The Half-Slave

by Trevor Bloom

  The Saxons looked back over their shoulders, and he could sense their fear. This time it was Bauto’s scara. He saw Bauto on his horse at the head of his men, captains by his side, the war standard with its six black horsetails carried high, Bauto’s Antrustions running ahead, bounding to the kill.

  Ragnachar’s men paused. They turned to Ragnachar, big-bellied in his wagon. Ragnachar dithered. He looked at the Saxons and at the approaching Franks and then pushed himself to his feet and began to wave them back. Horns blew. Slowly and ponderously, Ragnachar’s Franks shifted their angle of march, turning against the Saxons.

  The front ranks of Bauto’s scara hurled their angons on the run and struck the flank of the Saxon host like a thunderclap, driving the northerners back onto the spears of the defenders. Saxon horns frantically sounded the withdrawal. But it was too late. Bauto’s troops were battle fresh and hungry. Syagrius gave the order to advance and the allies moved forward, squeezing the northerners between Bauto’s Franks, Ragnachar’s Franks and the defenders of Tornacum.

  ‘They’re running,’ a Roman shouted.

  Ascha saw that it was true. The Saxon host was disintegrating, men throwing away their heavy shields and fleeing in all directions.

  ‘Boss!’ Tchenguiz shouted in his ear and pointed. A group of raiders had slipped away from the fighting and were moving along a ditch, not fleeing but moving quickly and deliberately, without panic, towards the allied rear. Ascha squinted, saw chain mail and helmets and a long black cloak.

  ‘It’s Radhalla!’ Ascha breathed. ‘He’s heading for Tornacum.’

  His war was not yet over.

  He jerked his head at Tchenguiz, Gydda and Gundovald and shouted, ‘Come on!’

  33

  Tornacum was silent. Grainy smoke hung over the rooftops and there was a smell of burning. Wherever he looked, houses had been abandoned, the doors mouthing open and tongues of flame licking the shadows. Ascha led the hostages down narrow alleyways littered with discarded panniers, clothes and broken storage jars. Goats wandered and dogs yelped. A basket lay in the street, spilling onions onto the dust.

  Rounding the corner of the market square, Ascha stopped. Dead men sprawled on the steps of the Basilica, Franks and Saxons, their limbs entwined. More bodies lay inside. A wounded Saxon sat propped against a pillar, his lips grey and waxy.

  Ascha knelt beside him, ‘Where is Radhalla, brother?’ he said in the dialect of the northshore.

  ‘Inside,’ gasped the man, taking Ascha for one of his own.

  They ran up the staircase and into the Basilica. The great hall was burning. Thick plumes of smoke swirled and rolled, stinging their eyes and gritting their throats. They lifted their shields and went on, eyes alert, peering into the gloom. He saw that the dirty little fight that had begun in the square had continued inside. Bodies lay crumpled or on their backs with their arms outstretched. Some, he noticed, were clerks who had been caught in the fighting. There was a whoosh of flame and the wall hangings flared, the flames clawing swiftly up toward the roof. The marble statue of a long dead Roman general toppled and crashed to the floor, exploding in scattered fragments. The roof was already on fire, beams smouldering and the stones glowing brightly. He heard the crackle and roar of burning timber and fire smuts danced around his head.

  They moved forward slowly. The smoke stung their eyes and scratched at their throats. Two Cheruskkii suddenly came at them from out of the gloom, swinging hand axes. Ascha swung his franciska into the leading Cherusker’s face and saw Gydda cripple the other. The Cherusker fell with a howl and was killed.

  ‘Come on!’ Ascha cried.

  At the door to Clovis’ chamber, Ascha shouted ‘Tchenguiz! Gydda! Guard the door. Gundovald come with me.’

  He opened the door and stepped inside.

  Four men were in the room. Others lay dead on their faces. Radhalla stood with his back to the fireplace where less than a year ago Clovis had outlined his dream of a Frankish empire that would stretch from the western ocean to the Rhine and the Roman Sea. He turned as Ascha and Gundovald burst in. He had removed his helmet and his tunic was dark with sweat and blood.

