by Trevor Bloom
Ascha shivered.
‘Well?’ Clovis snapped, and Ascha felt the Overlord’s cold grey eyes fall upon him.
‘Saxons, Lord! They’re coming and you’re in grave danger.’
‘What do you mean, coming?’ Clovis hissed. ‘They’re already here!’ He jabbed a bony finger towards the window. Off to the west, the sky was lit with an orange glow. ‘Those are Frankish farms and villages burning. You were supposed to keep them out. I was relying on you! How could you let this happen?’
‘We lost the fleet,’ Ascha said. ‘Radhalla outwitted us. By the time we’d realized what had happened they’d already landed.’
It sounded lame, and he knew it.
Clovis closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. ‘How on Tiw’s fucking earth could you lose a whole fucking fleet?’ he spat. ‘How long do we have?’
‘Two days, maybe less.’
‘Two days? As long as that?’ the Overlord said, with heavy sarcasm. ‘You’re telling me those murdering savages could be in Tornacum within a couple of days?’
‘Yes.’
Clovis walked over to the fireplace. He leaned his forehead against the wall, breathed in deep and then he turned and pointed at Ascha, his eyes hard as stones. ‘Listen! If the Saxons take this town, they will take Francia. And if we fall, it will mean the end of Rome in this province. I shall be killed and everything I have worked for since my father died will be finished. Everything! Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ Ascha said, holding his gaze.
‘No, I don’t think you do,’ Clovis said nastily. ‘You see, if I die, you get nothing. You go back to being a Saxon half-slave. That’s if Radhalla chooses to keep you alive, which I doubt. He turned suddenly and shouted to no-one in particular, ‘And where is Bauto and my scara? Where are my warlords when I need them? The bastards will pay for abandoning me like this. They are traitors, all of them. Traitors!’
‘Tell him he must leave,’ Tchenguiz whispered, looking Clovis over, not trustfully.
‘Bauto is coming,’ Ascha said. ‘So is Governor Syagrius with his Romans. And Bauto has sent for your uncle. But we have to get you away from here.’
He hesitated, doubting his words as soon as they’d left his mouth. Would Ragnachar come to his nephew’s aid or would he choose this moment to seize power for himself?
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Clovis said, jerking his eyes around as if the Saxon horde were already pouring through the door with axes raised. ‘I’m the Overlord of the Franks and it’s a question of honour.’ He chewed his thumb, biting hard until the blood smeared his lip. ‘I will send my mother away to Cambarac, but I’m staying.’
‘You must leave!’ Ascha burst out. ‘We can’t defend the city. The walls are broken and there are too many entrances. They would overrun us like rats.’
‘If the Saxons want me they can come and get me,’ Clovis said grimly. ‘Tornacum is my city and is sacred to the Frankish people. I insist that we stay here and defend it.’
Ascha had half expected this but if the Overlord of the Franks chose to stay there was’t much he could do about it. ‘Very well, Lord,’ he said. ‘We will do what we can to defend the city.’
The Overlord would forget his honour soon enough once Radhalla had him hog-tied and burning over an open fire.
Clovis gave him a thin smile. ‘I knew you wouldn’t abandon me.’ He put one hand up and gently patted Ascha’s face. Ascha clenched his jaw and pulled away. Anger flared in the Overlord’s eyes and then faded. He let out a long sigh and laid an arm around Ascha’s neck, squeezing his shoulder and digging his nails into the skin until Ascha winced. ‘Well, Theodling. It seems that once again my life is in your hands. What troops did you bring?’
‘I have no troops, Lord. I came alone.’
Clovis stared in astonished disbelief. ‘Well then, it’s hopeless!’ he whispered. He threw his hands in the air and gave a harsh and brittle laugh. ‘We’ll all die together!’
‘Nothing is hopeless,’ Ascha said. ‘What horse troops do you have?’
Clovis rubbed his jaw. ‘There’s a few mounted Antrustions and a unit of Roman auxiliaries that Syagrius lent us. You can have those.’
‘Auxiliaries? From which province,’ Ascha asked. He wanted nothing more to do with the captain and his mounted Antrustions.
