by Trevor Bloom
Ascha turned back to his work. They wouldn’t be sailing until the following day. He had time to finish the carving.
Dusk fell and the rivermen gathered at the water’s edge. They dragged dead limbs from the forest and threw them on a fire until the flames clawed high. The rivermen sauntered up and down in the half-light, cracking crude jokes and laughing.
The riverman with the pockmarked face brought Ascha a mug of beer. His name was Baculo, and he was a Gaul from the Roman enclave at Moguntiac, cut off when the Franks overran the territory thirty years before. He smiled a lop-sided grin and settled in the mud by Ascha’s feet, watching him with his head tilted, like a heron wading for frogs.
The sun dipped and the dusk gave way to night. In the twisting firelight, Ascha’s prow monster came alive. The long neck coiled and the beaked jaws snapped and snarled. The river folk grew silent. No sound but the crackle of the fire and the dull slap of the waves.
When the prow was finished, Baculo helped Ascha carry it over to the Clotsinda. The two of them raised the prow high and then, on Ascha’s gasped command, let it drop.
‘Gently! Now!’
The prow head slid neatly over the prow stem. Baculo grinned with blackened teeth. Ascha was pleased. Wacho hadn’t given him much time, but the work was good and he had his passage across the Rhine. He picked up the mallet and a handful of spikes and began to hammer them into the prow, pinning the prow-monster to the stem.
Just then he saw the old man and the girl leave their hut. He paused and watched them walk arm in arm across the mud flat.
‘Who’s the greyhair?’ he said to Baculo. He spoke in Frankish not wanting the Gaul to know he knew his language.
Baculo snickered. ‘Octha the Frisian,’ he said. ‘He is a merchant from downriver.’
‘And the girl?’
Baculo shrugged. ‘Herrad. Octha say she is his niece.’
‘And is she?’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Baculo said and tapped the side of his nose knowingly.
Ascha wasn’t sure what to make of that. ‘Where are they going?’
‘Levefanum in the Rhine mouth. Octha comes upriver to Colonia twice a year to trade. Now he go back.’ Baculo looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Master say they keep all their gold in those boxes. Master say they rich, really rich.’ He giggled and winked at Ascha.
Ascha watched the merchant and the girl walk to the water’s edge. One of the merchant’s legs was twisted, giving him a dragging gait, like an injured crab. The girl supported him, the old man’s weight resting on her arm, their heads together. Ascha saw her put her head back and laugh and, a moment later, he heard the merchant’s answering chuckle. He was filled with a sudden feeling of loneliness and envied their closeness.
He watched as they reached the end of the mudflat and turned back towards the fire. He finished hammering the last spike into the prow-monster’s neck and stepped away. A cheer went up from the river people and he smiled. The merchant and the girl stood watching him, firelight flickering across their faces.
‘A fine piece of work,’ the merchant said. ‘You’ve a good eye, son.’
He spoke with a Frisian twang. Ascha thanked him and they exchanged names. The merchant was bald with a swathe of curly grey hair on the sides and back. A burnstone amulet strung on a cord around his neck. Watery eyes, blotched cheeks and a dry frizzy beard, but the voice was strong and friendly.
The girl stood with her hands on her hips studying the prow-head. He had an impression of an oval face, green eyes, a firm mouth and a high smooth brow like an upturned bowl. Her hair was long and dark, falling thick around her ears. A wide-sleeved and hooded dress in blue wool gathered at the waist over a white linen blouse. She was his age, he thought, maybe younger.
The merchant turned to say something to the rivermen and the girl suddenly hitched up her skirt, grabbed a rope and pulled herself up onto the boat. He held out his hand to help her, but she frowned and shook her head. He could see that she was agile and strong, her limbs tanned brown by the sun. She ran a hand over the prow-monster’s head and rubbed the beast’s scaly neck, stroking and patting the monster as if it were a hound. He watched her, his mouth drying.
‘You carve well,’ she said.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it’s not nothing. It’s something! Few can carve like that. You have a gift.’
