by Trevor Bloom
On the other side, Tchenguiz led the horse off the boat and removed the blindfold. Ascha mounted. He nodded his thanks and then he walked the horse up the riverbank. At the top, he touched the gelding’s flanks with his heels and broke into a trot. He looked back and saw the girl standing by the boat, the tail of her kerchief fluttering in the breeze. He gave her the barest wave. She made no move, but he could feel her eyes upon him.
Then he saw her no more.
He rode all that day and well into the night. When it was too dark to see, he dismounted, rolled himself in his blanket and slept, the horse roped to his wrist. He awoke before dawn and travelled on. He crossed the Roman road that came down from Colonia, the road he had walked the year before, and turned west. The sun was high in the sky when he reached Tornacum, the air full of the rumble of carts, the shouts of cattle drivers and street vendors crying their wares. He saw women with live fowls under their arms making their way to market, alleys thronged with pedlars and hawkers. The narrow streets were packed. Toss a grain of corn and it would never touch the ground, he thought.
He made his way to the Basilica, tied the horse to a post and climbed the steps. A shaven-skulled Antrustion stepped from the shade, barring his way. He saw more Antrustions lurking in the shadows and his stomach tightened.
‘Out of the way, Antrustion. I must see the Overlord.’
‘The Overlord?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who might you be,’ the Antrustion said, leering at his companions. ‘The Emperor of Rome?’
‘It’s urgent,’ Ascha said.
The guard shook his head, the smile fading. ‘Nobody sees the Overlord.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Ascha said, ‘I must see him.’
The Antrustion put his face close to Ascha’s. ‘And I said you can’t!’
A captain walked over. ‘What’s going on?’
The Antrustion stiffened. ‘Says he wants to see the Overlord.’
The captain ran his eyes over Ascha. ‘Kick him out!’ he snarled. ‘If he resists, give him a thrashing.’
The Antrustion grabbed Ascha by the elbow. Ascha lost it. His knife flashed. He whirled and had the man’s arm up behind his back and the blade hard against his throat before the Antrustion knew what was happening. He heard shouts. The captain swore and pulled his seaxe. Men came running, spears levelled.
Ascha spoke fast, ‘Captain, my name is Ascha Aelfricson. I am a royal hostage and I am here on the Overlord’s business. I need to see the Overlord urgently. If you do not believe me, go and fetch Flavinius but do it quickly before I tire of keeping this man alive.’
Without taking his eyes off Ascha, the captain raised a hand and flicked his fingers. An Antrustion stepped forward. ‘My compliments to Secretary Flavinius,’ the captain said. ‘Tell him he is needed at the main door. Now!’
‘Dear God! You look rough,’ Flavinius wheezed. He was breathless and sweating from running. He took Ascha’s hand in both of his and looked him up and down. ‘I would never have recognized you. How have things been?’
‘Later, Flavinius. I need to see the Overlord urgently.’
‘Of course, dear boy, I’m sure you do. The Overlord meets today in Council. It’s a busy day, but we’ll see what we can do. Come along with me! Thank you, Captain. It was well done.’
The Antrustions scowled and reluctantly stood back to let them pass. Ascha followed Flavinius through the great doors and into the hall, their footsteps echoing on the stone flags. Antrustions lined the walls but made no move to stop them. Torches burned sootily in ancient wall brackets, throwing a dim yellow light across the floor.
At the end of the hall was a ring of high-backed chairs filled with Frankish and Roman dignitaries, Roman and allied nations on one side, the Franks on the other.
Flavinius touched Ascha’s elbow. ‘The Grand Council!’ he said panting.
Clovis sat in the middle in a high-backed chair, his legs bent and his chin cupped in his hand. He wore a blue woollen cloak, pulled tight against the cold. Next to him sat Basinia wearing a red silk dress and a short cape in some light coloured fur. Her hair was tightly braided and covered with a white linen cap.
On the Overlord’s left sat the Romans, mostly aristocrats and landowners dressed in togas or a mix of Roman and Frankish dress. Their leader seemed to be a man with curling grey hair and a beard like a goat’s chin tuft.