‘Roman. They’re Roman,’ Clovis said testily.
‘I know, but from which province?’ Ascha said.
Clovis shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think they’re Pritanni. What difference does it make?’
Pritanni. His mother’s people.
‘Horse troops could find Radhalla and delay him until the army moves up,’ Ascha murmured.
‘You won’t stop those Saxon murderers with a few horse soldiers.’
‘We don’t have to stop them. Just cut them off and chew them up a little.’
Clovis looked at him and then nodded. ‘Horse troops could do that,’ he said.
The Roman auxiliaries were camped in a field by the side of the road to Colonia, their horses hobbled in the shade of some nearby trees. Ascha reined in and looked them over. About fifty men, he thought. Rough-looking and unshaven with dirty hair tied back and kerchiefs knotted round grimy throats. Can’t have been easy, he thought, fighting alongside the Franks, but they seemed well-armed and well-mounted.
The Pritanni watched him with dark and impenetrable eyes.
He nudged his horse forward.
As he did so, one of the Pritanni stepped forward. Youngish, mid-twenties, scrawny-thin with curly brown hair that hung to his shoulders. His woollen tunic was filthy but had once been pure white with blood-red edging. He had a shabby look about him, but Ascha saw that his wargear was clean and bright. He wore a mailcoat and carried a long sword at his hip.
Ascha addressed him in Latin. ‘Do you command here?’
The man nodded. ‘I am Rufus Basilius,’ he said, speaking the same language. ‘We are from the 5th vexillatio of the Legio II Britannica, responsible for defending the Saxon shore in this sector.’
‘My name is Ascha Aelfricson. I am a royal hostage in the service of the Frankish Overlord.’
The other nodded politely. ‘I have heard of you. You are the half-slave, no? The one they call the Carver?’
Ascha told the Pritanni that although he was born a half-slave, his mother was high-born and had grown up in their island. For as long as he could remember, she had refused to speak to him in the language of pagans and barbarians and spoke instead in Latin, the language of heaven. He told them how his mother used to tell him stories of their island, speaking softly of cool woods and rolling hills, of fresh streams and slow rivers, bustling red-roofed towns and the seething green-grey ocean that girded the land of her birth.
He told them that he knew they had suffered at the hands of the northern pirates and knew too that they hated the Saxon terror-raiders more than any wild beast. He told them how the Cheruskkii had killed his brother, burnt his village and murdered his friends. Now was the time, he said, to avenge their people. Rome and Rome’s allies needed them, and with their help they could strike a blow for God against the murdering dogs that had consumed half their land.
When he had finished, Rufus said quietly, ‘What is it you want of us?’
‘The Saxon wolf pack has already landed and is marching on Tornacum,’ he said. ‘The Franks want us to delay them until Bauto’s army comes up. We will travel light and we will travel fast. You will take your weapons, water and a bedroll. If any man falls behind we will leave him.’
The auxiliaries looked at each other and then at Ascha. Rufus leaned over and spat in the dust. He seemed to think for a moment and then gave a slow nod.
When Ascha gave the order to mount up and move out, the Pritanni did so without a word.
Ascha led the Pritanni out of Tornacum, riding northwest across the grassy plains. He drove them hard, wanting to find the Saxons before they came close to Tornacum. The day was dry and sunny
. Ascha looked up at a blue sky scuffed with clouds and felt the sun’s heat on his neck. His shirt stuck to his back and the sweat ran down his spine. They came to a crossroads, and he turned and led them north, towards the sea. It was some time later when they came across a clear stream running through a shady copse of trees, and Ascha called a halt.
The Pritanni rode into the water, dropped their reins and slid off their horses’ backs. The horses drank, sucking water in long draughts, and then the Prianni stretched their aching bodies and lay down in a mass of fern and bracken. They listened to the sound of running water and birdsong and let the sunlight caress their faces.
Rufus sank to the ground beside Ascha.
‘Do you know this country?’
‘Yes, I was here once before when I was a hostage.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I know a place. It lies across the Saxons’ path.’
‘Is that where we will wait for them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is it called?’
