by Trevor Bloom
‘What’s the betting he don’t make it,’ Ascha heard someone mutter.
The Theodi watched in silence.
The Franks rode hard, kicking at their horses’ flanks with their heels. Ubba looked over his shoulder once. He screamed when he saw what was coming. The lead Frank’s spatha flashed and with a twist of the wrist, cut back and up. Ubba’s head lifted from his torso, turned slowly in the air, and bounced across the grass.
A low murmur broke out from the Theodi. Ubba was the last barrier between them and the Frankish silver. Now they could go.
Ascha shivered, his flesh deathly cold. This was no dream, this was real. He had no idea why Clovis had chosen him. All he knew was that by taking him, Clovis had resolved a dispute that might have split the clan. His exile was a small price to pay for Frankish tribute. The Theodi, he thought bitterly, had reason to be grateful to Clovis of the Franks.
The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon as the Theodi made ready to go. The crew slung their shields and cut poles to carry the silver chests. One by one, they came to take their leave. They murmured a few words, clapped him on the back, sending the pain jolting through him, and then moved, anxious to be away. The silver would not be shared until the SeaWulf was at sea. Some left without saying goodbye, and Ascha wondered if they were ashamed of what had happened.
Besso wrapped Ascha in his fleshy arms and tried to make a joke of it but gave up when he saw Ascha’s face. ‘Be strong,’ he whispered. ‘Tha knows tha can survive this.’
Hanno ruffled his hair and held him close. He drew a double-sided comb from his tunic which Ascha had carved for him from antler bone the previous summer and handed it to Ascha. Ascha took it, feeling his eyes mist. How would he survive without Hanno looking out for him?
Hroc couldn’t face him. ‘Watch thi step, little brother,’ he said gruffly and left without a backward glance.
His father stood some way off, his shaggy head resting on his shoulders like a rock. Ascha screwed both fists into his eye sockets, grinding them round and round and then went over to him.
‘Father?’ he said in a small voice.
Aelfric turned towards him and they moved together in a clumsy embrace. The pain surged but he made no attempt to break away. Later, there would be many times when Ascha would try to relive that moment. What was said and not said. He remembered hoping that his father would have a change of heart. But what he would remember most was the scratchy feel of his father’s shirt against his cheek, and the warm odour of leather, sweat and woodsmoke, his father’s smell.
Aelfric’s hands fell to his sides and his shoulders sagged. There were deep lines around his eyes, and Ascha thought he saw sadness there. He wondered what his father would say to his mother. How would Aelfric tell her he had sent her only son into exile? He had a sudden picture of his mother standing on the foreshore, her slight form bundled up against the wind, watching and waiting for him to return.
His father patted his cheek and turned away. Ascha watched him go, consumed with misery and at that moment he felt a deep disgust and hatred for his father and knew that as long as he lived he would never forgive him.
The Theodi moved out. Ascha could hear them laughing as they tried to keep their footing on the steep slope, the silver chests swinging wildly. They ignored the Gauls silently lining the ramparts of Samarobriva and headed down to where the SeaWulf waited to take them home.
Ascha watched them go. When he could see them no longer, he walked slowly back to where the Franks sat waiting for him on their big horses. He stood without a word until one of the troopers grunted, scooped him up and sat him on the bony hindquarters of a mule.
Then, as the sun began to drop towards the horizon, Clovis led them down the valley side and north towards Tornacum.
4
They travelled north. Dusk was falling when they came to a fork in the road. Without breaking step, Clovis and an escort of four Franks broke away, leaving Bauto and the remaining Franks to ride on.
Ascha felt a sudden jolt of panic.
‘Where are they going?’ he called to the Frankish trooper riding beside him.
‘Tornacum.’
‘Then where are we going?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ the trooper said.
Until he saw Clovis ride away, Ascha had given no thought to what the Franks would do with him. He had assumed he would serve his hostage-time with Clovis and it came as a shock to realize the Franks had other plans. He felt sick to the pit of his belly. Some of it, he knew, was hunger and the pain of his shoulder, but the rest was fear.
