The Saxon Spears Page 5

  Fastidius raises his hand. The javelins wobble through the air, hitting nobody. The Saxon response is more accurate — one of the Saffron Valley boys throws his arms up and falls with an exaggerated cry. The enemy closes in. I plant my shield firmly in the ground and prepare to repel the invaders.

  I glance at Fastidius. He pulls back and nods at Eadgith. She takes off her helmet and steps ahead. As the first Saxons reach our line, she stomps and yells at them. One of the boys trips, the others stumble over him. I make use of the chaos and score two “kills” with one sweep of my spatha, before returning to the safety of the shield.

  The main thrust of the charge reaches our line. The soldiers on our flanks perform the complex manoeuvres devised by Fastidius — as well as they’re able to comprehend them. The attack falters on the left wing, but the Saxons push through to our right. I spot Fat Banna leading the wedge there: no longer fat, he’s now a mass of muscles that strikes terror in the hearts of enemies, even if the battle axe he wields is made of thin wood.

  Fastidius orders the “reserve” to strike at Banna’s boys from the rear. This is as much of the action as I can see before I have to focus on my own predicament. The plan for the centre of the “legion” is to pull back into a formation resembling a crescent moon. But something’s wrong. The Saxon attack should be relentless, so that our retreat looks convincing. Instead, it seems half-hearted, especially near Eadgith’s position. Did Gleva notice our trap? Fastidius orders Eadgith to move forwards, to provoke the attack. The Saxons run past her, like water around stone. At last, they’re falling into the snare. The crescent moon curves behind the Saxons and closes in on them. I bash one boy with my shield with such power that it breaks in two. Another attacks me with a spear. I dodge, grab it out of his hands and strike him over the head with his own weapon.

  Eadgith returns to my side, a keystone that locks in the arch of the counterattack. She is unharmed, despite being in the middle of the assault. I notice she’s annoyed by this for some reason.

  “Focus,” I tell her. “This isn’t over yet.”

  She nods in silence, parries a blow and returns it. The battle rush powers our limbs. The enemy falls before us like wheat before the sickle. I feel heroic, like a warrior from a legend, a mighty centurion, standing at the Empire’s border, repelling a barbarian invasion. Within moments, the Saxon assault is neutralised, the remnants flee in embarrassment before the might of our wooden weapons. I look to Fastidius for new orders: he gestures to our right flank, where Banna’s unit even succeeded to break through the reserves.

  Eadgith leaps ahead, reaches Banna, and… he fells her with a single punch. To my surprise — and his — she laughs and grins at him. I duck the battle axe, jump on his back and grapple him by the neck. At last, I bring him down and we wrestle in the grass until I pull out a short wooden knife from my boot and “stab” him in the kidneys. He yelps, but continues to fight.

  “You’re dead!” I protest.

  “A small blade like that wouldn’t kill me,” he replies and reaches for my throat. I don’t plan on resisting him for long.

  “But this would,” says Fastidius and smacks him over the head with a spatha.

  I get up from under Banna and reach out to Eadgith for a celebratory embrace, but she pushes me away. She marches up, brushing past Gleva who also tries to congratulate her, to the group of Saffron Valley boys, picking themselves up after the sound beating we gave them in the centre. She grabs one of them by the tunic: a straw-haired, lanky boy.

  “Why didn’t you fight me? Why didn’t you hit me?”

  He mumbles a reply that none of us understand.

  “What did you say?”

  “He said you’re a girl. We can’t fight a girl,” explains his companion.

  “What’s wrong with the way he speaks?” Eadgith shakes his victim. “Is he slow or something?”

  The other boy shrugs. “He’s from the south coast, they all talk like that over there. Half-Saxon, the lot of them.”

  Eadgith throws the southerner down and turns to Fastidius. Her eyes burn with fury.

  “You knew about this. This is why you told me to take off my helmet.”

  Fastidius nods. “I suspected the boys from Saffron Valley would not be used to seeing a girl on the battlefield.”

  “You used me!”

  “That’s what a commander does — uses his assets.”