‘Syragrius,’ Flavinius said. ‘The Franks call him the King of the Romans. He rules over Roman territory in Gallia, or what’s left of it.’ Ascha listened intently as Flavinius named the other Romans.
The Franks were stocky, thick shouldered men with coarse faces, their heads shaven to the crown. They sat with legs splayed and their knees bare, scratching and talking. Behind every Frank stood a slave stood holding his lord’s spear and shield. More slaves in white tunics padded between the chairs bringing food and drink. In the shadows, Ascha could see servants and hangers-on, lawyers, priests, musicians and clerks.
He saw Bauto, his face as brown and gnarled as oak, and others he recognized. He was startled to see the hawkish features of Fara among the Franks. Fara was leaning forward, whispering into the ear of a Frankish lord.
‘Who is Fara talking to?’ Ascha said, and pointed.
‘That’s Ragnachar, the Overlord’s uncle,’ Flavinius said.
Ragnachar was a fleshy man with a long horse face and dull eyes set far apart. He wore his hair long, as if determined to show the world he was of royal blood, and sat with his knees spread wide and his belly hanging down like an empty sack. He was listening with an air of bored indifference to a small Roman with a head as bald as stone who was addressing the Council. The speaker seemed nervous and spoke rapidly, moving his hands in the air to make his point, while a Roman holy man in a black robe translated his words into clunky Frankish.
‘Stay here,’ said Flavinius.
He approached Clovis, and Ascha saw him bend and speak into the Overlord’s ear. Clovis looked up suddenly, and Ascha saw his eyes flit across the hall, searching for him. Clovis got to his feet and left the debate. Flavinius followed, waving frantically to Ascha to come forward. Clovis swept up. He took Ascha’s hand and squeezed it and kissed him on the cheek.
‘My little Saxon,’ he said. ‘So you have not forgotten me?’
‘No, Lord,’ Ascha said. ‘I have not forgotten you.’
‘What news do you have?’ Clovis said, placing a skinny arm around Ascha’s neck. ‘Something interesting I hope. I’m so bored of all of this stuff.’
Ascha spoke fast, the words falling out of him, leaving nothing out. When he had finished, he felt as if a great weight had slid from his shoulders. He had kept his word and done what he had promised.
Clovis bit down on his thumb. ‘Are you certain of this?’
Ascha saw the tension in the Overlord’s face. ‘On my life,’ he said.
Flavinius went as if to speak, but Clovis held up his hand. ‘Shut up, Flavinius,’ he said abruptly. ‘Let me think.’
They waited while Clovis deliberated, gnawing his thumb. After a while the Overlord threw a glance at Ascha and nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said, with an air of finality. ‘I think you’re going to have to address the Council.’
Ascha felt his skin crawl.
He heard the words but could not believe them. Address the Council.
Clovis passed his eyes over Ascha in a long slow stare, for the first time taking in Ascha’s tattered and filthy clothes. He pulled off Ascha’s cap and winced when he saw his cropped head. ‘You look dreadful,’ he murmured without irony. ‘What have you been up to?’
He turned and snapped his fingers and at once an Antrustion stepped forward. The Overlord pulled off the man’s helmet and gave it to Ascha. ‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘If a terror raider is going to address the Great Council he should look the part.’ He drew the Antrustion’s franciska and stuffed it into Ascha’s belt. Then he stood back and looked Ascha up and down. ‘Should stir them up
nicely,’ he said. ‘Now, come along.’
Heart hammering, Ascha exchanged a quick look with Flavinius and then followed Clovis onto to the Council floor. There was a loud clash of cymbals as Clovis entered. The little Roman who had been speaking stopped in mid-flow and stepped aside with obvious irritation. Clovis held up his skinny arms for silence. A curious murmur rippled round the hall. Ascha stood before the Council, all eyes upon him, elves dancing in his belly. Despite the helmet and the franciska in his belt he knew he looked out of place, his clothes filthy and travel-stained. He saw Basinia studying him closely, Bauto was impassive, and on Fara’s face a frown of dark puzzlement.
The Overlord spoke.
‘My brothers! Noble allies! One of my agents has just returned from the field and his news is so startling that I have asked him to address you directly. Forgive the intrusion, but I was sure you would want to hear what he has to say.’
