The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  ‘Praise God!’ said Remigius. ‘We must smite them hard.’

  ‘Smite them we shall, Bishop,’ Clovis said, ‘although I fear the Saxons will do all they can to smite us first.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Theodling,’ Clovis said later when the Council had broken up. ‘Better than I ever thought possible, we owe you a great debt. My father had spies across the Rhine for years but you’ve told us what we needed to know. Your report was terrifying, but it was worth it to see the looks on their faces.’

  He squeezed Ascha’s arm and gave a harsh and unpleasant laugh.

  Ascha grinned, the relief pouring from him like water from a pail. He smiled at Clovis unable to believe what had just happened. He had done what he promised. He had warned the Franks of the Saxon uprising. Maybe now he could take it easy? He felt drained but exhilarated. A week ago he was a slave with a wretched future and now here he was addressing the Great Council.

  ‘Your promise, Lord?’ he said. ‘You promised you would make me free.’

  Clovis sucked his teeth and took him by the arm and led him to one side.

  ‘And so I shall, all in good time. But I need you to do one thing more for me.’ He lowered his voice and spoke urgently. ‘I want you to go back to the Rhine-mouth and keep watch on your Saxon friends. We must know where and when they will land. Find that out, Theodling, and you shall have everything you could possibly want, and more besides.’

  Ascha’s face fell. He’d been foolish to think it was all over. There was always more to be done.

  ‘Of course,’ he murmured dejectedly. ‘I’ll take care of it. I’ll go straightaway.’

  ‘No, stay here tonight. You can leave tomorrow. Bauto will arrange an escort and Flavinius will find you a bed. And clean clothes,’ Clovis added with a little sniff.

  He paused and then seeing Ascha’s expression, suddenly pulled off his ring and handed it to Ascha. ‘Here, take this,’ he said. ‘I want you to have it.’

  Ascha hesitated. The ring was heavy and gold with a King’s head etched on the face. He slipped it on.

  ‘Lord, your uncle Ragnachar…?’ he blurted.

  Clovis scowled. ‘I will deal with my uncle when the time comes.’

  ‘But…’

  Clovis slapped a hand across Ascha’s mouth and put his face close to Ascha’s. ‘Just remember who you are,’ he hissed, ‘and never, ever, mention my uncle again, unless you want to remain a half-slave for the rest of your life.’

  Ascha swallowed. Octha had been right. He nodded and took a deep breath. ‘I would ask a favour. A merchant, Octha the Frisian, rescued me from slavers. I would like to pay him back.’

  ‘From slavers!’ Clovis whispered, gazing at Ascha. A little shudder of revulsion seemed to pass through him. ‘You poor boy! Flavinius will give you gold and anything else you need. Did you say Octha the merchant? Strange, I thought he died years ago.’ He suddenly gripped Ascha by the upper arm. ‘We are almost there, Theodling. Now get some rest. You look worn out and you have a busy week ahead of you.’

  He patted Ascha’s cheek, gave him a quick smile and was gone.

  Ascha looked at Flavinius and then at the floor. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been used, that Clovis had steered him, as he had steered the Great Council, in the direction that Clovis wanted him to go.

  He sighed and studied the ring. He rubbed it against his shirt and then looked at it again. It was, he thought, a very fine ring.

  Outside, Ascha put back his head and breathed in deep. There was the sound of footsteps and he saw Ragnachar and Fara hurrying by. Ragnachar walked with his feet splayed, leaning on a slave’s arm for support. A cart drew up at the foot of the steps, and Ragnachar’s slaves shouldered him in.

  Fara looked up and saw Ascha. He gave a cold smile, full of menace.

  ‘What is it,’ Flavinius said.

  ‘Stay here,’ Ascha said.

  He went down the steps two at a time. Fara came to meet him.

  ‘We’ve met before I think.’ Fara said.

  ‘On the road to Colonia, a year ago.’

  Fara thought for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘You’re the woodcarver!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘I know who you are.’ Ascha pulled out the small clay bottle from his tunic and tossed it to him.