  She relaxes. “Ah, well. At least we’ve won.” She smiles at him the way I’ve never seen her smile at anyone. “Just don’t let me see you try this again.”

  He smiles back, but it’s a sad, wry grimace. “I assure you, this will never happen.”

  I don’t like the way he says it. I don’t like the way his lips curve without joy in his eyes. I step closer. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid this is the last time I can lead you to battle, Ash.”

  He speaks quietly, and only a few of us can hear him, but all who do gasp.

  “What do you mean?” asks Eadgith. She steps closer to him, takes his hand in hers. My stomach churns. Fastidius stares at his feet.

  “It’s time I make my choice,” he says. “I must focus on my studies. I only have a year or so before I leave for Londin.”

  Londin? That’s the first time I hear anything about it. Why would he want to leave Ariminum for Londin?

  “Oh, Fastid…” She cries and wraps her arms around him. The churning in my stomach reaches to my heart. It beats faster than it did in the heat of the battle. Fastidius strokes Eadgith’s back. She pulls away, turns her back to us and walks off the field. Gleva and I are the only ones who spot her tears.

  The wax on the tablet feels particularly hard today. I’m trying to write in the cursive, a more difficult style compared to what I’m used to. I push to round up the letter G in CALGACVS, the name of a defiant Caledonian chieftain in the history book we’re reading. I press too strongly and the stylus breaks in my hand.

  Paulinus tuts.

  “You’re distracted today.”

  I murmur in agreement. I don’t make an effort to conceal the fact that the conquest of a distant land by some long-dead general is the last thing on my mind.

  “What is it? Is it Fastidius? He’ll be fine — and he’s still here for a year.”

  “That’s what worries me,” I blurt out. The bluntness of my words surprises me. I straighten in the chair. Paulinus gives me a curious look.

  “Did something happen between you two?”

  “I… No,” I admit, bowing my head. “He did nothing wrong. He’s exemplary as always. Perfect. Too perfect.”

  Paulinus leans closer. His deep, heavy brows come close together, menacingly.

  “Jealousy is a sin, boy,” he says in the same tone he uses to admonish wrongdoers at the Mass. “Especially towards your betters. Don’t forget what he is, and what you are. You’re never going to be like him.”

  “I know that!” I look up. I no longer control what comes out of my mouth. “I know I’ll never be as smart, as learned or as rich as a noble-born. I will never be anything more than a slaveling. That’s why I thought he might at least give me this one thing…”

  “Ah,” Paulinus whispers. An understanding dawns in his eyes, but he’s saying nothing, letting me finish the outburst.

  “I’m in love,” I say at last.

  Paulinus stares at me in silence. “I think we’ve had enough Tacitus for today,” he says. He folds the book and puts it away.

  “You’re in lust, boy,” he continues. “Not that there’s any difference at your age.”

  “It’s more than that…”

  “It almost never is,” he interrupts. “Love is a deep, profound, clear feeling. You love your parents. You love your country. You love God. And, yes, one day you’ll find a woman you’re going to share this wonderful feeling with. As Saint Paul said… ”

  He recites some sacred verses, but I’m too incensed by his callousness to listen. What does he know? I have never even seen h
im with a woman. All he ever talks about is his God. I should never have confessed to him.

  He stops, notices my averted eyes and sighs. “This isn’t helping, is it?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Don’t think I don’t understand. I know how troubling this must be. Flesh is the greatest of temptations, especially for a young, healthy boy like you.” He scratches a doodle in the tablet with the tip of his pen. “Some of the Fathers of the Church recommend bodily abstinence as a cure for this kind of problem…”

  “Abstinence?”

  He chuckles. “Never mind about that. You’re not exactly a saint material. So, you’re lusting after — I’m sorry, in love with — some local girl…”

  “Her name’s —” I start, but he silences me with a wave of his hand.

  “Please, the less details I know, the better. There’s nothing more boring than a youth in love,” he adds. “What I don’t understand is how Fastidius is involved in all this.”

