by Trevor Bloom
‘But we have to know what’s happening,’ Wada said.
They looked at each other, their faces pale with anxiety. Ascha could hear Morcar’s teeth rattling in his head. Wulfhere alone seemed calm. He stood to one side, leaning on a spear, watching them, waiting while they decided what to do.
To his amazement, Ascha heard himself say, ‘I’ll go into the village. I’ll go find out what’s happening.’
Hroc turned to him. ‘Tha?’ he almost laughed and then grew serious. ‘What if they catch tha?’
‘They won’t!’ he said with a bitter laugh, ‘I’m an unweaponed half-slave. What threat am I to them?’
Hroc looked at him with a frown, as if roused from sleep. He nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tha shall be our eyes, little brother.’
Tchenguiz called out, ‘Cher’skkii come-lah!’
A dozen Cheruskers had reached the bottom of the terp and were running along the firm wet sand at the water’s edge towards them. More were coming through the trees. They heard feet grinding on the gravel, the yells drawing closer.
‘Now! We must go now,’ screamed Wado.
Hroc turned to Ascha. ‘Where shall we meet?’
Ascha thought quickly. ‘Go to the pool, I’ll meet you there.’
The pool was sacred, a shadowy place where ash and aspen whispered like hags in a coven. Once, a warband of Engli had come to thank Tiw for a successful raid. He remembered warships lined up on the strand like teeth on a comb, grim-faced men tramping through the reeds, the flash of blades as they hurled weapons stripped from their enemies into the murky water.
Hroc flung his arms around Ascha. ‘I’ll not forget this,’ he said.
And they were gone.
Ascha took off, running deep into the trackless marshes, gathering pace as he went. He skirted the lake and dived into the woods, pounding down to the brook and sailing over it with a huge leap. He stopped to listen and then took off again, hitting the beaten path, ducking under the branches and pelting through the trees. When he could no longer hear the shouts of the Cheruskkii, he doubled back, circled to the far side of the village and slipped like a shadow into the warren of alleys on the village-mound.
The alleys were a mess. Baskets, clothing, pots and broken food jars lay on the ground. He heard the crackle of burning timber and could smell smoke and the sweet stench of burnt flesh. Some huts were burning, others were already charred and blackened ruins, open to the sky.
He was furious with Hroc for leaving the village undefended but even angrier with himself. He should have expected this. While he’d been fooling with Saefaru, the Cheruskkii had been preparing for war. He scrunched his eyes and ran on, fearful of what he might find, anxious for his mother and Budrum. He had to make sure they were safe.
He ran through the dark lanes. Wherever he looked bodies lay in the alleys, dark wounds under their chins and gashes on their heads and faces. A man lay spear-gored in a doorway, another slumped against a wall with his chin on his chest. Fear dried his throat.
Sweet Tiw! Let them not be hurt.
He crossed an alleyway, put his head round a corner and took a quick look. A band of Cheruskkii were looting Theodi huts, piling carts high with sheepskins, bed linen and all the ironware they could find. They were flushed with victory and spoke loudly with over-excited voices. He could see more Cheruskkii at the other end of the alley driving cattle and pigs down toward the boats.
He pulled his head in, stepped back and stumbled.
His hand reached out and met the cold clamminess of human flesh. A thick-set bearded man wearing a leather apron lay face down in the mud. It was Totta the smith. Totta’s arm had been hacked off at the elbow and a cheek smashed by a shield boss. Ascha looked up and saw Totta’s sons sprawled in the yard, their throats clogged with blood.
Ascha kneeled in the dirt, put back his head and let out a silent howl. Totta had made him his first chisels, his forge a tangle of black iron and gleaming copper, which Ascha had loved to visit. He could see him now, his burly arms pitted with burns, hammering leaf blades out of iron.
Ascha jerked his head up as two Cheruskkii came round the corner, their arms filled with skins. There was a hoarse shout, and the Cheruskers dropped the skins and drew their knives.
Ascha took to his heels, twisting through the alleyways and wattle-fenced yards, turning left, right, left until he lost them. He shot down an alley, crossed the street and paused to get his breath, heart thumping. A door opened and a Cherusker stepped out followed by a warm rush of laughter and voices. The Cherusker was very drunk and looked at Ascha with bleary eyes.