  Fara caught it with one hand. He pulled out the stopper and put it to his nose and breathed in. ‘It’s very pretty,’ he said. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘At Radhallaburh.’

  ‘The Saxons’ fortress.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You believe it is mine. It is not.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  They watched each other.

  ‘You think that if I had been to Radhallaburh, I would have left something like this?’ Fara said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But that’s what you think.’

  Ascha said nothing.

  ‘What are you going to do with this?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  Fara pursed his lips. ‘He hasn’t decided.’ He dropped the bottle to the ground and put his boot on it and crushed it, twisting his heel savagely until the bottle was powder.

  ‘Well, my young friend, when you’ve decided, let me know.’

  ‘It’s your word against that of Ragnachar and Fara,’ Flavinius said sadly. ‘The Overlord distrusts Ragnachar, but his uncle brought him up and he will never take the word of a Saxon half-slave against that of his own kin.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘For now, nothing. But you should be careful. These are dangerous people and I’m sure they’re watching you. Yes, they’re watching.’

  That evening there was a knock at the door. Flavinius came in and said, ‘It’s a messenger from Basinia. She wants to see you.’

  ‘When?’

  Flavinius shrugged. The question was idiotic. Immediately!

  The servant led Ascha through the winding streets to a solitary stone house set in a yard on the eastern side of town near the river. There was little to suggest it was a royal dwelling but the bored Antrustion standing guard at the door. Inside was dark and sparsely furnished. A large canopied bed set on a stone floor, a table and benches. Rich hangings in silk and tapestry hung from the walls. The house was cold and gloomy, and the fire and scattered oil lamps did little to take the chill off the stone.

  Basinia was propped up in bed wrapped in sheepskins like an invalid. She held a wooden bowl on her lap and was nibbling the flesh of a rabbit leg. Without her veil or headdress she looked older. Her face was pale and drawn, and he saw her hair was turning grey.

  As he entered, the queen looked up, tore off a last piece of mauve flesh with her teeth, dropped the bone into the bowl and wiped her hand across her mouth.

  ‘You spoke well today,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Lady.’

  The servant who had brought him leaned against the wall, one foot propped against the stone, whistling tunelessly under his breath.

  ‘You have given us a great service.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You did.’

  He waited. Basinia picked up another rabbit leg and chewed at it.

  ‘My son seems to have become attached to you,’ she said. ‘At first I was not sure but now I begin to think that you could be very useful to us.’

  ‘How, Lady?’

  She put her head on one side as if thinking how to answer. ‘Not many have what it takes to do what you do. To spy on your own people takes courage and boldness. And few could have addressed the Council in the way you did. We could use your talents.’ She looked up at him. ‘Would you be willing?’

  Once he would have jumped at the opportunity. Now he was not so sure. ‘I am always happy to help,’ he said. The reply was no more than a courtesy but something in the way he said it seemed to satisfy her. She nodded without taking her eyes off
him.

  ‘Where do you sleep tonight?’

  The question took him by surprise. ‘At the house of Flavinius.’

  ‘Then tell Flavinius to take himself elsewhere. Eleri!’

  There was a rustle and a flicker of movement in the corner and a young slave-woman, half-lost in the shadows stepped into the light. She stood with her eyes downcast and her hands by her side.

  ‘This is Eleri, of my household.’ Basinia said without looking at her. ‘Does she please you?’

  He ran his eyes up and down the girl. She was young and pretty with a hard face and reddish brown hair that hung down her neck. There was something familiar about the line of her cheek and the shape of her mouth. She looked at him sharply and then looked away.

  ‘Very,’ he said, turning back to the queen.

  Basinia gave a short mannish laugh. ‘Good!’ she said. ‘She is yours for tonight.’

  He looked at her, thunderstruck. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Bring her back before you go,’ the queen said, handing the bowl to the girl. ‘And do not abuse her, Saxon, or you will answer to me.’

