CHAPTER ONE
Late autumn 409, inside a Roman army camp in northern Gaul.
Not now, not yet, but one day she would be free. The top of the beech sapling swayed at the back of the yard, fluttering above a pile of rotting planks. The tree had survived because Master Marcellinus had protected it. Next year it would be tall enough for its seedlings to be blown over the ramparts. They would fly with the wind, and she would go with them.
Nehtan ducked out of the master’s hut. Dirty army tents lined the track on both sides. No one in sight. By Heaven, her arms ached from the first trip with the water pitcher. She’d have to skirt past wolfish soldiers to fetch the week’s provisions. But she could bear it; the Lord was at her side, and, one day, she would find a way back to the north of Britannia, to her family and the village.
Strands of hair flopped across her face as she walked: no rain, only a breath of wind. Squawks came from a mud-caked raven, tethered on a pole next to the quartermaster’s cabin. A dog leapt and the raven shot off its perch, its leg fastened by a gristly rope. Wings beating, a feather fell and was pounced into the mud, the dog biting and barking. Nehtan shivered as the raven settled back onto its perch, squawking a loud ‘krrruk’, one wing arched above its back.
Twenty paces round the corner, a knot of legionaries lounged across the track. One of them was the tall man who liked to force his hand under women‘s cloaks. She turned back; best to go the long way, past the latrines.
A shout: ‘Hey, girl, we need our share.’
She couldn’t stop herself looking back.
‘Yeah,’ said the tall soldier, slouching on a post-rail, ‘we know where you live. Make it easy on yourself.’
Agritia said it was best to pretend you hadn’t heard them, but the soldiers weren’t interested in a wizened old herb-cook like Agritia.
Shifting the pitcher in her arms, Nehtan flexed her calves. She wanted to run, her stomach tightening at the memory of what had nearly happened before. It was sport for them, but they wouldn’t get away with treating her like an animal, like they did with the others. She belonged in Colud, free-born; she was not what the Romans said.
Turning to face them, she shouted. ‘‘Stick with the goats. You’ve got nothing they’ll notice.’
The legionaries guffawed, but the tall one yelled. ‘Who do you think you are? Come here, you fucking slave.’ He started after her, yelling over his shoulder. ‘We can’t let her get away with it.’
She ran, clutching the pitcher. The Master would be furious if it broke, but the soldier was catching up with her. She flung the pitcher aside.
Something was coming out of a tent - too late, she ran into a burly man with bushy eyebrows. For a moment, they clutched each other, scrabbling not to fall over.
‘Hold there, my pretty.’ It was the Quartermaster, a friend of the Master. ‘What’s up with you?’ His big arm was around her.
‘Nothing sir, sorry. It’s...’
Her forehead brushed against his stubbly chin as he held her tight. He smelt of beer. Looking back: the tall legionary was striding fast back to his mates.
The Quartermaster shouted over her shoulder. ‘Hey, you, what are you up to? I recognize you, you’ll be on report.’
‘No point bothering with him.’ The Quartermaster released Nehtan, his finger brushing her chin. ‘I know his type. As for you, you’d best find another water-pitcher.’
She looked down at the shards in the mud. The man’s voice softened. ‘I’ll tell Centurion Marcellinus what happened. Now, be on your way.’
His hand reached behind her. A moment’s hesitation, then he picked a scrap of mud off her cloak.
‘Thank-you, sir.’ Forcing a smile, she nodded.
Tension lessening with each step, she walked back to the hut through a slush of grey water. There was a spare pitcher at home, but its handle was broken, making it difficult to carry. It would be aching work, but by the late afternoon she could rest out of sight, tending the fire in the master’s billet. Worries would drain away, leaving only a drift of smoke and the distant sound of the baker’s boy pounding grain into flour.
The peace would not last. Vitalis would burst into the hut, hungry from playing with his friends. Barely eleven, she had looked after him since he was five, and now he liked to boss her around. Pray God that he was in a good mood and would not make her go out at dusk. The tall soldier could be anywhere.
May the Lord God’s mantle be about me, she prayed, and may it be different in the new camp when we get there.
***
Days later, Nehtan was the lone female, perched high on a baggage cart amidst a grumble of red-cloaked soldiers, trudging south through all the waking hours. A scattering of chestnut and lime trees dotted the edge of the road. In the distance, a cloak of forest covered a hillside.
She shivered and huddled down in the army cart, thankful that the boy Vitalis was asleep. He didn’t seem to notice the jolts from the deep ruts in the road.
The field they were passing reeked of rotting cabbage; the villagers must have fled. Poor Gauls; the stony track had echoed for centuries to the thump of Roman sandal-boots. Now they also had barbarian raids to fear.
Damn the army! It was forcing her south, away from beloved Colud, nestled in the river valley, well beyond the Wall. But she would not let the soldiers see how miserable she felt, nor would she join in their marching chants like she used to. Nowadays they never stayed long anywhere, each camp more threadbare than the last.
The carter kept looking to the right and left, peering into the scrub.
