The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  The mansio was situated on a hillside. Striding down the slope they lost control and as their feet ran away with them the girl laughed a little and clutched his arm tighter. He remained quiet, brooding. She looked at him, caught his mood and fell silent. Above them starlings rolled and swirled in a noisome and shifting cloud. They threw back their heads and watched them dive and swoop until the starlings seemed to come to some vast and collective decision and withdrew to their roosting place beyond the town.

  It was the night before a battle, and the streets of Tornacum were deserted. Drawn by some instinct, the few people left had gathered by the river. They had broken into a warehouse, and men rolled winebarrels into the alley and smashed them open to get at the wine while women came running with jugs and pitchers. People lay sprawled in a stupor. Others lurched down alleys with their arms wrapped around each other singing at the top of their voices.

  The town was lapsing into an orgy of drunkenness.

  He put an arm around Herrad, and they went on. When his hand touched hers or brushed against the soft inside of her bare arm, he felt her shiver. They found a tavern in the shadow of the Basilica. Inside was hot and noisy, the air warm and thick with the smell of grilled meat and heavy bodies jammed tight. Frankish fighting men and a few girls, drinking and laughing, trying to forget what would happen tomorrow.

  They found a bench in a corner and shared a beaker of wine while the innkeeper’s surly daughter set out some bread and cold meat.

  He saw men looking at Herrad with lust in their eye, but there was something about Ascha, a touch of madness, that made them think again.

  He drank morosely while Herrad ate and looked about her. He had a sudden picture of his brother’s body sinking through cold dark water, mud and weeds clogging Hanno’s mouth. He shook his head and closed his eyes. His heart was thudding and there was a roaring in his ears.

  He felt Herrad take his hand in hers and squeeze it. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said.

  He smiled, shook his head and ran both hands over his face and blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. The empty feeling had passed, and it occurred to him that Hanno had been dead to him since the day that Hroc was hanged.

  A shift in the music caused them both to turn.

  An old woman, sixty if she was a day, small-boned with a tiny round face moved onto the floor. A tumba struck up and she began to dance, slowly at first and then with gathering speed. She danced almost without effort, a fluid sinuous movement as intricate as a silken knot. Ascha watched her move, her feet flickering across the floor, her face composed, one arm raised above her head and the other trailing a white headcloth. The crowd drew back to give her room and then fell silent, their heads nodding to the rhythm as the old woman’s feet rapped on the floor, and her thick body twisted gracefully through the steps of the dance.

  The music came to an end, and the woman bowed and then held out a hand to Herrad. The girl shook her head, but the old woman gently insisted. The crowd murmured encouragement. Herrad looked to Ascha and smiled. She moved onto the floor and took the other end of the headcloth. The music struck up and the two women, one old and the other young, began to dance, their bodies linked in the gloom by the headcloth’s dazzling whiteness.

  Ascha leaned back and watched them. He saw that the girl danced as well as the old woman, but in a different, more youthful way, flicking her hips and throwing back her head, taking delight in showing off her skill. The crowd laughed and began to clap. Faster and faster, the two women danced, their bodies twirling and spinning, feet pricking out an intricate pattern on the floor.

  Herrad closed her eyes and gave herself over to the music, her hair a swirling chestnut wave around her shoulders. Ascha watched mesmerised, his eyes drinking in every move of her body, the twist of her back, the stretch of her throat and the curve of her breasts. And as he watched, it was as if the grey shadow that had sat on her brow since Thraelsted fell away and at that moment he knew he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman in his life.

  The music stopped.

  There was a beat of pure silence and then the two women fell laughing on each other’s shoulders. The old woman pulled Herrad’s head down and kissed her on the brow, and the crowd cheered with warm good humour. Herrad ran and sat beside him. She was flushed and panting, lips parted with effort. She looked at him and saw the admiration in his eyes and smiled.

  He held her face and kissed her cheek and traced the line of her mouth with the tip of his finger. ‘I want you,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Not like that. I want to be with you. Always!’

  She looked away, sipped a little of the wine, ran a small pink tongue over her lips, looked at him again.

  A roar like a blast of warm air made them both turn. A fist-fight had broken out and several Franks were laying into each other. Their friends formed a ring and whooped and cheered themselves hoarse. Someone emptied a flagon over the men, soaking them, and a girl shrieked with laughter and then covered her mouth with her hand. Someone hit the man who had poured the wine and soon half the inn was brawling, the fight spilling into the street.

  A cheer went up outside and an Antrustion burst in, his face lit with excitement. ‘It’s Syagrius and his Romans!’ he shouted. ‘They’re here!’

  ‘Come on! Ascha said, grabbing her hand and making for the door.

  The inn emptied.

  Ascha and Herrad rose and pushed their way through the crowd. A column of Roman soldiers was winding into the market square, marching four abreast in regular order, eyes straight ahead, their oval shields overpainted with a red cross. At their head rode Syagrius on a white horse. He wore an old military cuirass that looked as if it had been made for someone else, and a cloak the colour of fresh blood. The Governor was plainly exhausted but did his best to hide it, smiling and waving to the crowd.