She spoke Frankish but with an accent he couldn’t place. And she was not the merchant’s niece, he was sure of that. He caught himself staring at her and felt unsettled, not sure of what to stay. The girl looked at him and smiled.
The merchant called out to him, ‘You travelling with us tomorrow?’
Ascha dusted off his hands and jumped down from the boat. ‘Yes, at least until we get across the river. I live over there.’ He pointed vaguely to the river’s far bank. All being well, the merchant would assume he was a river-Frank or maybe a Thuringian.
‘How long since you been home?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know.
‘Maybe five years.’
The merchant whistled. ‘Five years is a long time.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you shouldn’t be travelling right now,’ the merchant said. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Why not?’ Ascha said, suddenly alert.
‘Because there’s trouble brewing among the Saxon tribes, that’s why.’
The girl went to the merchant. She put her arm through his, laid her head briefly on his shoulder and then broke off and wandered away. Ascha watched her go, his eyes following the roll of her hips. He looked up and saw that the merchant had noticed the object of his gaze. He felt his neck burn. ‘What kind of trouble? ’ he said.
‘Seems the Saxons have a new war leader, and he’s been stirring them up,’ the merchant said.
Ascha frowned. If the Cheruskkii had a new warlord that would explain much. Men would follow a strong warlord, especially if he was successful in battle.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Radhalla.’
‘Radhalla, the Cherusker?’
‘You know him?’ Octha said, not bothering to hide the surprise in his voice.
Ascha recovered quickly. ‘Heard of him. Tavern stories, mostly.’ He tried to remember what he knew about Radhalla. He and his father had once been friends. They’d fallen out and now it seemed Radhalla was running the Cheruskkii confederation. Strange that Clovis had said nothing. Maybe he hadn’t known, but he wouldn’t bet on it. The Franks were good at finding out who their enemies were.
‘Whatever you’ve heard is probably true,’ the merchant went on. ‘He’s ruthless – they say he killed his brother to become hetman – but he’s also tough and as crafty as a wolf. The Iron Plough they call him.’
Thoughts whirled in Ascha’s head. This put the stand-off between the Cheruskkii and the Theodi in a very different light. Radhalla, the Iron Plough? Sweet Tiw! Did the Franks expect him to kill his father’s old friend?
‘You seem to know a lot for a Frisian river trader,’ he said.
‘I’m Frisian-born, but I served with the legions for nearly twenty years,’ Octha said cheerfully. ‘A Goth spearman opened my leg to the bone and I was left like this.’ He slapped his twisted limb. ‘I was invalided out and set myself up as a river trader on my retirement pay.’ He pulled his mouth down. ‘It’s not a bad life, but I miss my army days.’
But Ascha hadn’t time for the merchant’s army stories. ‘This Radhalla, what do you think he wants?’ he asked bluntly.
The merchant rolled his eyes. ‘You ask too many questions, boy,’ he said with a touch of annoyance.
‘My ma always said I needed to know the answer to everything.’
‘Well, she wasn’t wrong.’
The merchant seemed mollified. He threw his hands up in the air and let them fall. ‘Radhalla wants to unite all the northern tribes into one. The Franks united over fifty years ago, and they now control most of upper Galli
a. Radhalla probably thinks he can do the same for the Cheruskkii. So far, it seems to be working.’
Ascha turned casually and looked for the girl. She was sitting on the landing with her hands folded in her lap, staring into the water. From time to time, she brushed her hair from her eyes and pushed it behind her ear. She seemed lost in thought. He wondered if she was listening.
‘But what if the tribes don’t want to join?’
The fire was dying now, the river folk drifting to their beds. With a grunt, the merchant sat down on the deck next to the girl and leaned back against her. She took his weight and they sat facing in opposite directions, supporting each other. The merchant blew his cheeks as if gathering his thoughts.
‘Radhalla always gives them a choice. They can join and be absorbed into the Cheruskkii, or he drives them off their lands into exile. Either way he wins. He acquires wealth and territory. His fame spreads, and men flock from all over the north to join him.’
‘You think Radhalla will use his power to negotiate with the Romans?’
The merchant sighed. ‘You don’t let up do you boy?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘What do I think of what?’