‘Viroviac,’ he said. ‘It is called Viroviac.’
The auxiliaries drank their fill of water, filled their flasks and then mounted up and went on. They rode in silence through a landscape bursting with summer foliage, warm yellow light slanting through dappled leaves. It had rained only the day before and the grass was green and lush. The light was fading when they reached Viroviac. There was little to see. The remains of a Roman watch tower and a few mud-daubed cabins. The village was deserted, every house shuttered and barred. Hens cackled and scratched, goats bleated and pigs ran loose in the street.
The auxiliaries made camp. They killed a pig, roasted it and dipped into their food sacks for hunks of grey bread and cheese. Later, they cleaned their weapons and talked of the day to come. Some spent the night in the village, the rest slept under the trees. A few wandered off to sleep in the watchtower, but soon came back, fearful of the spirits.
Ascha and Rufus were on a ridge facing the sea, reins drawn in close. The day was blistering hot, the clouds thick and white like bundles of sun-dried linen. Ascha had sent Tchenguiz and the scouts prowling out to the west to find Radhalla. Now he and Rufus sat, resting their fists on their saddle pommels, waiting for them to return. Ascha turned and heard the saddle creak. The Roman troopers were strung out down the reverse slope of the ridge. Horses stood under the trees and stamped and shifted from leg to leg. They jerked their heads and whiffled in long shuddering sighs. The men chewed hard biscuit and spoke in subdued tones. Some poured water into their cupped hands for the animals to drink. One trooper had wrapped a scrawny arm around the neck of his mare and was crooning soft words into her ear, as a lover would.
‘Rider coming!’ a Roman called. ‘I think it’s the Hun.’
Ascha looked back and saw Tchenguiz riding towards them. He rode fast, jumping the field ditches and slipping effortlessly between the trees. They watched as he galloped up the ridge and came to a halt in a cloud of dust.
‘Teach him to mind his manners!’ Rufus scowled, blinking the grit from his eye.
‘What is it?’ Ascha said, grabbing the Hun’s bridle.
‘They’re coming,’ Tchenguiz said, drawing in great heaves of air. He pointed back the way he had come. ‘Many men,’ he gasped. ‘Be here in half a day.’
Ascha felt his heart begin to race. ‘Heading which way?’
‘Tornacum,’ Tchenguiz said. ‘They’re heading for Tornacum.’
28
Out on the plain it seemed as if the earth itself was alive and moving. A dark mass of men and wagons was flowing on an unturned course across the landscape, trailed by a roiling cloud of dust. He could see the shimmer of iron weapons and in his mind he could hear the rumble and squeak of scores of wagons.
Ascha moistened his lips and shifted his position slightly in the saddle. ‘Get the men mounted and formed up, single column,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait for them to get close and then hit them in the flank and rear. It’s open ground. Good riding. Do it right and we can scatter them, maybe buy ourselves some time.’
Rufus breathed in deep. ‘There’s a lot of them.’
‘Then we’ll have to reduce their numbers,’ Ascha shouted angrily. ‘The one thing Saxons fear more than anything is horse soldiers. And we have the advantage of surprise.’
Rufus nodded and turned away. Ascha took his helmet from the pommel and pulled it on. He fastened the ties under his chin and then he gathered his rein, touched the horse with his heels and moved out.
Ascha led them over the rise and down the dusty slope. When they reached the bottom, they turned and trotted along the base of the ridge towards the Saxon rear. Off to his left, Ascha could hear the tramp of feet and the chink of iron on iron, the rumbling of wooden wheels and the rattle of harness. His heart was thumping with excitement and his mouth had gone dry, but he felt calmer than he had since Gesoriac. He plucked a leaf from a branch and chewed it. Do this right, he thought, and there was a skinny hope they could disrupt the Saxons enough to delay them.
Ascha gave the order, and the Romans wheeled and broke into a quickening trot, bridles jangling and horses snorting. Tchenguiz was at Ascha’s side. A young Roman trumpeter rode with them, holding his long brass trumpet tightly in his fist as if it were a weapon. The trumpeter was nervous. He licked his lips and shifted in his seat, blinking constantly.