  Clovis stood on a table with his hands tied and his hair matted with blood and filth. Around the Overlord’s throat was a seal hide rope, pulled tight under the jaw and thrown over a high beam. His feet were bare and he stood on his toes. His eyes had a dull look about them, as if he had slept badly. Radhalla’s huge bodyguard, his head shaved but for a single hair-tassle, had looped the other end of the rope around an iron stanchion set into the wall. He leaned back, ready to pull on the rope with all his weight. Another raw-boned Cherusker crouched by the table, brandishing a seaxe.

  Ascha stopped and breathed slowly, taking it all in.

  ‘Hello, Theodling,’ Radhalla said in a quiet voice. ‘Have you come to watch your Overlord die?’

  The big Cherusker with the tassle grinned. He heaved on the rope and hauled Clovis up in the air. Swinging by the neck, the Overlord made a gurgling sound and his face purpled.

  ‘Let him go!’ Ascha said.

  Radhalla thought for a moment and then gave a careless nod to the Cherusker who reluctantly paid out a little of the rope. Clovis jerked and fell a little way. His toes teetered on the edge of the table and his eyes lurched towards Ascha.

  ‘Help me!’ Clovis rasped. ‘Help me!’

  A dark curl of smoke rose up the wall. Thin flames ran over the door and back again. ‘It’s over, Radhalla,’ Ascha said. ‘Bauto’s scara has come and your men are dying in droves.’

  ‘It’s not over,’ Radhalla spat. ‘It’s never fucking over!’

  ‘Let him live, and he may allow you your life.’

  Radhalla looked at him with hard, piggy eyes. ‘Why should you care what happens to this prick? He deserves to die.’

  ‘I said let him down!’

  ‘You been working for him all along?’

  ‘All along,’ agreed Ascha.

  There was a sudden whiff of something foul in the air, and they all wrinkled their noses. The Overlord of the Franks had filled his britches.

  ‘Why d’you do it, boy?’ Radhalla said. ‘Why’d you work so hard against me?’

  ‘You ask me why?’ Ascha said, his blood boiling. ‘After everything you did? You killed my brother. Sent me to the slavers. Attacked my woman.’

  Radhalla lowered his head. ‘Hroc got in the way,’ he snarled. ‘And it was not my idea to sell you to the slavers. Sigisberht disobeyed me. He saw you as a rival when I was trying to save your miserable hide by sending you home. As for the girl,’ he shrugged his shoulders, ‘these things happen.’

  There was something in Radhalla’s eyes Ascha had not seen before; a fleeting shadow, not doubt or indecision, but something else.

  ‘Sigisberht suspected me?’

  ‘He did,’ Radhalla said.

  ‘And Ragnachar?’

  ‘Fara told me that Clovis had sent a spy but I never thought it was you. Why should I? You were a Theod, one of our own. For years I’ve been planning and building this fleet,’ Radhalla said. ‘Is there any Roman or Frankish general who could have done what I have done? It was hard to believe that you would betray us.’

  Ascha began to move as casually as he could toward the table, aware of Gundovald at his side.

  ‘Ragnachar sent his Alani to kill me.’

  Radhalla nodded. ‘After you spoke at the council, he saw you were dangerous and had to be stopped. He sent Fara to warn me. But you were either clever or lucky. I should have killed you when I had the chance.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Radhalla looked at him carefully. ‘I had my reasons.’

  He wondered about that. Why would Radhalla have spared his life? He was sure the Iron Plough wouldn’t hesitate a second time. He considered the odds. He had Gundovald, and there were three Cheruskkii. He could kill Radhalla in which case Clovis would die, or try to save Clovis, in which case Radhalla would certainly kill him.

 
Not much of a choice, he thought. Either way, he was dead meat.

  The fire was taking hold. He could hear the flames crackling outside in the hall. Smell the smoke.

  ‘Let’s hang the turd,’ the ugly Cherusker called and jerked the rope. Clovis, scrabbling to keep his balance, glared at them. Radhalla raised his hand. The Cherusker scowled but held off.

  ‘But you’re game, I’ll give you that,’ Radhalla went on not taking his eyes off Ascha. ‘In another life we could a been friends, maybe more. But this thing dies.’

  The Cherusker with the rope coiled around his arm, took the strain. The seal hide creaked and a dry choking sound escaped from the Overlord’s lips.

  ‘He is a nothing. Why kill him?’ Ascha said.

  Radhalla breathed in deep. ‘Let me tell you a story,’ he said slowly. ‘And then maybe, just maybe – before I kill him – you’ll see what kind of creature you sold yourself to.’ His tone was soft and quiet, just beginning to shade into anger.

