’s the correct size. A slightly warmer current flows out of it. I touch metal, and panic. An iron grate spans the breadth of the outlet. I can’t remember if it was there before, or is it a new addition? I grab the bars, press my feet to the caementicium and pull. The iron grinds on stone. I rub my fingers and take a sniff: the layer of rust is thick; the metal flakes away in my hands. I take a breath, dive under, grab, pull. I swim out, take another breath, and pull again. My feet slip on the caementicium; the rough texture shreds my soles. I’m losing my breath, I’m losing my strength. I pull one last time with all my remaining power and this time, something snaps. The weathered stone crumbles, the rusted-through iron cracks, and the bars fall away. I throw them aside and emerge, gasping.
I kick my feet and dive into the now open channel. I don’t remember how long the sewer is. In the darkness, in the cold, with my arms and legs touching the walls of the sewer with each stroke, fear sets in. What was I thinking? Was this really the best plan I could come up with? Unlike most Iutes, I’m a bad swimmer — Loudborne was never deep enough to learn, and there was never much reason to swim in the Tamesa other than to cool myself down in the summer. Even if I get to the other side, what if somebody sees me? I have asked Ambrosius to arrange a meeting with Wortimer tonight, so that all the guards would be busy in the main wing of the palace, but there’s always a chance someone ventures into the gardens for a night stroll…
I move slowly. I don’t know how much time passes in the tunnel. My chest tightens, my limbs grow heavy. In my mind, I regress to the last time I was this long under water. I’m three again, gasping for air, seeing my father and mother disappear in the stormy depths. My lungs hurt just like then. The tidal water tastes the same as the ocean. Bubbles of air slip from my lips against my will. I see nothing, I feel nothing. I’m dying. I see a ray of light at the end of the sewer. I hear an angel, somewhere in the distance, a beautiful voice singing a tragic, solemn dirge. For some reason, the angel sings in Iutish.
I know this song. My mother used to sing it to me and Rhedwyn, back in the village in the Old Country…
I follow the light and reach the surface, splurting, coughing, wheezing. The light is that of a single oil lamp hanging from a tripod. Beside it, on the stone bank of the fountain pond, sits the singing angel, clad in a green dress, her golden hair flowing in long tresses down her shoulders. Startled by my appearance, she stops the song and leaps to her feet. She hides behind a rose bush and watches me clamber out onto the bank, panting and flailing, like a washed-out, dying seal.
The first thing I notice in the flame of the oil lamp is how well tended the palace gardens are. The grass is freshly mown and weeded. The flower bushes are trimmed into fanciful shapes. The trees are pruned. Thin rays of candlelight seeping from the palace windows carve flickering slices of golden and amber leaves out of the darkness. The state of the garden is the exact reverse of the state of the city beyond its walls. It reflects the crucial difference between Wortimer and his father. While Wortigern tended to the city and its people, he abandoned the gardens. His son did the opposite.
She moves out from behind the rose bush gingerly. She calls my name; her voice wavers. I recognise the voice, and the face — but her body has changed. The green dress clings tightly to her form, her taut shoulders, full breasts, rounded hips — and a swollen belly.
I try to stand, and sway into her arms. She helps me sit down on the edge of the fountain. Her touch is cold, mechanical. Up close, I see now that her face has changed, too. She’s grown older than her years, wearier. Her skin is grey and saggy; her eyes have no glimmer to them.
“Is it really you?” she asks. She touches my face as if she was blind.
“It’s me.” I reach out to her hand, but she pulls away. A shadow flickers across her face.
“I’ve waited. So long. He said you were dead, but I didn’t believe him. But you never came.”
“I — I didn’t know you were here.”
“Where else would I be?”
I’m ashamed to find no answer. I had a year to find her, since escaping Wortimer’s prison. I should have found a way. I should have tried harder. I never even tried to spy into the palace before. Did I really want to find her…?
I stare at her tired face, her heavily pregnant body. I still love her. I still want her. And I’m afraid of it.
“The child —” I start. I touch her bump. She shudders under my hand. “Whose…?”
I don’t need to finish the question.
“It’s mine,” she replies.
“Did he — did he force himself upon you?”
She scoffs. “Can a king force himself on one of his subjects? He demanded me and I obeyed. Time and time again.”
She looks straight into my eyes as she says it. She wants me to feel her shame and humiliation. She wants me to know that while I could have been humping as many Iutish girls I wanted, she had to endure Wortimer’s slobbery lust, for weeks, for months — and all because he promised he would keep me alive in the prison cell. I turn away, unable to stand her stare.
“You really didn’t know I was here?”
“I had no idea,” I reply. “Nobody knew what happened to you after Callew.”
She scoffs again. “For a moment, I thought you’d come to save me. Not that it would change anything… But if you’re not here for me, then why —” Her eyes widen in realisation. “You’re here to kill him,” she whispers. “Did Ambrosius sent you? Are you running his errands now?”
“How did you…?”
“He’s been sending his assassins here since the Pentecost. Wortimer’s too stupid to notice who’s behind all those attempts on his life. So now he’s hoping you can succeed where all others have failed…”
“Not today,” I say. “Today I was only testing the route.”
There’s something deeply absurd about our conversation. I dreamed about meeting her again, touching her, smelling her. I imagined this moment so many times. But I never thought what we would talk about would be murder.
“I can get you out of here,” I say. “The sewer — it’s big enough for both of us, I think, and…”
She touches my hand. At last.
“You can’t kill him,” she says. A glint returns to her eyes, but I don’t recognise it.
“What are you saying? Of course I can — and I will!”
“No, be quiet, you stupid boy, and listen. You can’t kill him — because I have to kill him. I am the one he’s made suffer the most.”
She pushes me gently back onto the fountain’s edge. “Help me do this, and then we can escape.”
“It’s too dangerous for you.”
“And it’s impossible for you. Why do you think so many assassins have failed? He’s crafty and cautious. He almost never comes here to the Praetorium anymore, always hiding, always moving. I’m the only one he’s ever alone with. I’m the only one who knows where he’s spending the night. He thinks he broke me — he thinks he’s safe with me. I will only get one chance, if that — but it’s one more chance than you, or anyone else, will ever get.”
