by Katy Moran
The smell of stale human bodies is everywhere, too: I have not seen a single bath-house yet. I long to rest in a pool of warm, steaming water and have the oil and muck scraped from my skin, but I’d lay anyone a handful of coin that won’t happen in this barbarian straggle of hovels.
The streets are getting wider, the crowd fuller – it is like fighting my way through a rushing river of folk. It’s not like at home, where I could slide and sneak, knowing the streets and alleys like the veins on the back of my hand. I have not seen anything that looks like a church since I set foot in this mud-ridden city of wood and crumbling stone.
At home, the Great Palace can be seen from almost anywhere in the city, and far does its shadow fall, but I have seen no such thing here. Is there a king of Londinium? Where does he live? Maybe the chief is not taking me for a hostage after all, and I am going to be sold as a slave anyhow. But I’ve not laid eyes on a market yet, either. Now the people seem to be getting fewer, and the grey sky shifts and spits down rain that lands in my eyes when I look up. I’ve not seen rain like this before – it’s falling thick and solid: what’s left of my rags is soaked, and my hair is sticking to my face. It’s easier to walk now the rain softens the mud, though, and the sickness of being on land instead of the sea is fading.
And then, without a word to me, the chief suddenly wheels off to one side into a straw-blasted, mud-splattered courtyard, yanking me after him towards a gate in a high wooden fence. A couple of tall, bored-looking men stand on either side – both have long, straggling beards and are leaning on their spears. Hardly seeming to move, they slowly straighten when they see us approach, fingers closing around the hilts of narrow daggers sheathed at their belts, and I know that I could very easily lose my life here in this barbarian midden-heap. I wonder what trade the chief has had before in this place where they’d kill you without even thinking on it.
Giving the rope a sharp tug that wrenches my shoulders and makes me want to shriek, the chief turns and says, “Stow your gab if you value your life, little thief-boy.”
He needn’t warn me: I know when’s best to keep words the right side of my teeth. The chief strides up to the gate, and the rich red of his brocade cloak is bright against the mud and greyness.
The chief says something to the guards that I can’t unravel. It sounds like garbled Anglish – do the folk here speak differently from my father and mother? Maybe the chief has northern blood in him, too, or does he just make it his trade to talk in as many tongues as he can? Most likely they’ll just laugh at him – a jumped-up little slave trader striding up to their gate; in Constantinople the chief would be sent on his way before he had even time to blink.
But one of the guards is nodding, all slow and steady, and I wonder if he has seen the chief before, and what other trade this seller of human flesh might ply. The selling of news, perhaps?
The guards draw back, and we are through into another courtyard, a smaller one this time. A pair of tethered horses pull pale scraps of hay from a muddy pile in the corner. I remember our own stable at home, before Zeus and Ares were sold, and I have to look away and stare at the chief’s flapping red cloak as he strides towards a high-walled wooden building, slumped at the far end of the yard. This door is manned as well, but the guard just stands back to let us through, swapping a few muttered words with the chief that don’t carry any meaning to me. Who is behind these walls? Who will I be sold to?
“Sanctus here?” says the chief. Again, it sounds not quite like Anglish, but I can still see his meaning, I think. But who is Sanctus? The name sounds Roman. Doesn’t it mean “the Holy One”?
The guard, who gazes straight ahead, his eyes only once flicking towards us, replies in that mangled-up Anglish, “Himself and the Devil’s Cub.” Can I have taken that aright? The Holy One and the Devil’s Cub? I must be half-crazed to have started this – I ought to have let them sell me as a slave: I am the Ghost – I need not have been a captive long. Oh, for the love of God, why did I begin this game of hostages? This time tomorrow I might have been free, but now it looks as though I bargained with my life when I showed the chief my gold ring.
