The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  THE HALF-SLAVE

  By

  Trevor Bloom

  A Hookline Favourite

  ‘I wholly enjoyed the fate of the hero with gripping situations and moral dilemmas.

  I found it increasingly hard to put down, burned a lot of midnight oil’.

  ‘A refreshing lack of idealization – even of the hero; I believed in the characters.’

  ‘I’d happily read the sequel!’

  Book group readers

  Hookline Books

  Bookline & Thinker Ltd

  Published by Hookline Books 2010

  Bookline & Thinker Ltd

  #231, 405 King’s Road

  London SW10 0BB

  Tel: 0845 116 1476

  www.booklinethinker.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in an information retrieval system (other than for the purposes of review) without the express permission of the publisher in writing.

  The right of Trevor Bloom to be indentified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  © Copyright 2009 Trevor Bloom

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 9780955563072

  Cover design by jameshollywell.com

  Printed and bound by Lightning Source UK

  For Emma and Nicky,

  with love

  Characters

  Saxons

  Aelfric: Ascha’s father, hetman of the Theodi

  Ascha: Theod, a half-slave

  Besso: Ascha’s uncle

  Budrum: Besso’s wife

  Saefaru: Wife of Wulfhere

  Hanno: Ascha’s brother

  Hroc: Ascha’s brother

  Radhalla: Warlord of the Cheruskkii

  Sigisberht: Nephew to Radhalla

  Totta: Blacksmith

  Tchenguiz: Hun slave

  Wulfhere: Ascha’s rival

  Romans/Gauls/Pritanni

  Herrad: Octha’s companion

  Flavinius: Counsellor to Clovis

  Rufus Basilicus: Roman auxiliary officer

  Syagrius: Governor of Roman Gaul

  Quintilius: Secretary to General Bauto

  Lucullus: High-born slave

  Franks

  Basinia: Queen, mother of Clovis

  Bauto: Frankish general

  Clovis: Overlord of the Franks

  Fara: Agent of Ragnachar

  Ragnachar: Uncle to Clovis

  Sunno: Antrustion

  Wacho: Boat master

  Others

  Eanmund: Half-Dane

  Gydda: Jute, friend of Ascha

  Kral: Slave master

  Octha: Frisian, merchant

  Eleri: House slave to Basinia

  Dagobert: Frisian, a Frankish agent

  Place names

  Andecavus Angers, France

  Arduenna Forest of Ardennes, Belgium

  Burdigala Bordeaux, France

  Cambarac Cambrai, France

  Colonia (Agrippina) Cologne, Germany

  Gallia Gaul, roughly modern France

  Gesoriac Boulogne, France

  Levefanum see Thraelsted

  Liger River Loire, France

  Lupia River Lippe, a tributary of the Rhine

  Moguntiac Mainz, Germany

  Noviomagus Nijmegen, Holland

  (Lutetia) Parisi Paris, France

  Pritannia Britain

  Radhallaburh Radhalla’s forest fortress

  Rotomagus Rouen, France

  Samara River Somme

  Samarobriva Amiens, France

  Schald River Schelde

  Thraelsted A slave market, also known as Levefanum

  Tornacum Tournai, Belgium, town of the Salt-Franks

  Viroviac Wervyk, Belgium

  Wisurg River Weser, Germany

  Glossary of Terms

  Alemani Germanic tribe

  Armorici Pritanni who fled from Britain to Gaul

  Alani Eastern tribe

  Almost-Island Jutland peninsular

  Bacaudae Lawless bands of slaves and poor peasants

  Burgundii Germanic tribe occupying part of Gallia

  Chaussi Saxon tribe

  Cheruskkii Saxon tribe

  Eostre Spring festival

  Faida Vengeance

  Franciska Frankish hatchet

  Gallia Gaul, roughly modern France

  Gesith War chief’s bodyguard

  Gesithman Member of war chief’s bodyguard

  Heruli Germanic tribe

  Hetman Tribal chieftain

  Mara Assembly area before hetman’s hall

  Mansio Inn

  Mischling Half-breed

  Pritanni Britons

  Scara Frankish army

  Seaxe Saxon long knife

  Spatha Long sword used by horse troops

  Suebi Germanic tribe

  Taifali Saxon tribe

  Tiw Northern god, as in Tuesday (Tiw’s day)