  It seemed as if he barely had time to explain to Flavinius and bundle him into the street when there was a tap on the door. He opened it and saw Eleri, her head covered with a dark shawl and her feet pale and bare.

  He stared, lost for words.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’d better come inside,’ he said huskily.

  Eleri stepped past him, her skirt brushing softly against his leg. She pushed back her hood and slowly ran her eyes round the room, taking it all in. Then she looked at him, waiting.

  He closed the door and took a step towards her. He could smell her hair, clean and faintly scented. Outside, he heard women’s voices in the street, the scrape of a dog’s bark.

  Ascha felt his throat thicken, not knowing what to say. ‘Is Eleri your real name or a slave name?’ he said awkwardly.

  She gave a hard little laugh. ‘What do you care,’ she murmured.

  He took her by the elbows and kissed her lightly on the lips. She smiled and kissed him back. He helped her take off her cloak and then he touched her hand and led her inside.

  Later, he lay with his arm around her, one hand cupping her breast, listening to her breathe.

  ‘Are you awake?’ he said into her hair.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she said.

  She pushed herself up on her elbow, turning her head to look at him. Her hair was dark and loose and fell around her shoulders in a thick wave.

  ‘I’ve met you before,’ he said softly.

  ‘A year ago,’ she said her voice lazy with sleep. ‘You were with the Lord Clovis. I served you wine.’

  Then it came to him, Clovis standing before the fire explaining his plans for a greater Francia, the two women, one old and the other young, the ruby rich taste of the wine on his lips.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ he said.

  ‘I remember you, but you have changed,’ she said, smoothing his hair with the tips of her fingers. ‘Your face is thinner and you seem much older. The last year has not been kind to you.’

  There was the trace of an accent. Neither Gaul nor Frank. Something else.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘From?’

  ‘How did you come to be here?’ he said, a little exasperated.

  He felt her shrug. ‘I have been here a long time. I was a gift to Lord Clovis.’

  ‘A gift?’

  She sighed, bored with the drift of the conversation. ‘And you, Saxon? Do you have a girl you like?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  She looked at him and then said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ She pulled the blanket up so that it covered their shoulders and gave him a soft and knowing smile. ‘Tell me, what is she like, your sweetheart?’

  He leaned back on his elbows and smiled and then said, ‘She is beautiful, just like you, with green eyes, just like you, but a little taller with chestnut hair, and maybe a year or so younger.’

  The smile slipped from her face. ‘I must go,’ she said, her voice suddenly clipped, but in a way that left him uncertain whether she was telling him or asking him.

  ‘Go?’

  ‘The queen will be expecting me.’

  He leant across and ran one finger down the side of her cheek, under her chin and down into the little dip at the base of her throat.

  She shivered, her cheek warm against his.

  ‘Not just yet,’ he said.

  21

  When he awoke he was dismayed to find Eleri had gone. It was still dark, the sky only just beginning to lighten and he had hot sandy eyes and a head full of wool. He dragged on his boots, pulled his cloak around him and left. It was chilly, and he shivered as he hurried through the streets, nobody about but a few peddlers driving their pack animals. He came to the bridge and quickly crossed to the western part of town, his feet thumping hollow on the wooden boards.

  At the other side, a man stepped from the shadows and plucked at his sleeve.

  ‘My master would like a word? Will you come?’

  ‘That depends on who your master is.’

  The man looked at him with surprise. ‘I serve Syagrius. The Governor of Roman Gallia,’ he said.

  The Antrustions who were to escort him back to Thraelsted would be waiting at the stables, but he was curious to meet Syagrius.

  The Governor’s servant led him to a pretty two storied house with a tiled roof and a small garden overlooking the river. He was shown up to the first floor. Syagrius was standing by a large window, dressed in a woollen gown, a blanket thrown his shoulders against the chill.

  Syagrius turned when he heard his feet crackling on the straw and came towards him, putting out a hand. Ascha took it. The skin was dry and papery to the touch. In the fresh light of morning, the governor seemed smaller. His round and serious face was shrunken, his eyes had pouches under them and his beard was tinged with grey. It was, Ascha thought, the face of a man who has fought hard and knows he has lost.

