by Trevor Bloom
Sigisberht’s leg twitched and there was a dry whisper in his throat like the sound of windblown leaves. Ascha stepped forward and pulled the girl away. He drew his seaxe and placed the point of the blade in the hollow where Sigisberht’s neck joined his shoulder.
He put his weight behind the blade and pushed in hard.
They put Octha on a mule with his arms strapped tight to his chest and led him away. Herrad walked beside him leading the mule by the bridle. She walked with a firm step but kept her head down, looking at no-one.
Ascha watched and grieved.
The women from the barn had been standing together in a clump like uprooted weeds, but when he looked again they had slipped away. The Franks would have left Octha’s servant hanging from the beam, but the girl insisted he be buried.
The men looked to Ascha who nodded. ‘Do as she says,’ he said.
The Franks cut the servant down. They scraped a shallow grave outside the wall and tossed the body in. They cut the ears off the dead Cheruskkii, shared them out and then dragged the bodies out by their feet, heads cracking on the stone steps, and dropped them in the yard. All save Sigisberht who they left in Octha’s house as bare-arsed naked as the day he was born with his ears hacked off, his nose cut with the slave-mark of a runaway and a girl’s knife embedded in his eye.
Let Radhalla choke on that, Ascha thought.
Later, they sat on the rise and watched as the Saxons fired Thraelsted. The Saxons surrounded the town and then went in, slaughtering and burning as they went. Plumes of dark smoke belched into the sky and flattened over the roofs leaving the air bitter with the smell of burning. Tchenguiz and Gydda sat and took bets on which house would burn next. When the slave market caught fire, they threw up their arms and let out a wild whoop of joy.
They laid Octha on the grass under a tree and made a small awning out of blankets to keep off the wind and rain. Lucullus bound his hands with rags, and Herrad folded a cape and pushed it under his head. The merchant was in pain but there was little else they could do. After a while he slept, his face pasty with fatigue.
The girl sat apart with her arms crossed over her chest and her chin on her knees, her face hidden by her hair. The captain brusquely offered her water but she shook her head.
After that they let her be.
Ascha watched the girl for a long time. He picked up his cloak and went over and sat near her and considered the possibility of touching her. He didn’t look at her or speak to her, and she did not smile or acknowledge him in any way. He noticed that she was trembling, quivering all over like a little animal, but whether this was from fear or cold or some other feeling he wasn’t sure. He felt helpless, sick with guilt and rage, not knowing what to do.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered clumsily and squeezed her shoulder, all out of words.
She turned, her face crumpling. ‘It was not your doing,’ she said. ‘I chose to stay.’
He placed a careful arm around her and gently drew her to him. She was wrong: this was all down to him. He should have known what the Cheruskkii would do, should have insisted that the old man and the girl leave. He had failed to protect her and he would carry the shame of it for the rest of his days.
They remained like that with her head on his shoulder watching the town burn.
‘Those poor people,’ she said after a while. ’Is there nothing we can do?’
He shook his head. ‘Radhalla’s making the Frisians pay for Sigisberht’s death.’
‘But they are not responsible.’
‘He knows that, but it’s the only way he can get back at me.’
He felt a sudden chill, as if a dark and furtive foreboding had crept into his mind.
‘He will kill you for this,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If he can, he will.’
A Frank came running down the rise. He gave a passable Roman salute, his hand slapping his chest, and then said, ‘The Captain said you are to come, Lord,’
The captain was lying arse uppermost staring out over the bay. He turned and beckoned Ascha with a wild, long-armed wave. ‘Thought you should see this,’ he said.
Ascha threw himself down. The Rhine was thick and brown, shifting slowly beneath a sky overhung with ramparts of billowing white cloud.
Ascha squinted.
The fleet was on the move. White sails unfurling and the flash of sunlight as the long boats oars rose and dipped. Slender shapes slowly turning to slip downriver. Faint cheers as the two-headed war drums called to each other across the water.
‘Tiw’s breath!’ the captain said. ‘That’s a pretty sight.’
Ascha felt uneasy. Sigisberht’s death would change everything. He was no longer just an escaped slave. Radhalla would know he was a Frankish agent and would guess that Ascha had warned the Franks and Romans that the fleet was on its way.
