The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  ‘Hroc thinks he has everything under control,’ his mother said spitefully. ‘He says we have nothing to fear from the Cheruskkii. The Cheruskkii are our friends.’

  He looked down at his feet and then back up at her. ‘I’ll take you away from here just as soon as I can, Ma, but I can’t go yet. There are things I have to do.’

  She nodded and he heard her sigh. ‘I know,’ she said.

  The next morning when he was washing in the yard, he caught his mother staring at a weapon scar that skittered pale and ugly across his ribs. She squeezed his arm and said nothing, but he had seen the look in her eyes.

  That night, Ascha went to the cabin where Saefaru and Wulfhere lived. He stopped outside the door and then turned and walked away. He stopped again, turned his head to one side, swore and then went back to the door and knocked softly. He was about to go when the door suddenly opened and Saefaru was there. She studied him, her hair blowing, saying nothing.

  ‘I thought tha might like company,’ he said.

  He moved towards her and opened her dress and put a hand on her breast, cautiously caressing it. She watched him, doing nothing to stop him, and then looked both ways along the lane and held open the door.

  ‘Tha’d better come in,’ she said.

  They sat and talked until the early hours, thigh leaning against thigh, their faces lit by a smoking lamp. He put his arm around her and they kissed, gently at first, laughing all the while, and then harder, his mouth mashing against hers. He moved his hand down her back and pulled her to him and felt his body stir as she responded. They kissed again and then she was pulling him towards the bed, the two of them slipping beneath the blankets as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  The next morning, as a pale dawn tiptoed through the rafters, they lay listening to the sparrows chattering in the thatch. Saefaru’s head rested on Ascha’s arm, her broad rump pushed into his groin. His arm was numb but pleasantly so and he felt no need to move.

  ‘Tha must go,’ Saefaru whispered over her bare shoulder, smiling.

  He leaned over, kissed her and then pushed back the sheepskin and slipped naked from the bed, gasping as the cold hit him. Winter was coming, he could smell it in the air. They’d be bringing in the cattle soon lest they froze.

  He padded across the earth floor, hugging his elbows, the chill seeping into his bones. The fire was out and smoking. He squatted down on his haunches and scratched at the hearth with a stick, grunting when a thin flame flickered. He got to his feet and went to the small cot pushed up against the wall. He pulled back the linen cloth that Saefaru had stretched over the crib to catch insects falling from the thatch and took a quick peek. Saefaru’s son lay on his back, fat fingers making patterns in the air, kicking his legs and gurgling. The little face tilted and examined Ascha with cold, blue eyes.

  Wulfhere’s eyes.

  He let the cloth fall and felt a stab of regret. If things had turned out different, that would have been his child.

  He shivered and dressed quickly.

  Saefaru lifted the latch and held the door open for him. Her eyes were half-closed with sleep and her shift clung damply to her hips. Outside, the sun was cold and watery. Three crows were pulling at something in the long grass. The elms loomed in the mist like ghosts on the moor.

  He bent and gave her a deep kiss. She hugged him, and he felt her warm ripeness envelop him like an old cloak and then he was slipping down the alley, head hunched low, his breath fogging the air.

  The next two nights he did the same, waiting until dark and then making his way to Wulfhere’s cabin. A gentle tap and the door opened. Stupid! Anyone could have seen them. But deep down he felt he was owed and that somehow Saefaru still belonged to him. But it also felt good to plough another man’s field, especially when that man was Wulfhere.

  The morning of the third day, when he strolled back into the hall, Besso was waiting for him.

  ‘Where’s tha been, lad?’

  ‘Out,’ he said, all chirpy.

  ‘Just out?’

  ‘Out walking.’

  ‘Tha wouldn’t have been with that old sweetheart of yours would tha?’

  ‘Why does tha say that?’

  ‘Tha’s playing with fire, boy.’

  Ascha shrugged. What did he care? He felt alive to the tips of his fingers. How could someone like Besso understand that?

  ‘Mess with his woman, and Wulfhere will kill tha soon as look at tha.’ Besso said.

  Ascha had a sudden picture of Saefaru’s plump white limbs spread-eagled beneath him and stifled a grin. Half the fun lay in not knowing whether you would get caught. And he and Wulfhere had an old bone to pick.

