Thwack!
Maximin had struck him a great blow across the back with his walking staff. The armour protected Yellow Beard from direct harm, but he was now fighting on two fronts. He swung round to wave his sword at Maximin, who fell back, jabbing at him with his staff.
‘Fuck you!’ I shouted, stabbing uselessly at the leather skirt that protected his buttock.
He wheeled back to me, ignoring Maximin while he dealt with the greater threat. He lunged at me again. This time, I stepped out of his way and threw a random slash in his direction. Glory be – I felt a crunch of steel on flesh and bone. I’d got the wrist of his sword arm. He fell back with a scream of pain and fear. I’d gone deep and his sword fell to the road. He had it up at once in his left hand. But I now had the advantage. Sober, he’d only have been enraged by the slashed skin and muscle, and hacked all the harder with his good arm. But the wine and the intensifying sun were doing their silent work.
He was backing away towards his horse, Maximin and I now facing him. I slashed again at him, roaring to raise my strength. But he knocked me away this time. I slashed again, and this time got him on the right forearm. Blood spurted. I lunged now, aiming at his throat. I fell short, but let him see my bloody sword. His face grey, he dropped his sword and ran for the horse. I followed.
As he got to the horse, he turned back, knife in hand. But knife against sword is nothing, especially in the left hand. I could see terror and defeat in his eyes. I stabbed with an exultant yell. The blow glanced off his leather breastplate, but got him into a deeper panic. He bellowed like an ox taken to slaughter. All he wanted now was to get clear of me, but I was too close to let him on the horse.
I stabbed again, and got him in the left shoulder. I stabbed again, and pushed straight through the fleshy part of his arm. He fell to his knees, babbling and raising his bloodied arms for mercy. I got the point of my sword between his neck and the edge of his breastplate, and pushed down with all my strength. As I pulled it out, he died with a gurgling, blood-frothing sigh. I watched as the life went out of his eyes.
Suddenly tired and aching, I stood looking down at him. I felt the need of another night’s sleep.
‘Aelric, the other one’s alive!’
I turned. He was twisting on the ground, covering his face and head as Maximin beat at him with his walking staff. I crossed over to them, and flopped onto the ground by the fallen man’s head, my sword at his throat.
He was the theologian. I was sure I’d killed him with that heavy first blow. Instead, I’d only knocked him out, hardly drawing blood.
‘Quarter!’ he croaked in English, looking up at me.
My strength recovering, I took his hair in my left hand, pushing my sword harder against his throat. ‘So, what brings you to this sunny clime?’ I asked in the same language.
The answer was obvious. Quite a few of my people had joined with Alboin in the first invasions. There never were that many true Lombards, and they’d increased their numbers by offering a share of the booty to any band of savages who would go in with them. Though the majority had gone away after he’d made it clear this would be his kingdom, some had stayed, and the occasional bravo still drifted over when England seemed too dull. I’d probably just killed one of them. Here was another.
‘You’re English, mate!’ He made an attempt at conviviality. ‘Well, it’s a time since I could share thoughts of home. What’s your name?’
‘I am Aelric, son of Ethelwulf of Rainham,’ I answered flatly.
‘Ethelwulf. He was a mate in the old days. Perhaps you was the boy I saw on his knees. You was a pretty child. You won’t remember me, but I remember you. Let us up – we can’t talk like this.’
I said nothing, my sword still pressed against his throat.
‘Look in our saddlebags,’ he whined. ‘It’s all yours. Go on, look.’
I nodded to Maximin. He came back with two leather bags. From the heavy chink as he put them down, I knew their contents. They were filled with golden solidi. But these weren’t the debased, shapeless copies I’d seen once or twice in England and more often in France. They were the smooth, regular coins of the Empire, imperial head on one side, ‘CONOB’ clearly imprinted on the other. There must have been two full sets of seventy-two to the pound. They were new and identical. Each of them had the same defect on the ‘B’, which was raised a little above the four other letters, indicating that they came from the same die.
I saw all this later. For the moment, I glanced at the coins, but my sword hand didn’t waver.
‘Look, mate,’ the theologian whined again, ‘I can show you more of them – bags and bags of them. Just let us up. We can talk over all the news from home. Then we can go and get the others. Fair shares for all, there can be!’
‘Tell me where they are,’ I asked in my flat voice. I pressed harder so a line of blood showed along the blade. ‘Tell me now.’
‘Yeah, yeah – don’t let’s be unfriendly,’ the theologian cried, trying to push his neck still closer to the ground. ‘Just take the sword away, and I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Where are they?’ I asked.
‘South along the road – about five miles,’ he babbled, breaking now and then into Latin. ‘We brung them down from Tarquini. There’s a ten-man guard on them – not good Englishmen, like us: just runaway slaves and other trash. We can take them together, no prob.’
He paused and looked ingratiating. ‘I see’d you cut up Bertwald right good. We won’t have no trouble with the others… Now, give us a drink, mate.’
I said nothing.
He continued: ‘We was ordered to wait there by the Saint Antony Shrine for instructions. Some Roman or summink was to come and tell us, or such. We didn’t know right, but we was to wait there – that’s all we was told on delivery.’
He spoke on in quick gasps in his strange mingling of languages. They were on some business, of which they knew nothing, for the Lombard authorities. They were to take delivery of a consignment of gold and a very holy relic – the nose of Saint Vexilla. They had no idea what would happen. They’d been told simply to wait for further instructions that would be obvious when they came.
‘All very hush hush,’ the theologian continued, trying to lick some moisture onto his dry lips. ‘Bertwald and me, we just grabbed what was rightly ours and was on our way back to Pavia. Come on, mate, I’m gasping for a drink. Don’t keep me down like this. The fucking sun’s in me eyes.’
Nothing more to learn here, I thought.
‘My father was not Ethelwulf. I have heard of no Ethelwulf of Rainham,’ I said. I drew the sword across his throat, cutting from under one ear right up to the other.
‘Oh, shit and fuck!’ I’d never cut a throat before, and wasn’t prepared for the fountain of blood. It went all over my face and hair and soaked my sleeve. I was mucky enough already from all that crawling in the ditch and the other death fight. But that was just washing muck. This would take hours of scrubbing, and still there’d be a stain on the grey wool of my tunic. Add to this the sword-thrust, and I’d be shabby as a churl. Of course, I had no other clothes with me.
‘Fuck!’ I pushed the jerking, gurgling body away. More blood splashed onto my trousers.
‘Was that quite in order, my son?’ asked Maximin. He sat on a slightly raised paving stone, looking with evident disapproval at the pool of blood now creeping towards him. I couldn’t tell if he was objecting to the dispatch or to the mess, or even to the attendant language – though English is a tongue rich in obscenities, and he must have picked up most of them in Canterbury.
‘He had it coming,’ I snapped. ‘If he and his friend weren’t involved in doing over that monastery, I’ve no doubt they’d have done similar elsewhere… And a dead bandit is always better than a live one.’
Maximin didn’t argue. He was probably thinking as I was – that if we’d stayed in that outhouse, none of this might have been necessary. In any case, we seldom argued now about matters of defence and violence. As I said, we’d been together on the road for months.
Back in England, he’d played me by the book. He’d led me round Canterbury and had me begging forgiveness in every church for my many sins with Edwina – and had me confessing them chapter and verse to the other missionaries, who had rolled their eyes and hugged themselves.
He’d still tried to lecture me on Christian humility back in Amiens, when I’d had cause to beat a cutpurse to pulp. Since then, we’d been pushing steadily through a dense mass of two-legged vermin. Even someone less intelligent than Maximin would soon have learnt the difference between a being created in God’s image and a