‘Wha’ tha’ looking at?’ he said. ‘Can’t a man take a piss around here?’
Ascha hit him as hard as he could, knocking the Cherusker down like a tree. He straddled him, shoved his arm against the man’s throat, and pushed down hard, his throat burning with sudden anger. The Cherusker’s feet flailed and his fingers scrabbled in the mud. There was a wheezing noise, a leg twitched and he went limp.
Ascha looked around.
Nobody had heard. He grabbed the man by the heels and dragged him, head bumping, down the yard to the latrine. He lifted the wattle hurdle that covered the pit, grimacing as the warm breath of human waste rose to greet him. He heaved the Cherusker to the edge and pushed. The man’s tunic snagged. He cursed and heaved again. He could hear voices. Someone was coming. Ascha braced his feet and shoved. Two Cheruskkii appeared at the door, calling for their friend.
Ascha froze.
The men muttered something, laughed and then went back inside. Ascha pushed again, digging in his heels and pushing with his shoulder. There was a tearing sound as the tunic ripped and a soft groan as the Cherusker fell head first into the muck.
That’ll teach tha to stay in thi own backyard, Ascha thought.
He replaced the wattle hurdle, checked that it was all quiet, and left.
The gate to the palisade was open. He slipped inside, paused and then ran and threw himself down behind the woodstack. Slowly, he raised his head. Goats watched him with baleful eyes. Scrawny hens scrabbled at his feet, red heads hammering the ground. Across the other side of the yard, he could hear a gang of Cheruskers talking. Heavy jawed men with hungry faces.
There was the slap of running feet and a youth ran into the yard calling out a name. The door of the hall opened and a well-dressed Cherusker came out. He was a few years older than Ascha with fine straight hair and a round pink face, like a boiled ham. The youth spoke fast, pointing urgently back towards the river. The Cherusker listened attentively and then issued a volley of commands. The men shouldered their spears and moved off.
Ascha waited until it was clear and then sprinted across the yard to the hall. Pressing his ear against the mud-chinked boards, he listened. He could hear men inside, Cheruskkii. But where were Budrum and his mother? He ran back, ducked beneath the raised floor of the granary and squatted down in the shadows.
‘Hssst!’
He stiffened, eyes flickering around the yard. Again, he heard the sound. He turned and saw Budrum’s face at the door of the weaving hut. He ran over with shoulders hunched. Budrum grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him inside.
The hut was squalid and cold, the dirt floor littered with loom weights. No fire. His mother was sitting on an upturned cask, an old sheepskin around her shoulders. She looked up, saw Ascha standing before her and went rigid.
‘Sweet Mother of God,’ she murmured in her own language.
Budrum put a finger to her lips and shook her head.
Ascha lifted his mother to her feet and folded her in his arms. She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand and kissed his eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. ‘It’s not safe. And there is blood on your cheek. Are you hurt?’
He touched the side of his face. ‘It’s nothing. Hog’s blood.’
‘But where are the others?’
‘They’re in the marshes, by the pool. They’re safe,’ he
said, switching to the dialect of the northshore so Budrum would understand.
‘And Hroc?’
‘Hroc’s with them.’ He squatted by her side. ‘Ma, what happened here?’
Budrum and his mother exchanged glances.
His mother drew breath. ‘The Cheruskers came yesterday, just before sunset,’ she said. ‘They said they were going on a raid and wanted to berth here overnight. We thought little of it. Outlanders often sleep here.’ She smoothed the blanket over her knees and glanced at Budrum. ‘They attacked early this morning. There was no warning. The first we knew of it was when we heard the screams. Some of the men fought back, but it was hopeless. They knew who they wanted and they killed anybody who resisted. It was horrible.’
He felt a dull and impotent fury. ‘Go on, Ma,’ he said.
‘We were frightened. The children were terrified. The Cheruskkii gathered us all together. They told us we were traitors and they were going to kill us all.’
Budrum began to wail softly, her face buried in her hands.
His mother frowned at her and clicked her tongue. ‘Come on, Budrum,’ she said with irritation.