Ascha closed his eyes. ‘What’s Radhalla’s aim? Will he negotiate for tribute or will he take the confederation to war?
‘How do I know?’
‘Your best guess then.’
The merchant looked at him. ‘I think he’ll fight. The only question is when.’
He suspected the old man was right. An uprising against the west seemed likely. The girl shifted. She produced an apple from her dress and a small bone-handled knife from her sleeve and began to peel the fruit, cutting thick slices and putting them into her mouth. She gave a piece to the merchant and offered one to Ascha. He looked at her and then took the apple from her fingers.
She looked up at him, unsmiling.
‘And what do you think, Carver?’ she said. ‘Does the thought of a Saxon uprising keep you awake at nights?’
There was a sharpness in her tone that caught him unawares. For a moment, he was afraid that she might suspect he was Saxon-born, and then he relaxed. He looked like a Frank and spoke like a Frank. Why should they think him anything but what he said he was?
‘The Saxons are barbarians,’ he said dismissively. ‘When they’ve filled their boats with loot, they’ll go home.’
The girl leaned forward, eyes hot with anger, her hair sliding across her cheek in a thick black wave.
‘Dear God, man, you think those murdering savages have a right to raid?’ she spat.
He shrugged. ‘It’s what they’ve always done.’
She was on her feet, glaring at him, her face flushed and her eyes filling with tears. ‘The Saxons are wolves who spread terror and bring misery to all. They slaughter everybody, women and children. They are a disease. And if we don’t deal with them before they unite, they will destroy us all.’
Ascha stared, dumbfounded by her vehemence. Behind him, he heard the merchant’s dry cough.
‘Herrad loathes all Saxons,’ the merchant said softly. ‘And with good reason. Her sister, Prydwen, was taken by Saxon raiders three years ago. Herrad hasn’t seen her since. She is probably a Saxon slave now. Or worse.’
Ascha felt his face redden. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t…’
The girl gave him the barest nod and looked away.
He cursed, riddled with a sudden feeling of guilt. Feeling suddenly ashamed, he turned back to Octha, ‘But how can you destroy them?’
‘It wouldn’t be easy. The Saxons are fast and go where they please. They can raid and be long gone before they are discovered. And the legions today are only a shadow of what they once were. The only way you can destroy them is from within. You have to know where and when they will strike. And when you know that, you bide your time and you wait for them and then, when you are ready, you hit them as hard as you can.’
And the merchant smacked his fist loudly into his palm.
No doubt Clovis saw it that way too. The Romans were almost spent, but the Franks could do it. They were brutal enough and they had the will. All they needed was the right information. Which he supposed was where he came in. The sooner he found out what Radhalla was planning, the sooner he got what he wanted.
He glanced at Herrad. She caught him looking and held out a slice of apple. A peace offer? He hoped so. He took the apple. She gave him a faint smile and he smiled back. At that moment, he felt something he had not felt for a long while. A sense of well-being that, if not quite happiness, was close enough.
Later that night the boat master sought Ascha out in the cowshed where he slept with Baculo and the other rivermen. Wacho had been drinking and the sourness of his breath washed over Ascha like the stench of rotting meat.
‘I’m grateful, Carver. That was good work you did for my Clotsinda. Help us with the rowing tomorrow and I’ll take you to the other side. But keep your head down, if you know what’s good for you.’
Ascha nodded. He was not interested in how Wacho and the rivermen earned their living.
’Course, he keep his head down, master.’ Baculo said. ‘He dreams a doin’ jig-a-jig wi’ the merchant’s niece.’
The men laughed and hooted and pounded the cattle stalls in their glee. Wacho lowered his head and grinned, his teeth bright in the darkness.
Ascha pulled his cloak over his head and tried to sleep. Sometime after midnight he woke and heard men talking. He thought he recognized Wacho’s voice and possibly that of Baculo. He must have fallen asleep again because he dreamt of his father, saw him clearly, his massive head and thick hands. His father was trying to speak to him, to tell him something, but he couldn’t make out the words.