  “Why are you surprised? He’s the Master’s son, he’s smart, handsome — and the oldest of us. Of course the girls will be falling for him.”

  “Oh, now I see.” He nods. “So it’s not Fastidius’s fault.”

  “No, I told you. He did nothing wrong.”

  “Then, my boy, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  What does he know? Did Fastidius confess in him, too? Perhaps he fell in love with some other girl… Maybe one he’d met in Londin, on one of the trips he’s been making recently with his father? Is this why Eadgith was crying…?

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” proposes Paulinus. “Since it’s so important for both of you. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  “No, I’m sure he won’t — he never minds anything.”

  He nods in satisfaction and leans back. To him, the matter is already solved. While I struggle to calm myself, he opens a drawer in the desk, roots around and hands me a brand new stylus. He picks up the book again and sorts through the pages.

  “Now, if I’m not mistaken, we’ve reached the point where Agricola prepares to march on the granaries at Mons Graupius.”

  CHAPTER IV

  THE LAY OF EADGITH

  Finding an opportunity to have a serious conversation with Fastidius turns out to be an unexpectedly difficult task. For the next couple of weeks there is much commotion all over the villa: Master Pascent’s fiftieth birthday is coming, and a major celebration is planned for the occasion. Specialised craftsmen, with their wagons full of tools and exotic supplies, arrive from Londin and the southern ports. The sounds of their hammers, saws and chisels ring out all around the property.

  The theme of the feast, chosen by the Master himself, is “the old Empire”: a memory of Rome in its glory, as it was centuries ago, with as much detail as can be reproduced from the ancient scrolls. The carpenters arrange the dining room furniture in the ancient manner, with three reclining beds set in a horseshoe around a low table. The mural painters create new visions on the walls, images of feasting men and women, gods and goddesses, dancing, playing harps and flutes, eating strange food. The tailors sew clothes to ancient designs, long flowing robes of white wool to replace our common tunics and breeches. Wine and food is prepared according to timeworn recipes, from lavish ingredients brought from far-off lands — or at least as far as the southern merchants can still reach from their wharves.

  Come the morning of the day of the feast, the courtyard and the poplar-lined avenue leading to it are adorned in garlands of flowers. Servant girls strew field flowers along the flagstone pathway. A cage with a couple of songbirds is hung under the eaves of the porch. Cloth curtains hang on the walls of the domus, concealing the scars and cracks in the walls. A hired band of musicians awaits to welcome the arriving guests with a medley of whatever old melodies they could remember — or make up, as the case might be — performed on long bronze trumpets, ox horns and reed pipes. Paulinus, Fastidius, Lady Adelheid and I form the rest of the welcoming committee. I notice Paulinus study the final preparations with a permanent scowl.

  “You don’t enjoy it?” I ask.

  Paulinus’s answer is drowned by the sound of horns and trumpets. The first of the guests arrives down the road from Saffron Valley, in a four-horse carriage adorned with moulded bronze panels. A winded, panting slave, who must have been running alongside the carriage for the last couple of miles, opens the door and stoops to attach a set of two wooden steps. A corpulent, balding man wearing a white toga climbs out, followed by a woman in similar attire. They gaze around, their eyes gleaming as they take in the atmosphere.

  The trumpets stop. Fulco the Frank, playing the part of a herald, announces:

  “His Excellency, Solinus of New Port.”

  We bow. Solinus marches past us, mouth agape.

  “He owns all the lumber and grain mills from here to the sea,” Paulinus explains in my ear. “He might not be the highest born guest today, but he’s certainly the richest.”

  The servants take the merchant and his wife into the domus, where they will wait for the others to arrive, while being offered refreshments in the ancient manner — sweet wine, olives and small sweet buns stuffed with candied fruit. The next to arrive is the old, white-bearded Senisis, representing the villagers of Saffron Valley and other nearby settlements. That he’s invited along with all the other noble and affluent guests is the mark of how dependent the villa is on the village folk, both as suppliers of workforce and as consumers of our produce. Senisis arrives on foot, with only his daughter for company, but the next guest is brought in a litter chair, carried by six strapping youths, stripped to their waists, their bodies shaved and oiled.