“The Devil’s Cub, so?” says the chief quietly, and he nods to the guard who steps back to let us through. I wish the chief were not smiling. I do not like it at all. I follow the chief into a high wooden hall, a forest of pillars writhing with carvings – beasts and birds and trees and men, all twisted and toiling together, riven deep into the wood. The shapes remind me of the pattern on the scabbard of my father’s sword, and I feel another twist of longing that sucks the breath from my body. It is so smoky in here I can scarce see the shadowy figures of the chief and the guard – more of a boy, if truth be told – who met us on the way in. Flaming torches mounted on the walls send leaping shadows across the floor. I feel wooden boards beneath my mud-clagged feet, and the filth drying on my bare legs makes me want to scratch. I shall never suffer myself to be bound again, not by any man. I should rather die.
We have stopped. Again, there is talk I cannot quite hear nor make sense of, and the boy who led us in walks off, looking at me up and down as he goes. I am but a slave in rags. Who am I to be in his hall? I see the thoughts as clearly as if he had just spoken, and I have to swallow my shame and the thirsting need to hammer him in the face. As if I could, trussed like this.
“Come forward, brat,” the chief says in Greek, and I am shoved into the firelight. A handful of men and one woman sit on benches by the blaze. A thick silence has fallen.
The woman lifts her head and gazes at me, dark-eyed. Her hair hangs in heavy braids over her shoulders; it looks like plaited black glass. “What means this, Sanctus?” she says. Her Anglish is clearer, easier to follow than the others’.
One of the men shrugs – he is old, much older than my father, maybe nearer the same age as Achaicus Dassalena. He wears a crucifix around his neck, a rough thing it is, hewn from wood. “I know nothing of it,” he says, “but it looks as though the good Lord has brought us a child.”
Now they are all staring at me – except one of the men, who gazes into the fire, fiddling impatiently with a dagger. He keeps pulling it from its sheath and trying the edge against his thumb. Dark hair spills forward, hiding most of his face, but in the firelight I can just make out the freckles spattering his cheeks.
“Well, trader?” says the woman. “What have you to do here with this child? He is not one of mine.”
“I bring you a hostage, my lady.” The chief seems very sure of himself.
The woman raises an eyebrow, and holds up her hand as one of the other men laughs. “Be quiet for once in your life, Helm,” she says, and levels her gaze upon the chief. “A hostage? But the child is no more than a ragged little slave, God preserve his soul. Why do you not stick to your trade and not bother us with these games?”
My heart is thumping and despite the damp chill, which the fire seems barely to cut through, I feel a trickle of sweat slide down my face.
The chief tugs the rope binding my wrists and pulls me close, gripping my aching shoulder with one hand. With the other he digs into the goatskin bag at his belt and brings forth the ring, letting it dangle in the firelight at the end of its leather thong.
At the sight of it, the air in the hall thickens still more. The gold draws them all up in their seats, straight as arrow shafts. It is as if this tiny, shining loop of metal has tugged each one of them sharply out of sleep. Even the dark-haired man leaves go his dagger and lets it sit in his lap as he stares first at the ring, then at me. His eyes rest on me a moment, and he shakes his head slightly as if he is befuddled with wine.
The one called Helm speaks in a dry, rasping voice. “Where did you steal that gold from, trader?” he demands. “How dare you come in here and try to fox us with thieved treasure and some brat from your slave boat—”
“Peace, brother,” says Sanctus.
Helm looks away sharply. He hates the old man, I can tell. He thinks him weak, soft like a woman. For that matter,
he does not think the lady should be here stirring things up, either. It is writ all over his face, and the way he turns his body away from her when he speaks.
“What is the tale behind this?” Sanctus says to the chief.
The woman’s eyes linger on my face. I do not like this: I feel as though she looks at me but sees another.
“The child was sold to me in Constantinople,” the chief says. “But I did not learn who he claims to be till we reached your shores, and this ring was found in his keeping.” He shrugs lightly. “How can I tell whether to believe him or not when he says he’s a Serpent-child? But I thought you, my lords, would as lief know he was here. If the child lies, take my sorrow for having broken in on your talk.”
My ring dangles in the firelight, swinging gently from the leather string.
“A Northumbrian royal brat in Constantinople?” says the man seated by Helm. They are very like, fair with high-coloured cheeks; I wonder if they are brothers. “Come, are we to believe this?”