8
The next day was sunny with a hard-edged brightness. Ascha got up and made his way to the landing. He watched as the rivermen loaded the Clotsinda, rolling casks of wine down the plank and stacking the boat with jars of oil, sacks of grain and hides. A fresh breeze was blowing raising white caps on the river and dashing spray high over the riverbank. Wacho paced up and down, shouting angrily. When they were done, the rivermen tossed their cargo hooks in a jangling heap, threw a tarpaulin over the cargo and tied it fast with seal hide ropes.
The merchant arrived with the girl. Ascha went forward to meet them. Octha shook his hand warmly, and the girl smiled and raised a hand in greeting. She wore the same blue skirt as the night before. The skirt was wet from the spray and he noticed how it clung damply to her legs.
The two slaves carried the merchant’s chests and put them in the boat, stacking them by the mast. The merchant took a seat in the stern and the girl joined him. She carried a blanket over one arm and a leather bag. The rivermen took their places. Wacho gestured to Ascha to take an oar in front of the cargo mound, but the merchant wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Carver, come and row back here,’ he said, ‘and we can talk.’
Wacho scowled and opened his mouth to say something but then let it go. Ascha stepped into the boat behind the cargo. He laid his satchel and blanket roll between his feet and grasped an oar. Baculo took the other. Wacho was the last to come aboard. He jumped onto the stern and took hold of the steering board. The sail bellied with the wind, and the ropework crackled. A watersider pushed them off. Six oars sliced into the thick water, the prow monster snarled and Clotsinda drew away.
Ascha and the other oarsmen fell into a steady rhythm. He watched the settlement as it grew smaller and thought he saw movement. He looked again and saw three horsemen moving slowly along the mudflat. He watched them ride between the cabins of the rivermen, slowly separating and then coming together again. They stopped at the water’s edge. Ascha peered. They were the same three men he’d met on the road two days before, he was sure of it.
The merchant’s voice cut across his thoughts. ‘They friends of yours?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘They’re no friends of mine.’
They both watched the
horsemen until they could be seen no more.
The Clotsinda made good headway, six sweeps plashing as one. Ascha put his back into the rowing, watching with pleasure as the Rhine slid by. Green wooded slopes, studded with white-washed houses that gleamed in the sun. After so many days on the road it was good to feel the wind in his hair and the spray in his face. Mid-river, and the wind blowing strong, Wacho barked a command. The rowers pulled in their oars and allowed the wind to drive the Clotsinda north.
Octha was a good travel companion. He told stories of his army days, of the people he knew, and his life on the Rhine. He pointed out to Ascha the old Roman frontier posts, the walls crumbling and long-abandoned, greenery invading where legionaries had once gamed and slept. Ascha listened with half an ear and kept his eyes on the girl. She had settled back on her elbows to watch the river unroll, her hair blowing free. The slaves stood by the mast, as if guarding the merchant’s chests. Only the smaller slave spoke. The other listened, occasionally gesticulating with his hands. The big slave, Ascha decided, was a mute, as dumb as stone.
The sky darkened and the air turned damp and cold. Talk faded. The girl unfolded the blanket and laid it across Octha’s shoulders. She took bread and cold meat from her bag and gave it to Octha. She prepared more food and handed it to the two slaves.
‘Carver, will you eat with us?’ she asked. He thought for a moment and then nodded and took the food she offered, noticing she did not offer Wacho or Baculo. Ascha ate and leaned back against the strake, closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift. He thought of his village and tried to imagine the welcome he would receive. He felt a sudden overwhelming yearning to see his mother again, a feeling so strong it brought tears to his eyes.
He woke with a start disturbed by a strange sound, a muffled groan accompanied by a gurgling noise like water sluicing through a dyke gate. He looked up. The big slave stood with his arms wrapped around Baculo who was on his feet, holding onto the slave, as if to stop him falling. Sunlight flashed on a blade that plunged again and again into the slave’s side. The slave half turned towards the girl and cried out what might have been a warning. His knees buckled and he fell. The young slave boy had pressed himself against the side of the boat, eyes wide with horror, gibbering with fear.