  There was a sudden roar of belching flame. Ascha glanced up. Smoke was billowing into the chamber, and he could see the top of the brick walls glowing red. The high ribbed roof was burning, sparks and blazing embers falling around them in a hot shower. He could feel the heat like a hot blanket pressing on his lungs.

  Radhalla placed both hands flat against the wall. ‘Six years ago, a high-born Cherusker sails to Pritannia to bring back his bride, a beautiful girl with yellow hair like gold. On the way home, off the coast of Gallia, their ship is caught in a storm and driven ashore. The Cherusker is young, a little younger than you are now, and inexperienced. He sends word to the Franks that he travels in peace and seeks leave to repair his boat. Childeric the Overlord, this one’s father, agrees to give him safe passage. But he lies. Childeric sends troops to cut them off. The Cheruskkii are caught unawares and slaughtered. Less than a dozen survive and are taken captive.’

  He spoke reasonably as if telling a story in the feast-hall at Radhallaburh.

  ‘What is this to me?’ Ascha said.

  Radhalla turned to face him, holding up one hand. ‘I’m coming to that,’ he said with quiet menace. ‘The young man and his beautiful bride are taken to Tornacum. Childeric parades them before his friends and guests. The Franks are fearful of the Saxons but they know they must come to terms with them if they are to stop the raiding. They have an opportunity here to be merciful. Help the young man and his bride, and the Saxons might be grateful.’ He belched softly and rubbed his belly in a circular movement. ‘And who knows,’ he went on with a cold smile, ‘they might be persuaded to raid Pritannia rather than Gallia.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Childeric tortures the young man for the best part of a day,’ Radhalla said. ‘Twists him on a pole and breaks both his legs. Beats him and burns him with hot irons. Then, when he’s done, he buries the young man alongside his bride.’

  Radhalla picked up a clay bottle from the table. He shook it, pulled the stopper and drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and let the flask drop on the floor. Radhalla paused and Ascha thought he saw a shadow of sadness pass across the Cherusker’s thick face.

  He and Gundovald watched without a word.

  ‘Childeric buried them beneath the marketplace of Tornacum,’ Radhalla said softly. ‘They were alive when he buried them. You walked over their graves when you came in. The rest of the Cheruskkii he spared and sent home to tell the story.’

  Ascha shuddered. Buried alive! What kind of monster did that? Even the fire was kinder.

  ‘It’s not true,’ Clovis croaked. ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘Shut it!’ growled the big Cherusker, jerking the rope.

  Ascha ran a hand through his hair. He threw a warning glance at Gundovald. ‘What is this to me?’

  ‘The Cherusker was my son, Ceolwine.’ Radhalla said. ‘And your father saw it happen.’

  There was an anguished moan from Clovis but Ascha had eyes only for Radhalla. ‘How could my father have seen it happen?’

  ‘Aelfric was in Tornacum that day. It was soon after Clovis found you in the forest at Samarobriva. Childeric would have happily slaughtered Aelfric along with the Cheruskkii, but Besso held his son, Clovis, hostage and so Childeric’s hands were tied. Instead, that evil old fuck murdered my boy.’ He stared at Clovis with eyes that were full of hatred. ‘Murdered him and his bride so he could impress Aelfric and the people of Tornacum with his determination to rid Gallia of Saxons.’

  Ascha felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He shook his head. ‘There was nothing my father could have done,’ he said.

  ‘Na, nothing,’ Radhalla agreed. ‘But I swore that one day I would have faida, I would have my vengeance on the Overlord and his family. I would come back.’

  Clovis coughed. ‘As a dog returns to its own vomit,’ he wheezed.

  It was as if a door in Ascha’s head had opened letting in light. He realized that no matter how much Radhalla might have wanted to settle in Roman Gaul, it was never his first aim. He had come to Tornacum for revenge. He wanted the blood-price for the murder of his son. And Clovis must have known. Clovis had Cheruskkii blood on his hands. And so did Aelfric. His father had been there when it happened, would have watched helplessly as the Franks slowly destroyed the son of the man who had once been his closest friend. Now he knew why his father had wanted a pact with the Franks. Raddled with guilt, Aelfric had seen that the Franks were too dangerous to have as enemies. Best take the Franks’ silver and go home.

  ‘Hang the fuck!’ Radhalla said.

