The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  ‘But Hroc can’t be trusted. He nearly got us all killed at Samarobriva.’

  ‘He’s a hothead sure enough, but your father thought that if he was hetman we would have a better chance.’

  Ascha struck the table with his fist, sending the plates jumping. ‘It’s not right, Ma!’ he yelled.

  She frowned. ‘What’s not right?’

  ‘My father named Hroc as hostage, but Hroc refused to go. It split the clan.’

  ‘That’s what they told me.’

  ‘So the Franks chose me even though I was not free born.’

  She laid her hand on top of his as the understanding dawned. ‘You mean you needn’t have gone away,’ she murmured. ‘You needn’t have become an exile.’

  She wound her arms around him and held him close. He felt a slow fury at the futility of it all. All those wasted years, and he would never see his father again. Aelfric would never know what he had become.

  When he was calmer, he pulled away from her. He wondered what Hroc would do. Would his brother come to terms with the Cheruskkii or would he hold out? But he already knew the answer to that. Hroc would never give in to the Cheruskkii. That was why Aelfric had chosen him rather than sweet-natured Hanno. One thing he was sure of. With his father dead and Hroc hetman, there was nothing to keep him here. Maybe when all this was over, the Theodi would let him take his mother and return to Frankland. They could start a new life there.

  ‘And Hanno?’ he said.

  ‘He took it very badly. When Hroc became hetman, Hanno left the clan and went to live among the Taifali, his wife’s people, across the river.’

  He looked at her, taking it all in. ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘He’s here,’ she said simply. ‘He came back. He said he’d thought it over and wanted to return to the clan. He was prepared to accept Hroc as war leader and would serve him loyally. Blood was thicker than water, he said.’

  ‘And what do you think’.

  ‘He always was weak,’ she said.

  They came as soon as they heard. Hanno first, his face flushed from running, lean and tall as an elm, clean-shaven with a mane of tawny hair, but as gentle and placid as a large dog.

  ‘Tha’s grown, Ascha. Tiw’s will, and tha has come back to us.’ Hanno hugged him and ruffled his hair and punched him playfully on the upper arm as he used to when Ascha was a boy.

  Ascha grinned and punched him back, delighted to see him.

  Behind Hanno came Budrum, his father’s sister, throwing her flabby arms around his neck and covering him with kisses. Besso, bending low under the lintel, his long face breaking into an unaccustomed smile. And Tchenguiz, his father’s Hun slave, his short square body and skin the colour of walnut, squeezing Ascha so hard he thought his chest would burst.

  ‘Ha! Ascha! Tha’s home at last.’

  Hroc came later.

  He entered the hall, filling the doorway, and slowly surveyed the room. When his gaze settled on Ascha, he looked at him, his eyebrows knitted, as if he were a stranger. Hroc was not as tall as Hanno but his chest and arms were as powerful as a bull. He wore a full beard and his hair, the colour of wheat, coiled and knotted on the crown of his head. He walked up to Ascha and looked him up and down. Ascha tensed. He felt the muscles in his shoulder stiffen and his mouth go dry

  ‘I am glad to see tha alive, little brother,’ Hroc said softly. ‘Welcome home.’

  Two days later he and his mother went to visit his father’s grave. They carried food and a pitcher of beer, sustenance for Aelfric in the next world. Aelfric’s grave was a whale-backed and grassy hummock overlooking the estuary. While his mother swept out the mourning booth, Ascha sat and tried to recall the man his father had been. Soft drifts of childhood memories blew through his head like autumn leaves. He remembered his father telling drunken war stories, his big face creased with laughter. And he remembered him standing before the shield wall, sword in hand. But his mind kept returning to his father’s boot grinding the dust as he decided which of his sons to send away.

  He placed the food in the booth and stepped back. A son’s duty to bring meat to his father, he thought ruefully. And he’d always been a good son, hadn’t he? Always done what was needed. But tha never gave me a chance, did tha? I was the son of the slave-wife. Good enough to serve at table, to empty the shit-bucket and to clean out the pig-sty. Good enough to work from dawn to dusk on the farm. Good enough to give to the Franks as hostage. But never good enough to bear arms or to treat as equal to his brothers?

