The Songs of Slaves (3 page)

             
“Give her back the lamb,” Mannus demanded. The three boys laughed, and Connor almost laughed with them; for to see the small-framed Mannus push up to the three bigger boys that had so often beat him, stolen from him, and humiliated him, was almost absurd. But it took bravery
–
the kind of bravery the stories were about, Connor thought; and he had never seen Mannus be this brave before.

             
“The lamb is on our property,” Eogan said. “It’s ours. It’s going to make a fine supper for us and our Da. We’ll send you the bones.”

             
“This is not your land,” Mannus said. “Your father forfeited it to mine years ago to pay his heavy debts. Your boundary stone is half a mile that way.”

             
Eogan thrust the bleating animal into Foin’s grasp and stepped forward until he stood over Mannus. His brother Colin was right behind him. Despite
himself, Mannus balked and backed away a few steps. Eogan pursued.

             
“This has always been my family’s land. And we’ll have it again, one way or the other. And we’ll graze our sheep on it whenever we damn well please until then. And we’ll take anything we find on it. Now get out of here, before I pound the life out of you and take your whole flock.”

             
Mannus did not move. Connor stepped up beside him.

             
“Listen, Eogan,” Connor said reluctantly. “The lamb is not yours. Give it back to the girl.”

             
“Who asked you, No Name?” Eogan bellowed. “This is between this rich bastard and us; not some landless, singing orphan.”

             
Connor let the words slide by, but he could see Eogan growing more aggressive, fueled by his two brothers, Mannus’ fear, and the effect he was having on Grania. There was no going back. Connor put his hand on Mannus’ shoulder and drew him away. Eogan instantly moved in, but Connor met him. Eogan was two years older, but Connor was nearly as big.

             
“You’re a trespassing, lying thief,” Connor said. “You call me ‘No Name’, but I call you ‘Nothing’.”

             
Eogan lunged and clinched, driving his chest into Connor and pushing him back with his weight. His brothers cheered and began to move around him. Connor knew what was coming, and slid his left leg out as Eogan tried to hook his ankle. He quickly pivoted to the side and swung his fists as Eogan’s now-unopposed momentum bounded forward. He connected three times before following the boy down to the ground. Straddling his back, Connor pounded away as Eogan tried to cover up.

             
But Eogan’s brothers were not long in coming to his rescue. Colin ran forward, knocking Mannus back with a hard right before jumping on Connor. Foin cast his captive aside and jumped into the fray.

             
To Connor it was like a whirlwind of weight and fists, elbows, and kicks. But Connor had be
en in this kind of fight before;
and though he could not remember much of his past before coming to live with the monks, he knew that the pain of a blow was only so much. Their force dissipated in his dense body, the pain only a dull sensation until the battle rush would again subside. Connor pushed into Colin as he made ready to kick, taking him down. He kicked Foin between the legs as he leapt at them. Colin went slack after five
blows to the head, and Connor turned just in time to meet Eogan. He absorbed the punches he could on his arms, and let loose a furious barrage. His punches landed, pushing the older boy back. Finally, Eogan fell, covering his bleeding and swollen face. The fight was over.

             
Eogan struggled to his feet. Mannus pushed past him, wiping his own blood with his sleeve. He picked up the lamb gently in his arms and handed it to Grania. The creature was trembling in terror, but appeared unhurt. Grania smiled as she held the lamb to her, trying to comfort it.

             
“Thank you Mannus,” she said. “You are very brave.”

             
But if she ever thanked Connor, he did not hear her, for the air was suddenly filled w
ith shouted curses as a man thrashed
through the thicket towards them.

             
The three brothers rose, their mouths open in apprehension as Gannog, their father, strode up. He was a broad shouldered man, with sun-burned skin and hairy arms, and a wooly brown beard. His frame carried the thick muscles of a farmer, though the jug in his hand and red in his face showed more truly what he had become. He took another swig and the amber liquid
sprung from his mouth and down his filthy beard.
Ois
qi
baha
–
The Water of Life they called it, and to Gannog it was all that life was. And everyone in the settlement knew that when he was drinking he was a very dangerous man.

             
“So, three sons of mine beaten by an orphan?” he growled.
“By the ward of those queer monks?”

             
Eogan opened his mouth to protest, lie, apologize; but he never got the chance. Gannog backhanded him with such force that Connor winced. The boy fell to his knees and despite himself began to weep silently.

             
“Get up!” his father roared through a wet throat. “All of you get back to the flock. I’ll have words with you when I get home.”

             
Mannus touched Connor’s shoulder. Grania moved behind him, still clutching her prodigal lamb. The three sons of Gannog ran off, towards their own farm. Though his face burned and his body ached from the blows they had landed, Connor could not help but feel bad for them. Gannog spit curses at them as they ran. Then, he turned slowly around, eyeing Connor, Mannus, and Grania with bloodshot eyes. He took another swig from his jug. Suddenly he lurched three
steps forward, his expression darkening and the fire in his eyes conflagrating. The violence of his face moved from all the children to focus just on Connor, then on Mannus, and then finally it rested on Grania.

