The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Ascha said quietly.

  Bauto looked at him. ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘What if I take the horse and go elsewhere?’

  Bauto leant forward. Hard fingers gripped Ascha by the jaw and dragged him close. He could see the blood vessels in Bauto’s eye and smell the garlic on his breath.

  ‘What will you do?’ Bauto said with a sneer. ‘Go join the Bacaudae in the forest. Spend the rest of your life scrabbling for roots and robbing travellers. Is that what you want?’

  Ascha held his gaze for a moment and then let his eyes fall. The last thing he wanted was to join a band of rebel slaves.

  Bauto scowled and pushed him away. ‘For reasons best known to himself, Clovis took you as a royal hostage,’ Bauto hissed. ‘But I was the one who made you a warrior. I trained you and I gave you weapons when your own people wouldn’t give you the time of day. Remember! Without us, you are nothing!’

  Ascha was beaten. ‘I know it,’ he said.

  ‘And don’t forget, we own you. Go missing and the pact between our peoples is over. Do I make myself clear?’

  Ascha nodded. He supposed he should feel grateful to the Franks for arming him but he’d given them good service and he knew well enough that the Franks rarely did anything without good reason. He took the tablet and slipped it inside his tunic. ‘I’ll not fail you,’ he said.

  ‘The roads are not secure and there are many – Romans, Franks and Bacaudae – who would think it worthwhile to kill a royal messenger. Ride fast during the day, lie up at night and if anyone tries to stop you, kill them and ride on.’

  Ascha turned to go.

  ‘Just one thing…’

  ‘Lord?’

  Bauto thought for a moment. He looked over his shoulder at the Antrustions and then back to Ascha. He beckoned him to come closer and put a hand on the back of Ascha’s neck.

  ‘I meant no harm, boy’ he said lowering his voice. ‘It’s not been easy for you, but you worked hard and you did what you could. You learned to fight like a Frank and you’ve been loyal. Never betrayed us to those murdering wolves you call your kinfolk. And your father kept his word. Your clan haven’t raided us since you were hostaged.’ Bauto chuckled. ‘Never thought he would keep the pact, but he did. He must want to keep your young bones alive, eh boy?’

  Ascha glanced away. He didn’t want to hear about his father. His father had abandoned him and left him to rot in exile. He hated his father. At the other side of the field, one of the mules had kicked a warhorse. He could hear the mule driver pleading with the Antrustions. There were raised voices and the meaty sound of a fist striking flesh.

  Bauto leaned forward. ‘Maybe Clovis was right. He saw something in you. Perhaps I was wrong to oppose the pact with your clan.’ He shrugged. ‘But listen to me, boy.’ Bauto leaned in. Ascha felt the breeze lift, saw the horsetails stir. ‘Be careful how you deal with that young butcher. Our new Overlord is not like other men. Too many of his enemies, including his own family, have felt the strangler’s bowstring. Keep your wits about you and watch out for that she-wolf his mother.’ Bauto threw another glance at the Antrustions. ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘Get out of my sight!’

  Ascha blinked, looked away and tried to collect his thoughts.

  When he looked back, Bauto had gone.

  Back in the lines, the hostages were sitting around the fire, their feet outstretched watching Gundovald cook. There was the sound of fat sizzling and the aroma of bacon.

  ‘What did the old man want?’ Gundovald said.

  ‘I have to go to Tornacum,’ Ascha said, his voice toneless.

  There was a clamour of surprised voices.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Childeric is dead, and Clovis is Overlord. He wants to see me.’

  ‘What does the Overlord of the Franks want with the likes of you?’ Hortar the little Alaman said crossly.

  Ascha said nothing. He didn’t know what Clovis wanted but he had a strange feeling that, one way or another, his life was about to change. His heart was thumping and his palms felt clammy with sweat. He was aware of the hostages watching him.

  ‘When do you have to go?’

  ‘Today.’

  There was silence. Immediate departure was not a good sign.

  ‘He must have told you something?’ Gundovald said.

  Ascha shook his head. ‘He told me nothing. He doesn’t know himself. I must make the best of it.’ He could see they didn’t believe him, but it was true. ‘At least it means I won’t see your ugly faces for a while.’

  ‘Likewise,’ said Friedegund cheerily.

