The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  There was a long pause and then Radhalla gave a faint and almost unnoticeable nod of his big head.

  Ascha’s mouth dried.

  The crowd went wild, baying for blood. They rushed to form a ring.

  Wulfhere was quivering, his eyes popping with hatred. He drew his long-knife and swung his shield across his body and came shuffling on, weight on the back foot, shield forward.

  ‘Give me a weapon!’ Ascha screamed at Sigisberht. ‘Anything!’

  Sigisberht folded his arms and shook his head.

  And then it dawned on him. Nobody was going to give him a weapon. He was a weaponless and shieldless half-slave, and this man was going to kill him.

  He backed away, his nerves on full alert.

  He pulled off his neck cloth and wrapped it tight around his left forearm and caught the loose end in his fist and turned and dropped into a crouch, arms wide. They circled crabwise. Wulfhere made a sudden slashing cut that would have disembowelled Ascha if he had not jumped back, nearly slipping in the mud and slush. The crowd cheered and whooped. Wulfhere came on, slashing and cutting. Ascha retreated. He stepped aside to avoid a blow and staggered and nearly stumbled. Wulfhere slashed again, and Ascha felt a hot slice of pain rip across his upper arm. He backed away and blundered into the crowd, hot breath on his neck and rough hands shoving him forward. Wulfhere came on, face half-hidden by the shield, dark eyes following Ascha’s every move. Ascha twisted to avoid a shallow knife thrust and felt a hammer blow from Wulfhere’s shield on his left side. He staggered, his head pounding. He looked into Wulfhere’s smiling eyes and saw his past.

  Wulfhere changed the grip on his long-knife and suddenly slashed at Ascha’s belly. He flicked back his hips with arms outstretched but felt the sting as Wulfhere’s blade passed across his ribs. He touched his side and his hand came up wet with blood. No pain. That would come later.

  Wulfhere lowered his shield fractionally.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time for this, mischling,’ he said.

  Ascha saved his breath, knowing that Wulfhere would take his time, happy to cut him to shreds before he killed him. Wulfhere was enjoying himself.

  The crowd had become a yelling mob. He glimpsed Heafoc and his hut-companions shouting themselves hoarse, Tchenguiz and Eanmund and a knot of woodcarvers, their faces racked with concern. He saw Tchenguiz waving with both arms and pointing to Dagobert’s dead body, shouting something, the words lost in the tumult.

  Wulfhere came on, crowding him, blocking his escape, biding his time.

  The Frisian!

  Ascha took a step back and then whirled around and sprinted to where Dagobert lay in the slush. Lifting up one dead shoulder, he tugged at Dagobert’s tunic. The belly-knife was gone, robbed by the gesith.

  He howled with despair.

  And then he remembered Dagobert’s hatchet. Breathless, he struggled to lift Dagobert’s dead weight. The crowd saw what he was doing and roared their excitement. He could sense Wulfhere moving in fast. Dagobert flopped over, one dead hand smacking the mud. Ascha fumbled through his clothes. There! Dagobert’s hatchet was under his belt, hidden in the folds of his cloak.

  Wulfhere guessed what he was doing and ran forward. Heart banging against the wall of his chest, Ascha drew the axe. He heard Wulfhere’s feet slapping the slush and turned. Wulfhere came on. Ascha swung the hatchet and struck Wulfhere’s shield, angling the blade to strike along the grain. The metal shield rim flew off and, with a loud crack, the shield split in two. The blow knocked Wulfhere off balance. He staggered and almost fell and then hurled the broken shards of his shield aside and came on again, slashing with his knife, trying to finish it.

  Ascha swung at Wulfhere’s face and, as Wulfhere jerked his head back, he dived and rolled and came up on his opponent’s left, swinging the blade with a vicious backward cut at Wulfhere’s leg. A sharp scream of pain as the hatchet bit deep and Wulfhere’s knee gave way.

  Grasping the hatchet with both hands, Ascha spun on his heel and chopped savagely at Wulfhere’s side. There was a grunt, and Ascha heard a loud crack as the ribs gave way.

  He leapt back, hatchet raised, and watched as Wulfhere slowly pulled himself to his feet, resting his weight on his undamaged leg. Wulfhere grimaced at Ascha, arms by his side, his face twisted with pain and loathing.