  Tiwfest Festival of Tiw

  Theodi Saxon tribe

  Vexillatio Roman troops detached from their parent unit

  Walesh A foreigner

  Northwest Europe, 481AD

  1

  Samarobriva, Roman Gaul 476 AD

  The boy sat in a tree high above the forest, his legs swinging. It was hot, the sky blue and without cloud. A fat bead of sweat slid down his neck like a sluggish insect. The boy wiped his eyes and scanned the horizon. He was numb and ached all over, his lower back stiff as a board, but he could not afford to relax. He was the look-out and knew the clan relied on him to keep them safe.

  He wet his lips and shifted his position, carefully stretching out one foot and then the other. He rolled his head to relieve the cramp in his neck.

  Once more he ran his eyes over the quivering plains.

  Nothing moved.

  Across the valley, he could see the Roman town of Samarobriva, a few rags of red smoke still hanging over the tiled roofs. Beyond the town, the stone road slashed north, disappearing into nothingness. Far above, buzzards wheeled in their constant search for prey. If he turned his head to the right he could see the tightly furled sail of the clan’s warboat SeaWulf moored on the river. He twisted and looked down. At the foot of the trees, the crew of the SeaWulf had stacked their weapons and lay sprawled in the shade, fast asleep.

  He listened; his ears keyed to the sounds of the forest, able to sift out anything untoward, the clank of shields and weapons, running feet.

  But he heard nothing.

  He drew a wooden carving from his tunic and began to scrape at it with a belly knife. He liked to carve. It passed the time and kept him awake. He would start with a chunk of wood and after a few days he would have a long-handled cup, or a longboat, or a wild animal. He held the carving up and studied it: a young woman with flowing hair and a gentle smile. A good likeness, he thought. He would give it to Saefaru when he went home. He was quiet for a moment, his mind far away. A week since the Theodi had left the homeland to go raiding and already it felt like a lifetime.

  He looked down at the sleeping men. The sun had moved and was burning him. Up in the trees it was so hot he could hardly breathe. The air was thick as honey and even the leaves smelled of sunlight. He felt his head nod and his eyes close and he jerked upright with a quick feeling of guilt. You must stay awake, he thought. You must! He lifted his flask, pulled the stopper with his teeth and rinsed his mouth out with water. Replacing the stopper, he looked up, his eyes travelling slowly from left to right across the plains.

 
He saw movement and stiffened. Hard to make out anything in the haze but then he saw it again, a flicker of motion. He looked away for a moment and then looked again, lifting a hand to his eyes and squinting.

  And then he saw them.

  Riders!

  He blinked and peered again, swinging his head to find a gap in the trees where the foliage was less dense. At least a dozen men, mounted on big warhorses, were swinging round the river bend and coming toward them.

  The boy felt suddenly alert, as if his head had been plunged into a pail of freezing water. His mouth dried and he felt a gnawing fear. He twisted and looked down at the ground. The crew were sleeping, oblivious to the danger.

  He put his hand to the side of his mouth and screamed, ‘Ho! You there below! Riders approaching!’

  The cry echoed through the trees and floated gently to the ground.

  Nobody stirred.

  He called again. ‘Riders coming!’

  Bastards were all asleep. Wake up! Wake up! Damn you.

  He peered into the distance. Still coming, and if those horsemen got among the sleeping Theodi, he knew there would be slaughter.

  He shouted and waved. Nothing! They couldn’t hear him. They’d been rowing all night and were worn out. He felt the panic rise. He screamed and pounded the trunk of the tree with the flat of his hand and waved frantically. Rummaging in his tunic, he found a bone whistle and put it to his lips and blew: a piercing cry, like a bird of prey, the sound scratching at the clammy air. He saw one or two of the clan look up but the rest slept on, their heads wrapped in their cloaks, deaf to his yells.