  Hariulf the Burgundian waved his bread in the air, his mouth full of bacon. ‘Maybe he’s going to reward you for taking out Eberulf,’ he said, fat sliding down his chin.

  Somewhere a horse whickered softly. Beyond the trees there was the harsh and insistent clangour of an armourer repairing weapons. Clang! Clang! Clang! The noise stopped and then started again.

  Ascha shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Myself, I think perhaps our new Overlord seeks your advice on how to conquer Gallia.’ Atharid the Thuringian said, one finger tapping the side of his nose.

  ‘Na, he send Ascha to Ravenna as ambassador to the Romans,’ Friedegund the Suebian chortled. They laughed along with him, slipping into the familiar routine of casually traded insults.

  Ascha picked up his cloak and flung it over his shoulder. He tossed his tools and a few possessions into a blanket and tied the corners in a thick knot, moving with the nervous haste that comes before sudden departure.

  ‘When will you be back?’ Gundovald asked quietly.

  He blew out his cheeks. ‘Two weeks, a month, perhaps longer.’ He tightened his belt. ‘Save my share of the loot for me. If I don’t come back, divide it among yourselves.’

  The hostages exchanged glances.

  Friedegund said, ‘You’ll miss the piss-up.’

  He nodded. The Romans had promised them a feast to celebrate the destruction of the Heruli. They’d talked of little else.

  ‘Wine, food, beautiful fat-bottomed girls,’ Friedegund said, his voice wistful.

  Ascha smiled but said nothing.

  Gundovald wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ran both palms down the front of his tunic and slapped his thighs. He stood up, held out both arms and wrapped Ascha in a huge bear hug. They stayed like that for what seemed a long while, patting each other gently while the others stood in silence and watched them.

  ‘Goodbye little Saxon,’ Gundovald said. ‘Try to stay alive.’

  Ascha took a few moments to lace his helmet to his belt, his fingers fumbling with the cord.

  Then he picked up his bundle and left.

  6

  The Great Hall of the Franks, formerly the imperial Basilica, was a huge brick-built building that overshadowed the hovels and cramped alleys of the town and dominated the landscape as far as the eye could see.

  Ascha dismounted and tied his horse to a rail. He took his bundle and sat on the steps. He sat there for a long while, watching people pass in and out and then he got to his feet, climbed the steps and went through a pair of iron-braced doors into the hall.

  As he stepped inside, his head lifted. A massive timber roof straddled the hall like an upturned boat. A double row of high windows ran along two immense walls to a back wall which was blunt and curved like a ship’s bow. Old Roman statues lined the sides, and threadbare tapestries covered the brickwork. Overawed, Ascha gazed. In all his life he had never seen such a wonderful building. His father’s long hut could fit in here five times over.

  The hall was tightly packed: landowners, slave traders, Frankish warlords, merchants, moneylenders, agents. A hubbub of voices rose and fell like the ocean swell. He heard the crisp Latin dialects of the Gauls and Hispani, the sing-song lilt of the Pritanni, driven out from their island by Saxons, the strange throat-clearing sounds of the eastern traders – Syri, Greeks, Phoenicians and Jews
in their caps and long woollen gowns. And beneath, like a dark undertow, the bristling dialects of the Germanic tribes that now ruled Gaul: Franks from the Salt and River confederations; Frisians from the Rhine mouth; Burgundii, Thuringii and Alemanni. And the much travelled, much tattooed Western Goths.

  He pushed through the crowd to the far end of the hall, eyes taking it all in. The air was warm and heavy and already he could feel his shirt glued damply to the small of his back. A heavy goat-hair curtain screened the bow of the hall but, through the gap, he could see clerks working at long tables. Scrolls and books lay on the floor or were stacked in racks against the wall. As he watched, clerks went soft-footed to the racks and brought away rolls of parchment, each as big as a child, which they laid on the tables, weighing the corners with stones. Clerks wrote on the parchment with slender-beaked pens which they dipped from time to time into great ink pots of solid brass.

  Ascha stated his business to a yellow-haired captain of Antrustions. The captain glanced at Bauto’s seal on the letter-tablets and directed him towards a row of benches filled with people waiting to see the Overlord.

