The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  It was almost dark when they got to the top. Against a purpling sky, they could see the stone finger of the castellum and Thraelsted and the bay beyond. In the fading light, the freshly-hewn timber of the Saxon warboats stood pale against the dark water, like maggots on a lamb’s carcass.

  Ascha swung his foot over the saddle and dropped to the ground. The Franks dismounted, tethered the horses, laid out their bedrolls and began to prepare food.

  Ascha touched Tchenguiz on the arm.

  ‘Go up there and tell me if tha sees anything.’

  Ascha and the Franks rested as night fell.

  Some time later there was a yell. He saw Tchenguiz waving and went up the hill at a lope.

  ‘Cher’skii come!’ the Hun said, pointing.

  At first he saw nothing.

  He blinked and peered into the middle distance.

  And then he saw them.

  A long dark line of armed men, led by a man on a horse, moving slowly towards the castellum.

  Herrad felt stifled. Once Ascha and the Franks had left, Octha had gone from window to window closing and barring the shutters. The room felt stuffy and airless. With a sudden cry of irritation, she got to her feet and took down the bar and threw back the shutters. A silvery light crept into the house from a pale moon swept by dark clouds. The night was quiet as sleep. She lifted her head and breathed in the damp scent of grass and pine.

  She heard the creak of a door, and Octha came in. He glanced at her, rubbed his hands together and sat down. He seemed not to have noticed the open window.

  ‘Do you want to eat?’ she said, her voice strained in the stillness.

  He didn’t answer.

  The silence spread like water, filling the room.

  Herrad sighed, pulled the knife from her sleeve and reached up and sliced at the ham hanging from the rafters. She cut a few thick chunks and then filled a bowl with bread and meat and set it before him.

  ‘Why did you send them away?’ she said.

  Octha looked up at her as you might look at someone who spoke suddenly in an unknown language. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He looked down and tossed his head a few times, as he did when he was in the wrong.

  She had not understood all that had gone on between Octha and Ascha, but she had recognized the look in Ascha’s eye and guessed that it had to do with her. She was no longer sure what she felt for Octha, pity or nothing at all, but she knew it had been a mistake to stay. How could Octha have been so thoughtless? But then he was a man and could do anything he wanted, and she was a woman and could not.

  She lit an oil lamp and carried it over to the table. She was working on a beaded necklace strung with rawhide and now she picked up the necklace, knowing she would not sleep anyway. She was frightened of what would happen if the Saxons came. Just thinking about it made the muscles in her stomach clench, but at the same time she felt listless and unable to move. She drew in her shoulders and shivered. She remembered when her sister was taken by raiders and tensed with sudden pain as she recalled her mother’s anguished wails, and her father’s slow and burning anger. Even now, she could see her sister’s face, and missed her more than she could say.

  You have to be strong, she had told herself then. Do what you must to live. And she had lived by that rule ever since.

  She studied the necklace in the half-light and then dropped it in disgust. The work was poor, the beads badly matched. She would have to undo it and start again.

  She smiled, a hard little smile, and bent to her work. Rummaging in a wooden box, her fingers settled on a fat bead which she held up between finger and thumb. In the warm glow of the lamp the blue glass glittered brightly, the colour of sea water on a summer’s day. She pushed the bone needle into the bead and then angrily pulled it through.

  Outside, there was a dry sound, like a boot scraping on cobbles. Herrad froze, her needle poised. She ran a hand through her hair and listened.

  But it was only the wind gusting through the trees.

  Ascha couldn’t sleep. He got to his feet, walked up the rise and looked down over the Rhine. No lights. No movement. A feeling of dread crept over him like a winter mist, numbing his limbs and chilling his heart. Something was wrong, he just knew it.

  He ran back and went from one sleeping man to another, kicking them awake.

  ‘What is it?’ the captain said, reaching for his weapon.

  ‘Get your men up,’ he said. ‘We’re going back.’

  They left the horses tethered and went down on foot, the moon giving enough light to see the pale thread of track. They travelled fast, running in a pack over the twisty brook and down the lane. When they neared the castellum they went to ground and crept along in the darkness, stopping every few moments to listen.