  ‘He can try,’ he said with casual bravado.

  Besso took another bite of apple and tossed the core over his shoulder.

  ‘Hroc wants to go hog-hunting. He says there’s a big boar on the north shore.’

  Ascha’s eyes widened. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We’ll be away two days.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Hanno says he’ll mind the village. Bring Tchenguiz. And bring bows.’

  ‘Tha’s going to give a weapon to a half-slave?’ Ascha said with a wry grin.

  Besso wiped his hands down his breeches. He got to his feet and headed for the door.

  ‘A bow is a hunting tool not a weapon, as tha well knows.’

  Ascha laughed out loud. He could still taste Saefaru’s kisses on his lips and tomorrow he was going hunting. He kicked the core of Besso’s apple and watched it bounce down the hall.

  The journey to the lands of the Cheruskkii could wait.

  11

  As cha overslept. He threw some water over his face, dressed and left the hall at a run, careering down alleyways to the river. Hroc and the other hunters had already loaded two marsh boats and were about to go. He waved to Hanno who had come to see them off, greeted the other hunters and then climbed down into a boat and took up a paddle. Tchenguiz was there with Besso’s slave to carry the kill, carrying two bows and arrows for himself and Ascha.

  Ascha looked back to the jetty and was stunned to see Wulfhere striding down the riverbank, swinging a boar spear. Wulfhere said a few words to Hanno and then turned to the boats. He saw Ascha and his expression darkened.

  ‘Keep downwind, mischling, if tha knows what’s good for tha!’ he spat.

  ‘Likewise,’ Ascha snarled back.

  Wulfhere had changed little. He was taller, his nose bent from where Ascha had broken it. Wulfhere climbed into the second boat, and the hunters pushed off.

  Ascha dug the paddle in the water and pulled. He wondered with the faintest tremor of guilt if Wulfhere suspected anything, secrets didn’t last long in the village, and then put the thought aside.

  The boats slid through the water and turned north.

  They paddled out towards the estuary. Half a day later they ran the boats aground on a muddy strand covered with animal bones, fish carcases and driftwood. A fisherman sat outside his cabin knotting nets while a dog crouched and bared its fangs. Slack-jawed children dressed in rags watched as the hunters hauled the boats up on the beach. One of the girls had purple blotches on her skin, a lazy eye and drooled.

  ‘That’s what tha gets when tha tups thi own kin,’ Besso muttered.

  They found a trail and followed it deep into the forest. There was a smell of mould and decay. Mid-afternoon they came across two young sows rooting for acorns and speared them in a frenzy of thrusts and stabs. A big boar trotting out of the trees took them all by surprise, a huge brute with massive legs and bones, a scarred snout and a bristled mane. Someone flung a spear, but it hit no vitals. Squealing in rage, the beast shook the spear free and plunged into the brush.

  The wind stiffened, the clouds opened and the rain came down in torrents. The hunters formed a rough line, like two hands with fingers outstretched, and began working their way through the forest.

  Ascha rested his bow against a tree and wiped his face
. They were dog-tired, hungry and drenched to the bone. Sodden jerkins chafed at raw flesh. The rain had stopped but it was cold and growing colder. Somewhere off to his right, Hroc was yelling at them to close up. He could hear the fury and frustration in his brother’s voice.

  The trail grew steeper, Hroc leading them up a ridge where the ground was drier. Ascha frowned into the gloom. The boar was probably hiding in a thicket right now watching them make fools of themselves. He closed his eyes and thought of Saefaru and then thought of the girl at the river crossing. He tried to recall her face, thick dark hair and a chin like bird bone. He smiled, remembering the sunlight dappling on the river, the girl leaning back with her throat bare, one hand trailing in the water.

  A vicious whisper, hot in his ear. ‘What is it, little brother? Is tha lost or just asleep?’

  The warmth rose to Ascha’s face. On the leaf mould, Hroc’s approach had been soundless.

  ‘This is not the way to go, Hroc,’ he said.

  Silence.

  ‘And where should we be going, little brother?’

  There was an edge to Hroc’s words that he had not heard before. The men heard it too. They stopped and turned their heads.

  ‘The hog’s not up there,’ Ascha said, jerking his chin towards the ridge.

