But this was the only argument that Placidia won that day. All that evening, as they had the night before, mother and son battled. If he must go to Ireland, it did not have to be now, she pleaded. And what of his duty to defend his own home?
His duty? His black eyes flashed with anger.
“You do not understand,” he cried. “Those who love God can feel only contempt for themselves and their possessions. The duty you speak of is nothing but love of self: it is contempt for God.” And as she tried to argue he added: “If God is served, it does not matter if this place is destroyed.”
“But this is all I have,” she said softly.
“No,” he urged her. “We have God, which is more.”
“And me? Do you not care what is to become of me?” she asked gently.
“Trust in God,” he replied.
Placidia shook her head sadly, and, realising once again that neither her husband nor her son really loved her, turned away to hide her tears.
She did not give up. Indeed, now that she knew that she was really alone, it seemed to give her strength.
And on the third day, as he was preparing for his journey, Petrus was surprised when Numincus, accompanied by eight men, quietly appeared in his room, and before he realised what was happening, took him politely but firmly to an outhouse into which they pushed him. To his astonishment, Placidia was standing by the door, which was then barred, four of the men standing guard outside.
“I’m sorry Petrus,” she explained, “but you cannot leave Sarum at present. I won’t allow it.”
It had never occurred to him that his mother would resort to such extreme action.
“Do you intend to keep me a prisoner then?” he demanded incredulously.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
She knew that Numincus was on her side, and that the men would obey him. Later that day, Petrus ordered the steward outside to release him, but he learned his mother’s strength and his own weakness when Numincus replied:
“I wish there was a better man than a Porteus to look after this place, and her. But you’re all there is, so you stay.”
That evening, and the next, Placidia came to reason with him. But though the outhouse was draughty and uncomfortable, he would not give in; and both mother and son secretly wondered how long this state of affairs could last.
It lasted until the fifth day after his return. Then it was resolved: not by Petrus, nor by Placidia, but by a single messenger who rode frantically down the road from Calleva with the message:
“The Saxons have come.”
They had come in force this time, landing in the south east and sending several large raiding parties, each a hundred or more strong, towards the west.
As soon as the news reached the villa, Placidia knew what she must do. Stalking to the door of his prison, she opened it herself and let him out.
“You’re free.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Why?”
“The Saxons are coming and we are all going to the dune. I can’t leave you here.” Even as she spoke, he could see Numincus and some of the men loading weapons into a cart. “If you want to go to Ireland,” she added, “I suggest you leave at once.”
Petrus stared at his mother. The sun caught her white hair and her lined old face. His own bald head now had three days’ growth of hair on the crown and he looked bedraggled. But as he looked up at her and saw her indomitable spirit, he thought that he had never felt better.
“I think I’ll come with you to the dune,” he replied with a grin.
By that evening, all was in readiness within the ancient fortress. A newly built oak gate lay against the earthwork wall, ready to be slid into place and buttressed against the entrance. Numincus’s militia were armed and ready to mount the ramparts; and all the Sarum families, together with a quantity of livestock, were camping within the big circular space.
Petrus had also sent a horseman to the west to beg for aid from the young leaders of the militia there.
“I think we can hold the Saxons off for a short time,” he told his mother. “But we were promised help, and we may need reinforcements to drive the Saxons away.”
“Then I hope they come,” Placidia said bleakly.
“Of course they will,” he replied.
All in all, however, he was not dissatisfied with the dune’s defences.
“The bowmen can protect the walls,” he explained to his father; “then we can make sallies out with the German mercenaries.”
The dune was also a Christian fortress.
For one point on which Petrus had insisted was that both Numincus, whose unspoken devotion to Mithras was well known, and the heathen Germans should be baptised; and in this he had had the vigorous support of Constantius. Accordingly, though the Germans had grumbled, father and son had led them down to the river below and immersed each of them in the water, making the sign of the Cross as they did so. Though neither was a priest, such a brief ceremony would have to do. In the centre of the dune he also placed a small wooden cross. It was enough.
“God will protect us,” Petrus told the people as he moved amongst them, pleased with the transformation he had wrought.
But a greater transformation still was the appearance of Constantius. He was a new man. Dressed in a magnificent bronze breastplate, wearing his finest blue cloak, and carrying a long iron sword which he himself had honed to a razor sharpness, he seemed not only to have shed his customary torpor, but he was an inspiration to the defenders. Leaving the ordering of business to Numincus and Petrus, he moved cheerfully amongst the men, his grey head held erect and his black eyes no longer bloodshot, but clear and keen. Chatting to one of the bowmen on the ramparts, or sharing a joke with the women in the camp, he seemed to give them confidence, and Placidia found herself several times gazing with admiration and even affection at the man that her husband might have been.
Two days passed. Every hour Petrus looked out from the walls for some sign of the reinforcements from the west. They did not appear.
Then, on the third day, the Saxons came.
The only thing that Petrus had not foreseen in his elaborate plans for Sarum’s defence was that the fearsome German mercenaries would desert. But early on the third day, when the lookout on the ramparts saw a large force of Saxons approaching from the south-east and informed those below that there were at least a hundred of them, this was what happened. Nodding briskly to their women to follow them, the huge men swung on to their horses and, before anyone realised what was happening, rode out of the gate and on to the road that led north-eastwards towards Calleva. They had come to fight for pay, but not to be killed. Petrus could hardly believe his eyes; but it was obvious that there was nothing to be done.