  They heard no sound but the whispering of the grass and the sighing in the trees. Insects rose in clouds, breaking on their faces and rain pattered lightly on the leaves. There was a strong smell of damp wood and animal dung. In the moonlight the wall was the colour of wet leather, covered in thick, bony ivy that rustled faintly each time the wind passed.

  They went to where the wall had collapsed in a sprawling heap of rubble. Tchenguiz squeezed Ascha’s arm and pointed. An armed man stood in the shadows. Ascha nodded and the Hun ran off at a snaking half-crouch along the wall. Ascha caught a glimpse of him crawling behind a fence and then he lost sight of him. When he saw him again he was a dark shadow behind the sentry.

  The shadow rose. They heard a faint cry and the man fell.

  They waited and then they got to their feet, moving forward at a run, jumping over the crumpled body of the Cherusker sentry and crossing the broken wall into the courtyard. The captain jabbed a finger at the warehouse and two Franks peeled off into the night. A third ran to the barn.

  Clouds slid across the moon like silk across marble.

  Ascha squatted on his heels and waited. He loosened his long-knife in its sheath, tightened his belt a notch, pulled a piece of bread from his tunic and began to chew.

  Come on, come on, he thought, mindful of the time that had passed since he gave the order to go back.

  A Frank came running silently across the courtyard. ‘Workshops clear,’ he mouthed.

  They waited some more and then they saw another Frank flitting along the foot of the wall where the shadows were deepest.

  ‘Four in the barn,’ he whispered. ‘The house-slaves are there as well. The warehouse has been looted but it’s clear, didn’t see the merchant or the girl.’

  ‘The barn first,’ Ascha hissed. ‘Then the house. Come on!’

  They moved off at a crouching run, heading toward the barn. Smashed barrels, crates and broken storage jars were strewn over the yard and the doors of the warehouse gaped. The Saxons had already cleared out Octha’s warehouse and sent wagon loads of plunder back to the fleet. Ascha grunted, pleased there would be fewer Cheruskkii to deal with.

  They listened and then they drew their weapons and slipped inside the barn. It was dark, but not so dark they couldn’t see. He could make out several Cheruskers sprawled in the straw. One of Octha’s servants was hanging by the neck from a beam. Huddled against the far wall was a group of women, Ochtha’s slaves and servants. They were asleep save for one older woman who stared at the Franks with wide and terrified eyes. She was Femke, the woman who had fed them when they arrived.

  Ascha laid a finger across his lips, shook his head and saw her nod with understanding.

  The Franks took up positions around the sleeping Cheruskkii. One Cherusker raised a bleary head and blinked at the armed men standing over him. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and then the blades came down.

  Ascha watched the butchery without feeling. They were Cheruskkii and deserved to die. One of the women awoke and would have squealed if Femke had not clapped a hand across her mouth and silenced her. The Franks grinned and held up bloody fists, thumbs uppermost, their eyes and teeth white in the darkness.

  Ascha cr
ossed the barn floor and knelt beside Femke.

  He spoke urgently, ‘Femke, where is Octha and the girl?’

  Femke looked up at him and turned her head towards the house.

  ‘Are there Saxons with them?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘How many?’

  She thought for a moment and then held up five fingers.

  He went to the door of the barn and looked towards the house. A faint puff of smoke issued from the roof, like breath on a cold morning. He felt the cold grip of anxiety grab him by the gut.

  Somewhere a dog howled in the night.

  Rain tapped on the roof, and a damp shroud of wind wrapped itself around the tower. He signalled to the captain and then beckoned Tchenguiz. There was a band of deep shadow to their right, and they used that for cover as they ran to the house, leaping over a low wicker fence and throwing themselves against the wall on either side of the door. The captain and the Franks waited until they were across and then followed, feet slapping in the mud. More Franks went around the back. The shutters were open. Inside, a lamp was burning and Ascha could see its yellow light fluttering in the draught.