  It was hot and the sweat was running down his neck. He looked for a seat but it was clear that nobody was going to make room. He lost patience and angrily shoved in between a Frankish merchant and a Gaulish landowner. He dropped his bundle on the floor and pushed it underneath the bench with his heel. The Gaul glanced at him sideways, took in his travel-stained clothes and greasy bundle, and grimaced. Ascha was dog tired and didn’t care. He lay back against the cool stone, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and dozed.

  He woke to stillness. For a moment he forgot where he was. Silence filled the hall like mist in a valley bottom. The crowd had stopped talking and were craning their necks, peering towards the door. The Gaul was already on his feet, his face lit with excitement. He turned to Ascha and beamed.

  ‘It’s the new Overlord. He’s coming!’

  Ascha got to his feet. The crowd broke into a murmur and pressed forward. He heard the measured tramp of marching feet, and then the crowd parted soundlessly before a column of Antrustions - big, heavy-boned men, picked for their build, wearing leather jerkins and horse hair helmets. They marched the Roman way, eyes forward, cleated boots slamming down on the stone floor in a steady pulse, wave after wave, the rhythm of heartbeat.

  Behind them came two young women scattering flower petals from bronze bowls. There was a pause and then Ascha heard a sharp intake of breath from the crowd as Clovis came into view. The young Overlord walked slowly, long arms hanging loose, cold eyes flicking from side to side, his hair thick and long. He wore a fixed and serene smile, occasionally lifting one hand in greeting.

  But it was the Overlord’s clothes that struck Ascha most.

  The new Overlord of the Franks was dressed like a Roman emperor; a silk tunic in red and green with a gold torc around his neck, as thick as a man’s thumb. He had draped a rich purple cloak heavily embroidered with what looked like a swarm of golden bees across his bony shoulders and pinned it with a golden long-tailed brooch. From a belt studded with jewels, hung a sword decorated with neat lines of small red stones. Sell his clothes and you could live in luxury for the rest of your life, Ascha thought. Behind Clovis walked a young boy carrying a gold staff on a silk cushion, followed by a gaggle of Antrustions and royal officials.

  Ascha imagined he saw Clovis give him a faint smile, and then the Overlord’s eyes went blank. The column marched past and Ascha heard their footsteps fade. There was a lull and then the hum of voices surged once more. Ascha sat and blew out his cheeks. He looked down at his clothes and ran a shy hand over his tunic’s coarse homespun. He had never imagined it would be like this. He was out of his depth here. He felt envy and resentment, tinged with a touch of awe.

  ‘Tiw’s breath,’ he muttered to himself. How could the skinny Frank he’d met at Samarobriva have turned into this young prince?

  So much wealth.

  And so much power.

  The line of delegates waiting to see the Overlord moved slowly. Bored, Ascha turned to the landowner by his side and asked him how long he had been waiting. The Gaul was young and plump with a face as soft as yoghurt. He went by the name of Verecundus and had come every day for a week to ask the Overlord’s help in settling a boundary dispute. Verecundus seemed to know everybody. Overjoyed to find the filthy barbarian spoke his language, he was happy to point out the dignitaries and give their reasons for being there.

  A middle-aged Roman with an ulcerous leg had come to complain that the Frankish Lord billeted on his estate had drunk his cellar dry, abused his daughters and carried off all his slaves.

  They both laughed at that.

  An old woman with a pale and bloodless face was Genovefa, a holy woman. She was accompanied by a moon-faced drab, similarly dressed in a black gown, who sat clutching an elaborately painted wooden box.

  ‘What’s in the box?’ Ascha said.

  ‘The toe of Saint Jerome,’ Verecundus whispered. ‘It’s a gift for the Overlord.’

  Ascha tried to look impressed but found it hard. ‘Does Jerome not need his toe?’

  Verecundus looked at him in astonishment. ‘Jerome,’ he explained, was a holy man, and had been dead many years. Genovefa had come on a sacred mission. She was here to convert the Overlord of the Franks to the true faith.

  ‘Clovis is a Tiw-believer,’ Ascha said. ‘Why would he change his beliefs for her?’

  Verecundus tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘It’s easier for Clovis to rule over Gallia if he shares – or appears to share – our faith.’

  ‘And that one?’ Ascha pointed to a dark-faced Frankish nobleman with hair brushed straight back from his brow who made no secret of his impatience at being kept waiting.