“Close the gate,” he ordered angrily.
Once again he looked towards the west. “If the reinforcements are coming,” he thought, “they had better come now.”
The Saxons made their way quickly and purposefully towards the dune. They took no notice of Sorviodunum in the valley below, but the whole company, some hundred strong, walked their captured horses round the north side of the old fort, inspecting its defences before they congregated again at a safe distance from the gate, to decide how they would attack. From the wall, Petrus could see each man distinctly: they were tall, blond men, most of them wearing thick leather tunics, heavy woollen leggings bound with cross straps; their leaders carrying big metal helmets, with horns let into each side. They carried swords, spears and large wooden shields with shining metal bosses. A few carried small axes.
The dune was a formidable obstacle, even for a hundred armed men, but it was obvious that they intended to take it. After a few tense minutes, he saw the body split into four equal parties which wheeled their horses away to different positions opposite the wall before dismounting. One party remained opposite the gate, the other three took up positions on the north, north west and west of the fort. Clearly there would be a simultaneous attack. Quickly Petrus split his own men into four groups: Constantius commanded by the gate, Numincus, himself and one of the estate men taking charge of each of the others.
The Saxon charge was formidable. It began with a terrible battle cry.
“Thunor!” Two of the four groups bellowed, so that it seemed to echo round the dune. Thunor, he knew, was one of their greatest gods.
“Woden!” answered the other two. And all four hammered their weapons against their shields.
“Thunor! Woden!” Again and again, the names of their gods of thunder and war rang round the fort, and the terrible hammering of the shields made some of the defenders grow pale. But Constantius’s voice came clearly from the gate: “God defends us, my children.” And the men seemed to take heart.
Then the Saxons charged.
The invaders found it harder than they had expected. The walls of the dune were steep and the bare slopes around them were long. Each party found a hail of well directed arrows greeted them, and while they tried to scale the walls, they were completely exposed and defenceless. The defensive capacity of the old British fort, in the absence of Roman siege engines, was shown once again.
The nearest the invaders came to success was at the gate where, by splitting into small groups and storming each side of the gate they managed in several cases to reach the top of the rampart. But here Constantius performed prodigies of valour, racing from one spot to another, greeting the Saxons with tremendous blows and thrusts from his sword. One Saxon he killed outright, and two others he sent single-handed rolling down the slopes, badly wounded.
Soon the Saxons were faltering. The defendants kept up a steady fire. And then Constantius made his extraordinary move.
To his astonishment, Petrus suddenly saw the main gate thrown open; and before he could even move from his position, he saw his father, mounted on his best horse, leading a party of six men on foot out of the gate at a run.
It was what he had intended the German mercenaries to do – to sally out just as the attackers faltered and cut them down as they fell back; but it had not occurred to him his father would do so instead.
What followed made him catch his breath. For while the rest of the sortie party caught the nearest group of Saxons in the rear and cut them down with great success, Constantius had raced far ahead, entirely alone.
Galloping wildly across the open ground, he intercepted the other parties as they retreated, clipping one warrior and then another with his sword, and shouting his defiance.
“He’s mad,” Petrus exclaimed. “If he doesn’t turn back they’ll cut him off.”
But Constantius, though he could not have failed to see his danger, appeared oblivious. Again and again, he spurred his horse at one group after another, his cloak flying behind him, thrusting at them with his sword before dashing off to the next group, and whipping them into a fury. Those still engaged on the wall turned and saw his act of supreme insolence, bellowed with rage, and began to hurry back. But still he taunted them and Petrus counted that already he had struck seven men down.
Gradually, inexorably, the retreating Saxons began to close in on the solitary rider. And still, instead of making off while he could, Constantius rode at one of them after another. Two more fell. Even from the wall, Petrus could feel their sullen rage. As the sun caught his father’s breastplate, that flashed as he wheeled his horse about, he looked a splendid and heroic figure.
By now the attack on the dune was over and all eyes were on the insane, taunting duel that was going on below. Each time Constantius charged, the defenders cheered. Each time he engaged, there was a tense silence; and each time he miraculously managed to pull away, there was another, relieved burst of applause. Petrus did not know exactly when it was that he found Placidia at his side, staring down at the extraordinary scene as well. She, too, must have realised the inevitable outcome; but her face was rigid as stone. Only her eyes moved, from one end of the enclosing line of Saxons to the other. The circle had nearly closed.
Constantius never made any attempt to escape his fate. He seemed to be in a kind of ecstasy as he continued his single-handed battle against the entire remaining Saxon force until at last they closed in on him and dragged him from his horse. Petrus saw a knot of them close, saw their swords rise and fall. Even from there, he and all those on the wall could hear the heavy thud as the swords and axes hacked his father’s body into pieces. It went on for some time. The Saxons were avenging their defeat.
“Madness,” he muttered aloud. “Why did he do it?”
Placidia was staring past the Saxons, at a point somewhere over the ridges. Her face was still motionless, but there were tears in her eyes. “Poor man,” he heard her murmur softly. “There was nothing else for him to do.”
The Saxons did not attack again. Slowly they came back in ones and twos to drag their dead away, while the defenders watched from the walls. Petrus did not order an attack: the bowmen who had defended the walls would have been no match for the powerful Saxons on open ground.