He turned and winked at Ascha. ‘The floor is yours.’
Ascha surveyed the ring of faces. He saw expressions of curiosity and distaste and indifference. Nobody liked spies. He touched Octha’s burnstone round his neck, breathed in and held it, slowly breathed out.
‘My name is Ascha, and I am the son of Aelfric, hetman of the Theodi clan, of the north-shore Saxons.’
After the initial uproar had died down, they let him speak. He cleared his throat, licked his lips and then began. He spoke slowly and deliberately, knowing that what he said in the next few moments might forever change his life. He told the Council he had just returned from deepest Germania and he had come to report a serious threat to Frankland and Roman Gallia. The northern tribes were uniting into a powerful confederation led by Radhalla, warchief of the Cheruskkii nation. The alliance was made up of the inland and north-shore Saxons, the forest people, the marsh folk and the between-the-rivers tribes. He listed them: the Cheruskkii, Drusi, Tecali, Susudatii, Taifali, Chaussi and Mersovii, together with the Chalusi, Warni and the Ascalangii. And the Theodi, he added with a heavy heart. The confederation, he told them, was allied to other northern nations: the Jutes, Danes and Engli from the Almost-Island, as well as some Frisian tribes. When Radhalla sent the war-arrow out, it was likely that even more would join.
He spoke in Frankish, Flavinius’ Latin translation following a beat later, the hall silent enough to hear a toothpick drop. They listened to every word, their mouths open and their eyes widening in horror. He saw Bishop Remigius sink into his chair as if anxious to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Saxon fiend. Abbess Genovefa passed a hand from brow to chest and then across her body, her lips moving silently. Bauto hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands. Basinia’s face was a mask of contempt, while Fara stared at Ascha with cold and murderous eyes.
Even the clerks stopped what they were doing to hear what he had to say.
Clovis steepled his fingers and crossed one ankle over another and listened with a sly smile.
The Council, it seemed, had suddenly become interesting.
Ascha detailed the Cheruskkii war aims. He told them how the Cheruskkii had planned the uprising for a long time and had built a war fleet at Radhalla’s fortress on the Wisurg. How they had built ocean-going ships with tall masts for themselves and the other inland tribes who had no access to sea-bound rivers. He told them that the fleet was the biggest that he or anybody in the north had ever seen.
And finally, he told them that the fleet had sailed and was already in the Rhine mouth.
‘If weather permits,’ he said, ‘they will be here within the week.’
After he had spoken, there was a stunned silence, and then an angry murmur, like a nest of wasps disturbed. The delegates yelled, waved their arms and tried to shout each other down. Others shook their heads in shocked silence or sat with open mouths, frozen to their seats.
The questions flew like slingshot.
‘How many ships. How many men?’
‘The alliance has forty five keels. About half are big beasts. Sixty-oars. The rest are forty-oars or smaller. The other northern nations will supply more boats.’ He paused. ‘There are about seventy ships in total.’ He made a swift count. ‘Say three thousand fighting men.’
They stared at him and he knew they were thinking of the horror that three thousand terror-raiders could unleash on the west.
‘How sure are you of this?’ A big-shouldered Frank shouted.
‘I saw the fleet myself in the Rhine-mouth two days ago,’ he said.
The Bishop began to wail. ‘Dear mother of God, what will become of us?’
Ascha could hear their thoughts; saw them weighing the odds, thinking of their own skins.
‘Syagrius!’ Clovis said.
Syagrius rose slowly to his feet. He adjusted the folds of his toga and waited until the crowd were quiet and then asked whether the Saxon spy thought the Saxon fleet might not be planning to invade Pritannia rather than Gallia.
‘No, Radhalla has no plans to invade Pritannia,’ Ascha said firmly. ‘His brother is there, and they would fight. Radhalla wants Gallia.’
‘Then would you be so kind as to inform the Council where in your view the confederation fleet will make landfall?’ Syagrius said. He spoke with a crisp patrician accent, a voice veined with authority.
Ascha hesitated. The one thing he hadn’t discovered. The fleet could land anywhere in Roman or Frankish territory.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But where do you think?’ Syagrius gently persisted.