After some hours, she heard the master call a halt. His voice carried as he sent two soldiers to scout the steep-sided valley ahead. The singing stopped, and the twenty legionaries at the front stood at attention. Nehtan wanted to jump off the cart and stretch her legs, but she saw the men scanning the bushes and trees. Even the soldier on the water-pitcher cart stayed put.
Tossing back her black hair, Nehtan smoothed her hands over her forehead. Serve them right if they were ambushed: she would run into the scrub as quick as a rabbit. These Romans thought she was no more than a savage, with no right to bite and scratch when they put their hands on her. The sooner their empire crumbled, the better.
A relaxed shout from the front, and the column resumed marching. The carter cracked his whip on the ox; two pigeons flying towards the column veered away. She drew her cloak close. It was cold sitting on the baggage cart, but at least she didn’t have to tramp like the legionaries.
The ox-cart trundled past a collapsed hut at the edge of a weed-filled field. It would have been home to a family, before their world had been crushed. Perhaps their bones lay nearby, picked clean by foxes and badgers. The Romans didn’t care, wouldn’t notice.
She remembered a grove of yews on the hillside above her village, north of the Wall. Before going into their hut, she always turned to look at it. Inside, she had sat with mother-nymayr and father-atir, watching the flames dance in the hearth, smoke swirling above, warm voices all around. All that had been wrenched away when those men captured her. Why had atir let her go out? Those memories were almost out of reach, and there were things she didn’t want to know. The one good thing that had happened since then was the risen Lord Christ, where there was no ‘us’ and ‘them’, no place for fear. She tensed, imagining how nymayr would scorn and think her a fool, a little girl who used to run to her grandmother and now ran to the Roman god.
A sharp pain flashed in her ribs. The little master was grinning as a lock of hair flopped about his forehead. She glared at Vitalis and pushed his foot away. Was it a game, or was he reminding her that she was his father’s slave, and he could do as he liked?
The boy clutched his throat, grunting fake coughs as he lifted an imaginary pot to his lips. Getting him a drink would mean jumping down from the high cart and running to the water-wagon. Anything could happen, and the oxen were bad-tempered brutes whose hooves could crush a foot. She forced herself to smile.
‘Tell you what, let’s roll a dice. You win, and I go for the water. You lose, and we wait until the next stop.’
‘I could make you go.’ Vitalis puffed out his thin, brown-cloaked chest. ‘I should.’
‘You want the soldiers to see that you need a woman to get your water?’ She hesitated to call herself a woman, though she was seventeen, six years older than the boy and more than old enough to be wed - or traded.
‘You would say that.’ Vitalis flicked her shoulder with the back of his hand. ‘Father told you … all right, where’s the dice?’
They rolled and Nehtan won. She suppressed a smile and stroked her round cheek. Looking up, she checked the sky for birds: a flock of starlings darted over the tree-tops. Lucky them.
High clouds streaked the sky. These soldiers thought they were tough, but nowadays they were fusspots, anxious about every bit of news and gossip. She lay back, letting her nose fill with the musty dampness of the woollen cover. There was a familiar stinging in her scalp, but she didn’t have the energy to scratch. Better to lie quiet, nestled down below the cart-sides, out of sight of the legionaries. They were all new to her, except the master. High God, she prayed, I give you thanks for the protection of Master Marcellinus – and may the Lord bring me home.
Vitalis huddled up to her, and she put her arm round him. ‘Do you remember when we first met, near the Wall in Britannia?’
‘Weren’t you always there?’
She shifted to lie sideways, looking at the boy’s freckled cheeks and broad forehead. ‘Don’t you remember your mother?’
Vitalis was silent, looking up at her with wide eyes. He shook his head.
‘Never mind. I’m sure she was a good woman.’
‘Father says she was the best.’
They lay still, with the boy close. He was so much nicer like this. Something jutted into her hip, a hard stem from one of the vegetable sacks under them. She didn’t want to move and wake the boy from his reverie. Her belly adjusted to the pressure sticking into her side as she felt the warmth from the boy.
Minutes later, Vitalis grimaced and nudged her with his bony elbow. ‘These sacks stink. Let’s have a wrestling match.’
‘I can’t, not now.’ The boy was too old for that sort of thing, especially out here.
Another push from Vitalis. ‘Come on, Nehtan, like we did at home.’
‘That was ages ago; it’s different here. Look at the soldiers behind: which one’s the best marcher?’ Vitalis’s lips curled, so she pointed ahead. ‘The master’s at the front. Try to spot him.’
‘I’ve done that hundreds of times,’ he huffed. ‘Father said you’d keep me happy, but you’re not.’
She knew she shouldn’t, but she reached and tickled Vitalis in his armpit.
‘Don’t, that’s not fair.’
His kicking thrust the rug off her legs. ‘I’ll stop, if you promise to behave.’
‘All right, I surrender.’
As soon as she removed her hand, Vitalis pulled her hair, making her shout. ‘Ouch! Don’t do that!’
The carter turned and leered over his bulbous nose. He was about to say something when the oxen lurched towards a reed bed down the side of the road.
