David Pilling - The Red Death

Clothaire’s ham of a face twisted into an alarming frown. “I can make myself understood, thank you,” he growled, “do as I say, and keep that son of yours out of trouble.”

He swung away on his crutch, flanked by the Sarmatians. We waited for their return and kept a careful eye on the wagons. Droves of people bustled through and around the plaza, making the place almost unbearable with their noise and stench.

“Clothaire resents me,” said Eliffer, “I have staved him off with promises, but now our journey is ended, and I do not mean to fulfil them.”

She shuddered and looked around thoughtfully at the crowds. “We must get away. A few more days, enough time for me to wheedle some money out of him, and then we can escape. This city is big enough to lose ourselves in.”

Some hours later Clothaire returned hours in a foul mood, having eventually arranged lodgings for us all in a series of tavernas in the north-western quarter of the city. He had also managed to find storage for the wagons and merchandise, though only after much haggling with a warehouse owner whom he roundly cursed for a crook and a swindler.

“Tonight I am going to get drunk,” Clothaire growled once he had finished polluting the air, “and tomorrow start making a fat profit selling cheap Frankish cloth at criminal prices to half-witted Romans. I have not come all this way just to admire the sights!”

He was as good as his word, and once the wagons were safely locked away proceeded to get roaring drunk in one of the tavernas. Eliffer wanted to lodge elsewhere, but Clothaire insisted that she and I join him for dinner.

The taverna was a small place located down a sloping cobbled side-street. It was dark inside, but clean. The fat landlord seemed eager to please, and rushed back and forth to fetch food and drink. His only customers were Clothaire, Eliffer and I. The Sarmatians stood outside the door and made sure no-one else entered by glaring at passersby.

Clothaire made no attempt to be charming at dinner. He got drunk very quickly on strong retsina, and spent the first part of the meal damning all foreigners and drinking noisy healths to his native Frankia.

“And your country too, of course,” he said, leering horribly at Eliffer, “I offer a toast to the Britons, with whom my people have so much in common.”

My mother lifted her cup in reply and took a reluctant sip of wine. She had remained silent throughout.

“Britain is doomed, of course,” added Clothaire, resting his elbows on the table, “she has lost Arthur, her guiding star, and will quickly slide into ruin. Tell me, lady, where did your son get that fine sword?”

Eliffer started. “You have never asked before,” she replied quietly. I was seated beside her, and felt her body start to tremble.

“No,” he replied, running the tip of his liver-coloured tongue across his lower lip as he studied me, “I have respected you too much to ask questions. Admired you. Loved you, even.”

“Lust is not love,” she said, still in the same quiet tone.

He slammed his right hand palm-down on the table, making it jump and almost overturning the wine jug. “It’s the best offer you will get,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Your high blood and fine education will do you no good here. The Romans reckon themselves Gods, and will laugh at the claims of some barbarian slut to nobility.”

I rose from my chair, furious at this insult to my mother’s honour, and reached for Caledfwlch. A hand seized my wrist and an arm like an iron bar thrust me back into my seat. Screaming in futile rage, I looked up to see one of the Sarmatians – the same one who had allowed me to ride his horse so often during the long journey from Paris. There was no warmth or humour in his heavy, square-jawed face now, and his little eyes were cold and devoid of emotion as he held me fast.

Clothaire was coughing with drunken laughter. “Your pup has some fire in him, Eliffer,” he gasped, banging his chest, “he will need to learn to control it. Not all his masters will be as gentle as me.”

“Coel is of ancient royal stock, and will never call any man master,” Eliffer shot back, her cheeks flaming with anger, “tell your ape to release him.”

The Frank did no such thing. He leaned back in his chair and folded his thick arms. “I give you this one last opportunity,” he said quietly, “will you agree to be my wife, and come back with me to Frankia?”

Eliffer slowly stood up, and I never saw her look more proud or beautiful. She summoned up the ghosts of her royal ancestors and treated the ignoble Clothaire to a blast of hauteur and contempt.

“Never,” she replied with calm dignity, “never would I, a descendent of the ancient line of Troy, consent to bind myself to an animal like you. I would rather sever the veins in my wrists, and die with honour, than submit to such degradation.”

Clothaire’s face suffused with blood. He scraped back his chair and almost overbalanced as he fumbled for his crutch.

“Have it your way then, you arrogant bitch!” he howled, jabbing his finger at her, “but I will extract some value from you, come what may! Let us see you quote your proud ancestry in the slave-market tomorrow! Impress a Numidian flesh-merchant with your fine education, why don’t you, or plead your descent from Brutus with a Persian whoremaster!”

For a moment Eliffer was struck dumb. “You can’t mean it,” she managed, “my son and I are Christians. Christians cannot be bartered as slaves.”

Clothaire hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat it on the floor. “That is the value of most human life here,” he sneered, “Roman citizens are exempt from slavery, true, but who will defend the rights of a couple of pale-skinned savages from the distant north? The highest bidder can have you both, and welcome.”

We were held captive in the cellar underneath the taverna all night, guarded by two of the Sarmatians. My mother begged them to release us. When that didn’t work her temper snapped and she railed and threw curses at them. The Sarmatians were indifferent, and remained silent and rigid as statues while Eliffer raged and Clothaire continued to get noisily drunk upstairs.

At last Eliffer’s pride and anger were spent. She gave way to sorrow and crouched in a corner of the darkened cellar, her body wracked with sobs as she held me tight in her thin arms. There was little I could say or do to help. That noble lady, born and raised to a gentle life of privilege, was lost in a foreign land with no-one to protect her. Her torments had only just begun.

We slept little, and at first light the guards seized us and dragged us up the stair. Clothaire was slumped over his table, face-down in a pool of stale wine and snoring like a pig. One of the Sarmatians impatiently shook him awake. He slowly peeled his face from the table and regarded us with a painfully bloodshot eye.

“Have you been weeping, lady?” he croaked, “how plain and ugly you look in the morning light. To think I once desired you. The gods must have made me mad.”

He said something to the Sarmatians in their language. They took us out of the taverna and into the street, which was deserted and covered in thick morning mist. It was cold, and the cobbles were wet and slippery underfoot. I cried out as I stumbled and cut my knee.

“Hush,” whispered Eliffer as she picked me up and clapped a hand over my mouth, “don’t let them hear you. Remember who you are, and be brave.”

The Sarmatians hurried us along through a maze of streets, which steadily grew wider and filled up with people as we approached the main thoroughfare of the city. At last we reached a gigantic square edifice with a domed roof supported by four colossal arches. I didn’t know it then, but this was the Milion, a monument erected by the Emperor Constantine and intended to act as a starting-place for the measurement of roads leading to all corners of the Eastern Empire.