The Half-Slave Page 8

  Ascha looked her over. She was pretty, probably a slave. He saw that her hand trembled slightly as she poured and he wondered why she was nervous. The girl filled both glasses and then let out a faint sigh, as if relieved she had not spilt any.

  Ascha thanked her, and she smiled and padded away. He lifted the goblet to his lips. He had never drunk wine from a glass before. Glass was rare, fit only for the rich and high-born. The smell of fruit filled his senses. He sighed. This was a world away from the rot-gut the troops were given. He filled his mouth and swallowed and almost immediately felt himself relax. He smacked his lips. Maybe Bauto was wrong. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of here. He would have a drink and a laugh with Clovis, and then he would go back to camp. He would have plenty to tell the hostages. And if he was lucky, he might still be in time for the victory feast.

  He was aware suddenly that Clovis was watching him. Clovis smiled and bent his thin nose over the rim of the glass. ‘So, you’re a warrior now?’ he said. ‘Trained to kill!’

  He pronounced the words in a slightly mocking way that Ascha didn’t care for.

  ‘Yes,’ Ascha said. ‘And you are the Overlord of the Franks.’

  There was an awkward pause and then they both laughed uneasily. They drank some more and sat without speaking.

  And then Clovis said, ‘Of course, at the moment my lands in Gallia are small. A few towns here and there, scattered colonies of settlers. But one day, I will rule over an empire that will stretch from the Rhine to the Roman Sea.’

  Clovis spoke with quiet determination, and Ascha saw that he was serious. He was not surprised. Every Frank he’d ever met believed that they were the natural heirs of Rome.

  Clovis picked up the jug and filled Ascha’s glass. ‘So, Bauto still lives?’

  ‘Lives and prospers.’

  ‘It’s strange. I see so little of him these days. Sometimes I think he avoids me.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clovis muttered darkly. ‘I’m sure he does.’

  Ascha took a gulp of wine. ‘I think Lord Bauto prefers the life of a soldier to life at court,’ he said, suddenly affable.

  Clovis looked at him and nodded. ‘Yes, that must be it,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘Has he dealt with those Heruli pirates?’

  Ascha tossed back the wine and rasped his tongue against the edge of his teeth. ‘He did exactly that! Your army has achieved a glorious victory, and the Heruli were annihilated.’ He bent and rummaged in his bundle, found the birchwood writing tablets and handed them to Clovis.

  ‘Flavinius!’

  Flavinius rose ponderously to his feet and came and took the tablets away.

  Ascha jerked as he remembered. ‘And to celebrate his victory, Lord Bauto has sent you a gift.’

  ‘A gift!’ The cold eyes glittered.

  Ascha picked up the leather sack and handed it over. Clovis opened it and peered inside, recoiling as the stench hit him. ‘A valuable gift indeed,’ he murmured. He pulled out a human head by its topknot and held it aloft. A middle-aged man, fat-nosed and thick-lipped. Hacked off below the jaw-bone. One eye was gone, smashed by a blow to the side of the face, the other stared without seeing. The hair filthy with mud and blood, the teeth broken and the eyelids black.

  ‘It’s Eberulf, isn’t it?’ Clovis said, squinting. ‘He and my father used to be friends. My father offered him terms but he refused. Now look at him, crow-food.’

  He threw what remained of Eberulf to the floor. The head bounced and rolled and came to a halt under a bench leaving a bloody trail across the flagstones.

  ‘Flavinius, take that thing away and stick it on a spike at the gate.’

  Flavinius picked up the head up and silently withdrew.

  ‘Now, do you know why I summoned you?’ Clovis said softly.

  ‘No,’ Ascha said. He tried to hold the Frank’s gaze but looked away. He was beginning to find the young Frank’s confidence unnerving.

  ‘Oh, take it easy! You’re among friends.’ Clovis gave Ascha’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Reaching back, he picked up a scroll from the table and with a snap of his wrist unrolled it on the floor. He knelt and stretched over the parchment, unfolding the rips and smoothing the tears. Then he sat back on his heels, put his hands on his thighs and looked up at Ascha.

