The saxon might, p.1
The Saxon Might, page 1
part #3 of The Song of Ash Series
THE SAXON MIGHT
The Song of Ash, Book Three
James Calbraith
Copyright © 2020 James Calbraith
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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BRITANNIA SUPERIOR, c. 450 AD
BRITANNIA MAXIMA, c. 430 AD
LONDINIUM, c.450
ISLE OF WECTA, c.450 AD
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Londin
Ambrosius: Dux of Britannia Prima Maxima
Brutus: Commander of Londin Garrison
Deneus: Oyster merchant
Fastidius: Vicar General of Londin, Ash’s Brother
Wortigern: Former Dux of Britannia Maxima
Wortimer: Wortigern’s son, current Dux of Britannia
Iutes of Londin:
Beormund: chief of the Iutes of Poor Town
Birch/Betula: a warrior of Poor Town
Eadgith: bladesmith from Poor Town
Raven: a warrior of Poor Town
Rhedwyn: Iutish princess, niece of Hengist
Britannia Maxima
Elasio: Comes of the Cadwallons
Catuar: Comes of the Regins
Masuna: Comes of the Atrebs
Odo: Decurion of the Gaulish cavalry in Cantiaca
Peredur: Comes of Trinowaunts
Worangon: Comes of Cantiaca
Saxons:
Pefen: chief of the Saxons, unifier of tribes
Aelle: Pefen’s son, chief of the Saxon warbands in Andreda
Hilla: a warrior from Andreda
Bucge: chief of a Saxon tribe
Weorth: chief of a Saxon tribe, commander of Port Adurn
Iutes:
Hengist: chief of the Iutes of Tanet
Haesta: Hengist’s cousin
Haegel: elder of the Meon Village
Croha: child of farmers from Meon Village
Britons:
Alatuc: chief of Briton village on Wecta
Muconius: Chief Councillor in Clausent
Solinus: rich merchant from New Port
GLOSSARY
Aesc: Saxon spear
Ceol: Narrow, ocean-going Saxon ship
Centuria: Troop of (about) hundred infantry
Centurion: Officer in Roman infantry
Comes, pl. Comites: Administrator of a pagus, subordinate to the Dux
Decurion: Officer in Roman cavalry
Domus: The main structure of a villa
Drihten: War chief of a Saxon tribe
Dux: Overall commander in war times, in peace time — administrator of a province
Fulcum: Roman shield wall formation
Hiréd: Band of elite warriors of Drihten’s household
Gesith: Companion of the Drihten, chief of the Hiréd
Liburna: Roman war ship
Mansio: Staging post
Pagus: Administrative unit, smaller than a province
Praetor: high administrative or military official
Pugio: small Roman dagger
Seax: Saxon short sword
Solid: large gold coin
Spatha: Roman long sword
Villa: Roman agricultural property
Wealh, pl. wealas: “the others”, Britons in Saxon tongue
Witan: the gathering of elders
PLACE NAMES
Andreda: Weald Forest
Anderitum: Pevensey, East Sussex
Ariminum: Wallington, Surrey
Callew: Silchester, Hampshire
Cantiaca: Kent
Caesar’s Market: Caesaromagus, Chelmsford, Essex
Clausent: Bitterne, Southampton
Coln: Colchester, Essex
Dorowern: Dorovernum, Canterbury, Kent
Dubris: Dover, Kent
Beaddingatun: Beddington, Surrey
Britannia Maxima: a province of Britannia, capital in Londin
Britannia Prima: a province of Britannia, capital in Corin
Ebrauc: York
Eobbasfleot: Ebbsfleet, Kent
Leman: Lympne, Kent
Londin: Londinium, London
Medu: River Medway
New Port: Novus Portus, Portslade, Sussex
Port Adurn: Portchester
Regentium: Chichester, Sussex
Robriwis: Dorobrivis, Rochester, Kent
Rutubi: Rutupiae, Richborough, Kent
Saffron Valley: Croydon, London
Solu: Solent
Tamesa: River Thames
Tanet: Isle of Thanet, Kent
Wecta: Isle of Wight
Wenta of the Belgs: Winchester
Werlam: St Albans, Hertfordshire
PART 1: 450-452 AD
CHAPTER I
THE LAY OF BEORMUND
The world is a black void.
The only light I ever get to see is that of the torch carried by the slave who brings me the bowl of gruel and a bucket of slop water. I estimate it happens twice a day, but I have no way of knowing for sure. The torch gives just enough light to allow me to make out the shadows of the place of my captivity: the contours of the red brick arches, the simple, utilitarian stone columns at the back, the pipe orifice half-buried in sediment, the cold damp rising up the steam-worn walls. I know enough of these kinds of places to guess where I am — in the vaults of an old, disused bath house. The room where I’m kept must be the frigidarium, but with the bricks of the cold pool removed and most of the stonework dismantled and turned into dividing walls. I think I’ve been here before… Not as a captive, but as captor.