             
“Connor?”
Mannus said, touching his shoulder. Then he turned and ran, pulling Grania behind him.

             
Gannog bounded forward after the two.

             
“Stop!”

             
It was not what Connor shouted, but how he shouted; for the druids of Eire knew that the voice had power, beyond words, beyond the physical strength of the speaker. Gannog obeyed, looking at the boy in stupefaction.

             
Then his mind cleared.

             
“How dare you talk to me? You are a wretch so worthless that your whore mother abandoned you, and your father would not even use you as a slave. You may have got lucky against my sons – they are weak and I will punish them for it – but I will break your neck, boy, and use your rotting body as a scarecrow.”

             
“Leave us alone,” Connor said, trying to keep his courage close, though it was quickly slipping away from him. There was true violence in the drunkard’s
eyes, and Connor feared to give ground before Mannus and Grania were safely away.

“We have done nothing wrong.”

             
“You still yap at me? Has no one told you to respect your elders
–
your betters? Well, you will respect my hand!”

             
Still Connor did not move.

             
Gannog roared in rage as he reared his fist back. Connor bent his knees and made ready to bolt to the left.

             
“That is enough.”

             
Connor and Gannog both turned towards the sound of the voice. Titus Vestius
Laterensis
pulled back his hood as he stepped out of the shadows of the ash trees. He regarded Gannog with cold eyes and a withdrawn countenance as he rested both hands on the cross-shaped walking staff he must have recently fashioned.

             
“You must be the Roman,” Gannog spat. “Does the mainland now have so many beggars that it sends them to us?”

             
“I am Brother Titus Vestius
Laterensis
. I am a messenger of Christ. This boy is a ward of the Church. He is not yours to discipline.”

             
The priest gestured to Connor to come with him.

             
“I owe the boy a thrashing,” Gannog said, moving to cut Connor off. “He’s going nowhere until I’m finished.”

             
“I watched the whole thing,” Titus said. “The boy did nothing wrong. Now, please, you are drunk and in no position to discipline anyone. You will excuse us.”

             
Gannog’s rage intensified.

             
“You may be used to running things. But here in Eire, Roman rule has no power. You never conquered us! And your new god is nothing but pig shit.”

             
“You
will be silent, a
nd you will let us pass,” Titus said. The level of his baritone voice did not change, but it held an authority and a warning that Connor had seldom heard. He pulled Connor behind him, handing him his staff. As he did Gannog moved in so close that Connor could smell the reek of alcohol and
sweat.
He dwarfed the Roman, not just in height, but in body mass. For a moment it appeared that Gannog would be content to continue his intimidation and his insults. His face was almost slack and his eyes clouded as he stood still.

             
Then the sunlight flashed on the iron of his knife blade.

             
Gannog lunged.

             
Titus turned, moving out of the way of the thrust. He caught the arm, pulling with the weight of his whole body, as he checked Gannog’s forward leg. The drunkard fell forward, and Titus rode him down, driving his knee into the small of his back and bracing the trapped arm against his shoulder. Gannog screamed as the priest applied pressure. The knife fell from his grip as his ligaments began to stretch and the joints to crack.

             
“Should I break your arm?” Titus
asked,
his voice slow and grave. “Should I pull your shoulder out of place? How will you work? How will you plant your crops? Should I move to your leg next and rend your knee?”

             
Gannog screamed again.

             
“You are a murderous, black-hearted man,” Titus continued. “And yet, Our Lord would forgive you. And so shall I.”

             
He released Gannog’s arm and stood up, swiftly moving away lest Gannog should find his courage
again. But the drunken
man did n
othing but
roll
to his back and cover his face with his hands.

             
“Come, let us go,” Titus said. “Hibernian, thank my God that He is merciful, and for that I did not harm you. When you are sober we will speak again.”

             
Titus took his staff back from Connor. Connor looked back to Gannog, who had climbed up to his hands and knees but made no move to follow them.

             
“The boy, your friend, is a coward,” Titus said as they emerged from the woods.

             
“No,” Connor said. “I was supposed to run, too. I just didn’t.”

             
“You were too proud.
‘
Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall
.
’
I am thankful that I came when I did; for I fear that man would have caused you serious harm.”

             
Connor said nothing. He had recognized the hatred in Gannog’s eyes. He knew that he had been in danger. But it seemed that the priest was suggesting that he should have fled. Connor could not do that.

             
“You are a strong boy,” Titus continued. “But you have no technique. You only won that fight because you weathered the storm of blows and kept swinging back. That is how a barbarian fights. What if
they had weapons? Where would your bravery have taken you, then?”

             
“How long had you been watching?”

             
“Since you confronted the three boys.
Brother Dervel asked me to go find you, and told me where to look. I was eager to stretch my legs; and I think they were eager to be rid of me for a while.”

             
Connor was about to protest politely, but Titus raised his hand.

             
“How did you do that back there?” Connor said instead.

             
“He was drunk, slow. I could read his intention before he even moved. The Lord protected us.”

             
“But you beat him so quickly. There was nothing he could do to you. Were you really going to break his arm?”