Sharn coloured slightly. “Er … yes … it is as a matter of fact.”
“So your scheme is to carry on in heaven something tragically cut short on earth?” the priest boomed.
“Yes, that’s … pretty much the plan.” Sharn glanced around for the nearest exit, as other worshippers peered around to see what had provoked the priest. “I better be going I think,” he said as he scrambled to his feet.
“What is your name?” the priest’s voice boomed out again, as Sharn made for the door. Sharn turned and told him his name.
“And what is the name of your girlfriend?”
“Fritha,” Sharn replied.
“I will pray that you and Fritha meet again one day. Go in peace, Sharn.”
Sharn smiled as he walked out into the noisy street once more, colliding with a grape-seller, as the glare of the sun blinded him. Sharn bought the squashed bunches of grapes from the angry hawker to shut him up and walked home, spitting out the pips.
CHAPTER 27
LOVE IS STRONGER THAN DEATH
The next day while Seth was supervising Sharn’s reading lessons, a messenger arrived with an invitation.
“Good old Axis. Still outrageous after all these years.”
“Who’s Axis?” asked Sharn, laying aside a book of Cicero’s speeches he was struggling with.
“He used to be the most feared gladiator in Rome. He won his freedom entertaining the crowds for twenty years – and he’s invited me to a party. Would you like to come?”
“I thought you didn’t like parties?”
“I don’t normally, but I’m the unofficial surgeon to the gladiators, and there’s to be a bout. It’s my job to patch them up if it’s a friendly fight, and pronounce them dead if it isn’t. And I’m Axis’s personal physician as well. Join me.”
“Maybe I’ll just stay home and read.”
“It’ll do you good to get out of the house. You’re becoming morbid … and I don’t like you sniffing around that Christian place.”
“I’m just researching the field,” Sharn equivocated.
“Reading Lucretius or Epicurus is researching the field – going to church is slumming it.”
“So do we have to get dressed up?” Sharn said changing the subject.
As Sharn mounted the broad marble steps in a new toga he had bought for the occasion, he could already hear loud music and the surge of excited chatter. A servant hastened forward and asked their names.
“I’m Seth the physician,” Seth announced, “and this is my assistant, Sharn.”
The servant bowed and led them inside. Sharn almost reeled back from the gust of body heat and wine fumes which greeted them as they entered the hall.
There were about thirty people reclining on couches, eating and drinking and laughing, completely drowning out the three musicians who were struggling to entertain them. Axis was in pride of place on a raised dais at one end of the room. He shouted out when he saw Seth and waved them over to join his table.
Axis shook Sharn’s hand when they were introduced. Despite his age and obesity, Sharn could tell he had been strong in his heyday – his grip was still rock hard. Axis clapped his hands and the servants brought more food and drink. As they were settling in, Sharn marvelled at the huge number of scars the veteran gladiator had on his arms and head, and one ear and part of his nose were missing.
Axis proposed a toast. “To the Roman Empire. Long may it keep me in good food, good drink and bad girls.” He laughed uproariously, guzzled his goblet of wine and made a grab for the nearest slave girl.
Sharn was so intrigued at the odd assembly of people, he was not paying attention to how many times the servants topped up his drink and soon the room began to tilt and wobble, so he turned the cup upside down to indicate he didn’t want any more.
Axis leaned over to Seth and told him he needed some medicine to stop his heart beating so fast. Seth thought a better idea was for Axis to stop gorging himself and go to bed.
“And miss the main attraction,” Axis bellowed.
Seth asked Sharn to find a small flask in his bag. Sharn located it quickly and passed it on to Axis. Axis tipped the liquid down his throat and grimaced. “I’ve got a good mind to have you beaten for such a foul mixture,” he griped to Seth.
But in a short time, the old gladiator felt better and levered himself to his feet to address his guests. “My friends, I hope you have enjoyed yourself so far.”
There was raucous agreement and good-natured heckling.