  Come on! Come on!

  He looked back. War horses were pounding across the valley floor, black cloaks rippling, lances flashing in the sunlight. Sweet Tiw! They’re coming and we’re not ready and they’ll be upon us in no time.

  He clambered to his feet and shouted again. In desperation, he hurled the wooden figure at the sleeping men. It bounced, and he saw men look up and then Aelfric was on his feet and staring up at him. Almost sobbing with frustration, the boy jabbed his finger at the horsemen.

  ‘Riders!’ he yelled. ‘Riders coming!’

  Aelfric turned towards the north. He put his head back and a moment later words came curling up. ‘How many? How armed?’

  ‘Twenty, maybe twenty five,’ he screamed back. ‘Well armed and riding fast.’

  ‘Romans?’

  He looked again. He supposed they might be Romans. How could you tell?

  ‘They’re well mounted,’ he shouted. ‘And they ride like Romans.’

  Aelfric swivelled. The boy heard him bellow the war-call and, as the cry went up, he leaned back and closed his eyes, the relief washing over him. He’d done it. He’d warned the clan.

  He glanced down again.

  Aelfric was striding up and down, booting the men to their feet. He could hear him yelling, Come on lads! Quick now! Move your arses!

  The forest floor was alive with running men. Like kicking over an ant’s nest, the boy thought as he watched the Theodi grab their spears from the stacks, heft their shields and run to form a shield-wall.

  He felt a quick surge of pride. Aelfric was hetman and war-leader of the Theodi. Each summer Aelfric took the the clan raiding, crossing the storm-tossed seas in search of loot and slaves and glory. In the boy’s view, the hetman of the Theodi was without doubt the finest war-leader among the Saxon tribes.

  He shifted his gaze back to the riders. They had left the road, riding past Samarobriva, and were coming straight for them. ‘Tiw’s breath,’ he gasped. They know where we are!

  He turned suddenly and looked back at the red smoke drifting over the town and felt a nagging doubt. Could that smoke have drawn the horsemen?

  On the ground, men were still running with spears and shields. He could hear shouts, and the clank of weapons against shield bosses. The riders were streaming up the slope toward them. The boy felt a flash of resentment. He should be there with them, fighting shoulder to shoulder with his clan. But it was forbidden. He scowled and then forgot his disappointment and wondered if there would be a battle. He clenched his fists and bit his lip with excitement. Unable to bear the tension any longer, he began to climb down, one hand passing over another, horny feet gripping the scaly bark. He reached a lower bough and settled with his back to the trunk. Breathless with anxiety, he wiped the sweat from his eyes and waited to see what would happen.

  On the forest floor, Aelfric of the Theodi stood with legs braced, watching the men form up. Powerfully built with a great shaggy head, he wore a studded-leather jerkin held by an ancient Roman army belt. Gold arm bands clasped his wrists and at his feet a boar-crested helmet gaped like an open maw.

  ‘Come on, you bastards!’ he shouted, slapping his thigh with impatience. ‘Let’s go! Let’s go!’

  He could see the riders now; pressing hard, no sign of flagging. The boy was right, they did ride like Romans. He grimaced. These were dangerous times. The Roman army was not what it once was, but only a fool would ignore well-armed horsemen.

  And he was no fool.

  Off to his right, Aelfric’s kinsman, Besso, was pushing and shoving the men into line. That’s the way to do it, Aelfric thought. Old hands in the front rank, beardless youngsters in the wings and rear. The men stood watching him, shield overlapping shield. Some had stripped to the waist to fight. He could see their bare chests heaving. Hear the dry rasp of their breathing. He saw them lick their lips nervously, eyes flicking to the valley, to where the horsemen could now be heard thundering up the slope.

  Aelfric put back his head and breathed in deep. Fear had a smoky odour all its own, like a pot of lentils burning. Some of the clan had already pissed themselves. He could see the dark stains spreading down their breeches. But he knew they wouldn’t let him down.