  Ascha waited, his chest heaving, as the crowd watched in silence.

  Wulfhere’s eyes were wide and his mouth was working.

  ‘Once a mischling, always a mischling, huh?’ he said, smiling with hate-filled eyes.

  Ascha reached back and swung.

  The blade struck Wulfhere between shoulder and neck and drove down through muscle and bone into the chest, shattering the heart. For a fleeting moment, Wulfhere stood, and then the long knife slipped from his fingers, his hands gripped the air and he pitched forward as dead as a stone.

  Sigisberht raised a hand no higher than his waist and flicked his fingers. The Cheruskkii ran forward, spears levelled.

  ‘Drop the axe,’ one said.

  Ascha looked at the hatchet in his hand and allowed it to slip from his fingers into the mud. A Cherusker kicked it away. The gesith formed a horseshoe around him and prodded him forwards. Ascha took a careful step and then walked towards Radhalla, his hand clutching his belly, blood oozing between his fingers.

  He was worn out and his legs were trembling. He had killed his childhood enemy but he felt nothing. Radhalla watched him thoughtfully. The Cherusker dabbed at his cheek with a dirty rag, blood dripping into the slush. Dagobert’s cut was long and deep, and Ascha knew that Radhalla would carry the scar for the rest of his life.

  ‘Where did you learn to fight like that, boy?’ Radhalla said.

  Ascha held his gaze. ‘My father was Aelfric of the Theodi,’ he said, his breathing harsh and ragged. ‘I carry his blood. Wulfhere would have killed me. It was him or me.’

  He felt faint and was starting to feel the wound in his belly.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ Sigisberht said with a smirk. ‘Nevertheless, you used a weapon which is forbidden by law, and you killed a freeman. For that the penalty is death.’

  ‘I broke no law,’ Ascha said evenly, not caring what they did to him. He paused and then said, ‘The death-weapon was Tiw’s gift.’

  Radhalla looked at him, his head on one side, ‘How so?’

  ‘Tiw did not want me to die. He sent me the Frisian’s axe.’

  ‘You’re saying the axe was a gift from Tiw?’

  ‘Yes. He took Wulfhere’s life instead.’

  ‘A gift from Tiw?’ Radhalla repeated.

  The crowd picked it up and passed it on, the sound swelling as more joined in. They began to chant, stamping their feet and banging their shields.

  ‘Tiw’s gift! Tiw’s gift!’

  Ascha listened in amazement.

  Radhalla turned, wincing as his jerkin rubbed his lacerated cheek. He swung his head from side to side, watching the crowd, trying to gauge which way the wind was blowing and then he turned to the men whose spears lingered at Ascha’s throat.

  ‘You!’ he said to one of them. ‘Do you think this weapon was sent by Tiw?’

  The man grinned nervously. ‘Ay, Lord,’ he said. ‘How else could an unarmed half-slave have killed Wulfhere?’

  Radhalla rolled his bottom lip. He held Ascha’s eyes, a half-smile playing at the edge of his mouth. ‘How, indeed,’ he said.

  He frowned and slowly nodded his big head and then he said, ‘The Theod lives, but he cannot stay here. He has killed within the boundary of the fortress. Send him and his slave back to his own people!’

  It took a while before Ascha realized what Radhalla had said. As if in a trance, he stared at Radhalla. Sigisberht opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a cold stare from Radhalla. Sigisberht scowled and jerked his head. Spearmen surrounded Ascha and escorted him towards the gate. The crowd surged, sweeping him along, slapping him on the back and cheering as if they had known all along he would tri
umph.

  The leaden clouds parted, and blue skies appeared. At the gate they paused while Sigisberht spoke hurriedly to the captain of gesith and then the captain led them through the gate and out of the fortress. At first Ascha couldn’t believe it and then as he realized he was really leaving Radhallaburh, he turned to Tchenguiz and grinned. He would see his mother, sit in his father’s hall, and eat home-cooked food. He put back his head and let the sunlight wash over his face.

  They were going home.

  The gesith took them out of the fortress and down the path. A dank chill lay about the woods, the ground still patched with rags of snow. They came to the fork and took the grail to the village, moving now at a brisk pace. Ascha frowned. He looked back over his shoulder and then turned to his neighbour.