  ‘I know it’s been a while since we met, but you’ve not been a stranger to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I have had reports on you.’

  Ascha looked at him. ‘What kind of reports?’

  Clovis smiled. ‘They tell me that you are skilled with weapons, ambitious, adaptable and loyal, if resentful about the, ah, injustice surrounding your birth. You are hard-working and resourceful, although at times headstrong, and you keep the hostage laws. Oh, yes, and for a backwood’s barbarian, you are quick to learn.’

  He felt as if someone had crawled inside his head, carefully examined all his thoughts, and left.

  ‘Can you read a map?’ he heard Clovis say.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I will show you. Come!’ The Overlord patted the floor beside him.

  Ascha glanced at Flavinius who studiously avoided his eyes. Slowly he went down on his knees beside Clovis, taking his wine with him. He blinked at the cat’s cradle of scrawls and lines and coloured scratching that covered the parchment.

  Clovis pointed with a long forefinger. ‘This shows you the world as a hawk might see it. Here is the Great Ocean and here the Roman Sea. The Romans still control Italia but they have lost Hispania and have given up the island of Pritannia because they could no longer hold it.’ Clovis jabbed with his finger as each country was mentioned. ‘Up here below the Rhinemouth are the lands of the Franks. The Frisians are above the Rhine, Thuringii to the east, and way up there, your homeland. But this is the real prize.’ He ran his hand in a wide circular movement over the map and looked up at Ascha. ‘Gallia! The richest and most fertile land of all.’

  Clovis jumped to his feet. He went to the table, picked up the wine jug and slopped more wine into Ascha’s glass. Some of the wine spilled, staining the map.

  ‘Ascha, tell me! How long have you lived among us?’

  Ascha thought for a moment. ‘Five years.’

  Clovis looked surprised. ‘As long as that?’

  He nodded. Five years since his father had walked away and left him among strangers.

  ‘And in that time we have treated you well. You have been an honoured guest amongst us?’

  Ascha looked to see if he was joking and saw he was not. ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he said dourly. He waited, wondering where all this was going.

  Clovis went to the fire. He paused for a moment, staring deep into the flames.

  ‘You will have learnt during your time with us that the Franks are different from other nations. We are an unusual people, Ascha. We straddle two worlds: the world of Rome and the world of the north.’

  Ascha got to his feet. Clovis turned to face him, his eyes hard and bright.

  ‘Ascha, the Romans’ day is over. Their power is fading,’ he said. ‘I believe it is our destiny to build a new empire. We Franks will rule this land as the Romans ruled it before us.’

  Ascha pulled on the wine. ‘And what of the other great powers? The Goths, the Burgundii, Alemanni.’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘They all want their slice of Roman pie and they won’t let you have Gallia without a fight.’ He had discussed this many times with the hostages and knew their nations resented the Franks’ ambitions in Gallia.

  The Overlord’s face curled into a sneer. ‘But they lack our will. And they do not understand what made Rome great. We Franks, we know Rome.’

  That, of course, was the key, Ascha thought. The Franks had lived alongside Romans for generations. They had learnt from their imperial neighbour, taken what they wanted and thrown away the rest. Compared to the Franks, the other Germanic tribes were primitive barbarians.

  �
��They’ll fight you all the way,’ Ascha said.

  Clovis put a reassuring hand on his arm. Ascha saw that the Overlord’s nails were raw and bleeding, bitten to the quick.

  ‘I know there are barriers to overcome,’ Clovis said with icy deliberation. ‘But if we are bold, if we choose our alliances wisely and if we take our chances as they arise, we can shape our future. We can become masters in the west. We will take over the rest of Gallia and force that old bastard Syagrius to come to terms. Then we will defeat the others one by one, and Gallia will be ours. I shall unite the Frankish and Roman people, Ascha. Think of it! One nation and one people, under Frankish rule.’

  Mad as a box of rats, Ascha thought. But he was impressed all the same. If anyone could take over from the Romans it would be Clovis and his Franks. He knew the Frankish army, the scara, from the inside and understood what it was capable of. The Franks were tough, and they knew what they wanted. With Clovis as Overlord, they would have the will and the means to conquer. Perhaps, one day, Clovis would rule over Greater Gallia.