It was almost dark when Bauto led the Franks off the road. They went down a dirt track overgrown with weeds to where a settlement of cabins and roughly-hewn huts stood on the edge of a marsh. Even in the fading light it looked dismal, drained by a ditch that brimmed with foul-smelling water. Pigs rooted in the mud. Armed men watched as they rode up. No women.
‘What is this place?’ he said to one of the Frankish troopers.
‘The barracks for the scara, the army of the Franks,’ the Frank said. ‘It’s where the Overlord’s Antrustions are billeted.’
‘Antrustions?’
‘The Overlord’s own personal guard. High-born men, hand-picked for their fighting ability and their loyalty to Childeric.’
Ascha could hear the pride in the man’s voice. ‘Why have I been brought here?’ he said.
The man snorted. ‘Because you’re now a hostage, and this is where Childeric keeps his royal hostages.’
He thought about that. A royal hostage! Was that what he was? ‘What kind of men are the hostages?’
‘Foreigners, all of them,’ the Frank said sourly. ‘The sons of warlords and princes. We hold them to guarantee the peace between us and their own nations. If war breaks out, both sides know the hostages will die.’
‘But why here?’ He flung the question, anxious to know what his future would hold.
‘Hostages serve in the Overlord’s scara,’ the Frank said. He leaned over his horse’s neck and spat in the mud. ‘That way they can be useful, and the Antrustions can keep an eye on them.’
Hostages and Antrustions sounded unlikely bed-fellows. He imagined the rivalry would be bitter: neither side willing to extend the hand of friendship to men who might one day become their enemies. And then another thought struck him. He was unweaponed. He would not be allowed to serve in the Frankish army.
They rode into the camp. Ascha slid off the mule and waited. Eventually, one of the Franks jerked his head, and Ascha followed him. The man took Ascha to one of the barrack huts. The hut was full of bunks jammed close. Weapons and kit hung on the walls and a sheaf of spears stood by the door. There was a musty smell of packed bodies. A few men stopped talking and watched him. By their clothes and their hair, he knew them to be foreigners and assumed they were the royal hostages.
‘We be of one blood,’ he murmured courteously.
They said nothing. No smiles.
The Frank waved him towards a bunk at the back and left. Ascha flopped down and closed his eyes. His head throbbed and his shoulder ached. Never in his life had he felt such loneliness.
Slowly, he twisted his head. The hostages sat on benches or their bunks talking about weapons, girls and beer in Frankish or their own dialects. Ascha watched them carefully. One of the hostages, a big man with tattooed shoulders, glanced at him and Ascha looked away.
He was adrift among strangers.
It was several days before the camp learnt that the new hostage was both Saxon and slave-born; a mix toxic enough, Ascha discovered, to unite the hatred of hostages and Antrustions.
The Franks loathed Saxons as bandits who had terrorized the coastlands of Gallia for generations. And as the half-slave son of a poor tribal hetman, he was despised by the royal hostages who saw his presence as an insult to their rank.
His new companions soon made their feelings felt. Wherever he went, Ascha was goaded and jeered at. He was waylaid, tripped and be
aten, his food knocked from his hands, his tools scattered and his work sabotaged. At night he lay in his bunk, his body coloured with bruises and choked back the sobs. He was alone and friendless and there was nothing he could do to stop the torment. Had Clovis intended some cruel joke, choosing him and then dropping him among those most likely to scorn him?
Drifting off to sleep, he took comfort in thoughts of home. He pictured the small figure of his mother waving farewell from the riverbank as the SeaWulf slipped to sea and he thought of Saefaru, her golden hair billowing, waiting for him as she had promised she would.
Ascha withdrew into himself. He spoke to nobody and nobody spoke to him. He soon found work, carving bowls and spoons and ladles with long and finely worked handles, but took no pleasure in it. The flesh fell from his bones, and he grew pinched and thin. He no longer washed and shuffled about the camp with his eyes downcast like a walking ghost. His hair grew lank and the skin on his arms and legs felt dry and scaly to the touch.