  ‘Where we going, brother?’ he said. ‘This isn’t the way.’

  The Cherusker turned and punched Ascha hard in the mouth.

  Ascha stumbled and nearly fell. Spears and blows spurred him on. He tasted blood and his jaw throbbed. The slash in his side stung ferociously.

  He saw Sigisberht up ahead talking to the captain of gesith, the captain laughing politely. Ascha exchanged anxious glances with Tchenguiz. Something wasn’t right. He felt a grim foreboding. Sigisberht looked up and held Ascha’s eyes and smiled.

  They went through the woods, sunlight flickering through the trees, to the village. A single vessel stood by the jetty. A black sail, black as death, blotting out the sun. Men stood in the bows, heavy-set, cold-faced beasts. A human cargo of men and women squatted in the well of the boat with their necks bound and their heads held in a hard and wooden embrace.

  And then he knew.

  No. Not that!

  He shoulder charged the nearest Cherusker and knocked him flying and then took to his heels, running as fast as he could.

  He heard yells behind him and Tchenguiz’ desperate shout, ‘Run, boss, run!’

  He ran, blundering through the bushes and nettles, branches and brambles slashing at his face. He tripped and almost fell before he found his feet and plunged on. He felt a sharp pain in his side and heard the shouts of men behind him. Branches reached out and grabbed his legs, tree roots snaked across his feet. Gasping, he jumped down into a ditch and pushed through old bracken. He clambered out, feet sliding on the mud and then his knees gave way and he tumbled, rolling down the bank. He lay stunned for a moment and then he heard the shouts and yells drawing closer. He went to get up when a boot struck him on the side of the head. Another crashed into his ribs. He wanted to cry out but it was if his mouth was full of sand. There was a hard crack on the back of his skull.

  And then everything went dark.

  17

  He awoke in the middle of the night and lay without moving, letting the pain roll over him. He was lying in the belly of a boat with his wrists and elbows bound and a wooden pole yoked to his neck. He ached all over and the cut in his belly was stiff and sore. He could feel the boat moving beneath him. Dirty streaks of cloud scudded across a waning moon and a chill wind pummelled the ship’s black sail. The stench of shit and bilge water was overpowering.

  He went to rise and felt a hand on his arm.

  ‘Don’t move or they will come,’ a voice said from out of the darkness.

  ‘Tchenguiz!’ he said. ‘Is it tha?’

  ‘Wah!’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘We’re on a slaver. The Cheruskkii sold us.’

  ‘A slaver?’

  It was a moment before he understood and then his stomach lurched and he retched, splashing his tunic and breeches with his own filth.

  Sweet Tiw! Say it wasn’t happening, not a slave!

  ‘Where are we going?’ he moaned.

  ‘Downriver. We will reach river mouth maybe midday tomorrow.’

  There was a hardness in the Hun’s voice and he wondered if Tchenguiz blamed him for what had happened. Ascha closed his eyes and sank into a void of bottomless despair. After all he’d been through, to be taken by slavers? The thought was too much to bear.

  There was a shout from the bow.

  One of the slavers swaggered down the boat and began laying about him with a cudgel. Ascha heard the smack of wood on flesh and whimpers from the other slaves. Instinctively, he drew into the shadows and waited until the slaver had gone back and everything was silent again.

  The realization came to him slowly. ‘We’ll sail past our own village?’ he said.

  ‘Ha,’ said Tchenguiz. ‘We will.’

  He lifted his head and looked about him. In the soft gloom, he could see men, women and children pressed together, all roped and yoked like himself.

  ‘How many in this boat?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ Tchenguiz said.

  Ascha looked at him. ‘And crew?’

  ‘Five, maybe six.’

  Too many to overcome. What could he do? Throw himself overboard? He would drown. Shout to the village as they went past? No likelihood he would be heard and, trussed to the yoke, the slavers would gut him like a pig as soon as he opened his mouth.

  Anger, fear and despair came together in a rush. It was as if he’d been dropped into some dark tomb and a stone slab laid over the hole. He slumped down against the side of the boat, closed his eyes and wished the Cheruskkii had killed him for death would have been kinder than this.