  There was a commotion outside.

  ‘What now?’ Clovis said.

  A woman swept into the room, her silk cloak billowing like a sail.

  ‘Mother,’ Clovis said, getting to his feet. ‘How nice to see you.’

  Ascha snapped to his feet. Basinia! Childeric’s queen.

  She was late thirties, nudging forty. Coiled blonde hair, a wide brow and a mouth that was mean and downcurved. Still beautiful, but in a hard and brittle sort of way. Her dress was silk, the colour of the sea, tightly belted. Across her forehead she wore a head-band of woven gold thread. Earrings, brooches and dress clasps, all gold.

  The queen put her face up to be kissed, patting her son’s cheek with detached fondness. Her eyes fell on Ascha and surveyed him coolly. When she was done, she turned to Clovis and raised one arched eyebrow.

  ‘The Saxon I told you about, Mother.’ The Overlord examined his knuckles, chose one, and chewed it. ‘He brings news of Bauto.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The Herul are destroyed.’

  ‘Good!’ she said.

  She took a white linen kerchief from her sleeve, shook it open, and laid it on the bench. She straightened the kerchief fractionally and then sat down, her dress rustling like leaves blowing over an open grave. She looked up at Ascha.

  ‘I understand your father is a warlord among the Saxon people.’

  ‘My father is Aelfric, hetman of the Theodi.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  He hesitated. ‘She is Walesh, a foreigner.’

  ‘You mean she is a slave,’ Basinia said in a matter of fact tone. She looked down at her knee and smoothed the silk of her dress with long languid strokes.

  Ascha swallowed. He tipped his head. ‘Yes, lady.’

  Basinia’s looked up. Her eyes travelled over him, sifting him like flour. ‘Then you must be a mischling. A half-slave!’

  He felt a chill run through him. What in Tiw’s name was going on? ‘That is what the law calls me,’ he said coldly.

  She nodded. ‘Life as a half-slave must have been hard,’ she murmured.

  ‘Hard enough.’

  ‘Made you what you are, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Harder still to have been a hostage, an exile in a foreign land.’

  ‘I survived,’ he snapped. Calm down. Don’t let her get to you. He sipped some wine and used the moment to force himself to breathe more slowly.

  She watched him and he could see the thoughts passing through her mind.

  ‘Bauto trained you as a warrior and gave you weapons even though you were a half-slave?’ she said.

  ‘You know he did.’

  ‘He took a big risk.’

  ‘I don’t think he sees it like that.’

  Basinia thought about that and then she gave Clovis an almost imperceptible nod. She turned back to Ascha and motioned for him to sit.

  ‘Has my son explained what we are trying to achieve here?’

  ‘Some. But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me?’

  Basinia brushed a speck of dust from her dress. ‘For reasons I do not completely understand, my son thinks highly of you, so I will tell you.’ She shifted in her seat and crossed her hands in her lap. ‘There is one obstacle which might defeat our plans.’

  ‘Lady?’

  ‘The north shore tribes.’

  ‘They are the single biggest threat we face,’ Clovis added.

  He looked at them both. ‘Why? The northern clans are few, and they are poor. They raid because life is hard and they’ll starve if they don’t. You can buy them off as you bought off the Theodi. Or destroy them as we destroyed the Herul at Andecavus.’

  ‘So you would think,’ said Clovis. ‘But the world is changing. There is talk of an uprising. The tribes are uniting to form a confederacy of all the Saxon and northern tribes. If that happens they will sail as one. Fight as one. It will mean not one or two boatloads of raiders, but twenty, thirty making landfall on our coast. We could not withstand them. They would devour us.’

  Ascha shook his head. ‘Northerners are simple folk. They’re not going to unite. They couldn’t agree to milk a cow, let alone build a fleet.’

  ‘Then let me explain,’ Basinia said, her tone suddenly sharp. ‘A confederacy of northern sea-raiders would unleash terror across Gallia. While we deal with the sea-raiders who threaten our rear, the other Germanic nations, the Goths and those vicious bastards, the Alemanni, will attack us from the south and east. We would be crushed between the wolves of the forest and the wolves of the sea. Our very survival would be threatened.’