I don’t know how long I’ve been kept here. My first days in the cell are hidden behind an impenetrable bank of fog. I was thrown onto the cracked caementicium floor, my legs chained to the wall. My hands free, I would lash out at the slaves and they’d beat me back with reed canes or wooden sticks, depending on their mood.
Sometimes, a young man would appear, roughly my age, with black, curly hair and cunning eyes, in rich robes of a nobleman. He’d watch as the slaves beat and tortured me, and he’d laugh. Then he’d grab my hair and raise my head up and tell me I’d be dead if it wasn’t for…
If it wasn’t for…
I can’t remember.
Then he’d spit in my face and kick me in the gut, and leave, laughing again.
At length, even the young man stopped coming. I succumbed to the wounds, the cold, the hunger, and came down with a rabid fever. I’d cross death’s door and then return, to find myself drenched in a pool of my own vomit, faeces and blood. Worms grew in my wounds and pain spawned madness in my head. I wailed and thrashed on the floor like a dying beast, scorched by the flames of fever, frozen by the chills. And when, by some miracle, I pulled through, I could remember nothing, not even who I was, or why I was put in this wet, dark place. If I was a prisoner, then of what court? Was there a trial, a verdict? Who put me here, and on what grounds — was it the young nobleman? How long was I to be imprisoned? Why was I still kept alive? The slaves who brought me food would not answer any of my questions. They weren’t mutes — I heard them curse when they stubbed their toe on a brick. My captor must have ordered them to stay silent in my presence. What secrets were they keeping from me?
It took me days before I started recalling the first hazy details. It was like being born again and having to learn everything from the start, except this time I was locked up in the darkness, all alone, for eternity.
I am Aeric, son of Eobba, war chief of the Iutes. My countrymen and I have crossed the whale-road and landed on a mud patch in the land of the Britons, refugees from a distant war. I have a sister, Rhedwyn. I sinned with her, and for that crime I am imprisoned in this dungeon for life…
No, that didn’t sound quite right.
I am Ash, a slaveling, found on a beach in Cantiaca. A foster child of an Old Man and an Old Woman, who were attendants of the baths at Ariminum villa, south of Londin. I have watched my foster father die in the bowels of a bath, and refused to help him because I wanted to be free. For that crime, I am imprisoned in this dungeon…
But this, too, is not the full story.
I am Fraxinus, son of Pascent, brother of Fastidius. I was a Councillor at the court of Dux Wortigern in Londin, ruler of all Britannia. I have joined his rebellion against Rome and the Church, I have blasphemed against God, and for that crime, I am imprisoned…
All of it sounded true, and yet none of it felt accurate. Have I really committed all those transgressions? If so, then undoubtedly I deserve to rot in this hellhole. Some of my memories seem more akin to dreams than reality. The women in my life all blur into one, sometimes red-haired, sometimes fair-haired, green-eyed, blue-eyed; I take their bodies on the cliffs, in the forests, under the stars, in cold, ruined bath houses like the one I’m in now… I remember fighting, a lot of it, swords slashing, spears thrusting and axes flying, duels, roaring charges and stalwart defences, great battles on the beaches and small skirmishes on the river crossings. My memories are soaked in the blood of warmongering and the sweat of passion.
And there’s still more. Books in ancient language, chronicles and poems, history and geography of distant lands; prayers and rituals, lofty churches and underground temples; gods of the Iutes, gods of the Britons, gods of the Romans; beasts slaughtered in sacrifice, cold waters of a baptismal font, all jumbled together until I can no longer tell which is which.
I glance at my body in the light of the slave’s torch, my thin hands and famished stomach. Though ravaged by illness and starvation, it’s a body of someone still young. Could all of this have happened to me in such a short lifetime? It almost feels like the memories of several people are struggling inside my head. The Iute prince, the Briton slaveling, the Roman courtier… I can’t possibly be all three of these at once. Which one am I, really? I sense the answer to this mystery lies in figuring out who is keeping me prisoner, and why.
I am no longer alone.
Two other prisoners have been brought to the bath house, and thrown into the remaining cells of the frigidarium chamber. I can hear their agonising wailing through the thin brick walls. Soon, one of them falls silent. I hear the slaves grunt as they carry out the body. The other captive falls quiet, too, and I fear him dead also, but after the slaves bring me porridge and slop, he speaks.
“Is anyone there?”
The voice speaks in the Imperial Tongue and sounds somehow familiar, even distorted through pain.
“I’m here,” I reply in the same manner. “Who are you?”
“Thank God! I’m Deneus of Caesar’s Market. I own salt flats and oyster beds off the eastern coast — or at least I used to… What about yourself?”
Caesar’s Market… I remember this place. Something happened there. And that name, Deneus. I know that name.
“Hey, are you still there?”
“Yes,” I reply hastily. I remember now. Dene of Caesar’s Market, the salt tycoon, who helped me and my brother… Fastidius… with… something.
“I’m…” I hesitate to remember which name he would have known me by. “Fraxinus of Ariminum. I don’t know how long I have been here. Or why.” One memory triggers another. “I was with Dux Wortigern at Sorbiodun, and then…”
“Fraxinus! The Roman Iute? They told us you were dead!”