  The hours of darkness were a nightmare without end. The slaves suffered horribly from thirst and were desperate for a handful of water, but the slavers paid no heed. Ascha was wet and cold and hungry. He shivered and his teeth chattered. Unable to sleep, he dozed fitfully, drifting in a fog of pain and misery.

  Dawn came with a cold sun shining as they slid into the estuary.

  He saw his village on the terp, wood smoke uncoiling like a dirty rag over shingled roofs. Above the marsh flats, the sky was thick with crows. He could smell the familiar stench of peat and sedge and brine. He looked towards shore. A dark line of trees streaked with silver, the river black as pitch.

  ‘Na, Ascha,’ Tchenguiz said gently. ‘There is nothing we can do.’

  ‘But I shouldn’t be here,’ he said, the panic rising. ‘I have to warn the Franks. I have to get away!’

  ‘Nothing we can do,’ Tchenguiz said firmly.

  He turned back and stared until his eyes misted, unable to let go. His mother would be in the garden, tending her vegetables, Saefaru in her cabin by the moor. Would she be thinking of him, he wondered, or of Wulfhere lying cold in the mud at Radhallaburh?

  He watched until the village blurred into the horizon.

  Tchenguiz was right, nothing he could do. He felt all out of breath, overcome by a feeling more desolate than he’d ever known. He thought of the times he’d seen boatloads of slaves driven to a nameless future. Now he was one of them, an exile once again.

  Two days later and they were struggling to make headway against a stiff onshore wind. The crew had rigged up an awning to shield themselves from the rain and spray, but the slaves had nothing. They sat with knees hunched and water streaming down their faces. The wind blew the rain sideways until they were blue with cold and drenched to the bone.

  The slavers cast their eyes skywards and muttered among themselves. They sent a boy back down the boat, a skinny youth with a rat-like face and long hair slicked behind his ears. The boy stood over Ascha, and a knife came from his clothing.

  Ascha flinched.

  The boy bared his teeth in a grin and then cut the tree fork from his neck with two deep passes of the knife. Another slash and he had severed the ropes binding Ascha’s wrists.

  Ascha kicked the yoke away. He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched and heaved a small sigh of relief.

  ‘Row and you eat,’ the boy said. ‘If not …’ He jerked his thumb over the side to where the grey waves rolled.

  Tchenguiz wrenched himself round. ‘And me,’ he said, offering his ropes.

  The boy hesitated and then cut the bonds. Tchenguiz licked his raw and bleeding skin and then looked at
Ascha and gave him a quick grin. The boy passed among the slaves cutting their bonds.

  Ascha got to his feet and went to a bench and grasped an oar. One of the slaves took the other. He was tall and slim and wore a tattered shirt that flapped from bony shoulders. He nodded at Ascha with grave politeness and then the two of them stretched their feet against the rowing board and began to pull, their sweeps flowing together like returning geese.

  After the squall had died away and the oars were taken in and stowed, they spoke. The slave was a Gaul named Lucullus and spoke a mongrel dialect, a mix of Frisian, Frankish and Saxon. Ascha could understand him but found the Gaul’s speech curiously exotic, like an overpatched blanket.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Ascha said.

  ‘Burdigala,’ the Gaul said, squeezing the words from the side of his mouth like porridge from a bag.

  Ascha knew Burdigala, but didn’t let on. ‘How long have you been a slave?’

  The Gaul thought for a moment and then said, ‘Three years.’

  Three years? Ascha thought with dismay, a lifetime.

  ‘And how were you taken?’

  ‘We were sailing to Rotiagus with a cargo of wine when Saxon pirates saw us and gave chase. We tried to outrun them, but it was no use.’

  ‘Your family must be rich?’

  ‘My father is a senator,’ the Gaul said. ‘We own 400 slaves.’

  Ascha glanced at him. Beneath the grime that shadowed his cheeks, he saw the Gaul was good-looking with dark eyes, long black hair curling over his shoulders, and a full and sensuous mouth. Probably charming too, Ascha thought enviously, in that slightly menacing way women deplored but secretly found attractive.

  They talked some more. After he was taken, Lucullus had been passed from one master to another. The last had been a Cherusker who sold him to the slavers to pay a gambling debt.

  ‘And them?’ Ascha motioned with his jaw to the other slaves.

  Lucullus shrugged. ‘Easterners,’ he said, his tone brandishing disdain.