  Ascha pulled at a soldier’s arm. ‘Is this all you have?’ he said. ‘Where are the rest?’

  ‘That’s all there are,’ the man said. ‘There are no more.’

  Ascha knew it would not be enough. The Saxons still outnumbered them three to one.

  When they reached the mansio everything was quiet save for the faintest rustling in the trees, the birches pale as bones against the darkness. They crossed the yard and went into the stable.

  ‘Go on up,’ she said. ‘Give me a few moments.’

  He climbed the ladder and lay in the dark of the loft and waited, his insides knotted so tight he could hardly breathe. There was a warm smell of dung and hay and the sound of wind blowing through the thatch. The horses snuffled, stamped and kicked the wooden stall. After a while he heard the door creak open and the girl in a low voice call his name,

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Come on up.’

  He heard her step on the ladder and made out her figure in the half-light. ‘Is he all right?’ he said.

  ‘He’s asleep. I put a cape over him. It might get cold and I didn’t want him to catch a chill.’

  She felt for his hand in the dark, lacing her fingers into his.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  She lay down in the hay beside him, not moving but staring up into the rafters. He could hear her breathing softly and smell the warmth of her skin.

  ‘Do you remember when we met?’ she asked him.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You looked lost and a little nervous. And the next day – on the boat – you were so fierce.’

  ‘I loved you from the moment I saw you,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I saw it in your eyes. And again at Thraelsted, I saw it then.’

  ‘Was I so obvious?’ he said.

  She said nothing but turned her face towards him. He felt the soft pressure as he pulled her to him and kissed her with cautious tenderness.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she sai
d, smiling into the darkness.

  He pulled his cloak over them, shifted and lay with his arms around her.

  She turned to him, ‘Ascha?’ she said, her voice soft and furry.

  ‘Mm-hmmm,’ he murmured.

  ‘Am I as you like?’

  He brushed the hair from her cheek and whispered ‘You are all that I or any man would ever want.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  He touched the girl’s face. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  The stable was so quiet. ‘They’re dead,’ he said.

  ‘Who? Who are dead?’ She supported herself on her elbow and looked down at him.

  He shook his head. ‘Flavinius. Hanno.’

  ‘Both of them?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She was crying.

  He swallowed, looking at her with tears in his eyes. He ran his fingertips across her shoulders, over the bare nape of her neck and down the long smooth slide of her back. ‘I would have. I wanted to.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I thought it might come between us.’

  She lay back beside him quietly sobbing. He could feel her shoulders moving and taste the tears running down her face.

  ‘And Lucullus?’

  ‘Not Lucullus,’ he said. ‘I think Lucullus has gone.’

  He didn’t blame the Gaul. He would have done the same in his place. And if Lucullus had stayed with Hanno, Fara would have killed him too.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It just happened.’

  She cried and he felt her breath, hot with tears, and he held her tight and told her he loved her. And then he told her that in the morning he wanted her to take Octha and leave the mansio. She was to follow the river south of the town where she would find a boat which would take them to Cambarac.

  ‘A boat? Whose boat?’

  He thought for a moment and then he sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter whose boat, they are expecting you.’ He hesitated. ‘Ask for Eleri,’ he said. ‘She will help you. Give her my name and she will do the rest.’

  And he told her to go to sleep.

  ‘I will sleep if you sleep,’ she said. She took his hand and kissed it, laid it over her breast, and he held her against him pale and naked under the cloak and then she slept.

  It rained in the night and the wind blew and he listened to the rain tapping lightly on the thatch and the mice scampering through the straw and knew he would not be able to sleep without thinking about what had happened. Later, sometime before dawn, Herrad beside him breathing gently, he woke with a start, utterly convinced that Hanno was in the room, weeds trailing around his neck and dripping water.

  But when he looked, nobody was there.

  30

  Eleri awoke and sat upright. The floor was moving slightly and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She slid from her mattress, picked up her cloak and went up on deck.

  All was quiet, the queen and her servants still asleep. Mist shrouded the trees along the river and hung heavy over the water. Nobody about but a solitary Antrustion guard leaning against the stern-board with his ankles crossed, chewing a twig. The Antrustion looked her up and down, his eyes roaming over her body with casual indifference.

  ‘Where you going?’ he said, forcing a smile. She could see tiny flecks of wood stuck between his teeth.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ she muttered. She gathered her cloak about her and went down the plank. On the riverbank she paused to look in both directions and then took the track to the left. She walked slowly with her arms clasped, listening to the breeze passing through the trees and the waking sounds of the riverbank. It was damp and cool and there was a rich smell of mould. She wound the cloak tighter around her, pulling her head into her shoulders like a waterfowl.

  She went a little further down the track and then crept shivering down the grassy bank to the water’s edge. She sat on her heels and watched the river flow. Insects danced, ducks trailed ripples and a pair of moorhens bobbed among the rushes. She stayed like that for a long while, breathing in the morning.

