by Trevor Bloom
Syagrius thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the Saxons. We have educated the Franks. They share our values and want what we want. But the terror raiders are brutal savages who want only to destroy us and drive us into the sea. If they seize control of this province, Romanitas will disappear. It will mean the end of civilization.’
‘Nothing ends. Every death leads to decay and then a rebirth,’ Ascha said, surprised at his own conviction. ‘Rome will go on – not in the same way maybe – but Rome will survive,’
Syagrius’ gaze shifted. ‘You are young and can afford to believe that, but I have winter in my blood and do not. For me, life is a short sojourn in an alien land and, when we are gone, there is nothing but oblivion.’ Syagrius smiled. ‘And that’s as it should be. All I ask is a little more time, just a few more years – that and the destruction of the Saxons.’
Syagrius got to his feet. Ascha took this as a signal to leave and rose also. He had enjoyed the talk more than he had expected. Syagrius smiled and squeezed Ascha’s hand.
‘Good luck, my boy. Live each day as though it were your last.’
Ascha followed the servant out. At the foot of the stairs, he paused. ‘Why did your master want to see me?’
The servant looked puzzled. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘He admires you. He sees you as an example of how Romans and barbarians might live together.’
When Ascha looked back he saw Syagrius watching him from the balcony. Ascha lifted his hand and waved.
The Governor waved once and then went inside.
At the stables, he found half a score Antrustions saddling their horses and loading a cart. He made himself known to their captain, a hard-bitten blue-eyed Frank with a shock of corn-coloured hair, shaved high at the back.
‘Sorry to have kept you,’ Ascha muttered.
‘It’s not you we were waiting for,’ the captain scowled and nodded towards a high-born Frank who was walking towards them accompanied by a manservant. The Frank was young and richly dressed in a red tunic and a blue woollen cloak held at the shoulder by a golden cross-brooch.
‘Who is he?’
‘The younger son of Lord Dagric,’ the captain said. ‘We’ve been ordered to take him to Thraelsted to buy slaves. It was a last moment change of plan,’ he added
The young man gave the captain a superior smile and offered him his hand. ‘And who are you?’ he said turning to Ascha.
Ascha told him.
‘Ah, the Saxon half-slave,’ the young Frank said with a sneer. ‘I have heard of you but I don’t approve of low-born gutter rats with ideas above their station. Make sure you stay downwind of me.’
Ascha seethed inwardly but choked it back. ‘Of course, Lord,’ he murmured, while the captain raised his eyebrows and grinned.
They left Tornacum to the clatter of hooves and the trundle of cartwheels and took the road north to Noviomagus. A day’s hard riding and the stone road gave way to cordwood and then to a dirt track. They crossed a flat landscape of birch woods and grasses as high as a man’s waist, their faces and clothes spattered with mud. Early evening, as the light began to fade, the captain called a halt.
While the Antrustions unloaded the carts, erected the tents and tethered and watered the horses, Ascha and the captain talked. The captain was in his late thirties and came from Cambarac. He was aloof, like all Antrustions, but Ascha no longer cared. The captain had served under Bauto, and they had friends in common. That night Ascha ate roast lamb, sizzling hot from the fire, and listened to the rasping double-call of the corncrakes in the marshes.
The young nobleman ate alone in his tent, attended only by his servant.
‘Got his nose so far up his own arse, he thinks he’s Roman,’ the captain grumbled.
Ascha awoke to the roll of thunder, a distant rumble, coming closer. With a jolt, he recognized the sound of hooves, of horsemen riding at the gallop. He heard shouts and cries of alarm. Rolling to the end of the tent, he stuck his head out into a swirl of noise. Antrustions were spilling from the tents, barefoot and bareheaded. He saw the captain, sword drawn, bellowing orders.
‘Quickly! Form up on me!’