  Syagrius smiled slightly. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said in Latin. ‘Will you take something? Some warm milk and cake perhaps?’

  Ascha accepted but refused the offer of a seat. He couldn’t stay long. He had to get back to the Rhine-mouth and the Antrustions wouldn’t want to be kept waiting. It occurred to him that Syagrius had known he was leaving and his servant had waylaid Ascha at the bridge which meant he knew where he was staying. Probably knew about the girl too. Did everyone know his business in this town? He sipped the milk and broke off a piece of cake to eat. He was hungrier than he thought.

  ‘I wanted to tell you how grateful I am,’ Syagrius said. ‘Your report on the Saxon threat was alarming, but most helpful.’

  Ascha bowed slightly. Yesterday, he had addressed the Grand Council, today he was taking breakfast with a Roman Governor. Hard to believe just a few days ago he was a slave.

  ‘It was my duty,’ he said, feeling that he ought to try his hand at modesty.

  ‘Your duty? Well, yes. I suppose it was,’ Syagrius said. ‘Your Latin is excellent, by the way. Old fashioned and with an accent I cannot place, but very good. From where did you acquire it?’

  Ascha felt the warmth rise on the back of his neck. ‘My mother,’ he mumbled. ‘She was from a high-born family in Pritannia.’

  ‘Ah, that would explain it,’ Syagrius said mildly.

  A woman walked lightly across the room carrying a bundle of linen. She smiled at Ascha and withdrew. Outside, he heard the sound of carts trundling down the alley, a man shouting at his wife. The servant who had brought him came and sat on a bench by the door.

  Syagrius sipped his milk while Ascha waited, chafing with impatience.

  Syagrius said, ‘You realize that if the Saxons take over Roman Gallia, it will mean the end of Roman rule in this province?’

  Not something he’d thought about, but probably true. The Romans had lost so much territory to the northern tribes they couldn’t af
ford any more setbacks.

  ‘They can still be stopped,’ he said.

  Syagrius gave him a keen look. ‘Do you think so? You are Saxon-born and you know them. There was a time when I thought we could defeat the barbarians. Play them off against one another. But now…I am not so sure.’

  ‘Rome is still powerful.’

  ‘Dear boy, Rome is unravelling as we speak. We used to be feared, but now the barbarians take our land and make us pay for the very light of day.’

  Ascha shook his head. ‘Roman power has faded, but Roman life continues.’

  Syagrius looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Northerners don’t want to destroy Rome. They want a share of Rome.’

  Syagrius stroked his beard, lifted it up and let it drop.

  ‘You think we can live together? Is that it? Does the leopard lie down with the lion? Can Rome do business with barbari?’ He spat out the word.

  Ascha bridled. ‘Barbarians have defended the empire for years,’ he said more politely than he felt. ‘My father fought with Aetius against the Huns. A barbarian sits on the imperial throne and barbarian warlords control Roman provinces. Working with barbarians is nothing new.’

  Syagrius pursed his lips doubtfully. ‘I know many who speak as you do. My friend Sidonius says that the barbarians are strong and vigorous. He says that we should come to an accommodation with them. That way, the best of Rome will survive.’

  ‘You don’t believe it?’

  ‘Do I think that learning Frankish, shaving my head and dressing in animal skins will ensure the survival of Imperial Rome?’ Syagrius snapped.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Syagrius sighed. ‘Maybe you are right. Maybe we must learn to share our lands and our rents – even our women – with pagans. Treat the barbarians as honoured guests and maybe they will protect us and allow us to live.’

  ‘Barbarians are not so different from Romans.’

  Syagrius looked at him. ‘You think not?

  ‘They want a roof over their head and a land they can call their own.’ And to feel sunshine on their faces, he thought.

  ‘Even Saxons? Do Saxons want that too?’

  ‘Even Saxons.’