Every day when his work was finished, he would go and sit by the main gate. He liked it there because it was the busiest spot in the camp, and the safest, the one place where he knew he would not be attacked. He would whittle and go over in his mind what had happened outside Samarobriva. Rage and disappointment gnawed like a rat at his innards. How could his father have cast him out? What had he done to deserve such punishment?
But he had no ready answers.
He took comfort from watching the daily comings and goings of the Frankish troops and the Roman traders who came to do business with them. He saw how much more attached the Franks were to their land in Gallia than the other Germanic nations, and how determined they were to hang onto it. As a half-slave he had always had a keen sense of where power lay and, almost without realizing it, he noted things that others missed. As the weeks passed, he developed a grudging admiration for his hosts, their hunger for power and their single-minded love of war, but their dependency on the Romans intrigued him. It was almost, he thought, as if a young man had inherited land from an old and feeble uncle, but still wanted the uncle to show him how to run it.
One day Ascha was cornered by a gang of Antrustions. They were led by Sunno, a big-boned Frank from Camarac whose brother had been burnt alive by raiding Saxons as a sacrifice to Tiw. Sunno and his friends circled Ascha and watched him, thumbs in belts.
‘Let me pass,’ Ascha said.
Sunno glared at him, his face dark with hatred, and then they laid into him. He stood his ground and fought back, trading blows for blows. They knocked him to the ground. Each time he got up, they knocked him down again. After a while, Ascha curled himself into a ball and waited for them to finish. They beat him and kicked him so savagely he thought he would die. When they were done, they tossed him into a latrine pit and went away, their arms draped over each others’ shoulders, laughing fit to bust.
Wet through and stinking, Ascha limped back to the barracks. He stank so bad the hostages threw him out. He crept into the barn and lay down in the straw. He was covered in bruises, his eye was swollen and two of his teeth were loose.
That night he lay awake, thinking it through. The attack had jolted him from his torpor. He realized that as a Saxon and a half-slave he was doubly cursed. Clovis had forgotten him and he was on his own. Without protection, he knew he would die in this place. He had to make himself more valuable to the Franks alive than dead. He went over in his mind everything he had learnt. He had to find a way to make himself useful.
The next day Ascha took a knife and sawed away at the tightly coiled topknot that marked him out as a Saxon. He shaved the back of his head to the crown and braided his side locks in the Frankish manner. Then he went and asked leave to speak to warlord Bauto.
Bauto’s Antrustion bodyguard took one look at him and knocked him to the ground. He got up, spat the blood from his mouth, and asked again. The Antrustion stared at him, shrugged and went away. For two days he stood in the hot sun without food or water. At night, he curled up outside Bauto’s tent, rising before dawn to resume his place. On the third day an Antrustion came out, snapped his fingers and he was ushered in.
Bauto ran his eye over Ascha with a look of cold distaste.
Ascha waited, barefoot, pale and wasted, his clothes fouled.
‘What do you want, boy?’ Bauto said.
Ascha paused and then he spoke, a rush of words without stopping for breath. When he had finished Bauto leaned back in his chair and looked at him. ‘You want me to give you weapons and to train you as I would a Frank,’ he growled. ‘You mad or stupid?’
‘Neither,’ Ascha said. ‘You need fighters. Frankland is surrounded by enemies and you need every man. I am young and I will learn fast, faster than any Frank. Teach me to fight, and I’ll serve you well.’
The warmth of Bauto’s hut made his head swim. He felt light-headed from hunger and weariness and had to steel himself to avoid falling.
‘You’re slave-born!’ Bauto growled. ‘By rights you shouldn’t even be here.’
‘But I am also an outlander with no ties. I can do for you what others would not. I can be useful.’
Bauto shook his head. ‘Saxons are animals, terror raiders who come like wolves in the night to slaughter and maim. Why would you be any different?’
Ascha bit his lip. He had thought long and hard about this moment and knew that he could not afford to be squeamish. ‘I’ll be more loyal to you than any man in your army,’ he said quietly. ‘I will do anything you want.’
‘Is that all?’ Bauto said, with a sneer.
‘I ride well.’
Bauto raised an eyebrow. ‘That is of some use,’ he said grudgingly. He put two big hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘Any more?’