Roman Iute. Is this who I am? These words hurt like a thousand wasp stings.
“You know me?”
“Do I? Do you not remember me?”
“I don’t remember many things…”
“Do you at least remember how you got here? This whole mess started when you and the Dux disappeared after that fight with Wortimer.”
Wortimer. The name rings a bell.
“What mess?”
Dene’s reply is cut short by one of the guards barging into his cell and beating him into silence. “No talking!” the guard shouts before going back to his post.
We’re only able to talk further in the brief intervals when the guards change or get bored with looking after us and disappear somewhere upstairs to play with dice and whores. It’s amazing how patient you become after months of solitude. I await Dene’s every word as if it was a lover’s whisper. It takes days before I can compose the entire picture of the situation in Londin from his snippets of information.
It’s been over half a year since Wortimer returned from the Council of Sorbiodun, alone, but armed with a powerful story that he proceeded to sell to the people of Londin. It was a story of perfidy and betrayal — but not his own. The heralds who recited the tale on the corners of the city called it the Massacre of the Long Knives.
“They said the Iutes attacked the Council and slew Wortigern, you, and most of the courtiers. Only with Ambrosius’s help did Wortimer and a handful of his men survive to tell the tale.”
“That’s preposterous. And nobody asked why would the Iutes even do that? They are our allies.”
“Were, boy. Wortimer made up some story about his father wanting to marry the Iutish Princess against her will, which angered the Iutes. The people of Londin didn’t need much persuading to turn against the pagans — they never liked them in the first place, as you may remember.”
The Iutish Princess… Rhedwyn! I remember her — I remember her vividly… Something happened between us — but the memory is confused.
“This girl Wortigern wanted to marry… What happened to her?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know much about what’s going on in the city — I was minding my own business in Caesar’s Market until they came for me.”
“You never told me why they came for you.”
This is days — weeks, maybe — into our intermittent conversation. Dene has grown weaker over time, his voice quieter. Coughing fits interrupt our brief exchanges more and more often. It feels like speaking to me is the only thing that’s keeping him sane — or even alive.
“Wortimer needs money. He’s been spending his father’s treasury left and right, funding his mercenary army, building churches and monuments to himself, and buying the support of the plebs. He needs me to sign my properties over to him.”
“Can’t he just take it by force?”
“He still needs the Council’s backing, and for this, he needs to keep up the pretence of acting lawfully… He’s made up fake charges against everyone even remotely supportive of his father. Most of my friends are either dead or exiled, their businesses confiscated.”
“Exile sounds better than this. I would choose it without hesitation.”
“I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. This can’t last long. Sooner or later, the people will see Wortimer is just a puppet of Ambrosius and Aetius, preparing Britannia for Rome’s return.”
But it does last. A month passes, by my estimate, then another. Sometimes, another prisoner joins us in the third cell — another wealthy Roman, or a captive Iute, but never for long. At least Dene knows the purpose of his suffering, knows he can end it, one way or another; neither of us can guess for what reason Wortimer is keeping me alive.
“Maybe he’s forgotten about me. I almost died here once, nobody came to help me.”
“Wortimer does not forget grudges. It’s more likely that Ambrosius told him not to kill you. They must have some plans for you. Something to do with the surviving Iutes, I wager.”
But Dene never finds out what Wortimer’s plans are. One day, the guards take him away. When he returns, he’s too weak to speak in anything but a weak whisper.
“He’s grown smarter,” he musters a warning. “And stronger. Whatever he wants from you, you’ll be wise to heed him.”
“What about you? Have you chosen the exile?”
“It’s too late for me. I’m afraid I… no longer have a choice.”
These are his last words. At next mealtime, I hear the slaves grunt as they drag out his body from the cell.
I have a new conversation partner now. Not a prisoner — a slave. By some miscalculation, one of the guards who brings me the daily slop turns out to be one of my own people.
“A Iute!” he exclaims in delight after I speak to him in his own tongue. “Where did they get you?”
“At Callew, a long time ago. You?”
“Callew? I don’t know that village.”
“It’s… in the West.”
“Was it near Beaddingatun? I think they were the first to fall. I was captured at the Siege of Robriwis. I’m Beormund. I’m… I was the Gesith there.”
I now have enough of my memory restored to remember Robriwis well. Rhedwyn and I met there briefly before the Battle of Crei. Her naked body, sweaty from the bath, blazes before me in a spasm of ecstasy. I scratch at my face to let the pain clear my mind.
Robriwis, the great, impregnable fortress guarding the crossing of the River Medu… If it’s under siege, that means the Iutes have been forced out of the lands given them by Wortigern outside the land of Cants. Beaddingatun, Orpeddingatun, Waerlahame… Once the main force of the Hiréd, the Iute chieftain’s household guard, perished in the massacre at Callew, these villages were an easy prey. How many people lived there when Wortimer’s forces descended upon the defenceless farmsteads? How many women and children were slain…?