Ascha thought for a moment. ‘My belief is he will land south of Gesoriac and strike at Lutetia Parisi, the heart of Roman territory. That’s what I would do.’
The Council was silent. Syagrius bit his lip and sat down.
‘Ragnachar of the River Franks,’ said Clovis.
Ragnachar got to his feet. He dragged his britches up over his belly and looked around at the Council and then he spoke. He began by questioning whether Ascha’s report was serious and reminded them that there had been similar reports of a Saxon uprising before. To believe these rumours now would play into the hands of their enemies. Even if there was a confederation of the northern tribes, it was unlikely to last. Everybody knew there was no unity among thieves and murderers. Saxons were opportunists who liked to raid and loot and then go home again. He spoke well in a smooth and confident tone, and Ascha could see the Council quietly listening. Lastly, Ragnachar cast doubt on whether the Saxon was telling the truth. By his own admission, he was himself a terror-raider. There was no proof such a fleet existed and the Saxon’s evidence was tainted.
Ragnachar blew his nose into his hand and wiped it on his tunic. ‘And if there is a barbarian fleet over the horizon then we should pay the Saxon raiders off and stay out of their way until they have gone. They will go home as soon as they have got what they came for.’
‘You would negotiate with these beasts?’ Syagrius asked.
‘It buys us time,’ Ragnachar said with a bored shrug. ‘And we – or at least our Roman allies – can afford it.’
He gave a little smirk and then sat down. There was a murmur of approval from those who felt that paying the raiders off was preferable to fighting them.
Ascha quickly stepped forward. Delay, he knew, would be fatal and was exactly what Ragnachar and Radhalla wanted. The fleet would be upon them in a matter of days.
‘My Lord, send men to the Rhine mouth and you will discover soon enough whether I am telling the truth,’ he said. ‘But you have missed the point. This is not a raid. Radhalla has had a bellyful of raiding. He hasn’t assembled this Saxon host for loot and plunder.’ He gave a dry little laugh. ‘He’s coming here to settle. He wants your land!’
Every man and woman in the hall looked at him in horror.
‘Sweet mother of God!’ he heard the Bishop Remigius mutter. ‘If they’re planning to settle, that’s the end. They will disembowel us. Gallia will smoke on its own funeral pyre.’
‘Is this right?’ he
heard Bauto growl.
‘On my mother’s eyes,’ Ascha said. ‘They want Gallia for themselves.’
There was uproar.
Clovis had been sitting with his fingertips on his lips. Now he pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He raised his hands and appealed for calm. When the din had subsided, Clovis spoke. He summarized the Saxon threat with a few well-chosen words and then went on, speaking forcefully and fluently, to remind the Great Council how the Romans and Franks had always feared the stealth and speed of the Saxons, their ability to move at will around the shores of Gallia. But now is our chance, he told them. Against individual raiders, they had no defence but if, as the spy reported, the Saxons had assembled a fleet – and this, Clovis said with a sly nod to his uncle, could easily be proved – then the allies only needed to discover where the Saxons planned to make landfall, and they could smash them before they moved inland.
‘Act now, my brothers and allies,’ Clovis said, ‘and we can ensure that these ravening wolves will never again threaten our shores. Never again will we have to pay them off. If we unite, we can destroy the Saxon terror-raiders once and for all.’
There was a long pause and then Ascha saw heads nodding in agreement. One by one the delegates, Frank and Roman, raised their arms.
‘Always better to put out the fire in a neighbour’s house than wait for your own to burn,’ Syagrius said, lifting a languid arm.
Ragnachar saw that he had been outmanoeuvred and scowled. Reluctantly, he put up a pale plump hand.
Ascha watched, awestruck by how quickly Clovis had used his information to change the Council’s mood.
The Overlord turned to Bauto and ordered him to post scouts and beacons, to raise the levy, and to mobilize the army with all speed. He spoke crisply and to the point and it occurred to Ascha that the Overlord had already given a great deal of thought to how to defend his land.
Bauto bent his grizzled head. ‘Lord, the scara will be ready, and with the help of our Roman allies we will destroy the Saxons the moment they come ashore.’