  The Gaul’s round face broke into a scowl. ‘That is Fara, agent to Ragnachar, the Overlord’s uncle,’ Verecundus said stiffly. ‘His master had expected to become Overlord, but Clovis beat him to it.’

  Ascha was curious and would have asked more but at that moment, the curtain was suddenly drawn back, brisk as a weaver’s shuttle, and a high-born Roman official appeared. Fifties, Ascha guessed, middling height and overweight but with a high forehead and intelligent eyes. Under one arm, he carried a leather writing tablet, worn smooth from years of use. The delegates shuffled and stretched and tried to catch his eye.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Ascha said.

  ‘Flavinius,’ Verecundus said. ‘Counsellor to the Overlord.’

  Something in the Gaul’s tone suggested a measure of respect. ‘Is he important?’

  ‘Very. He has the Overlord’s ear. They say Clovis does nothing without running it past Flavinius first. His knowledge of the law is unrivalled.’

  Ascha looked at Flavinius with interest, plain to see that this Roman had no problems working for the Franks. Flavinius scanned the line of dignitaries. He saw Ascha, pointed and crooked a finger.

  ‘It’s you! He’s calling you,’ Verecundus said excitedly.

  Ascha scrabbled under the bench for his bundle and got to his feet. At once there was an outcry from the delegates. Someone pushed in front of him. He recognized the Frank that Verecundus had said was agent to the Overlord’s cousin. The Frank was lean and wiry and bore a hooked nose like a blade. A livid white scar ran across his left eye. Around his neck he wore an embossed seal which he now held up in front of Ascha, if it were some kind of talisman.

  ‘Out of the way, boy!’ he snarled. ‘I am Lord Ragnachar’s man and I take precedence here.’ The man’s eyes were black as soot.

  A strange odour, like some exotic perfume, filled the air.

  ‘Not today, my Lord Fara,’ a smooth voice cut in, and Ascha felt Flavinius push his bulk between them. Flavinius took Ascha by the elbow and steered him toward the curtain. As he was led away, Ascha glanced back over his shoulder and saw the nobleman’s face gripped in a dark scowl.

  Flavinius ploughed through the clerks to where a small door was set in the back wall,
guarded by two Antrustions. Flavinius rapped twice, opened the door and beckoned Ascha with a cupping motion of his fingers.

  Ascha breathed in deep. He ran his fingers through his hair and followed the Roman inside.

  Despite the heat outside, the chamber was cold and dark, the air thick with the smell of dog. In one corner, a fire struggled to give off heat. After the noise and bustle of the hall, the room seemed deathly quiet. Clovis was sitting in a chair, his legs outstretched and his boots propped on a table. He got up and greeted Ascha with all the appearance of warmth.

  ‘My Saxon friend, let me look at you!’

  He took Ascha’s hand and squeezed it. His palm was moist, his fingers as soft and smooth as a girl’s.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Clovis said, looking him up and down.

  ‘It has,’ Ascha agreed.

  ‘You look good, all grown up and carrying weapons.’

  Despite himself, Ascha smiled. It always pleased him when his arms were noticed. He might not be free-born, but at least he looked free.

  They scrutinized each other without speaking. Clovis was heavier with a long jaw and sharp cheekbones, the bony face softened by hair that was long and curled, the privilege of royal rank. He had taken off his heavy cloak and thrown it in a dishevelled heap on the table.

  Clovis smiled and laid a hand across Ascha’s shoulders. ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Fine,’ Ascha said. ‘It’s a good road.’ He felt ill at ease. What was he doing here, talking to the Overlord of the Franks? Out of the corner of his eye he could see Flavinius at the back of the room, watching them.

  ‘All the same, you must be tired. It’s a long way from Andecavus. Have some wine. It’s one thing these Romans do well.’ Clovis gestured to a bench.

  Ascha sat, his bundle between his feet. Clovis turned and bawled for wine. Almost at once, two women came in from another room. An old crone dressed in black, her eyes a mesh of wrinkles, carried two glass goblets on a small tray while a girl hefted a jug of wine on one shoulder. The girl was young and shoeless with green eyes and a hard mouth. The old woman put the goblets on the table and the girl poured the wine.