Iron scraped on leather as the Romans hoisted their shields and drew their swords. Ascha drew his own spatha from its scabbard and laid it against his shoulder.
Sweet Tiw! Let me not disgrace myself.
‘Keep tight,’ he called. ‘Keep tight and hit them hard.’
They came out at the rear of the Saxon host, a ragged edge frayed with stragglers, the foot-sore and the hangers-on. As they heard the sound of drumming hooves, the hindmost Saxons looked back over their shoulders. They gaped in amazement and then in horror as they saw what was coming. They began to flee, running wildly with no thought of where they were going, no thought but the need to get away from the riders bearing down on them.
Ascha lifted his spatha. ‘Sound the charge!’ he yelled.
The trumpeter put his horn to his lips.
Nothing.
‘Come on, man! You can do it,’ Ascha shouted.
The trumpeter spat and put the trumpet again to his lips. A stuttering false note, and then he blew.
‘Jubilate in Christo!’ the Pritanni screamed. The troops kicked their horses from a trot into a canter and then into a gallop. The horses tossed their heads and laid back their ears. Ascha felt the blood coursing through his veins, every nerve in his body tingling. Crouched low over the gelding’s neck, its nose almost on the ground, he called, ‘Close up! Close up!’
There was a thunder of hooves, and the dust rose in eye-stinging clouds. The Saxons looked back with terror in their eyes and then the auxiliaries were upon them, hacking and slashing at a seething tide of bodies. Gripping his reins in his teeth, Ascha swung at a yellow-haired Cherusker. The blade slid off the helmet, sliced off the man’s ear and bit deep into the shoulder. He stuck another man with the point, kicked his mount forward and swung again. Saxons fell screaming under the horses’ hooves. The Romans swirled through, and the Saxon host disintegrated into numberless islands of jabbing spears.
Wherever he looked, he saw men running and horse soldiers riding them down. Above the tumult of screams and yells, he could hear the rasp of his own breathing. He yanked the reins and swung at a bearded Saxon, blinked as the man’s skull exploded, spraying him with blood. He swung again and took off the face of a northerner.
He saw an auxiliary lean out and cut off the head of a golden haired Cherusker with a single sweep of his sword. Ascha pulled his horse around. A big man with a shaven head and long side-braids came at him with a spear. Ascha dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and slashed down. The impact as he struck the man’s head sent a jolt running up his arm and shoulder. A spearman thrust at his face. He made a short and vicious cut and the ma
n fell. To his left, he saw Tchenguiz ram a lance with both hands into a man’s belly and then kick the lance free with his bare foot and ride on.
Suddenly the field cleared and they were out the other side.
He waved to the young trumpeter. ‘Another pass,’ he shouted. ‘Quickly! Sound regroup!’
The trumpet’s blare shivered the air.
The Romans dragged their horses around and trotted back. Once more they kicked the horses into a gallop and rode the Saxons down, ruthlessly skewering bodies and smashing skulls with their spathas. Those caught in the open were cut down, the rest ran for their lives. Ascha hacked at a Cherusker cowering behind his shield. He hit the man just above the neck and heard the blade click on bone. He swung at another, cursing when the man stood his ground and caught the blow on his shield. He thrust again and again.
The third time they came, the Saxons were ready for them. They had turned and formed a wall of shields, rammed their spear butts in the ground and waited. Those out in the open gathered in tight knots of shields and prickling spears. Horns wailed and a trumpet blared and as Ascha ordered the charge, a hail of javelins arced through the air. A dozen Auxiliaries went down in a squall of arms and legs. The Romans rode up to the shield wall and hacked and slashed at the northerners, using their horses to break up the wall. Once cut off and out in the open, the Saxons were ruthlessly slaughtered.
Ascha lost all sense of what he was doing except the need to kill and kill again. He saw an auxiliary slide slowly off his horse with a spear buried in his side. Somewhere, above the crash and din of iron on shield boards, he could hear a horse screaming, tangled in its own entrails. A horse crashed into him knocking the air from his lungs and then careered off, its eyes mad with terror.