  He strained to hear the slightest sound, his throat tight, almost swelling.

  Silence.

  He breathed out, screwed his eyes shut and released them. Not allowing himself to think about it, he lifted the latch and pushed, hoping the door was well oiled. The door swung open and they slipped inside.

  Ascha paused and allowed his eyes to adjust.

  Three men sat at the table, he could hear them breathing. Stepping closer, he saw that they were asleep. One was Octha, the other two were Cheruskkii. There was no sign of the girl. Octha had been badly beaten. His head lolled and his face was bruised and bloody. Iron-grey chest hair curled over a shirt that was torn and spattered with blood. The merchant’s wrists were bound to the arms of the chair. His hands a raw and bloody mess. One of the Cheruskkii lay with his head on his arm, like a child, the other was sprawled in a chair with his head back and mouth open.

  Ascha scanned the room. There’d been a struggle. Benches upended, wall hangings pulled down. The bedding chest had been opened and blankets tossed on the floor. A woman’s workbox had been overturned, scattering beads across the floor. There was a stench of stale beer and the musky smell of men who have spent too long in each other’s company.

  Ascha and Tchenguiz circled the table, carefully stepping over the loose beads. They waited and they listened and then at a nod from Ascha they each clamped a hand over a Cherusker’s mouth and put a blade beneath his throat and pulled it towards them. There was a sigh of escaping air and blood flowing over the table in a dark and widening pool. One of the Cheruskkii, a young man, twitched as he died, as if his passing were no more than a dream.

  Octha opened his eyes but showed no surprise to see them. He put his head back in an effort to smile but his teeth were punched out and his mouth was bloody. Ascha put a finger to his lips. They stared at each other for what seemed a long time. There was a look of unfathomable sadness on the merchant’s face, as if he had seen things he never hoped to see. He began to sob, his body heaving uncontrollably.

  Not now, Ascha thought. Not now.

  He touched Octha’s arm and mouthed the girl’s name. The merchant’s eyes swivelled towards the far end of the house and a soft moan slid from his lips.

  Ascha drew his franciska and passed his seaxe to his left hand. He and Tchenguiz turned as one. The merchant’s sleeping quarters were at the end of the house screened by a curtain of animal hides. They edged forward, nerves screaming, peering into the shadows. He was half way down the room when the shadows shifted and a man came at him from out of the darkness. Instinctively, Ascha jerked back from the slashing blow, feinted and then, as the man turned, he stepped forward and punched the seaxe in hard just below the ribs. He held the Cherusker close, feeling the sour warmth of the man’s breath on his face, and then yanked the blade free.

  The Cherusker fell without a sound.

  Across the room, he saw Tchenguiz grappling with another Saxon. The Hun parried the Cherusker’s blow, laid open the man’s thigh and then hooked the man’s knife arm away and killed him with a vicious chop to the head.

  Breathing heavily, Ascha lifted the curtain and stepped inside.

  A bed covered with sheepskins, a table and cupboards, more skins on the floor. Herrad was roped to a roof beam, her arms stretched above her head. She was barefoot, dressed only in her shift, and her mouth bound with a dirty rag.

  Ascha reached up and sawed at her bonds. She let out a little gasp and leaned on his shoulder as her legs gave way. He helped her to the bed and was pulling at the rag in her mouth when he heard a faint sound.

  Herrad looked up at him and then past him and her eyes went wide.

  Ascha whirled.

  He caught the glint of moonlight on an iron blade and then a pale figure cannoned into him, driving him back across the room. He saw a long knife thrusting up towards his groin and he twisted violently to avoid the blade, swinging the franciska in a savage downward slash.

  A shrill scream ripped the night air and then Ascha crashed to the floor. He rolled and kicked himself free. Scrambling quickly to his feet, he stood, chest heaving and alert to every move. In the dirty grey light of approaching dawn he could see a man, writhing like a snake and clutching his arm.

  It took him a moment before he saw it was Radhalla’s nephew, Sigisberht.

  Tchenguiz pushed past, his long knife raised.

