Chapter 53
The camp in erupted turmoil—people scattering everywhere, fleeing, trying to avoid the hooves and blades of mounted barbarians that came howling as they burst from the surrounding wood.
“Tatiana!” I shouted, and grabbed for her. “To the tent!”
Before we could take two steps, a Saecsen warrior loomed up before us. Swinging a double-edged war axe, long braids flying as he ran. Eyes wild, mouth wide, bellowing in his uncouth tongue as he closed on us.
I spun on my heel and made for the nearest tent, pulling Tatiana with me. I made but half-a-step and felt something snag the trailing edge of my cloak and pull hard, yanking me off my feet. I fell and lay squirming on the ground, trying to rise.
My attacker stamped down on my cloak and stood leering down at me. I kicked at him, but he put back his head and loosed a wild cry of triumph, his teeth a yellow gash in his dark, bearded face. He raised the wicked axe high above his head to deliver the killing stroke. I screamed and threw my hands before me to fend off the blow. My mind whirled. I saw the sky and the sneering face of my attacker and thought, This is how I die. My next sensation would be the cold bite of steel piercing my soft flesh.
In fact, the next thing I felt was a burning sensation in my hand. I had landed on my back beside the cooking fire and my flailing hand had touched the iron poker used to stir up the coals. Without thinking, my fingers closed on it and I waved it before me. The brute stepped back, seized my ankle, and started dragging me away from the fire. I screamed. I kicked. I held on to the red hot iron, furiously swinging it like a fiery club. I struck him a glancing blow on the arm. He dropped my foot and jumped back, gathering himself for another attack.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of motion.
There was Tatiana with the pot, fresh from the fire, gripped between her hands. She swung her arms to her side and with a mighty heave dashed the boiling contents into the brute’s ugly face. A scream of agony tore from his throat. The axe spun from his hand as he threw his hands over his eyes. He stumbled back, screaming, pawing away at his face in a futile attempt to wipe away the scalding liquid.
I struggled to my knees and swung the hot poker into his leg, catching him just below the knee. He shrieked and tottered. I lunged forward, swung again, and caught him a blow to the ribs. A shower of sparks erupted, and the odor of singed hair filled my nostrils as tiny tongues of flame ignited the rough pelt hanging from his shoulders.
Screaming, he staggered away, half-blinded, batting at the burgeoning flames as he fled.
Tatiana appeared beside me then, the pot still in her hands. I threw my iron club back into the fire and reached out to take the pot from her and recoiled from the touch. The vessel was still searing hot. “Let it go,” I told her and, taking her arm, we ran to the tent. My only thought then was to remain out of sight.
Once inside, I took Tatiana’s hands in mine and turned them over to examine the palms. Already, blisters were forming from where she had gripped the heated iron of the pot. She looked at her scorched palms and shook her head. “I didn’t feel anything,” she said. “I only thought—” It was then the agony began. Her face crumpled and she cradled her hands to her breast, her eyes squeezed tight against the pain, stifling her cries.
We stayed like this for an eternity of uncertainty. Would we be found again? Would we be killed? Raped? Taken captive and sold as slaves? These and a hundred other thoughts spun through my head and I prayed for Jesu and his angle army to protect us. Or, if that was not to be, a quick death.
* * *
How long we stayed cowering in the tent listening to the screams and cries outside, I cannot say. The commotion gradually decreased and diminished, and then faded away altogether—only to be replaced by the sound of other voices shouting, and horses galloping into camp. These voices were familiar. “Stay here,” I told Tatiana.
I crept to the tent opening and peered out. There, among the wreckage of flattened tents and scattered clothing and utensils, I saw legionaries. I stepped out from hiding and into the path of a horse coming up behind me. I whirled around and stared up into the face of my own dear son. “Aurelius!”
“Mother!” he threw himself down from his mount and gathered me to him. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no,” I assured him quickly. “Is it over?”
“We’ve driven them off,” he said. “General Marcus sent a company down to help prepare a place for the wounded.”
“Is Uther here, too?”
Aurelius shook his head. “No—the last I saw him, he was helping retrieve the wounded from the battleground.”
“The wounded—are there many?” I asked.
Aurelius nodded. “Enough. Not as many as there might have been if the battle had gone on longer—but enough.” He glanced around at the devastation of the camp. “I’m sorry we were not here sooner. We could have prevented this.”
I put my arms around his neck and held him close for a moment. “You’re here now and safe, thank God. That’s all that matters.”
We turned then to assess the devastation. Bodies lay where they had fallen. One poor woman had been ridden down, her tangled corpse speared where she lay. Another had been viciously slashed across the breast with an axe; a man lay beside her, his arms flung out as if he had tried to protect her. I shivered. It could so easily have been me lying there staring up empty-eyed at an unheeding sky.
Others were stumbling around, sifting through the wreckage with dazed expressions on their faces. From here and there, I could hear the soft moans of the injured and wounded.
“Why do they do it?” I murmured beneath my breath. It all seemed so senseless, so meaningless. “Why?”