by Trevor Bloom
They surrounded him, pumping his hand and hammering his back.
He was happy to see them. Friedegund the long-shanked Suebian, Atharid the Thuringian, Hortar the little Alaman, Hariulf and the others. It had been a long time. Gundovald held him at arms’ length and looked him up and down. He took in the sword and the fine linen shirt and let out a low and languid whistle. ‘So, you survived, Carver? And you seem to have done well for yourself. You anything to do with this war against the Saxons?’
Ascha shook his head, ‘I run errands for Lord Bauto,’ he said.
‘Bauto? You should watch that old dog,’ Hortar said sourly. ‘One a these days, that bastard’s going to get us all killed.’
They laughed, Hortar’s bad-temper never changing.
Ascha felt a tug at his sleeve. ‘We must go,’ Tchenguiz said.
Gundovald reached deep under his poncho and withdrew a black and hairy flask. ‘Bathe your throat for old times’ sake before you go.’
Ascha took the goatskin. He pulled the stopper with his teeth, lifted the flask and drank deep. The wine was rank and foetid, but he didn’t care. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned.
At a nest of roads outside the town, Ascha found Syagrius and a group of Roman officers sitting on their horses gloomily watching the swaying ranks of Roman and Frankish troops go by. In the shade of the trees beyond, Ascha saw Rufus and his Pritanni, their horses shaking their heads and flicking their tails. Rufus lifted a lazy arm in greeting, and Ascha did the same.
Ascha wished the Governor a fine morning and Syagrius agreed it was a fine morning. He asked if the Governor had news of Bauto, and Syagrius shook his head. Ascha told Syagrius what he had seen on the road from Viroviac, and Syagrius smiled and nodded.
‘You did well. Although whether it will be enough…’ he left the rest hanging.
They talked some more, of the Frankish Overlord’s decision to stay in Tornacum, of the Saxon line of march, but mostly of what the Saxon army might do when they found the small force of Franks and Roman waiting for them.
On the road, the men trudged by in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. Ascha was surprised to see the Frankish captain who had left him at Thraelsted, marching with his men. The captain looked up and saw Ascha sitting calmly on his horse, passing the time of day with the Governor of the Romans, and his jaw dropped. He scowled, shook his head and marched on. Ascha watched him go with mixed feelings. He had liked the dour Frank, but he knew that for men like the captain, he would always be the Saxon half-slave.
Syagrius turned, struck by a sudden thought. ‘When battle begins, I want you to pass my commands to the Franks,’ he said crisply.
Ascha looked at him in confusion. ‘Lord, it is not my place.’
Syagrius smiled. ‘Probably not, but it is what I want. I need someone I can trust. It is important that Franks and Romans fight as one.’
The Governor touched his horse with his foot and moved out. Ascha blew the air from the cheeks. Rufus had heard the exchange because he caught his eye and gave him the ghost of a smile. Ascha swallowed. By asking him to translate the Governor’s commands, Syagrius had put him in charge of the Overlord’s Franks. He would command Antrustions in defence of a Frankish town.
The allied army took the road that he and the Pritanni had taken three days earlier. Ascha caught up with Syagrius, and they rode together. When they came to the grass-covered mound of Childeric’s grave, Ascha pulled up.
‘This is the place I spoke of,’ he said.
Syagrius called a halt. He turned to Ascha and said, ‘Then let us take a look.’
They rode down the dip and up the other side. They reached the edge of the forest, turned in the saddle and looked back up the rise to where the Romans and Franks stood silently watching. This was what Radhalla would see when he came out of the forest.
They rode on across to the quarry on the right flank and looked over and then they rode back across the front of the waiting troops to Childeric’s mound on the left. Syagrius took his time. He looked around him, calculating distances, measuring angles, working it all through.
When he was done he stroked his chin, pursed his lips, looked at Ascha and nodded.