  ‘Don’t kill him!’ Ascha shouted. ‘We need him.’

  He kicked the bench out of the way and stepped in for a better look. Sigisberht was lying on his back, his shirt ripped open and his plump white belly spattered with blood. He saw that his blow had almost severed the Cherusker’s arm at the elbow, the limb now hanging by a tattered scrap of flesh. Sigisberht gasped, his breath coming in little pants, and his face clammy with sweat.

  He could hear the Franks shouting to each other outside as they went through the buildings searching for stray Saxons. Tchenguiz went from window to window, flinging open the shutters which crashed noisily against the side of the house.

  Ascha turned to the girl.

  She sat on the edge of the bed staring at the floor with her hands clasped in front of her and her face half-hidden by her hair. He saw that she was shaking. She had been beaten: there were bruises on her wrists and on her cheek. Blood soaked her shift.

  He took a sheepskin from the bed and draped it across the girl’s shoulders. The Frankish captain came up. He glanced at the girl and then looked at Ascha.

  ‘Bastards cut off his fingers to make him talk,’ he muttered.

  He held up a hand and drew a thick finger across the knuckles.

  The girl suddenly got to her feet and, with faltering steps, padded across the room to Octha. Ascha watched as she took the old man’s grey head in her arms and held him against her breast while he sobbed bitterly and hot tears carved channels through the grime on his cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ascha heard him say, over and over. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The merchant had been wrong, his reputation worthless. Sigisberht would have wanted to know everything, and he had no doubt Octha would have told him. Not at first maybe, not when his manservant was taken out and hanged. Not even when the Cheruskkii turned their attention to him, first the beatings and then the knife, every step a fresh hill of pain until he could bear no more. But there was always more. And when the Cheruskkii laid hands on the girl, and Octha realized what they would do to her, he would have babbled like a babe.

  Herrad went out and filled a pan with water from the cask. She took a wooden ladle and dipped it and held it to the merchant’s lips. Octha’s drank greedily, the water running down his chin. The girl soaked a cloth and began to clean the old man’s face. She held Octha’s hand and gently trickled water over the mutilated stumps, talking softly as a mother would to a child.

  There was a sharp cry as t
he captain and Tchenguiz lifted Sigisberht onto a bench. The Cherusker’s hair was plastered to his brow and his face was as grey as death. He clasped his arm with fingers that were clogged and sticky with blood. He looked up at Ascha and smiled without mirth.

  ‘Ah, the Theod,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I knew you were not what you seemed.’ Sigisberht said and gave a short hard laugh. ‘I tried to tell Radhalla I thought you were working for the Franks but he wouldn’t have it.’ He shook his head and closed his eyes as the pain rolled over him. ‘He liked you too much. Thought you were a survivor, the half-slave who escaped Frankish exile and made his way home. But you’ll burn for this, you traitor.’

  Ascha slapped him across the face.

  Sigisberht’s head snapped back, and he gasped but his eyes were cold and blue and glared at Ascha with unveiled loathing.

  ‘When does the fleet sail, you sack of shit? What’s your landing point?’

  Sigisberht smiled at him, through him and beyond him.

  Ascha turned to find the girl standing beside him. She was silent, her face composed but for a faint and almost unnoticeable tremor at the corner of her jaw.

  Sigisberht looked up and his lips drew back in a ghastly grin.

  ‘You chose well, Theod. Best piece of tail I’ve had in a long while. No wonder the old man had her tucked away.’

  There was a sudden blur of movement as the girl rammed her knife into Sigisberht’s eye.

  Sigisberht hurtled back and crashed to the floor. He lay with his legs splayed, and the bone handle of the girl’s knife protruding from his face.

  ‘Tiw’s breath!’ the captain said.

  Herrad leaned forward. She hawked from deep in her throat and spat on Sigisberht’s body. Mucus spattered the smooth curve of the Cherusker’s belly and slid slowly towards his groin.

  She had the knife all the time, Ascha realized, but must have known that if she used it against Sigisberht, the Cheruskers would kill them both.