  Hroc’s eyebrows lifted. ‘The hog’s not up there? Then, by Tiw’s holy bollocks, where is it then?’

  Ascha felt their eyes upon him, Wulfhere leering at him over Hroc’s shoulder. Ascha glanced around, swearing under his breath. The rain had turned everything into a boggy morass. How could he tell which tracks were fresh? The hunters leaned on their spears and waited. Behind them, he saw Tchenguiz moving to where a steep-sided gully, shrouded in thick undergrowth, ran off the edge of the ridge.

  He walked back through the trees scanning the ground, looking for broken twigs, torn leaves. Anything. Boars were shy. Night-roamers. They would seek shelter in deep forest, close to fresh water.

  Tchenguiz turned at the gully edge. He caught Ascha’s eye, scratched the side of his face, looked down at the gully and back to Ascha.

  ‘Come on, man! We’re losing the light.’ Hroc said.

  Ascha breathed in deep. He pointed to the gully and said, ‘I think he’s down there!’

  Wulfhere snorted, his hair plastered in rat-tails to the side of his head. ‘No boar would go down there. Break its legs before it reached the bottom.’

  Hroc nodded. ‘Wulfhere’s right. We’ll go up on the ridge.’

  He turned to go.

  Wulfhere gave Ascha a greasy smirk. Ascha tried to resist the urge to punch him. The old hatred came flooding back. Stay calm. Don’t rise to it. But he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘The boar’s old and injured,’ Ascha said carelessly. ‘He knows better than to follow a trail to nowhere.’

  A thick silence settled over them.

  Hroc turned and exchanged glances with Wulfhere. Besso caught Ascha’s eye and slowly shook his head. Tchenguiz was peering over the rim of the gully. No sound but the tapping of rain on leaves. Hroc’s face darkened, and Ascha saw the anger in his eyes.

  ‘Tha speaks of things tha doesn’t know, little brother,’ he rasped. ‘I lead here and I say where we will hunt.’ He stepped closer. ‘Does tha understand?’ He put his face close to Ascha. ‘Does tha?’

  Ascha could smell his brother’s sweat. His chest was tight and thumping, and he struggled to control himself. One day he would have his revenge on Hroc, and Wulfhere too, but right now he wasn’t ready. He had a job to do and he wasn’t going to risk everything he’d worked for.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ Hroc snapped.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ascha said, the word dropping leadenly from his tongue.

  The hunters sniggered. Beyond them, he could see Tchenguiz peering over the rim of the gully.

  Hroc smiled coldly. ‘Them Franks has given tha ideas, little brother. Does tha thinks tha knows better than free men? Get back with the other slaves and in future leave the thinking to us.’

  Hroc’s voice held such contempt that Ascha closed his eyes.

  ‘That’s what happens when the slave-born get above themselves,’ Wulfhere smiled.

  A couple of the hunters checked the lashings on their boar spears, but the rest snickered and shook their heads. Besso seemed about to say something and then was silent.

  Ascha burned with shame, too stunned to reply. His Ma was right. He had expected life to change in some bold way. And yet nothing had changed at all. To Hroc and the Theodi, he was still the half-slave. He had always known they looked down on him, but it still hurt. He ground his teeth together and felt his eyes well with tears of rage.

  There was a high-pitched yell.

  A wood pigeon rose in a hollow tumult of clapping wings. The men swivelled. Tchenguiz was crouching at the lip of the gully, his dark face opened in a shout, one arm raised, the other jabbing at the gully.

  ‘Fresh tracks! The pig is here!’

  The men whooped and ran. Ascha breathed out. He turned to Hroc, but his brother was already striding away.

  The boar was found lurking against an earth wall at the back of the gully. Ascha stepped forward with his bow, but Hroc laid a hand on his chest.

  ‘Not tha, him,’ he said, and snapped his fingers at Tchenguiz.

  Tchenguiz raised his bow as the boar, its hair stiff with dried mud, came crashing through the brush. A difficult shot with the boar quartering towards them, but they all knew the Hun could do it. The bowstring thrummed and Ascha heard a meaty thud as the shaft struck home. The boar squealed and scrabbled to a stop. It stood wheezing heavily, black pebble eyes glinting with rage. It snorted and then lowered its head and charged, tusks angled to slash and rip.