  The big Cherusker spat on his hands and heaved on the rope. Clovis was dragged up in the air, legs kicking wildly.

  Ascha pulled his tomahawk and leapt forward. The Cherusker looped the rope over the stanchion and, with surprising speed for one so big, turned and kicked Ascha in the lower belly. Ascha doubled up and fell to his knees. The Cherusker kicked him in the face. Ascha’s jaw seemed to explode. The Cherusker came for him, seaxe drawn. As Ascha struggled to get to his feet, he felt a hot pain rip along his belly. The Cherusker stood back to see what he would do. Ascha touched his side and his fingers came up sticky. He started to get to his feet and then allowed his axe arm to slump to his side.

  The Cherusker grinned and came at him again.

  Ascha twisted suddenly and swung the franciska. There was a scream of pain as the curved blade took off half the Cherusker’s foot. Rising to his feet, Ascha swung again with both hands. The blade cut deep into the man’s neck and the big Cherusker crashed to the ground.

  Ascha heard a dry gasp.

  Gundovald was standing over the dead body of the other Saxon with a strange and faraway look on his face. Gundovald crumpled and slid to the floor. Radhalla stepped over him, bent and wiped the blade of his sword on Gundovald’s shirt.

  Ascha had no time to think whether he should kill Radhalla or save Clovis. He couldn’t let Clovis hang as his brother Hroc had hung. He leapt onto the table and caught the Overlord’s swinging body, gasping as he breathed in his stench. He reached up and sawed at the rope behind Clovis’ neck. The rope parted, Clovis fell and the two of them rolled off the table and crashed to the floor.

  When Ascha came to, the roof was engulfed in flames and smoke was pouring under the door. He heard a series of loud reports as roof tiles exploded and smashed on the floor by his head. Gundovald stared with dead eyes and the Overlord’s body lay slumped some way off. Radhalla stood above him, holding the point of his sword to the hollow in his throat.

  He felt little fear, just an overwhelming weariness. He wanted to howl. He had lost everything he had worked for. After all he had been through, to die like this, killed by the man who had done his family so much harm.

  His eyes welled. ‘Do it,’ he gasped. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Radhalla, said with a grimace like the slash of a knife. ‘I’m not about to kill you just yet.’

  Ascha stared up at Radhalla. Was he to be burnt and buried alive, like Ceolwine? He swallowed
painfully. The pain in his side was like a hot knife against his ribs. He guessed that the new cut had opened Wulfhere’s wound. He felt so tired, the blood seeping from him, but before he died, he would know the truth.

  ‘You told Hanno you were going for Syagrius,’ he gasped. ‘You told him you would make landfall south of Gesoriac.’

  Radhalla laughed from deep in his chest. Sparks dropped onto his shoulders but he took no notice. ‘My plan was always to deal with the Franks first. I never told him we would land south of Gesoriac, but he had become an embarrassment. After you visited him, he started to question me. So we tied him to a stake and left him for you to find.’

  Radhalla was silent for a moment as if trying to give the matter serious thought. ‘I think he felt bad about his brother’s death. It had been preying on his mind.’ He made a circular motion with his forefinger at his temple. ‘He thought Tiw was angry with him. Maybe that’s why he deceived you.’

  ‘You’re lying, you sack of shit,’ Ascha breathed. His side was painful and his hand was slick with blood. There was more blood, dark and sticky, seeping through his tunic. Far above the roof was crackling with flame. The billowing smoke filled his lungs and stung his eyes. He coughed, his throat scraped raw.

  ‘Na, lad. Not half as much as you lie to yourself. You see, we’re alike, you and me. Peas in a pod.’

  ‘I’m not like you,’ Ascha said. Out in the hall, he could hear fighting, the clash of iron on iron.

  ‘But you are, boy,’ Radhalla said, his voice dropping. ‘You remember when I told you how Aelfric captured your mother and forbade any man to touch her on pain of death?’

  He paused and leaned back never taking his eyes off Ascha and then said, ‘Later, when your father was asleep, I took her.’

  Ascha’s heart curled. He felt as if he was choking, a tight fist wound like a snake around his neck.

  Radhalla watched him with a faint smile on his lips. ‘I’m not proud of what I did, but you can’t put shit back in the mule. Your mother was pretty in a strange sort of way and I was used to getting what I wanted.’