  Craning his head, he looked for the boy up in the tree. There! A thick tangle of black hair and pale blue eyes glittering in a white and bony face. Just like his mother, Aelfric thought. The boy had seen him and waved. Always wanting to be noticed, that one. Aelfric waved back, his arm scything the air. He’d done the right thing letting him come on the raid. It was thanks to the boy, they’d not been caught unawares. Tiw! What he’d give to have such eyes!

  Aelfric tightened his belt a notch. He picked up the helmet and pulled it on, fastening with thick fingers the ties under his chin. He dragged on his leather gloves and then thrust an arm through the strap and hoisted his shield. Flicking off the beaded peace-bands that held the hilt, he drew his sword, feeling the sharp thrill as the blade slipped over the sheepskin lining. She was a good sword, blue-bladed and wave-patterned with a pommel carved from the cold whiteness of wolf bone. With this sword, thirty years before, his father had killed five Huns in a single day.

  Aelfric breathed in deep. He lifted the sword and brandished it above his head. The wave-blade snatched at the prickling sunlight, dazzling the men.

  ‘Ready, lads!’ he shouted. ‘Up spears!’

  Sixty spears rose in a dense thicket of gleaming spikes. Holding their shields over their mouths to make the sound bigger, the men roared the war cry of the northern clans.

  ‘Oot! Oot! Oot! Oot!’

  The cry boomed through the forest, rolling and echoing like thunder

  Grunting with satisfaction, Aelfric turned to face the riders.

  A silence fell over the forest, broken only by the dull drone of insects, and the noise of hooves drumming on the hard earth.

  The Theodi had left their northern homeland ten days earlier. Dipping their oars in silent farewell to the huddle of onlookers on the riverbank, the SeaWulf casts off and slides downriver and out to the estuary. Once at sea, Aelfric sets sail for Gallia. He takes them west along the north shore and then turns south past the dreary lands of the Frisian towards the Rhine mouth. Spray in their faces and the crack of sea ropes in their ears, knifing through choppy seas, the sail swelling before a stiff breeze, running fast.

  Three days later, they reach Gannu
enta. A holy place, the crew tell the boy, a damp and waterlogged island on the muddy divide between land and sea, a place where men pass easily from this world to the next.

  The boy stands in the bow as the boat drifts in over the shallows. He is so excited he can hardly keep still. The keel grinds over sand and gravel, and before the oars can be drawn in and the heavy sail taken down and stowed, he has leapt out and is splashing through the shallows, urging the others on.

  The Theodi splash their way to the shrine, a wooded grove filled with ancient statues ankle deep in scummy water. The boy watches as his brother Hanno lays food and beer before the Goddess and asks her to look kindly on their raid. Hanno is a true believer and speaks beautifully, his arms lifted high above his head, his voice clear and strong. The boy glows with pride.

  A slave is led forward and drowned. The boy runs forward to help pin the slave’s body down with branches so he will not rise to torment them. After the sacrifice, the crew trade their dried fish for fresh bread and ham and eggs from the women who come each day to sell their wares to the sea-raiders. A Frisian with long arms and a slack mouth tugs at Aelfric’s elbow and offers to guide them to a town in Roman Gallia which he swears, on his mother’s eyes, has never been raided.

  Samarobriva, the Theodi think with sly smiles, sounds ripe for looting.

  Ubba the Frisian leads them south, away from the Rhine, down the coast. They reach the mouth of the Samara just before nightfall and turn inland. The boy takes his turn on the rowing benches. All through the night, he pulls on his oar, numb to the villages and forests that slide past in the night. No sound but the village dogs howling. Their backs bent under a chill and mizzling rain, the crew do not notice the young Gaul, bundled in a cloak under a tree, watching over his cattle. The herdsman is roused by the cold slap of oars. He sees a boatload of sea-wolves nosing through the mist and runs to raise the alarm.

  The clanging of the church bell and the raucous eruption of the rookeries tells them they have been seen. Aelfric does what he can and runs the boat bumping into the river bank. The Theodi pour ashore and charge in a heavy-booted stampede toward Samarobriva but, by the time they emerge from the trees, the thick-timbered gates of the town are closing.