He stood. ‘Radhalla knows we’re watching him,’ he said. ‘He could be moving the fleet downriver where we can’t see them.’
‘You think he’d move the whole fleet to avoid you?’
‘I think he might.’
‘For a Saxon half-slave you have a high opinion of yourself.’
Ascha leaned to one side and spat. ‘For your sake, Captain,’ he said with a snarl, ‘you’d better hope I didn’t hear that.’
The captain opened his mouth and then closed it again.
Ascha looked back down the rise.
The merchant was awake. He lay with his hands crossed on his chest talking to Herrad, the girl kneeling on the grass beside him. Ascha watched as she took a flask and poured a little water into the old man’s mouth and then wiped his lips with the edge of her skirt and sat back on her heels.
The captain said, ‘We have to warn the Overlord.’
Ascha shook his head. ‘We can’t leave until we know for sure where they’ll land.’
‘The coast watchers will tell us where he makes landfall.’
‘It’s not enough! Radhalla could still trick us. Give me until this afternoon to see what I can find and then we’ll go.’
‘My orders were to stay with you until the fleet sails,’ the captain said, choosing his words with care. ‘I’m not waiting. I’m going back to Tornacum.’
‘What is this? You can’t go.’
The captain looked at Ascha with pale blue eyes. ‘I’ve given twenty years of my life to the Overlord’s service, worked my way up. It’s not been easy but I did it. And then you come along and in no time you’re top of the shit-pile, bosom-friends with Bauto, hob-knobbing with the Overlord.’ The Frank’s lip lifted in a sneer. ‘How could someone like you do what you have done?’ he said, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘You’re a half-slave, not even a Frank. You stay if you want, but we’re leaving.’
Ascha swore.
He couldn’t leave without knowing the Saxon landing point. It was not enough to know the fleet had sailed. Was Radhalla going for Roman Gallia or Frankland? Know that and you could catch the Saxons on the back foot. Drive them into the sea. But how could he manage without the Franks’ help?
‘Do whatever you have to do,’ he said coldly. ‘Tell the Overlord the fleet is on its way. He will want to know.’
He watched as the Franks saddled their horses, mounted up and rode out. He felt a weight of disappointment but pushed it away. It’s all a game, he thought. He shook his head and went to join Herrad and the merchant, squatting down beside them.
‘How are you, old man?’ he said, his eyes directed at the girl.
‘I’ve been better,’ Octha said. Herrad put a hand on his shoulder and Octha patted it. She had bandaged her wrists with cloth torn from her dress and had wound up her hair and tied it. ‘Those Saxon bastards have burnt my home,’ Octha murmured. He looked up at Ascha. ‘Why did the Franks leave?’
‘The fleet has put to sea and the Franks are going back to Tornacum’
Ascha saw Octha and Herrad exchange worried glances.
‘What will you do now?’ she said. Her voice wa
s calm but sombre.
He rubbed his chin and got to his feet. ‘I’m going to take a look around. See if I can find some food. Stay here and whatever you do, don’t move or show yourselves.’
‘Will you be coming back?’ she said, and he saw the alarm in her eyes.
He looked at her and gave her a quick smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be coming back.’
25
He left Gydda and Lucullus with the old man and the girl while he and Tchenguiz mounted and rode down to Thraelsted. The track was thronged with people who had fled when the Saxons came and were now making their way back. They came out of the forest in small and furtive groups, pushing handcarts and carrying bedding. When they heard the riders, they ran off the road and Ascha saw them skulking in the trees, waiting for them to pass.
The castellum was a burnt and roofless shell, the floor a mess of charred and broken beams. Octha’s sheds had been looted, and his animals lay dead in the field. Ascha and Tchenguiz dismounted and went through the outbuildings looking for food. Ashes drifted over their feet. On a shelf at the back of the house, Ascha found two blackened pots of beans covered with ashes. He blew off the ash and took the pots away. A couple of hens had survived the flames and were pecking in the yard. Tchenguiz chased and caught them. Wrenching off their heads, he tied them by the legs to his saddle.
They rode on toward Thraelsted.