  “Quintus Natalius, the owner of the property to the east,” explains Paulinus. I know there are a few other villas like ours, strung like pearls on a necklace along the fringe of the Downs, a chain of hills surrounding Londin from the south — but I haven’t met any of our neighbours yet. Quintus is fatter even than Solinus, but there’s a memory of muscles under the blubber, and once he dismounts the litter, he strides with the trained pace of a soldier. Pascent and he greet each other like old friends. Using the full Roman name marks him as old-fashioned, one fond of the Imperial ways. Even Master Pascent only refers to himself with the first name in all but the most official circumstances.

  Finally, a man in a two-wheeled cart, marked with a sign of two crossed swords and a shepherd’s crook, rides in, alone, from the north.

  Paulinus bows the lowest as this unassuming man approaches.

  “Greetings, Pertacus. Have you seen him?” he asks.

  “I passed his carriage by the beacon hills,” replies Pertacus. “He wasn’t in a hurry.”

  “Figures he’d make us all wait.” Paulinus scowls. “I’m sorry for all… this.” He waves his hand around. “At least the food is supposed to be good.”

  Pertacus laughs. “Don’t worry, my son. It’s all just a bit of harmless fun.”

  “Who was that?” I ask when Pertacus ascends the porch.

  “Vicar General of Londin. The Bishop’s right hand.”

  “He doesn’t seem as concerned with the feast as you are.”

  “He hasn’t seen what’s inside yet,” he replies. “This celebration of a pagan past doesn’t sit well with me at all. We never used to have birthday feasts. What is a birth, if not entering the world of sin?” He shakes his head. “And what’s more, it stinks of hypocrisy.”

  “How so?”

  “They didn’t want to be a part of Rome anymore,” he says, waving towards the empty gates. I sense his gesture extends further, all the way to Londin. “And now they pine for the past. What’s so good about the old days, anyway?”

  “It’s all you ever have me read about.”

  “Oh, the Ancients wrote well. That’s all they ever did.” He shrugs. “But they only wrote what their patrons paid them to write. No one ever wrote about what went wrong in Rome. What made her decline to what she is now, only
a distant memory…” He shakes his head. “We can’t hold on to the past forever. That’s the mistake Aurelius made.”

  Aurelius. I have heard this name before. My mind goes back to one of the geographia lessons, when Paulinus first introduced me to the other Britannia, Britannia Prima, a province beyond the western border of Wortigern’s realm — the one that refused to accept the fact its ties with Rome had been severed forever.

  “There was a vote, in Londin,” he explained. “Fifteen years before your birth, not long after Constantine took the Legions out of Britannia. It was close — some would say, too close — but those who wished to go the separate way from the Empire prevailed in the end. The Magistrates were expelled, the Roman taxes and duties were abolished — and the Council of Tribes, until then just an advisory body to the Roman governors — became the ruling power in the provinces.”

  I remember my mind boggling at the men who made that decision; recalling the vastness of Rome’s borders on the old maps, the legendary might of its Legions, the multitude of its peoples, I could not comprehend why anyone would willingly decide not to be a part of it anymore.

  Paulinus understood my doubts. “The glory of Rome had been waning by then,” he explained, “and many saw having to abide by her rules and paying her taxes as nothing more than a burden — especially since they couldn’t even count on her protection anymore. But there were others who still thought as you do now. They were led by Aurelius, the last Roman Governor of all Britannia. They never agreed with the vote.”

  “Was there a war?” I asked, eager to hear more tales of valour and glory. To Paulinus’s eternal dismay, I was only ever interested in the more bloody parts of history, never paying much attention to the politics or economic side of things. Give me a good battle over a Senate debate or a politician’s speech, any day…

  “A brief one,” he replied curtly, dashing my hopes, “soon overshadowed by the uprising of the serfs. Aurelius, his family and their followers fled west, others went north, and those who stayed in Londin were too busy dealing with the rebels to chase after them. In the end we came to an… uneasy agreement, dividing the island between us.”