“To round off this wonderful evening I have a surprise for you. It is a fight to the death between a Pescator and a mystery gladiator. Please follow me.”
Axis led the way from the dining hall out through the colonnades to a large garden, lit by torches set in the stucco walls. The uncertain light and the wine Sharn had drunk made the darkness beat on his eyeballs.
Axis clapped his hands and the Pescator strode into the garden, carrying his trident and net. He was a tall, heavily muscled man and treated the crowd to a quick-fire preview, flicking the net out and landing it neatly anywhere he wanted; and he was fast with the trident, too – thrusting, twirling, feinting.
Suddenly people started to laugh and Sharn followed their gesticulations. The Pescator’s opponent had entered the arena – it was a slim youth who must have weighed about half what his opponent did, and, strangely, carried no weapon.
The Pescator looked at him and sniffed derisively. “Axis, give me an adversary worthy of my skills. Not some whelp with his mother’s milk still wet on his lips.”
“Well, finish him off quickly so we can all get back to the wine,” Axis goaded him.
As the Pescator shrugged and advanced, the youth stood perfectly still and watched him approach. There were some mutterings in the crowd that it was an unfair contest and would not provide good sport. “What’s he going to fight with?” somebody shouted. “Give him a weapon,” somebody else agreed.
The Pescator threw out his net to ensnare the youth, but the youth avoided it with a fast side step. The Pescator was surprised at how easily he did this – the big man had expected a quick victory. He eyed the youth sourly, now standing just out of range.
The net billowed out again, and again the youth eluded it. And again, and once again the youth was not where the Pescator calculated he would be. He grunted with annoyance and tried another tack. He feinted with the net to draw the youth and then jabbed out savagely with the trident. The youth must have read the Pescator’s ruse and sprang back out of touch, but as he was doing so he hit the Pescator with his right hand, a raking expert swipe. It didn’t seem like a heavy blow but it stunned the bigger man for a second and he shook his head like a bewildered bull, blood spraying from his nose. The youth stood coolly, waiting for the Pescator’s next move.
The spectators were agog at the nonchalance of the youth, but then they gasped as he seemed to trip on the uneven paving near a large ornamental pool. He cowered and made himself as small a target as possible as the Pescator rushed upon him.
What exactly took place next happened too fast to be seen clearly, but it was obvious the youth’s stumble had been a ploy. Jack-knifing to his feet, he was magically behind his rushing assailant. He assisted the Pescator’s charge with a delicate push and the Pescator was suddenly airborne, but not before the youth somehow tangled him in his own net. The big gladiator hurtled into the pond with a huge splash.
He came up roaring his outrage and flailing about with his trident. The youth jumped into the water and looped the net over him every time he looked as if he might escape, like a spider wrapping its web around an insect bigger than itself. The Pescator was in a fury and this was making him clumsy. The youth looked set to humiliate him completely, but then the Pescator got lucky. He wasn’t even really aiming – he was trying to balance himself – but the blunt end of the trident caught the youth on the temple and he went down into the water. The crowd groaned … but the youth bobbed up again. Coughing and spluttering, he paus
ed for a moment to collect himself then made his way to the edge of the pool and collapsed on the grass. The crowd screamed for him to get up.
The Pescator now reached down, pulled a knife from his greave and started slashing at the net, as the youth lay dazed on the grass. Then the Pescator climbed out of the water, bits of weed and net still sticking to him, blood streaming out his nose.
He slipped the knife back into his greave and stood over the youth, braying with triumph. He raised his trident high so it glistened in the torchlight and rammed it downwards towards his defenceless opponent. At the last split second, the youth rolled forward between the Pescator’s legs, collecting the knife from the greave on the way through.
The crowd was like one large animal in its roar of approval … but Sharn was not shouting. He was struck dumb, as his mind grappled with an unbelievable thought.
He had seen somebody fight like this before. There was the same unblinking watchfulness, the same delay to the last possible second, the same nerveless stillness exploding into thought-fast action.