He put his hand on his mother’s arm. ‘Ma, what did you mean when you said they knew who they wanted?’
She turned to face him. ‘They were looking for Hroc’s sworn-men, those who had sworn to serve your brother after your father died. They went from house to house looking for them.’ She clenched her mouth and paused to compose herself. ‘They knew who they wanted. A few hid in Dodda’s house and barred the door, but the Cheruskkii fired the roof and forced them out.’
He listened, mouth open. ‘What happened?’
‘They took them to the north field, by the hedge,’ she said, stifling a sob. ‘And then they killed them. Killed them all, bludgeoned them to death with hammers and iron bars.’ A tear slid down her cheek onto her neck. ‘One or two might have escaped into the marshes, but the rest are dead.’
Ascha sat back on his haunches and licked his lips. He felt sick. He got to his feet and walked up and down, closing his eyes and rapping his head with his knuckle. The Theodi had been sleep-walking, refusing to believe they were in danger. He should have persuaded them. He should have known! The Franks had warned him. Octha had warned him. They had all warned him. And the Cheruskkii had timed their raid well. A cold morning to keep the villagers abed, and the Theodi hetman away hunting. Three keels! Nearly two hundred men, more than enough to deal with a clan chief too proud to acknowledge Cheruskkii power. He pictured the rush of feet on frost-hardened soil, doors bursting open, men pleading for their lives. And then the screams as the axes fell. He pushed his nails deep into his palm, the rage rising.
He was struck by a sudden thought.
‘Hanno, Ma,’ he said, turning suddenly. ‘What of him?’
His mother looked at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Hanno?’ she said. ‘It was your brother Hanno who pointed out Hroc’s men to the Cheruskers. It was Hanno who betrayed us.’
Ascha closed his eyes and opened his mouth. He felt breathless, as if he were choking. No, say this was not happening. Hanno would not have betrayed them. Not Hanno.
‘Are you sure?’
His mother snorted. ‘Of course, I’m sure! Hanno sold us to our enemies. He’s a traitor and will rot for all time.’
Ascha leaned back against the roof post. He felt as if a knife was twisting his innards. He could see it clearly now. Hanno had left after Aelfric had made Hroc hetman, and then came back. And all those visits upriver. Hanno had been plotting with Radhalla all the time. He cursed himself, riddled with feelings of anger and guilt. The blame was all his. The Theodi had been hit by a storm that he could have prevented.
‘Why did they not kill everybody?’ he said when he’d had time to think. He meant, why did they spare you?
‘They can’t afford to make slaughter here,’ his mother said. ‘They need our young men and our tribute. They don’t want us dead. They want us to work for them and fight for them. Now, the Theodi are free in name only. The Cheruskkii own them. The Theodi are little more than slaves.’
She laughed at that, a hard and bitter laugh.
‘I saw them taking our cattle and sheep,’ he said, remembering the oxen’s sleepy march to the boats.
His mother scowled. ‘Radhalla is a snake but he’s not stupid. They’ve taken enough to teach us a lesson. The Cheruskkii need us. We are the People of the Pool, a holy tribe. We will suffer this winter, but we won’t starve.’
He wasn’t so sure. The Cheruskkii hadn’t looked as if they needed the Theodi.
‘I must go,’ he said, rising to his feet.
‘No,’ said his mother firmly. ‘It’s far too dangerous. Wait until dark.’
Ascha slumped down, unwilling to argue. He would sleep a little and then go. From across the yard the aroma of roast meat clogged the air. He could hear laughter and singing, Cheruskkii warriors feasting in his father’s hall.
Suddenly, everything was going wrong.
He slept fitfully. Some time later, his mother woke him, whispering urgently that it was time. Shaking his head, he looked about him, remembered where he was and quickly scrambled to his feet. He listened but heard nothing. It was cold and dark and the Cheruskkii were all asleep, heavy-bellied with food and ale.
‘Come with me,’ he said.
His mother shook her head. ’No, but you go. Tell Hroc to get far away from here. Tell him, if the Cheruskkii catch him, they will kill him.’
He nodded, full of misgivings.