‘You are right. This will do very well,’ he said. ‘Dispose the men across the road. Franks and Antrustions on the left, Romans on the right. Put archers and slingmen on that mound and on the flanks. The ground is too rough to use the horses so we’ll have to dismount. One man in five to hold the horses in the rear. Post look-outs. Tell them to keep their eyes open for dust clouds tomorrow morning.’
‘There is more,’ Ascha said.
He explained how a small and determined group of fighting men, hidden in the upper reaches of the quarry, could strike the Saxon host unawares.
‘As the host comes past, we’ll rise up and strike them in the rear, like so!’ Ascha said, and he swung an imaginary sword at the back of the Governor’s head.
They rode back to the quarry and looked over.
‘It might work,’ Syagrius said. ‘God knows we need something. Who would you use? You can’t hide that many men down there.’
‘Give me the royal hostages and what’s left of the Pritanni,’ he said. ‘They fight like dogs. And they’ll follow me.’
Syagrius thought it over. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Take them and do what you can.’
That night the men lit fires and spread their blankets on the ground. Nobody could sleep. They sat on the packed earth cowed and glum, sharpening their blades with whetstones and talking. The Franks combed their hair, braided it and shaved the backs of their heads. The Romans played board games. Ascha heard the murmur of voices, the grating of iron scraping on stone and the click of dice. All over the plateau men knew that by the next day most of them would be dead.
Ascha found Rufus and his Pritanni and then went in search of the hostages. The night was warm and the air was thick. He found the hostages sitting round a fire, talking softly and cooking. Friedegund lay on his blanket singing softly in his own language. Further off, he could hear Hortar and Atharid arguing over some trifle. He breathed in the aroma of fried bacon and was filled with a sudden yearning for his past. All those years he had spent with these men, marching and fighting.
He shook his head and then tapped Gundovald on the shoulder.
‘I need you!’ he said, addressing them all. ‘We have work to do.’
Ascha led the hostages and the Pritanni towards the rear. They circled around and then entered the quarry, climbing over rough ground littered with boulders and overgrown with weeds. They went down a rocky path and up toward a bluff of stone. After a while the quarry narrowed and the opposing walls grew closer.
‘This way,’ Ascha grunted, and began to climb.
They followed him, clambering up over the rocks, straddling boulders and leaping from one slab to another. The going became steeper and they clutched at bushes and grass roots to haul themselves up. Near the top, just below the lip of the quarry and hidden by bushes and wiry stunted trees, they came up on a small grass clearing. Ascha stood on a boulder and looked around, checking on their position. He was slightly out of breath, but he was also excited by what he had in mind.
He climbed further and peered through the foliage.
He had a good view across the plateau. Off to his left and slightly in front of the quarry was the right flank of the allied army. In the distance he could see the fringe of forest and the road down which the Saxons would come.
Here, he thought, is where we will fight.
He took Rufus and Gundovald aside, spoke quietly to them and then made his way back to the allied lines.
The next day before dawn, Ascha awoke. He kicked Tchenguiz to his feet, and they both went down the slope toward the woods. Ascha squatted and studied the country to the north. The sky changed from slate grey to a crisp blue washed with pink. He thought he could hear a rolling sound far off, like approaching thunder.
Tchenguiz looked at him.
‘What is it, boss?’
‘Listen!’
For a while they heard nothing and then they heard the faint and distant thump of war drums followed by the melancholy wail of horns. Ascha looked back up the slope. The allied camp was stirring, the troops slowly getting to their feet. Men stood looking out to where the road disappeared into the horizon. Nobody spoke, but the air was heavy, like before a storm.
They waited.
A flash of colour and two riders came galloping out of the trees, shouting and waving their arms, Rufus’s men. Ascha held his breath, eyes squinting into the distance. And then he felt a quivering in the pit of his belly, like a nest of spiders, as the first of the Saxons slowly emerged from the trees.
Lifting Octha’s burnstone to his lips, Ascha kissed it and muttered a quick prayer. Sweet Tiw! If today is the day that death taps me on the shoulder, do not let me shame my father’s memory.
He turned and bellowed the call to arms.