  For years he had hated his father so much that it came as a surprise to discover that his feelings had changed. The hatred he had harboured had not gone but it had faded, leaving only sadness in its wake. And something else besides, relief maybe or maybe regret for what he had lost. He wouldn’t have wanted to see the guilt on Aelfric’s face when he met the son he had sent away. We are born and then we die, Ascha thought. And when we die, everything dies. All our hopes and fears, gone as if they had never been.

  He looked up.

  Out in the estuary, the sea was cold and grey. Seagulls shrieked. There were boats on the river but no warships. The thought crossed his mind that apart from the SeaWulf hauled up on the riverbank, he’d not seen a single war boat pass down the river since he had arrived. If the Cheruskkii were planning an uprising, there were few signs of it. That morning he had gone for a run along the river, to the edge of Theodi land in both directions.

  Nothing.

  He took the jug of beer from his mother. Holding it in both hands, he whispered a prayer to Great Tiw for Aelfric’s spirit and then poured the beer over his father’s grave, shaking it free of the last drop.

  10

  Early the next morning he pulled on his boots, cut himself a piece of cheese and stuffed two hard boiled eggs in his tunic. He led Caba, his father’s mare, from the stable and saddled her. The mud in the yard was frozen, and the mare put down her hoofs cautiously, chewing the bit and fretting in case she slipped. He gentled her, whispered in her ear and blew in her nostrils. Vaulting onto the mare’s back, he went off at a swinging trot through the village.

  He took the horse down the terp-side and out to the fields. It had been raining and the ground was soft underfoot. When he reached the meadows, he let her have her head. She snorted, flicked back her ears and was off, galloping in a thunder of hooves and flying mud. He rode for a while and then took the track that led out to the river mouth.

  The river was wide and empty, still no ships. If the Cheruskkii were gathering warships for a raid, they weren’t doing it in the estuary.

  He rode for most of the morning. Far off he could hear the distant boom of the surf and the hiss of the marsh grass. He pulled in and let the horse crop while he shelled the eggs and ate them and the cheese. He filled his lungs with sea air and rolled his neck and felt the tension ease from his shoulders. Tiw! It was good to be on a horse again. If only his life could always be like this. He went on, taking Caba across a stream and up the other side and out onto the moor.

  And then, by a stand of wind-stunted trees, he saw movement.

  There were men coming down the track, maybe a dozen, slouching along with spears and lances and big war shields. He watched them for a while and then he turned the horse and rode back some way, before swinging round. He saw a break in the trees and made for it, ducked under a branch and came out through the weeds and dead grass ahead of them. The men were already coming into view. He could hear muffled voices and the chink of metal.

  When they saw him they stopped and watched him, fingering their weapons. They were filthy with matted hair and carried blanket rolls and sacks over their shoulders, every man armed with wood and iron. Even from where he sat, he could smell their sweat, like a pail of armpits. One of them stepped forward. Scrawny-thin and dirty with hair that was long and filthy, he wore an iron helmet and a sealskin pinned with a thorn.

  ‘That’s far enough!’ Ascha said.

  The man gave him an easy smile. ‘We be of one b
lood,’ he said.

  ‘One blood.’ Ascha said curtly. ‘What are you and what are you doing here? This is Theodi land.’

  ‘We’re travellers, friend.’ The man said, the accent more Danish than Saxon.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere?’

  ‘We’re heading south.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To join the Cheruskkii.’

  ‘The Cheruskkii? You’re a long way from the road.’

  The stranger studied him. ‘You could be right.’ His eyes fell on the mare. ‘That’s a good horse you got there, friend,’ he said. He scratched the back of his neck and muttered something to the other men and then took a couple of lazy steps forward. ‘Now, tell me,’ he smiled, ‘how do we find the road?’

  Ascha twisted in the saddle and pointed. ‘Go to the river and follow it south.’

  He’d not seen them move yet they seemed closer. They had moved off the track and were coming towards him, trying to outflank him.

  Ascha shouted, ‘Stand back!’