  Hroc shouted, ‘My kill!’

  The hunters leapt out of the way. The beast moved fast despite the arrow flapping in its shoulder. Hroc waited until the boar was almost upon him and then sidestepped and rammed his spear into the animal’s side. The thrust went in low behind the shoulder plate, through the boar’s thick hide, smashing deep into heart and lungs.

  The legs buckled, and the boar was dead.

  They gathered to marvel at what they had destroyed. A monster, bigger than any of them and twice as heavy. Food for a long hard winter.

  Hroc pushed his hands deep into the hog’s side and withdrew them wet with gore. He licked his fingers and then went to each of the freemen, drawing his fingertips across their cheeks, badging them with blood.

  Besso took a long knife and cut out the boar’s heart. He held it up, said a prayer and buried the heart, a gift to Tiw. While Ascha, Tchenguiz and Besso’s slave built a fire to keep away the wolves, the freemen settled down to enjoy the fruits of the hunt. Liver, hot and smoking, smeared with the salty juice of gall bladders. Fresh bone marrow, brains eaten raw from the cracked skull. They ate greedily, licking their fingers and grunting with pleasure, ignoring the rain that fell about their heads and shoulders. When they were stuffed with rich red meat, they rolled themselves in their blankets and lay down before the fire.

  Ascha and the two slaves threw a rope over a thick branch and hauled the pigs up high. Working by firelight, they slit open the pig’s bellies and gutted them, grey intestines looping down into the mud. It was hard, filthy work and took a long time. They cleaned the carcases, wrapped them in sacking and loaded them on poles ready to be carried to the boats.

  When they were done, Ascha looked over at the sleeping Theodi. He watched them with murder in his heart, and then he lay down, rammed his gutting knife into the earth, pulled his cloak around him and slept.

  12

  The next day they paddled downriver. Ascha brooded. He was disgusted with himself for giving way to Hroc and swore it would not happen again. He might be a half-slave, but he was determined not to live like one.

  They were almost home when they saw the ships. Three ocean-going long boats dragging at anchor not a stone’s throw from the village, their sails hanging limp and oars stowed. A bank of
mist was rolling in from the marshes, shrouding the tops of the masts and chilling the air. The hunters let the boats drift. They rested on their oars and peered into the milky-whiteness. Ascha saw the flicker of flames in the village and smelt burning. Armed men moved among the trees. He felt his pulse quicken.

  ‘Raiders!’ Besso bellowed. ‘Turn back.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Hroc, ‘Press on. Get to shore.’

  Sluggish under the weight of men and pigmeat, the boats turned slowly. The hull rasped over mud and gravel and came to a stop. Ascha jumped out. He splashed through the shallows and clambered up the riverbank, chest heaving. He looked back and saw that the others had landed and were strung out along the riverbank.

  He looked toward the warboats.

  A man stood in the bow of the lead boat, his cheeks tattooed with tight whorls, a huge red shield covering him from shoulder to thigh.

  ‘They’re Cheruskkii!’ Besso shouted.

  ‘Cheruskkii?’ Hroc said. ‘It can’t be!’

  Ascha saw the raider put a hand to the side of his mouth. A moment later the Cheruskkii war cry swirled about their ears. He saw the Cheruskkii turn and scan the beach, looking for the source of the threat. Then they were running down the terp, fanning out toward them.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Wado’s boy, Morcar shouted. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’ll speak with Radhalla,’ Hroc said, moving towards the village. ‘He’ll listen to me.’

  Besso barred Hroc’s way. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They’ll kill tha.’

  ‘But we’re not at war!’ Hroc shouted.

  Besso said, ‘Maybe not, but our village is burning, and those Cheruskkii haven’t come as friends.’

  They turned towards Hroc, silent accusation in their eyes. Hroc, the Cheruskkii’s friend. A riverside cabin burst into flame with a dull whoompf, spewing out a black plume of smoke that climbed and flattened over the river.

  ‘Then we’ll fight here, and if needs be, we’ll die here,’ Hroc snarled.

  Besso shook his head, ‘There are too many of them. We’d be better off taking our chances in the marshes. We’ve got to stick together.’