The attackers were darkly bearded and carried lances and curved bows. They galloped through the camp, shrieking strange and high-pitched cries. As he watched, an Antrustion pitched forward with an arrow in his chest, buried almost to the fletching. The riders came in fast, twisting in the saddle to fire their bows and leaning out to slash and thrust. The Franks grabbed spears and shields and ran to meet them. A rider thrust a lance into an Antrustion’s belly and rode on while the Frank screamed and writhed. Another Frank stumbled. Immediately, one of the strangers dragged his pony to a stop, bent on a bow, and shot the Frank where he lay.
Ascha ducked back inside the tent. He picked up his seaxe, stuffed it into his belt and scrambled out the back. He heard the drumming of hooves behind him. One of the riders had seen him and was coming for him. No time to hide. He ran at a crouch through the long grass. Glancing back, he saw the rider looming over him, heard the pony’s juddering breath, and threw himself to the side as a lance rammed into the turf by his ear. He rolled into a ditch and quickly scrambled away. Far off he could hear shouts and yells, the crash of iron on iron. The Antrustions were trying to form a shield wall and he could hear their excited cries.
‘They’re coming in again!’
‘Stay close. Keep those shields up!’
‘They’re trying to get behind us
‘On your left, Edgar! Watch that bastard!’
He poked his head up and saw the rider probing for him in the long grass with a tufted lance, dragging the horse round in its own length, his feet held by strange leather straps. He waited until the man’s back was turned and then climbed out of the ditch and crawled through the grass towards the rider.
The stranger had a squat build and wore a quilted coat, belted at the waist, a short hareskin cloak and a pointed cap with a fur rim. He could smell his sweat. Ascha drew his long knife. He took another quick look and then got to his feet, reached up and seized the man’s belt and heaved. With a grunt of surprise, the rider crashed to the ground, one foot still held by a strap of twisted leather. Ascha grabbed a fistful of greasy hair, pulled back the head and stroked his blade through the man’s throat.
He looked up, panting.
No-one had seen him.
He checked the rider’s weapons. Apart from the lance, the man had a belly knife, an axe and a small leather-covered shield. A powerfully-curved and horn-tipped bow stood in a holster behind the saddle with a quiver of arrows. Grabbing the bow, Ascha yanked at the thongs holding the quiver and raced towards the camp.
The riders were milling, preparing to come in again. He could see the Franks standing shoulder to shoulder in a tight knot of overlapping shields, those with shields holding them over those without, spears flickering like an adder’s tongue. The captain stood in the front rank, shouting commands. Ascha glanced around. Already more than half the Franks were dead or badly injured.
He knelt and notched an arrow. He aimed for a rider on the edge of the group and pulled. The bow required all his strength to draw. Gritting his teeth, he released too soon and saw the arrow fly over the man’s head.
Slow down, damn you! The rider had heard the whisper of the passing arrow and was looking over his shoulder, squinting into the trees. Ascha fitted another shaft, drew, held his breath – and released. The arrow thudded into the man’s lower back. He threw up both arms and slid to the ground. Ascha saw the riders turn and their eyes lift.
Quick now! Heart pounding, he notched another arrow.
One of the riders pointed at him with his lance.
A storm of high-pitched yipping and then they spurred and came for him.
He pulled the bowstring to his ear.
A dull thrummm as the bowstring thwacked against his arm. The shaft caught the lead rider under the chin, angling up under the base of the skull. The man’s head exploded in
a welter of blood and bone. He rose from the saddle, both arms spread wide, and hit the ground with a loud thump.
Two riders peeled off. The third kept coming. Ascha drew another arrow. It’s him or me, he thought. He heard the drumming of hooves and saw the pony’s flared nostrils, the point of the lance floating towards him. He waited until he was sure, and fired.
The man ducked and Ascha saw his shaft disappear into the trees.
Cursing, he threw aside the bow and ran for the Franks’ shield hedge. He heard the riders yipping and spurring their mounts to try and cut him off. The Franks were cheering, waving him on. He heard the captain’s bellow, ‘C’mon man, C’mon!’
A quick look back, they were gaining, closing the distance. Panic squeezed his insides. He ran faster, crashing through the dew-soaked grass, feeling the sawing rasp of his own breath and the fluttery tickle between his shoulder blades where at any moment he expected to feel the bite of the horseman’s lance. He yelled with fear and anger and then willing hands were grabbing his shirt and hair and dragging him bodily through the shield wall.