  The stranger was lithe and quick. He made a grab for the mare’s headstall. Ascha kicked him in the face and pulled the horse around, hammered his heels and charged straight at them. The mare’s shoulder caught one man and sent him flying. The others scattered. Ascha rode through and out the other side. When he was beyond them, he pulled up and looked back. The leader was sitting in the mud nursing his jaw, the rest of them watching him.

  He followed them until they left Theodi territory. Northerners, he knew that much, but not Saxons.

  Radhalla was casting his net wide.

  On his way back to the village, he went over what he knew.

  One, Radhalla was now war leader of the Cheruskkii nation.

  Two, he was assembling a confederation of Saxon tribes, dominated by the Cheruskkii.

  Three, he was recruiting. Not just Saxons but from tribes across the north.

  Four, the attack on the Thuringii meant he was already raiding beyond Saxon territory.

  Ascha sucked in air between his teeth. He had no idea what Radhalla planned to do but it looked as if Clovis had been right to be afraid. An uprising seemed inevitable. Invasion by land was possible, but unlikely. The journey was long and dangerous, and Radhalla had no way of transporting an army across the Rhine or bringing them back. Which left by sea. Yet, since his return he had not seen a single Cherusker, let alone a Cherusker warboat. Clovis had said that the Theodi were threatened by the Cheruskkii. He was beginning to wonder if Clovis had lied to persuade him to return home.

  He clicked his tongue. He needed information, and the only way to get it was to find out for himself. And that meant going to the lands of the Cheruskkii. The thought made him nervous. Even if Radhalla had no plans to move against the Theodi, a Theod could not consider himself safe among the Cheruskkii.

  He kicked the mare’s flanks and trotted down the road. In the fields, dark figures were moving, men busy with the winter ploughing, women carrying water, children driving goats and sheep to graze.

  When he got back to the farm, he found Tchenguiz squatting cross-legged on a bench, mending a harness.

  ‘Good ride?’ Tchenguiz said.

  ‘Good,’ he grunted, swinging his leg over and sliding off the mare’s back. ‘I went out to the point and down the river as far as muddy beck.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘There were armed men on the moor.’

  Tchenguiz stopped what he was doing. ‘We see them sometimes.’

  Ascha felt a flush of anger. ‘I remember when no man would cross our land without our say.’

  Tchenguiz stood up, unstrapped the saddle, laid it on the ground and threw a blanket over the mare. ‘That was a long time ago,’ he said, ‘before your father died.’

  His voice sounded flat and without emotion.

  ‘Where are my brothers?’

  ‘Hroc is in north field. Hanno went upriver to buy a cow.’

  Odd, Ascha thought. They didn’t need another cow. Since his return, he’d seen little of Hanno. His brother seemed distant, as if he had things on his mind. Ascha was beginning to wonder if he still bore a grudge.

  Tchenguiz sat back down on the bench. Ascha hesitated and then went over and squatted down beside him.

  ‘Tchenguiz, does tha miss my father?’ he said.

  ‘Ha!’ Tchenguiz said and gave one of his strange barking laughs. ‘Aelfric was good man.’

  Tchenguiz had a flat nose and powerful shoulders. He wore a thin beard, no more than a few hairs on his chin, and a patched woollen poncho. Aelfric had trusted the Hun and given him freedoms he would give no other man, slave or free. In another life, they might have been friends. When Ascha was growing up, it was Tchenguiz who had taught him to ride and to shoot with the bow. Tchenguiz he went to when the other boys kicked him and spat at him for being a half-slave. Tchenguiz understood what it was not to be free and, Hanno apart, he was the only man Ascha knew would never hurt him. He felt close to the Hun, as if they shared a deep secret. But he also remembered times when he had treated the Hun badly. Caught between slave and free, he’d often taken out his frustrations on Tchenguiz. They had been friends all his life, but never equals.

  ‘Was tha with him when he fell?’

  The Hun nodded.

  ‘What was he doing? Hunting?’

  ‘Na, he go see Radhalla.’

  Ascha glanced at Tchenguiz but the Hun kept his head down, busying himself with the harness. Strange, he thought. His mother had made no mention of this.

  ‘Why did my father go see Radhalla?’