“Step over here, child.” The dark-haired, freckled man speaks for the first time. He picks up the dagger again, running the blade against his forefinger.
The chief shoves me forward, and I stumble.
The man reaches out and steadies me, then turns my face to the firelight. His touch is light. “Let me see that ring,” he says, taking it from the chief.
The woman lets out a sharp breath. “But look at him, Wulf,” she whispers. “Look at his eyes.”
Wulf. What did Mama say the day Tasik left for the desert? Oh, Essa, you and that wolf and your rings! But what if she didn’t speak of a beast but a man—
“I see it.” He lets me go, sliding the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. It sits on top of another which shines there, glittering in the leaping firelight. The leather string hangs down between his fingers. “They call me Wulfhere the Devil’s Cub, atheling of Mercia,” he says, “but what name do you go by, child?”
Once I was the Ghost, but no longer. My throat is tight and I cannot breathe aright. “Cai.” It comes out in a whisper.
The Devil’s Cub glances sharply at the woman who is now resting her hand on his knee as she leans forward to look at me. I wonder if she is his wife, or if she is paid good coin for her beauty and her opinions. “Well, Cai, what is your father’s name” – his voice cracks a little – “and where is he now? Constantinople? How did you come to be here?”
It’s him, Tasik’s friend. It must be.
I stare at the ring and hear Tasik’s words echoing in my mind: It was given me by a dear friend, and we each spared the life of the other, so it holds power. Everyone around this fire is staring at me; I feel the heat of their gaze.
“Do you not talk when I have commanded it?” The Devil’s
Cub speaks softly, but there is something in his voice that sends cold fear right through me.
“My father’s name was Essa,” I say, much louder than I meant to. “And he’s in the next world because I killed him.”
I HAD NOT expected the Devil’s Cub to laugh.
The rest of them stared at me as though I were something that had crawled up from beneath the floorboards, but this atheling of Mercia or whoever he is let out a great crack of laughter and sat there shaking with it; more than a few moments passed before he could speak again, and I thought he had given up his wits.
“My dear child,” he said. “Your father could not be killed by the whole of the Mercian army, nor all of the Northumbrian court, nor even by falling headlong off a horse, as I recall, so I should like to know how a skinny wretch like you might be the end of him.” He turned to the chief. “What price do you ask for this child?”
Twenty gold Francian coins the Devil’s Cub paid for me, tumbled out of a leather bag.
That was the cost of my life, and now the chief is gone. I know not why, but I am sorry: he is one more person I will never see again, just like my family, Demos the charioteer, Amin, Yannis my kind old tutor, Sia, the Emperor of Thieves, Iskendar, Niko, and even Thales the Knife.
“You are lucky, little witch-boy,” said the chief, looking down on me before he left with his coin. For a moment he almost smiled. “May chance stay on your side.” And then he went, leaving me here in this dark, smoky hall: my last link to the Empire, to the Queen of Cities, broken and gone.
Wulf turned to the woman, grinning. “What says your Christian God to this, Anwen, my love? If this is not the wyrd, the working of fate, I know not what is – Essa’s child, here in my hall.”
I did not miss the look Helm shot to his brother: I am sure they mean no good towards me, those two.
“Who does the child belong to, then?” Helm said sharply. “One of Godsway’s brats? Surely not. We all know Northumbria’s twain down the middle like a split log since Godsway came to the throne. Which of the two parts does this brat belong to, Bernicia or Deira?”
“Both. His grandmother was the niece of Edwin, who held all the north as one, and was High King of this land when you were still puking in your cradle. Elfgift has had two brothers on the throne of Northumbria as well as her uncle. Her brother Godsway sits there now, High King over us all.” Wulf looked at me and smiled, showing sharp white teeth. “Half Godsway’s own kingdom have turned their backs on him, but who knows, Helm, maybe such a child as this would be prized high enough by Bernicia and Deira alike. Who are we to judge northern tastes?”