Villagers stood in the smoking ruins of their homes and silently watched them go by. They walked their horses to a low bluff and shivered in the cold salt wind that came roaring off the river. They heard the slow smack of water and the cries of the gulls hanging in the air. The fleet was in full sail, heading towards the open sea, oars dipping as the longships struggled to make headway against the wind.
They rode down to the harbour where, a lifetime ago, Kral had unloaded his slave cargo. The beach was a carnage of debris and discarded loot. Rigging, sailcloth and sodden driftwood hung sluggishly in the water while barrels, tubs and broken oars bobbed on the rising tide.
A knot of Frisians stood at the water’s edge staring out to sea. When they saw Tchenguiz and Ascha they turned and watched them warily. A man and a boy were sitting on a rock, their eyes fixed on the retreating fleet. Ascha turned the horse’s head and rode towards them.
He greeted them and said, ‘Where’s the fleet gone?’
The man looked at him and spat. ‘They’ve gone to Gallia,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘But where, man? Where in Gallia?’
The Frisian shrugged. The child hung on his father’s elbow and stared.
Tchenguiz touched Ascha lightly on the arm, ‘Boss?’ he said and pointed.
There was a shadow in the water in the middle of the bay. At first he thought it was a rock, a thick grey fist of stone lying in the sand and mud over which waves broke and fell.
His horse shook its head. He pulled the reins to go when there was a shout from Tchenguiz. He looked back and saw Tchenguiz urging his horse down the bank and into the water. Ascha peered, and his mouth dropped.
The rock was a man and he was tied to a stake, up to his neck in water, and the waves already breaking over his head. Ascha kicked his horse and followed Tchenguiz, splashing through the shallows.
‘You there! Who are you?’ he cried.
The man’s head turned, but it might have been the motion of the waves.
Ascha hesitated. Ever since Wulfhere had chased him onto the ice and he had fallen through, he had hated water. He dropped the reins and slid off the horse. The water was icy cold. He shuddered and began to wade towards the stake.
‘Boss!’ he heard Tchenguiz call.
‘Stay back, Tchenguiz!’
The beach shelved gently, the tide rising, almost at the turn.
And then it struck him. The people on the shore hadn’t been watching the fleet. They’d been waiting for the man at the stake to die. The man was slumped, struggling to raise his head above the waves. As Ascha watched, he stirred and coughed and gasped for air, letting out a low wail.
Ascha stiffened.
Hanno!
He dived headlong into the water.
Hanno’s head was now under water. Please Tiw, let him not be chained, nothing he could do against chains. Half a dozen strokes, and he was there. He slid his hands down the stake’s cold hardness, found the rope and fumbled in his tunic for his long-knife. With one pass he cut the coils, pulled Hanno away and grabbed him by the shoulders and kicked with all his strength.
A wave rolled him over. Salt water filled his throat and he felt himself going under. Panic enveloped him. He kicked wildly, dragging Hanno towards shore, he felt gravel rolling under his feet and then two strong hands lifted him by the shoulders and dragged him into the shallows.
Coughing and spewing water, he got to his hands and knees. Tchenguiz was kneeling over Hanno who lay face down on the sand. There were spoor marks in the sand where Tchenguiz had dragged him up the beach. Ascha stumbled and raised Hanno by the shoulder. His brother’s skin was cold and clammy. He seemed lifeless.
A chill crept through Ascha’s heart. ‘Hanno, it’s me, Ascha. Can you hear me?’
Hanno opened his eyes.
He coughed suddenly and sobbed clinging to Ascha, holding him as if he never wanted to let him go. Tchenguiz handed Ascha a horse blanket. Ascha wrapped Hanno and held him tight to stop the shivering.
‘I misjudged tha,’ Hanno slurred. ‘Tha was right!’ His teeth were chattering, and he was shivering uncontrollably.
Ascha stroked Hanno’s head, the hair thick with salt and mud and then Hanno’s eyes closed and he passed out.
Was this what it had come to? First one brother and now the other, a slow death, staked out on the mudflat and left to drown.
He gripped Hanno by the arm and shook him violently. ‘Hanno, listen to me! The fleet! Where has Radhalla taken the fleet?’
Hanno opened his eyes and whispered.
Ascha bent and put his ear to Hanno’s mouth.