  The Hun looked up at Ascha. ‘Your father wanted to make things better between Cher’skkii and Theodi. I tell him not to go. But he not listen to me. Always he know better. I tell him, Radhalla is bad man.’

  Ascha peered at Tchenguiz. ‘And he fell from his horse?’

  Tchenguiz nodded. ‘Caba throw him, and he go down.’

  Ascha frowned. His father’s nervousness with horses was well known, but this puzzled him.

  ‘But the mare seems gentle enough.’

  ‘Ha, Caba very gentle,’ Tchenguiz said. He picked up a brush and began brushing the mare’s flanks.

  Ascha thought for a moment.

  ‘What happened? Did something scare her?’

  Tchenguiz put down the brush. He looked down at the mud and then up at Ascha.

  ‘We in forest riding home,’ he said. ‘All of a sudden, Caba rear and throw Aelfric. She run away. Next day when I find her, she very frightened and saddle slip to here.’ He held his hand a little way off the ground. ‘Take me long time to calm her.’ There was a flash of anger in the Hun’s eyes. ‘Long time!’

  ‘Was she hurt?’

  Tchenguiz nodded. The thought had occurred to him also. ‘I look. At first I see nothing. Then I find big wound on her rump, like this.’ He put his forefinger and thumb almost together to form an egg-sized ring.

  ‘Insect bite?’

  Tchenguiz looked at him. ‘Not insect.’

  They held each other’s gaze. ‘A stone, then?

  ‘Ha!’ Tchenguiz said with a small sigh.

  They held each other’s eyes.

  Slingshot!’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And tha saw nobody.’

  Tchenguiz shook his head. ‘It was forest, almost night.’

  ‘What does tha think happened?’

  Tchenguiz shrugged. ‘We in Cher’skkii lands.’

  Ascha stared at him without blinking. He knew Tchenguiz was holding something back.

  ‘Does tha think Radhalla killed my father?’

  Tchenguiz looked at him. ‘I am slave. I do not think.’

  Stung, Ascha grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Yes, tha does, Tchenguiz,’ he shouted. ‘Slave or no slave, tha believes Radhalla killed my father.’

  He let go the Hun’s arm. Tchenguiz looked at him, his face blank. Neither of them spoke.

  Ashamed of his outburst, Asc
ha closed his eyes and rubbed a knuckle against his nose. He had overreacted. He should learn to control his temper. ‘What happened?’ he said in a softer tone.

  ‘Thi father hurt bad,’ Tchenguiz said. ‘He break his thigh and hit his head. We fix his leg and bring him home. He sleep a lot. No eat, no talk. He not know me. Only know thi mother. Sometime he talk to her, like this.’

  Tchenguiz pushed out his jaw and let out a strange whimper, like a sick animal.

  The homecoming feast was Hroc’s idea. The beer buckets were taken down and scalded, tables set up in the hall, crisp linen sheets laid white as a fall of snow. A sheep and a pig were slaughtered. The women baked, and the men brewed beer.

  Ascha arrived late. He had gone for a long walk along the riverbank, brooding over what Tchenguiz had told him. By the time he entered, the hall was dark and crowded, filled with the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat. The free men sat at the tables while the women and children sat on benches around the walls. Dogs weaved between them like flies over a cowpat. He saw his mother ladling ale into drinking-cups which Budrum passed along. Sweating slaves staggered between the tables carrying trays laden with food and drink.

  As soon as they saw him, Ascha was swept along on a tide of welcome, hugged and backslapped and enfolded in brawny arms, his back pounded until it ached. The women were excited and twittered like birds. The men shyer, their faces cracked with grins. They came up to him stomping their boots and told him he hadn’t changed a whit. Others said how different he was from the boy who had gone away. Children peered at him and wondered who the stranger was. And all the while his mother held his hand so tight he thought it might break.

  Ascha basked in their happiness. But he noticed how his exile had been like a death, mourned and then put aside. Not forgotten, but barely remembered. He saw his brothers dressed in their finest and watched with growing resentment as Hroc took his seat in his father’s chair. He had hoped Hroc would say something about what had happened at Samarobriva, but after a while he realized that Hroc would never feel remorse. Hroc had done what he wanted and that, for Hroc, would always be enough.