31
Herrad and Octha left the mansio with Octha riding on the mule and Herrad leading. They went down a dirt path and across several fields and through a small wood. Dogs barked and the air was smoky. When they came to the road they turned south. They found many people all going the same way, bearded peasants and barefoot women and children, carrying their bedding and belongings in trundling wagons and squeaking carts. Townsfolk with baskets on their backs pushed handcarts, their feet kicking up dust that slowly drifted.
Herrad was surprised to see fighters with spears sloped over their shoulders moving away from the town. Deserters, she thought, fleeing the coming battle to go home to their farms and families. Some had made a bonfire by the side of the road and were cooking food they had looted. She smelled the aroma of roasting meat and her mouth watered.
When the road curved in towards the river, she stopped and checked on Octha. He was slumped low over the mule’s neck and breathing heavily, his face tight with pain and tiredness. His hands, which she had wrapped in rags that morning, were bleeding again.
‘Do you want to stop?’ she said.
Octha raised his head and gave her a wan smile. She bit her lip. He wouldn’t be able to travel much further. She hoped the boat would still be there, hoped that Eleri had waited.
They went on, moving into open country, following the road through the woods. Behind the trees she caught occasional glimpses of the river, and when the road curved she saw, far off, the murky outline of the Basilica through a haze of smoke.
A group of men sitting by the side of the road glanced up and followed her with their eyes. She looked away, not wanting to provoke them. One of them called out to her and offered water, but she pretended she hadn’t heard and whipped the mule to make it go faster. Down the road she looked back over her shoulder and saw the men were still watching her.
When the road began to swing away from the river, she turned off and led them down a bare dirt track, wanting to stay in sight of the river. They walked more slowly, Octha swaying from side to side. She was concerned in case he fell. Buried in the trees, she saw cabins and clay-daubed hovels and peasants working their yards. A woman with a grubby-faced child on her hip came to her doorway and looked at her.
‘Can we get to the river from here?’ Herrad called.
The woman chewed something and then spat into the dust. ‘Keep going and you’ll come across the river path,’ she said. ‘Ain’t much but it’s enough.’
‘Is there a boat?’
The woman shook her head. ‘No boats,’ she said. ‘Boats all gone.’
Herrad made a sound that might have been a sigh. She glanced at Octha and then back at the woman.
‘Do you know Eleri?’ she asked, trying one last time.
The woman put her head on one side and then said, ‘Nobody that name round here.’
They rode on.
She could see the River Schald through the trees, the water sparkling in the sun. She was weary now, and her feet ached. She found the river path, overgrown with weeds as high as her shoulder, and followed it. The sun flashed through the branches and then, where the river turned sharply to the left, she saw a large square white sail and a boat almost hidden beneath the trees.
She heaved an enormous sigh of relief and gave Octha a smile. Octha sat bowed in the saddle, past caring. She gave the mule’s rump a mighty slap and they broke into a trot, long grass whipping at her legs. As they came closer, she saw figures moving on the boat, mostly women with a single Frankish Antrustion and a couple of male slaves. They stood in a huddle looking down at the deck.
She called out and saw them look up. Herrad pulled the mule to a halt and approached the foot of the gang plank.
‘I am a friend of Ascha the Carver,’ she said. ‘Which of you is Eleri?’
The people on the boat glanced at one another and then at a tall woman in a fur cape. The woman looked Herrad up and down haughtily and then summoned her with a brisk flick of her fingers.
‘Who are you?’ the woman said, her voice grating.
Herrad felt uncomfortable. The woman was high-born, but why was she staring at her so intently? ‘I am Herrad,’ she said. ‘And this is Octha the merchant. Are you Eleri?’
The tall woman frowned, and her lips twitched.
‘No, I am not Eleri,’ she said, her voice grating. She snapped her fingers and the servants drew back. On the deck lay a slight form covered by a woollen cloak. The bare legs of a young girl emerged from under the cloak. Herrad saw that the girl’s feet were black with mud and flecked with blades of grass. On the deck beneath the body a puddle of blood had pooled.