He tripped and fell headlong, a pony almost on top of him. The pony refused the Franks’ spears and shied. An Antrustion rammed a lance in its chest and it screamed, throwing its rider. The captain’s sword swept and the man’s face was a crimson mask.
‘Don’t think that bastard will try that again,’ the captain said.
‘Look!’ someone shouted. ‘Over there.’
They looked round, and Ascha held his breath. The riders had found the young nobleman. Alone in his tent, the boy had been cut off and was trying to hide beneath a wagon, but the riders had seen him and were circling, yipping their strange cries. The youth was plainly terrified and scrabbled backwards, trying to worm his way into cover.
Two riders leapt from their ponies, grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him out, bawling like a calf. The young Frank got to his feet and tried to run. A rider tossed a lance that pierced the boy’s thigh and he fell. The riders gathered like wolves around a lamb. The Frank knew what was coming and his wail was piteous. The riders let him sob and then they killed him, thrusting down with their lances as the boy wriggled and screamed in the grass.
The Franks watched in silence as one of the riders dismounted and with a single downcut took the young Frank’s head and held it up for all to see. The rider leapt back onto his pony. He rode over the boy’s headless body and then with a final whoop, the riders thundered off, taking their wounded and the boy’s head with them.
There was a quaking silence.
The Franks turned and looked at each other.
‘Close enough?’ said an Antrustion with a grin.
‘Close enough,’ Ascha agreed.
Afterwards the Antrustions went among the enemy dead, cutting off the ears of those they had killed. They mutilated the bodies, disembowelling and slashing them to ribbons, and then rolled them into a ditch and left them to rot. They gathered up their dead, including the young Frank, wrapped them in blankets and laid their bodies on the grass. While some of the Franks dug a shallow pit, the others went into the trees to cut timber. They came out dragging logs of oak and ash and stacked them in the pit until they were shoulder-high, filling the spaces with brushwood and dead branches.
When the pyre was ready the Antrustions spread a blanket and sat cross-legged, dividing up their friends’ weapons and personal things, and the ears of their dead enemies. Then they got to their feet, lifted the bodies and laid them on the pyre. One of their number approached Ascha, knuckling his forehead and clearing his throat.
‘What is it?’
‘Lord, me and the lads was wonderin’ if you was a Tiw-believer.’
‘Why?’
‘We’d like you to say a few words for our brothers,’ the Antrustion jerked his head toward the dead Antrustions lying face up on the logs.
The captain turned away with a scowl on his face, angry he’d not been asked.
Ascha gave it a moment’s thought. His mother believed in the Christian Tree-God and his father was a Tiw-believer. In exile he’d learnt not to rely on the gods; his life would only change if he changed it for himself, but now he nodded and said, ‘I would be happy to.’
He spoke as Hanno would have spoken. He said the prayer for the dead and expressed the hope that Tiw would accept these brave men into the afterlife. They were true friends and loyal to their Overlord. They had fought well and died with honour. When he was finished, the Antrustions were subdued. They bowed their heads, nodded their thanks and turned away. The captain threw a blanket over the bodies to spare the Antrustions the sight of their friends burning and then took a fire tool from his belt-pouch, struck a flame and lit some dry moss which he stuffed deep into the pyre’s underbelly. The men watched in silence as the flames roared through the dry brushwood, pushing gouts of thick black smoke into the sky.
‘We should go,’ the captain said. He picked up the young nobleman’s blue cloak, unpinned the gold brooch and slipped it into his tunic. ‘I’ll keep this for the boy’s father,’ he said.
Ascha said not a word. None of his business what the Franks did with their dead.
‘Who were they?’ he said. The pyre was burning strongly and they both stepped back from the heat.
The captain shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They looked like Easterners, probably Alani.’
Alani? Apart from Tchenguiz he knew no Easterners, but then he remembered Fara’s man, Gibuld. Was he an Alan?