  There was an edge to her voice he’d not heard before. He wondered if it was fear.

  ‘What has this to do with me?’

  ‘We think you can help us.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Basinia said, ‘The confederation is led by a Saxon tribe.’

  ‘Which tribe?’

  ‘The Cheruskkii.’

  Ascha’s mouth fell open. ‘The Cheruskkii?’

  ‘You know them?’

  Of course he knew them. The Cheruskkii were Waldingas, forest people. He nodded. ‘Their lands lie upriver from ours.’

  ‘In the past they were of little account but something seems to have changed. A new war chief perhaps? They have become very powerful,’ Basinia said.

  ‘It’s not my concern,’ Ascha said, but he was troubled all the same.

  Clovis glanced at his mother. ‘We have heard that one tribe is holding out against the Cheruskkii. They have refused to join and have become a rallying point for those opposed to the confederation.’

  Ascha felt the blood drain from his face. ‘Which tribe?’ he whispered.

  ‘The Theodi! Your father’s clan,’ Clovis said bluntly.

  Ascha took a gulp of wine. The world was closing in, boundaries washing away. Now he knew why he had been summoned. How could he have been so stupid as to think that Clovis had wanted nothing more than to talk of old times. ‘I am a Frank now,’ he said. ‘This does not concern me.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Clovis said. ‘I think it does.’

  Basinia went on. ‘The Theodi are small but they are a holy tribe and they have influence.’ Her voice was soft, as if she were addressing a child or a lover. ‘Your father is stubborn and has resisted all invitations to merge, but the Cheruskkii are unlikely to tolerate his refusal much longer. If the Theodi join the confederation, there will be nothing to stop the Cheruskkii taking the tribes to war.’

  He had a sudden picture in his mind of his father before the shield-wall at Samarobriva. Feet rooted in the dust, as iron-willed as a mule. ‘My father would never join,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘It would mean breaking the pact he made with the Franks.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t,’ Basinia said quickly, ‘the Cheruskkii will move against the Theodi.’

  Ascha hadn’t thought of that. He sat on the bench and rest
ed his chin on his fist. The Cheruskkii and the Theodi had always been friendly, but he knew that if it came to war the Theodi were few and would not be able to last out for long.

  He sucked his tooth. ‘What do you want of me?’ he said.

  ‘Information.’

  ‘You have spies.’

  ‘We need someone we can trust,’ said Basinia. ‘A Saxon, not an outsider. We need to find out what the tribes are planning. Will they invade and where will they land? How many ships? How many men? When will they come?’

  ‘You want me to become a spy against my own people?’

  ‘No,’ Clovis said brutally. ‘But you can save them. Do you want to see the Theodi destroyed?’

  That shocked him. Was that what this was about? The destruction and slaughter of his clan? He was the son of a slave, and the Theodi had never taken him as one of their own. He owed them nothing. And yet he knew it wasn’t that simple. Despite everything, they were still his kin, his blood.

  Basinia moved closer. She laid her hand on top of his. Her eyes were grey, the colour of ashes. He could smell the oily sweetness of her perfume. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He was giddy, and his head felt as if it were stuffed with wool.

  ‘Help us, and we will reward you,’ Basinia said. He could feel her stroking the back of his hand. ‘You will be wealthy. You can buy whatever you want. Land, women, fine clothes, and you can go home.’

  Home, he thought bitterly. That was rich. Home was the one place he had never felt at home.

  But the thought of reward made him think.

  ‘The clan won’t trust me. I have been too long with the Franks.’

  ‘They will suspect nothing,’ Basinia snorted. ‘You were a half-slave, a simple woodcarver. You were never a warrior.’

  And at that, his head begin to clear. Going home would mean going back on everything he’d worked for. But if he did, he would be well placed. The Overlord and his mother needed him. Do this, and they would be grateful. He could ask for anything.

  ‘You want me to find out whether the Cheruskkii will attack Gallia?’