How is it that this stranger knows more of my kin than I do? Can he truly have known Tasik? Does he mean I’m of royal blood? I thought the Devil had forgot me, but it seems I still have all his luck on my side.
“Who knows, indeed,” Helm said, sour-faced, “but like as not you’ll find a way to work it to your profit. You already have Godsway’s son as your hostage.”
Wulf paid him no heed, but smiled at me. “Did your father never tell you how your kinsmen rule as the greatest in Britain, high kings over all her realms?”
I shook my head. Why did they never speak of this, Ma and Tasik? I should not have even cared when I was lord over the City of the Rising Moon whether I was bound by blood to some barbarian king, but now it seems strange, how close-mouthed they were about the past. How might this news serve me?
“What do you mean to do with the child, my lord?” said Sanctus, the old man. “Elfgift still lives, does she not, with the holy men at Bedricsworth? Ought you not to turn him over to his grandmother and the monks, and let him be cared for by God, or do you mean him to be used as a gaming-piece against Godsway and the Northumbrians?”
He has courage, that old man, but I have never liked being spoken of as if I am not there. “I’m no man’s gaming-piece,” I said, before I had the sense to stop myself.
Anwen arched a black eyebrow, and Wulf laughed again. “His father’s son, and no mistake,” he said. “But better my gaming-piece than yours, Sanctus. You might turn the child over to the monks, but I’d wager your brothers would sooner have him an arrow to a Saxon bow. What say you, Frith?”
The fair young man next to Helm bowed his head in a mocking salute. “My dear lord,” he said. “You know we are ever loyal to Mercia, and would never treat against you with anyone, Northumbrian or otherwise.”
Sanctus turned to Wulf. “I am King of the East Saxons,” he said, “and you know full well my folk are loyal to yours, Wulfhere. Your father is my overlord as the High King is his. The child is yours to do with as you will. I only speak of what is best for him.”
Wulf laughed once more – he seems to think everything funny. “I thank you, Sanctus,” he said. “Right deep I’ll sleep at night, knowing the truth of your loyalty.” Then he turned back to me. “Now do you tell me what really happened to your father, boy. He and I were friends long ago, and I still miss his company, for hard it is to escape flatterers and liars when you are the child of the most hated king in Britain.”
And I just stood there, the words dried-up husks stuck in my throat. I could not bring myself to speak of my shame, of how I did not reach Tasik
after Constans’s warning, and how I dreamed of his lifeless body bleeding in the courtyard, his throat cut.
“Surely I have not paid twenty Frankish coins for a boy who will not talk?” said Wulf, but he was not laughing any more.
“Leave him be, Wulf,” said Anwen, quietly. “Think on how the child came here; nothing good can have led to that.”
“Very well.” Wulf ran his finger along the dagger’s blade again. “But I will have the tale out of him one day. If Essa’s met his end, I would know how.”
The lady Anwen smiled at me. “Come, since we have parted with gold for you. Let me find something for you to wear. You can’t go about in rags, and you’re not much smaller than Cenry.”
I have lost the power of speech. I, the Ghost, who once could persuade the sun to march backwards across the sky, can no longer spit out a single word. I know not why – but I feel that if I open my mouth again, I shall spill the tale of how I betrayed my father, and I cannot bring myself to do it.
At least I am clean now. Anwen had a woman heat water for me, and when it was steaming, Anwen led me out into the courtyard and told me to strip off the rags while she poured bowl after bowl over my head till my hair dripped into my eyes and my whole body was running wet like a porpoise streaming along the Bosphorus, and the front of her gown was splashed. She seemed not to care about that: strange creatures, they are, these barbarian princes and princesses. Anwen gave me a scratchy woollen blanket to dry myself with, and glad I was she kept her tongue between her teeth and said nothing of the scars on my back where I was scourged on the oar benches, and nothing of my fleshless, bony body. Instead, she spoke of her son Cenry, who she told me was shooting arrows down at the butts, and her two little daughters, who she was missing dearly, for they’d been too young for the journey, and were at home on the farmstead.