‘There’s your Eleri,’ the tall woman said. ‘Now, come aboard. We are about to leave.’
Trumpets brayed and captains yelled commands. Men hefted their shields and grabbed their lances and ran to take their positions. The Franks rattled their weapons against their shields and shouted defiance. The Romans made no move, their faces still as stone. Ascha glanced over his shoulder. Saxons were pouring out of the trees like a thick and angry swarm of hornets, weapons glinting.
‘More a them bastards than there are fleas on a dog,’ Ascha heard a Frank mutter.
Ascha pulled his helmet over his head and tied the laces beneath his chin. Ripping the leather cover from his shield, he pushed his arm through the strap, gripped the handle and lifted it. He breathed in deep. The number of northerners was terrifying, sunlight glittering on the edge of their spears. He bent, scooped up some dust and rubbed it over his hands. He drew his seaxe and heard the dry hiss as the blade slid over old leather.
The Franks raised their shields and screamed their war cries, shaking their spears and rattling their shields in a hollow clatter of wood and iron. The Romans followed, ‘Jubilate in Christo!’ they yelled. ‘Jubilate in Christo!’
The sound echoed and died.
The drums and horns fell silent.
The two armies watched each other without moving. A light breeze came up from the plain, softly threshing the grass and cooling the skin.
Ascha peered at the row of brightly painted Saxon shields. Why don’t they come, he wondered? Somewhere over there were the Theodi. The thought of fighting his own troubled him, and then the seed of an idea crept slowly through his mind.
He ordered Tchenguiz to go bring up his horse. When the Hun returned, he handed him his shield, sheathed his seaxe and jumped onto the horse’s back.
‘And where does tha think tha’s going?’ Tchenguiz said.
‘To speak with Besso.’
‘Them Cheruskkii will kill tha.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Tha want I come with tha?’
‘No,’ I’ll do this alone.’
He kicked the horse’s belly, trotted down the slope and cut diagonally up the other side. There were skylarks above him and the air was warm as breath. He heard catcalls and jeers as the Saxons saw the lone rider approaching, but then they grew quiet. He moistened his lips. The Saxons were ranged across the plateau, hairy-faced and filthy. Ma
ny were barefoot and bareheaded and they all stank. He could hear them whispering and the thought passed through his mind that they knew him. He was the Theod who had killed Wulfhere, the man who had left Radhalla’s nephew with a dagger in his eye, the one who led the Roman horse soldiers against them at Viroviac.
He was pleased that they recognized him and, for the first time in a long while, he felt calm and untroubled. Reining in he shouted, ‘Where are the Theodi?’
The cry passed down the line. Some way off, he saw a tall shambling man with a face the colour of baked earth step out.
Besso.
The Theodi were clustered around him. Not many, maybe sixty or seventy men, but Ascha knew them all. They stood behind their shields, waiting to hear what he had to say.
‘We be of one blood,’ he said.
‘We be of one blood,’ Besso agreed. ‘You’ve been busy, boy. Wherever I go I hear thi name.’
‘Besso, I want to speak to the clan.’
Besso looked at him, scratched his beard, and then turned and waved a wide arm. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘They’re not going anywhere.’
Ascha kicked the gelding forward. For a moment, he had the wildest notion that he was on the wrong side. He should be fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Saxons, with his own people, not the Romans and the Franks.
And then he spoke.
‘You all know me,’ he called out. ‘I am Ascha of the Theodi. My father was Aelfric and his father was Osric.’
No sound but the chink of iron and the banners cracking in the breeze.
‘My father pledged friendship with the Franks and sealed that pact with a chest of silver. Most of you were there. You swore an oath, a sacred oath, that you would not draw iron against these people. Why now do you take up arms against them?’
The Theodi were silent. Some exchanged glances, others looked at their feet, as if ashamed. He leaned forward over the saddle.
‘Have you forgotten how Radhalla’s Cheruskkii invaded our land? They murdered my brother and they slaughtered our people. They raped and plundered and burnt our homes. They destroyed us as they have destroyed so many tribes before us.’