This was how Fritha fought.
The Pescator was still tugging at his trident stuck fast in the lawn when the youth now behind him sliced his hamstrings with two passes of the knife. With an agonised roar, the Pescator crumpled to his knees.
Sharn craned forward, his belly liquefying with nerves, to get a closer look at the youth, but the flickering torches created too much shadow.
“Kill him!” Kill him!” the crowd howled.
But the youth did not oblige. He pulled the trident out of the lawn. The Pescator now gazed up in terror at his weapon and its new owner, but the youth did not approach him – he crossed the grass to stand in front of Axis. He threw the trident and the knife on the ground at Axis’s feet, the crowd applauding his gallantry. He stood there, reed slender in the torchlight, as Axis waddled over and embraced him.
Now that the youth had moved closer, Sharn was growing more certain that it was Fritha. He still could not make out her features, but the set of the body and the defiant jut of her chin were telltale.
“Fritha,” he called out.
The youth’s head jerked up and orientated to Sharn. It was when the face escaped entirely from the shadows that Sharn was completely sure. Fritha walked tentatively towards him, peering through the flicker and shaking her head.
She stopped in front of Sharn, reached out and touched his cheek, delicately as if she was afraid he would vanish, and made her noise of greeting.
The crowd had grown silent. The only sound was of the Pescator’s groans as Seth attended to his slashed sinews. Axis and the revellers stared at Fritha and Sharn as they clung together.
All the loneliness and despair and sorrow and hurt and fear, all the endless nights and hopeless days were over. They held on to each other, as the world drained away.
CHAPTER 28
MIRACLES
Sharn started awake, as if a great wind was blasting through him, and lay still, trying to knit his ragged thoughts together. Something huge had happened, something so big, so unexpected, so unlikely that it must surely have been a dream; but when he turned his head to find Fritha’s only inches from his own, he knew it wasn’t.
A big moon hovered outside the window and Sharn studied Fritha’s features in its glow. Yes, it was the same face he had kissed before, but it was different too.
There were tiny creases at the corners of her eyes, as if she had stared into a lot of bad weather, and the corners of her mouth had become more deeply etched as if she had found more to frown about.
He didn’t want this moment to end. In some ways he wished the fat yellow moon would fall on top of them and crush them into one lump of flesh so that they could remain like this forever – face to face, breath-close, dawn to come.
Sharn tried to figure out how this stupefying thing had come about. Cumbria told him she had prayed that Fritha would find eternal life, but that assumed that Fritha was dead. Did Cumbria’s prayers somehow resurrect Fritha in this life? And the priest had prayed that they would meet again – did this do the trick? Or was it because Sharn had yearned for her so much, his longing had somehow reached into the machine of fate and pushed a lever.
Fritha’s eyes suddenly blinked open and she frowned as she too struggled to come to grips with what had happened. And then she smiled – a slightly twisted smile as if her lips tugged at scar tissue.
Fritha moved her face across the pillow and kissed Sharn hesitantly, and, still thunderstruck, they drew together. Sharn offered up a prayer, thanking whichever god it was that stayed his hand from suicide. It would have been such a pity to leave the story halfway through, because he would never have got to find out that it had a happy ending. It’s such a sweet old world, he thought as he enclosed Fritha in his arms.
Sharn left Fritha dozing and went into the living area to boil some water. Seth was reading one of his medical books, and raised his eyes as Sharn put more twigs on the fire.
“Two certainly make more noise than one,” Seth said tartly.
“We had a lot of catching up to do,” Sharn said and concentrated on coaxing the kindling to catch.
Sharn waited for Seth to return to his reading then threw a glance at him, trying to assess his mood.
“Seth,” Sharn began, “I think I know your answer already but do … do you believe that prayer has any power at all?”