‘Gesoriac,’ Hanno mumbled drowsily.
‘Gesoriac? South or north?’
‘South. They’re making for Parisi.’
Ascha shook him again. His brother’s head lolled and his eyes flickered sleepily.
‘Tha’s sure it’s south of Gesoriac?’
Hanno rolled his head. ‘Radhalla said it when he staked me.’
Ascha felt a wave of relief. At last! Now he knew where the fleet was heading. He had Radhalla exactly where he wanted him. He smacked his fist into the palm of his hand and got to his feet.
‘Don’t leave me!’ Hanno suddenly screamed. He cast about, arms flailing, and found Ascha’s legs and held them tight, his hands like claws.
Tchenguiz pulled Hanno back and looked up at Ascha. Ascha knew what he was thinking. Hanno would slow them down. But he couldn’t leave him.
He bent and squeezed his brother’s shoulder.
‘On our father’s memory,’ he whispered. ‘I promise!’
When they got back to the camp he jumped down, lifted Hanno off the horse, carried him over to the fire and laid him on the grass. Herrad and Lucullus came running up.
‘Who is this?’ Herrad said.
‘My brother,’ he gasped. ‘Can you help him?’
She knelt and cupped her hand across Hanno’s brow, and he heard her intake of breath.
‘Get these wet clothes off him,’ she said sharply. ‘And you too or you’ll catch your death.’
Lucullus and Tchenguiz peeled off Hanno’s clothes. They wrapped him in the blanket, lifted him and laid him by the fire. Ascha watched as Lucullus felt Hanno’s wrist and checked his eyes.
A tremor ran through him and his teeth began to chatter in his head. He turned away and undid his belt and quickly took off his clothes. He kicked off his boots and stood naked and shivering, fish white save for his face and arms. Tchenguiz grinned and threw him a blanket and he wrapped it around himself.
Gydda came with dry wood, got the fire going
and, as the dry brush took hold, Ascha felt the fire’s warmth work its way into his bones. He sat and shuddered while Lucullus and Herrad knelt beside Hanno and talked in muted tones. Octha lay some way off, saying nothing.
Sparks rose and floated and then fell to earth.
Herrad picked up Ascha’s sodden clothes, twisted them to wring out the water and then shook them out and draped them over a bush.
‘Get closer,’ she said, speaking over her shoulder. ‘You’re too wet to burn.’
He shuffled towards the fire. ‘We have to go,’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘We have to warn Bauto. Radhalla is sailing to Gesoriac and will march on Parisi.’
Octha woke up. ‘Parisi?’ Ascha heard him mutter. ‘Why would Radhalla march on Parisi?’
They went down to the burnt-out castellum. They found Octha’s boat untouched and sailed across the slow water, Octha and Herrad, Ascha and his companions, and Hanno. It was a rough crossing, the ship blown across the grey river, whitecaps scudding before the wind. They took an old waterproofed cloth and rigged it to keep the rain off their heads but the wind blew the rain in sideways and soaked them to the bone. Gydda and Tchenguiz huddled together. They gripped the sides and blinked salt-spray from their eyes, their faces sheened with greasy sweat. Ascha drew his knees up to his chin, pulled his cloak over his head and kept his eyes firmly on the distant shore. Herrad sat in the stern with her head bowed and her eyes closed. She rolled a strand of her hair around her fingers and seemed oblivious to the cold. Once she opened her eyes and saw him looking at her. He quickly looked away. It unsettled him, her coolness in the face of all she’d gone through.
They went back across the river and brought over the mule and the two horses. When they finished it was late in the afternoon and dusk was falling. He fretted that he was losing time. He thought of the Saxon fleet struggling to clear the Rhine mouth and hoped the wind had delayed them. He still had to warn Bauto and it was a long ride to Gesoriac. But he felt responsible for Octha, Herrad and Hanno and was reluctant to leave them.
Gydda built a fire. Lucullus spitted the chickens and roasted them. They ate the food and waited for nightfall. Gydda and Tchenguiz sat away from the fire and talked. Herrad covered Octha with a blanket and stayed with him until he fell asleep. Ascha laid his back against a tree and watched over Hanno. His brother slept fitfully, jerking, moaning and letting out strange little cries.