  She wondered if Ascha the Saxon would make it out of Tornacum. She hoped so, but thought it unlikely. In her experience, men like Ascha did not last long. A pity, as she had grown fond of him. Yet perhaps she shouldn’t have told him so much. She had let her heart rule her head and that was not wise. In future, she would be more careful.

  She walked on.

  She loved this time of morning when everything was clean and quiet. A murder of crows sat on a branch and watched her, ruffling their feathers and cawing softly. Somewhere in the village a cock began to crow. She heard ducks quacking and the sound of horses and looked to see who could be riding at this hour.

  Four riders were coming down the riverside track, men on dark horses, their heads hooded by their cloaks. Antrustions, returning from some errand for the queen, she decided. But the horses were not Antrustion mounts and the riders did not look like Antrustions.

  She looked back towards the boat. The guard was nowhere to be seen, everybody still asleep. She could cry out, but that might wake the queen. Silly girl, she chided herself, foolish to come out alone. Anything might happen. She heard the muffled chink of a bridle. She looked at the riders, and they turned their heads and seemed to look at her. Then they rode on.

  She closed her eyes and let her breath go in one long shuddering sigh of relief. She slowly got to her feet, pushed her hair back from her brow and turned to go back to the boat.

  She knew by the silence that the horses had stopped.

  A cold wind blew through her heart, and her mouth opened and her hand rose to touch her face. There was a faintest sound behind her, the rustle and squeak of a leather boot on wet grass and, as she turned, she saw coming towards her the smiling face of Fara.

  Ascha awoke with a sharp sense of loss. Herrad had slipped away, and he was alone. He pushed away the cloak and laid his palm over the warm hollow her body had left in the straw and then he dressed, pulled on his boots and went down the ladder to the stable. The sky was a dark grey washed in pink. He saddled the horse, stuffed his seaxe and franciska into his belt, picked up his shield from where it stood against the wall, shouldered it and mounted. He rode out of the yard, hooves clopping on the cobbles, turned the horse at the gate and took the road to Tornacum. As he went by the inn he had a strong sense that he was being watched. He looked up at the shuttered windows of Octha’s room and imagined he saw a faint movement, a shadow behind the shutter, but could not be sure.

  The skies were clearing and he knew it was going to be another hot and breathless day. He breathed in deep and let it go, remembering everything from the night before. The girl’s dress, damp with sweat, clinging to her hips as she danced, the touch of her skin and the smell of her as she lay beside him in the straw. He thought of Flavinius and of Hanno and felt a cloud pass over him, and then he thought of Herrad and his heart lifted and he smiled and kicked the horse’s flanks and cantered up the road.

  He found Tchenguiz and Gydda waiting on the steps of the Basilica. When they saw him, they rose as one, their weatherbeaten faces creased in smiles. He dismounted, tied the horse and the three of them shared a breakfast of sour milk and hard bread.

  He told them that Flavinius was dead, his brother too, and that Lucullus had gone. He spoke slowly, rolling out each word. They listened in silence, their eyes full of him.

  ‘I misjudged them,’ he said. ‘I doubted Flavinius and Lucullus who were true, while the brother I loved most in the world betrayed me.’

  Gydda and Tchenguiz looked at one another. Neither of them had known Flavinius, and Ascha knew that Tchenguiz, like his mother, had never cared for Hanno. Lucullus was already forgotten.

  ‘Tell us who did it,’ said
Tchenguiz, ‘and we will kill him for tha.’

  Ascha said nothing. Fara was protected by his rank and by those he served. Maybe one day he would get his revenge, but for now he would have to let it go. Kill Fara and everything he had worked for would fall about his ears.

  Ascha wiped the back of his fist across his mouth and got to his feet. He felt restless and was eager to be off. Across the square he could hear the dull tramp of marching feet. The Overlord’s Franks and the Governor’s Romans were marching out to face the Saxons. He watched the soldiers plod by with their heads down, feet shuffling in the dust, lugging their heavy shields.

  Ascha noticed a dusty group of men, dressed in weather-beaten ponchos of leather and rabbit skin. They were sitting against a wall on the other side of the square in the shade of a timbered house. Outlanders, he guessed, by their hair. They took no notice of the marching men and seemed to be asleep.

  Ascha went over to them, a half-smile pulling at his face. He paused, kicked one man’s boot and demanded the name of their leader.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ growled a heavily-built man in thickly-accented Frankish. He was tattooed, pig-tailed, heavily-bearded and sat with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out and a stained neck-cloth over his face.

  ‘I do,’ Ascha said. ‘Because if this bunch of dog shit were under my command I would have them flogged around the city walls until their backs bled.’

  The man sighed. He pulled the cloth away with a blunt hand and looked up. His face opened, and he leapt to his feet.

  ‘Ascha!’

  ‘How are you, Gundovald?’ Ascha said.

  Gundovald put two huge arms around Ascha and hugged him. He turned and shouted to the other hostages, ’Ho! Look who’s here. It’s Ascha, our own little Ascha!’