He was mulling this over when the captain said, ‘You know it was you they were after.’
Ascha looked at him. ‘Why would they want to kill me?’
‘They assumed you would be a young well-dressed nobleman. They killed the boy thinking he was you.’
Ascha creased his brow. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Someone suspected you might be murdered on the road and sent that lad along as a decoy.’
‘He was killed for me?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
The wind gusted and the leaves blew high, swirled and fell and rose again. The funeral fire burnt steadily, the logs charring and gently collapsing. As the Franks turned away and made ready to leave, Ascha went over what had happened. Who would attack a troop of Antrustions to kill him? And who could have sent the young nobleman as a decoy? He rubbed his face and shook his head, unable to make sense of it all.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said soberly. ‘If I had been travelling alone, I would not have survived. It’s a pleasure to be under your command.’
The captain gave him a strange look. ‘Under my command? I have orders to escort you to Thraelsted to confirm the Saxon fleet and then we are at your disposal until the fleet leaves.’
‘You mean you are under my command?’
The captain waggled his head. ‘You seem to have become a valuable property, Saxon,’ the Frank said with a wolfish smile. ‘And the Overlord doesn’t want you dead. At least, not yet.’
22
They reached the castellum on the evening of the following day as the sun set behind the town. A fresh breeze swirled about, and they could smell the tang of the sea.
Octha came to meet them, hurrying down the steps as soon as he heard the horses clattering into the courtyard. Ascha slid off his horse and ran to the wall. He sighed with relief when he saw that the Saxon fleet was still there, scores of them dotting the bay and the inner roads of the river mouth. The wounded Franks he had sent back to Tornacum in the cart, but he had pressed the rest hard, determined to get to Thraelsted before the fleet sailed. He knew that only by seeing the Saxon long ships would the Franks be convinced the fleet existed.
‘What happened?’ Octha said.
‘We were attacked on the road,’ Ascha said.
‘Attacked, who by?’
Ascha shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but the Captain thinks they were Alani.’
‘But there are no Alani this side of the Rhine. And how could they have known where you would be?’
A
scha looked at him. ‘You knew, old man,’ he said.
‘You think I had something to do with this?’ Octha shouted. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’
Ascha led his horse off towards the stables. He had to admit it was unlikely the merchant was involved. To take him out of slavery and then arrange for him to be killed didn’t make sense, but someone had wanted him dead. Ascha handed Tchenguiz the horse’s reins and gave him the bow and quiver. The Hun ran a loving hand over the bow’s bellied curves. He drew a red-hackled arrow from the quiver and then pushed it back and grunted his thanks.
The Franks climbed the steps and went inside the house, filling the room with their big bodies and loud voices. Slaves scurried to bring beer and prepare food. Octha bustled, clapping backs and pumping hands, welcoming the Franks to his home. Every so often he looked up and glared at Ascha.
Ascha sighed. Maybe, he’d spoken too harshly.
Lucullus appeared at his side. ‘So you’re back then?’ he said with a sly grin. His eyes dropped to the ring Clovis had given him and the leather purse on Ascha’s belt.
Ascha wasn’t in the mood for the Gaul’s clever remarks. He looked for the girl. At first he couldn’t see her, and then she was there and he realized how much he had missed her. She seemed surprised to see so many men. She brushed a heavy fall of hair from her face and greeted them warmly. Ascha looked at her, and she at him and he thought he saw in her eyes, if not on her lips, the suggestion of a smile, but he could not be sure.
The old woman, Femke, came with an armful of bread and a big pot of herb relish and laid them on the table. Two slaves entered carrying a cask of beer. The Franks dragged benches to the table, took spoons from their boots and began to eat, using the bread to scoop up relish and cramming it down their throats with blind-eyed pleasure.
Octha sat beside Ascha and the captain. He smiled as if wanting to put aside their recent spat and said, ‘The Overlord believed you?’
Ascha nodded. ‘The Franks have raised the levy,’ he said, and felt a thrill of excitement just saying the words. Briefly, he recapped for the merchant what had happened at the Council meeting.
