Conqueror

'It was a trial,' Macson said darkly. 'I am a learned man, sir, as is my father, who raised me as a scholar. I worked faithfully for Theodoric in his book business for many years. But Theodoric accused me of stealing from him. So I was brought to the church, to be paraded before supporters of Theodoric's case.'

'And you must return in three days.'

Macson studied his hand. 'If the wound is healing I must be innocent, for God protects the good, and I will go free. But if the wound is festering it is because of the corruption of my inner heart.'

Belisarius shook his head. 'These Germans call themselves Christians, but such a ritual has more of the pagan about it.'

'How true,' Macson said. 'And how good it is to be able to converse in a civilised tongue.'

Belisarius, a hard-nosed trader, was immune to flattery. 'Are you a slave, Macson?'

'No,' Macson said fiercely. 'My father was born a slave, from a line of six generations of slaves. But we never forgot who we are. We are descended from a British woman called Sulpicia, who was raped by a German, or possibly a Norse. Her bastard child, neither British nor German nor Norse, was given up to slavery.'

'Six generations? That's a long time to hold a grudge.'

'We remembered who we were, and what had been done to us. At last my father was able to purchase his freedom. Thanks to him I am free-born – the first since Sulpicia herself.'

Belisarius, not much interested, merely nodded. 'Then tell me this, free-born. Are you guilty?'

Macson looked him in the eyes, and evidently calculated. 'Yes. Yes, I am guilty. Theodoric is a fat, greedy fool who cut my pay. I stole food to keep my sick father alive. In your heart, do you believe that is a crime before God?'

Belisarius stood up. 'I know very little about God. I have paid for the room for the rest of the day. You should rest. Keep your wound clean, bathe it in more wine, and try not to damage the skin further.' He turned to go.

Macson, wincing as he moved his hand, struggled to his feet. 'Wait. Please.'

'I have business.'

'I know. Perhaps I can help you.'

Belisarius, used to dealing with chancers, could see that Macson, groggy with pain and opium, was nevertheless thinking fast. 'You can buy my books at a better rate than Theodoric, can you?'

'No, but I can take you to better customers.'

'Who?'

'The monks. Especially in the north and east. Some of those monasteries are remarkably rich, Belisarius, considering what an impoverished island this has always been. And as they try to stock their libraries the abbots will pay a good price for your books – that is, they will pay a good price to Theodoric, once he brings them the books he purchased from you, marking up a handsome profit in the process.'

'And how would I reach these monks of the north?'

'I will guide you,' Macson wheedled. 'The old roads are still good, in places. It is not so difficult, if you know the way.'

'Britain is a hazardous country, of many nations-'

'Four. The British, the Picts, the Irish, and the Germans.'

'Even the German lands are full of squabbling minor kings; everybody knows that.'

Macson shook his head. 'For decades much of the German country has been under the sway of Offa of Mercia. The other German kings recognise him as bretwalda, over-king. He has brought a certain brutish calm to the island.'

'Offa's name is known on the continent.'

'Then you see the wisdom.'

Belisarius hesitated. What Macson said made a certain sense. Theodoric was a mere middleman, and an odious middleman at that. Would it do any harm to cut him out of the deal, just this once? Besides, he suspected there was something more than Macson was telling him – something Macson wanted out of this opportunity which had so fortuitously fallen into his lap. But what could it be?

Belisarius was naturally inquisitive and adventurous; he would never have become a trader if he hadn't been. And now his curiosity was piqued. To see more of this strange island, cut off from the Roman world for four hundred years, might make a good chapter in his memoirs of travel.

Macson, shrewd and watchful, saw something of this inner dialogue. 'Think of the tales you will be able to tell!'

Belisarius made an impulsive decision. 'We will make this journey-'

Macson tried to clench his fist in triumph, but winced as his burned claw refused to respond.

'But,' Belisarius said heavily, 'not for three days.'

'The law is the Germans', not mine!'

'If you are healing, if God's grace is on you, we will travel on this exotic adventure of yours. If not – well, I will have lost nothing but a little time.'

'You won't regret it.' Macson raised his hand. 'I am confident this will heal, thanks to Roman medicine, if not God's grace. One condition, though.'

Belisarius, heading for the door, turned, amused. 'Are you serious?'

'My father comes too.'

VII

Gudrid walked around the village, looking for the slave from Lindisfarena.

Most of the houses, set back from the fjord's shallow beach, were places of work: smithies, byres, barns. Stockades for the animals straggled up the hillside, as high as the grass could grow. But the big hall, thirty paces long and solidly constructed of squared and polished wood, was the centre of the community. Around its long hearth the endless winter evenings were passed in drink and talk, in play with the children, and in craft – sharpening blades, repairing clothes. The villagers were also proud of a small wooden building with stone-lined drains running under its walls. Here water was flung on burning logs to be turned to steam. Even in midwinter it got hot enough in there to make you sweat, and by day and night half-naked inhabitants crowded on its benches.

Did the monks of Lindisfarena have a hall, or a sauna? What were the trees like on Lindisfarena, what was the local stone? She knew nothing of the island, or of Britain. She didn't even know what a monk was for. She burned with curiosity.

The slave had been put to work feeding the pigs. He had pails of bad meat and rotting vegetables which he was stirring with a long ladle. On his face was an expression of bored disgust.

His name, she had learned, was Rhodri. He was small, black-haired, round-shouldered. He was seventeen or eighteen, a few years younger than herself. His features were regular, his jaw strong, his ears a little over-large. He might have been good-looking, she mused, in a brooding British way, if not for a sullen downturn to his full mouth.

Rhodri became aware of Gudrid looking at him. He stopped work, leaned on his long ladle and stared back at her. His gaze, if sullen, was frank, almost defiant – and he stared speculatively at her body. She was faintly shocked; no slave had ever dared look at her that way before.

She snapped, 'You'll not get those pigs fed at that rate… Do you understand me?'

'Yes,' he said, his voice heavily accented. 'You Germans have different tongues, but you all sound alike to me.'

'We aren't German. We are Norse. Or Viking. After our word Vik, which means "inlet". We are the people of the fjords.'

'Good for you.' He yawned. 'Anyway I picked up a bit of your tongue on the boat.'

'My father's boat.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'You're Bjarni's daughter? Which one – Gudrid, was it? He mentioned you.'

'You aren't telling me he talked to the likes of you.'

'It's a small boat. And I have big ears, even if I am just a slave.'

She was growing angry at his easy insolence. 'It's a shame he didn't teach you how to work.'

'I am working,' Rhodri interrupted, his voice now querulous. 'Can't you see?' He rubbed his belly. 'My gut's still a knot from that boat. By Jesus's wounds I puked myself half up.'

She snorted. 'You'll recover.'

He glanced at her, calculating now. 'You're the reason he went to Lindisfarena in the first place. You've got some kind of interest in it.' Rhodri smirked. 'A woman, interested in things. Your husband said it's a shame your womb isn't as fertile as your mind.'