His last shot. He breathed in deep and let it go. ‘I speak Latin as well as any high-born.’
Ascha had grown up with an ear for the different north shore dialects, but Latin had always been a secret language, used only when he and his mother were alone. The language of heaven his mother called it.
Bauto looked at him, ‘What of it?’
‘If you are to conquer Gallia, you will need people like me.’
Bauto looked at him, his eyes narrowing. ‘Who says we have plans to conquer Gallia?’
‘It must happen. Rome is like a corpse rotting from within. It’s only a matter of time before the Franks take their place.’
Bauto waggled his head.
‘You’ll need men who can speak Frankish and Latin,’ Ascha said earnestly, his chin lifting. ‘Men you can rely on.’
Bauto frowned. ‘But the Romans and the Gauls will learn Frankish.’
‘They won’t,’ Ascha said. He had thought about this and spoke with conviction. ‘There are too few of you and too many of them. If you are to conquer Gallia you must think as they do.’
‘Why should I think like a Roman?’ Bauto said. ‘We rule here now. They do what we say.’
Ascha shook his head, the excitement rising. ‘Na, Lord. You think you do but you rule in name only.
Bauto gave him a long and thoughtful stare. ‘How so?’ he said softly.
Ascha hesitated. His mind worked fast, pulling together what he had seen and what he had heard, making sense of it all. He struggled to find the words. ‘You have taken over the Romans’ lands but they hold you like this.’ He cupped his hand and squeezed it. ‘You rely on Romans to manage your affairs, Romans make your laws and collect your taxes, Roman merchants control your trade, and your great estates are run by Romans. They have lost power, sure enough, and they have lost their lands, but they have adapted. You cannot rule without them.’
Ascha paused, surprised by the strength of his words. But he knew he was right. He could feel it in his bones.
Bauto laid one thick finger across his lips and tapped them lightly. ‘Perhaps it’s as you say,’ he said. ‘You’re an outsider and see things others don’t.’ He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. The Romans will do what we tell them.’
Ascha
saw the opening and went for it.
‘You think so? The truth is they despise you! The Romans think of you as barbarians. They laugh at you, but they…’ he paused to think of the word, ‘…they manipulate you as they have always done.’
For a moment he thought he’d gone too far. Bauto rose to his feet, his face flushed and his fists bunching. Then he frowned and looked thoughtful. He cast a wary eye over the Roman clerks working with their heads down at the back of his tent and scratched his chin.
‘Yes,’ Bauto said. ‘They do, don’t they.’
The next day, two Antrustions came and brought Ascha to Bauto. The Frank handed Ascha a message tablet in a wooden case.
‘Take this to Lutetia Parisi and give it to Silvanus Vegetus, merchant. He lives close by the baths in the north of the city. The Antrustions will give you a horse.’
Ascha nodded and mumbled a few words. An Antrustion tapped him on the shoulder and led him away. Bauto did not bother to look up.
Ascha rode all that day and most of the next and reached the city before nightfall. Lutetia Parisi sat on a low hill with a river to the north and mud flats and marsh to the south and east. The merchant lived in a small red-roofed house near the river. Ascha dismounted and walked up a gravel path and pulled on the bell. A slave opened the door, asked his business and then closed the door in his face.
Ascha cursed, but was forced to kick his heels outside the door. The slave came back and admitted him. Ascha threw him his cloak with a look of contempt and went inside. The house smelled of damp and cooking, and he realized with some surprise that he was hungry. He had been so anxious to get to Parisi on time that he had not eaten since he had left Tornacum.
Silvanus Vegetus was bald and thin as a rail and wore a serious expression. The merchant took the message Ascha handed him, turned it over several times, and then broke the seal with his thumb and began reading. Ascha turned to go. The merchant called him back and pressed a copper coin into his hand. Ascha thanked him and left.
Down by the river he found a stall and bought a meat pie. He ate the pie standing up with hot meat juices running through his fingers and dripping onto his chest. When he had finished, he wiped his hands on the seat of his britches, mounted and turned his horse north.