They gave him what food they had. A few barley loaves, a little cheese, some watery milk. The Cheruskkii had looted everything of value. They would have stolen more, but his mother had taken down his father’s blue-waved sword and boar-crested helmet and buried them in the pit beneath the floor before the Cheruskkii came.
‘She’s no fool, thi mother,’ Budrum said.
He had to laugh. No Cherusker would think of sifting through the rat-shit, stillborn babies and dead dogs under the floor of the hall to find Aelfric’s sword and helmet.
He kissed them both, wrapping his arms around them in a fierce hug and then slipped out the way he had come.
‘You mean that arse-wipe has betrayed us?’
The hunters stood around him in a ring. The trees sighed and the wind gusted across the sacred pool. Gone midnight and almost pitch-black, but he could just make the hunters out against the sky and hear their laboured breathing.
‘They timed the raid for when you were away,’ Ascha said. ‘Hanno told them everything. He went from house to house pointing out your sworn-men. The Cheruskkii killed them. Agilbert and Tiba, Gyrth, Oswald, Ludeca, Oelf, and more. They’re all dead.’
The men looked at each other, unable to take it in.
Young Morcar slumped down and began to weep. Hroc raised both fists and beat them against his head. He got to his feet and stumped away. He began punching a tree, pummelling it with his bare knuckles until his hands bled. Ascha watched him, knowing how he felt, your own flesh and blood, a traitor.
He handed out the loaves in silence. The hunters took the bread, tore off a chunk and chewed morosely, each man adrift in his thoughts.
It was Besso who spoke first.
‘We have three roads. We fight, knowing they will destroy us. Or we ask for terms and accept your brother’s lordship. Or we flee. Travel north and join an outlander warlord as his sworn-men.’
Nobody said anything.
They were poor choices. To die in your own village after it had been taken by an enemy was not an honourable death. Hroc would never ask Hanno for terms. And to flee meant exile – the living death.
Hroc sat with his head in hands, saying nothing. From time to time, he shook his head as if unable to grasp what had happened.
‘We’re all exhausted,’ Ascha said quietly. ‘Let’s sleep and decide what to do in the morning.’
Hroc looked at him and nodded. Ascha agreed to take the first watch. H
roc took the second. Wulfhere said he would take the watch before dawn.
In the night Ascha was awakened by the patter of rain. He looked up and saw the dark outline of Wulfhere standing guard under the tree. Wulfhere turned and looked back at him, and Ascha thought he saw him smile.
When Ascha awoke again it was to harsh shouts, spears at their throats and Cheruskkii boots hammering at their ribs.
‘Up! Up! You Theodi bastards!’
The Cheruskkii kicked them to their feet and drove them back to the village with blows and guttural shouts. Ascha saw that the river had risen during the night, lifting the Cheruskkii warboats and turning them. In the village, there were armed Cheruskkii on every corner. He was glad his father was not alive to see this.
The clan came out, lined the road and watched in silent agony as the hunters passed. No sound but the chill wind sighing across the marshes and the shuffle of weary feet.
The Cheruskkii drove them to Aelfric’s hall. A barked command and the Theodi were shoved into the yard, hemmed in by Cheruskkii warriors. They looked about them and shivered nervously. The rain grew heavier, pouring down their faces in long ropy coils. The villagers began to gather as if drawn by a thread. They looked beaten and downcast. Ascha heard them murmuring, like rollers on a distant beach.
He shuddered, not knowing what to do. What would happen now? He hunched his head into his collar and looked over his shoulder for the others. He saw Besso, Wado and Morcar, Ecga, Tchenguiz and Besso’s slave.
But where was Hroc?
His mother and Budrum came running, their mouths tight with anxiety. Saefaru was among the women, a dark shawl over her head. She gave him a pinched little smile and bit her lip. She held her young son in her arms. The boy was swaddled in a blanket, looking out with big and solemn eyes.
The rain eased leaving the yard glinting with puddles. More Cheruskkii gathered. Ascha looked them over. He saw other tribes among them: Jutes, Danes and Engli from the Almost-Island, Saxons from the interior, Frisians from the west, Eastern tribes he didn’t know. Hard-looking men, weaned on blood. All laughing and grinning fit to bust.