Vitalis called, ‘Watch out!’
’Another time, another place,’ the driver growled as he wrenched the ox-reins, ‘and you’d know what’s for.’
‘Father said you had to be careful.’ Vitalis sat up straight. ‘You got stuck yesterday and it took hours to get out.’
‘By Hell’s rim, you little cur.’ The carter half-rose from his seat, then glanced forwards to the column of soldiers. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I had my way, none of us would.’
Nehtan motioned to Vitalis with her finger on her lips. She made herself smile at the man. ‘We‘ll be all right with Centurion Marcellinus. Wait till we get to the new place. He’ll get us the pick of the rations.’
One of the six legionaries striding behind winked with his mouth open. Sweat trickled from under his helmet. She raised her eyebrows, then quickly looked away to the stumps of bush and tree at the side. The soldier would be like all the rest.
Vitalis heaved himself up, peering forwards over the oxen. Nehtan slumped on a sack and shut her eyes. Pulling her cloak-hood tight, she let the pinpricks of tiredness soften.
She was not a slave – not like old Agritia, who could think of no life other than cooking for the centurions. In the eyes of the Lord, everyone was equal. More than that, through him, who was all in all, everything was part of one eternal root, far beyond Emperors, soldiers - and the old gods.
Even so, fear crowded the edges of everything. In Colud, father always told Eothar and her to be quick, not to waste time. What was his voice like? She couldn’t bring it back; only the sound of murmuring and a rising wail when Grandmother had been banished.
Nehtan hunched her knees and rocked. Grandmother had been the best person to snuggle up to, never too busy. Now, out here in the wilderness of Gaul, everything was slipping away, like sand. What was it that the master’s poet said? Something about each sea wave pursuing the next one, and the crest is only there for a moment, and each moment happens afresh every time. It was like forgiveness – the chance to start anew and rise above the soldiers’ taunts, the master’s coldness, and what they had done to her in Colud.
. ***
Suddenly, a loud cawing burst over her, like a huge flock of crows taking off. Her eyes snapped open. The boy’s nostrils were flared, his eyes wild. He jerked his head to the front. She froze: ahead of them, scores of horsemen were crashing through the marching Roman line. A long-haired warrior smashed his sword down on the head of a collapsing legionary. Another Roman crumpled, screaming as a horseman’s lance pierced his back. Cold sweat cut through her.
‘Father!’ Vitalis yelled.
The cart-driver jumped down and ran into the scrub. The other drivers and the soldiers at the back raced after him.
Her mouth was dry and her stomach clenched. ‘Mother of God, save us.’
From the front, the harsh voice of Centurion Marcellinus rang out amidst the raw screams of the attacking riders. ‘Stand firm, form a square.’
She grabbed Vitalis. ‘Get down!’
The boy was digging into the bundles beneath where they had been sitting. A cook’s knife flashed in his hand as he jumped down.
Leaping after him, she grasped his shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Let me go! I’m going to help Father.’
Fear seized her as Vitalis pointed the knife at her belly. She slammed his arm against the wheel and the knife dropped from his hand.
‘You’re a barbarian, like them!’ Skinny arms flailed at her chest. ‘Let me fight. I’m going to find Father.’
‘No, you’re not, you’re coming with me.’
She dragged Vitalis round the back of the cart. The sound of thundering hooves, a horseman lunging towards them in a ragged brown tunic, sword pointed skyward. She shoved the boy hard into the bushes.
Whooping shouts, the rider was nearly upon her. Running, jumping across a ditch. A heavy thump, her head twisting sideways. Then – nothing.
***
Mud, a ditch next to a straggly wood of larch and alder. She spat and tried to focus. Blood on a rock beside her hand. Her skull ached. Above, the road ran straight as a javelin through twilight-grey trees.
Squelching her hand into the earth to keep her balance, she wobbled to her feet. The top of her cloak was matted with blood. A baggage cart lay on its side. Further off, dark shapes stained the road.
Holy Lord! Bodies.
Not Vitalis. If you have taken the master, then leave Vitalis. Almighty Father, let me find him. He’s all I have.
A dead horse lay with its rear legs splayed, a crust of froth curdled on its lips.
‘Vitalis,’ she shouted, ‘where are you?’
At the coast, the soldiers had been talking about Vandals and Alans rampaging through Germania, but they were not meant to be here.
Further off, more bodies, all with the cropped hair and shaven faces of Romans. She thought of the braggart who had winked at her – but he had run away.
Heavy Roman spears lay sprawled on the ground. The pale chest of a half-naked soldier was drenched in blood. His neck was slashed and two black-red spear-holes were punched through his belly. A javelin stuck up out of the chest of the legionary next to him. The Romans would have done the same if they had won, though they would not have left any weapons behind. Praise the saints that she had fallen into the ditch.
No sign of the master. She couldn’t bear to look further. Vitalis must have escaped to a village.
It was getting dark as she found her way back to where the road snaked out of the wood. She clutched her head, then stumbled against something. A body! No, a sack of cabbages.