Seth stared at Sharn, as if he’d swallowed something sour, and his lips turned to string. “I believe in horse power and the power of the Roman legions, the power of medicines, the power of women to cause trouble – but I do not believe in the power of prayer. And anybody who does is a dunce … and if you bring nonsense like this up again, I’ll charge you rent for your room. Make that double rent for that little minx who’s joined us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a turn round the garden and possibly talk to the ass in the stables. I’ll expect a better class of conversation from him.”
Seth scrolled up his book, stood and stalked out. Sharn built the fire up and boiled some water. As he was pouring it on the mint leaves, Fritha walked in. She smiled at Sharn shyly.
They sat together at the table and sipped their tea. Sharn would have given everything he owned to find out where she had been and what she had done since the arrow passed through her.
He leaned forward. “I wish you could tell me what happened to you. I’ve wondered a hundred times a day.”
Fritha held him with a significant look and then smiled. Sharn was used to all her smiles, but there was something different about this one. He had seen one like it once before. He wracked his brains to remember where, and then it came to him. A magician had performed in the market place at Damnonium and just before his best trick he had flashed such a smile at the crowd.
Fritha put down her cup and reached for the wax tablet and stylus Seth always kept on the table. With a flourish of pride she started to write. And so Sharn came to learn in clumsy Latin what had befallen Fritha since that night of blood and death.
CHAPTER 29
FRITHA’S JOURNEY
The soldier came down into the ditch with his sword in his hand. I was so weak I couldn’t move. He was pulling my head back to cut my throat when a huge old wolf leapt out of the darkness and bowled him clean over. The soldier was on his feet in a second but the old wolf bared its fangs and snarled. Then three younger wolves joined him and they all stood guard over me. The soldier backed away, retreating towards the gate in the wall.
I knew I had nothing to fear because I had drunk wolf milk like them and it was the pattern of their teeth that formed the tattoos across my chest. The old wolf leaned down so I could grab hold of the folds of skin on his neck and he laboured up the steep bank. Luckily the grass was slippery with dew.
When we reached the road, I let go of the wolf’s neck and gave him a quick pat of thanks. Suddenly his hunger got the better of him and he lapped at the dried blood around the arrow hole.
But the sun was getting stronger and th
e other wolves were growing restless. The old wolf gave me one last look – then he led his brothers off into the forest.
A squealing axle sounded outside in the Roman street as Sharn stared down at the neat writing and then up at Fritha. He could hardly believe the astonishing story! But it wasn’t just the story; it was that Fritha was writing it down – covering the wax tablet with letters, and then smoothing them over with the spatula to start afresh, which she did now, to write, Sharn, I’m hungry.
Sharn went about preparing a lunch of olives and bread and cheese, moving between the bench and the table, as Fritha took up the story again.
I lay by the side of the road, my spirit drifting from my body. Eventually a tinker came along on his cart. He stopped and looked down at me. “I have a daughter of your age back in my country. May the gods look after her if I look after you.”
He lifted me onto his cart and laid me down amongst his mending tools. I travelled with the tinker to the coast. We stopped at villages on the way and he would mend pots and pans or sell cloth and ribbons to the housewives, sharing with me whatever he had to eat and drink.
Fritha laid aside her stylus as lunch came to the table. Sharn poured some olive oil over the bread and crumbled some cheese onto it, but his curiosity got the better of him and he asked her to continue as they ate. Fritha flexed her fingers to get the cramp out of them and picked up the stylus again.
We followed the river down to Londinium, where we made camp near the wharves. The tinker went round the ships’ galleys offering to mend their utensils and sharpen their knives.
One day we boarded a large merchant ship which was taking on cargo and passengers. Among them was a troupe of entertainers – singers, musicians, tumblers, jugglers and clowns. A man noticed me and started to make fun of me.
“Ah, I see one of the locals is pausing to absorb a bit of culture. What’s your name, barbarian?”
I turned my back on him. He made a grab for me but I was too quick. He swivelled around and snatched up a piece of wood. It missed me by miles. I stooped down, lifted one of his feet from the deck and tipped him over the side. There was applause from the onlookers. I smiled and bowed.
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