Raven (30 page)

‘I would have liked to wipe the smirk off that putrid old goat’s face,’ I said, nodding towards Asgot. The old godi was casting the runes across a tafl board, his eyes rolled back in his head looking where other men could not see. Cynethryth was beside him, stroking the wolf Sköll’s silver back as it slept, its head on its paws. ‘If I live past tomorrow I’m going to kill him,’ I said, only half meaning it, for I knew that by killing the godi I would be breaking my oath to the Fellowship and to Sigurd.

‘What
did
you say to them, Raven?’ Penda asked then, glancing around. ‘Because whatever it was they’re still talking about it.’ By the looks Penda was right. A shroud had fallen over the camp again and it did nothing to ease my pounding head. So I cursed and sluiced the inside of my neck down with wine anyway.

Someone said my name at the same time as touching my shoulder. It was Sigurd and he nodded at Penda then looked back to me. ‘Walk with me, Raven,’ he said.

We followed the Tiberis north and cut east as far as the first swell of the Palatine Hill, letting our ears latch on to the muted rush of the river and the distant din of the city: drunken laughter, dogs barking, men shouting.

‘The men didn’t think much of what I had to say, lord,’ I said glumly, breaking the silence that had stretched too long between us.

‘It lacked a little gilt, Raven,’ he said, taking in the torch-lit
churches and convents that nestled brightly on the hill amongst the enormous white-stoned, decaying temples and palaces that men no longer had the skill or the wealth to repair.

‘It lacked more than that,’ I said.

He smiled but it was strained. ‘Beowulf’s boasting when he came to Hrothgar’s hall was better,’ he admitted. After a few more paces he stopped and turned to face me, the scars glistening on his high cheekbone and temple though his eyes were in shadow. ‘Raven, I cannot let you fight tomorrow.’

For a heartbeat, and only a heartbeat, my spirit leapt.

‘But I must fight,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘Why did you do it? You have already proved yourself to this Fellowship. Many times. There is bravery, Raven, and there is fools’ pride. No one would have known if you had not put that withered bird’s wing in the sack. That was why we did it that way, so that I would not have to declare before all which men are our best fighters, but still knowing that only the best would come forward and the others would be spared any shame.’

‘I thought it was so Týr Lord of Battle could choose,’ I said, my face tight beneath a frown. His darkened eyes burrowed into mine. I was tempted to tell him the truth of it. How Asgot had had a hand on the tiller of my wyrd because he hated me and wanted me dead or else was curious to know once and for all if I was Óðin-favoured. Perhaps if I survived the arena the godi would accept that I was and then that would be an end to it.

‘I was proud though,’ Sigurd said, ‘I will say that. When that wing came out with Bram’s claw. I was surprised and angry but proud, too.’ That last made me swallow the truth. ‘But you must not fight.’

‘Lord, I must fight. That is my wyrd. Everyone saw it.’

‘They saw something else too,’ he said through a grimace as though the words had broken free of his mouth cage.

‘Lord?’ I felt my blood chill then.

‘Your face, Raven, when you were speaking. Your face turned bone-white. It happened like that,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘We all saw it. Your eye looked like a bloodstain in fresh snow.’

‘The wine?’ I suggested. ‘I have tasted better. Or perhaps I stood too quickly.’ Sigurd shook his head. My scalp prickled and my saliva soured because I knew what dark thing it was that Sigurd was edging around. ‘You think I’m feigr,’ I said. It was not a question. I had heard it said that if a man’s face suddenly changes colour it betokens his doom. The men thought I was feigr, that my doom was on me. Sigurd did not reply, which was louder than any answer.

‘If I am feigr then so be it,’ I said, trying to swallow the fear that was stuck in my throat like an arrowhead. ‘My wing came out of Asgot’s sack and I must fight tomorrow.’

‘I am your jarl,’ he said. ‘I could command you not to fight.’ His voice was firm, but he had turned into the silver wash of the moon and by its pale light his eyes betrayed what his voice had not. Which was that he knew as well as I did that I had to fight alongside Svein and Bram next day. That I had no choice but to follow the Norns’ weave wherever it might lead.

‘You would not ruin my reputation, lord,’ I said, realizing all of a sudden that that
would
be worse than dying. At that very moment I was actually more terrified of Sigurd preventing me from fighting than I was of anything else in the world.

‘No, I would not do that,’ he said unhappily, resigning himself to what would be. I had never seen his eyes look so heavy, as though his brows were house eaves dangerously laden with snow. He looked sad.

‘Raven,’ he said after a silence swollen with unspoken words. ‘If it comes to it, fight it. Do not give in. Do you understand me?’ His eyes were riveted to mine once more and now they held their old spark. ‘The gods have their patterns for us, but I say fuck the gods.’ And this was Sigurd’s burden. His whole life had been a battle against the gods. Asgot had said that Sigurd
did not respect the gods as he should, but Sigurd had long ago broken free of the fetters that bound most men. I believed that the gods admired him for it. Though one day they would tire of him. And now the jarl was telling me to defy my wyrd. ‘You must live tomorrow,’ he said, his lips curled in ire. ‘Fuck the gods and their feigr. When death comes for you tomorrow I want you to fight with every part of your heart and marrow and spirit. You live, Raven. And together we will weave a tale that will keep skalds’ tongues flapping for a thousand years.’

I tried to smile but the skin over my face bones felt as though it had shrunk. My friends thought I was feigr. They knew as surely as wounds bleed that I would be dead before the next day’s end. And now I was on my way back to them, to drink more wine and boast of killing.

THE AMPHITHEATRUM FLAVIUM WAS ALL SEETHING MADNESS. IT
was different standing at ground level, looking up at the stone terraces that were filling with the crowds who had come for blood. The place was filled with their sound, like the whir of a thousand arrows through the air, and the sweat stink of them was thick enough to taste. It was like being at sea in the eye of the storm. All is strangely calm and yet you know what is coming. I could not see clearly the individual faces but I knew well enough where the Fellowship were. They had come in war gear in case of trouble with the pope’s or emperor’s men, and were massed on the bottom level on the west side, as far away from any of the White Christ churches and altars that had been built into the stand as they could get. They had hung Sigurd’s banner – a wolf’s head on a red cloth – from the wall below them and I kept looking at it because it gave me courage. Had he been sitting among them Svein could have hurled a spear in any direction and not hit anyone, because the Romans and other crews had not dared get too close to so many iron-sheathed, battle-ready men.

I wondered whether Cynethryth was amongst them; I could not see her but that was not to say she wasn’t there. Besides, I
knew Asgot would be present, for he would be drooling at the prospect of seeing how his scheme would unfold, and so there was every chance that Cynethryth had come too.

‘If you get the Vindr Berstuk, go for his left side, lad,’ Bram said, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck. ‘He’s got an old injury in his lower leg that makes him favour his right. Hides it well but it’s there all right. Go for his left and you’ll either get lucky and cut him, or he’ll overcompensate and leave his right side open.’ He grinned. ‘And then cut him.’ The crowd were chanting now. They were happy because the sky was blue and the sun was shining and there was money to be made. Lord Guido stood behind a table on which three ironbound chests sat with their lids open. His soldiers were trying to keep order, corralling the hordes into lines so that they could place their wagers. Men were eyeballing us, weighing up what kind of men we were before they parted with their silver. ‘Now, if you get The African, run him around for a while,’ Bram went on. ‘Keep moving. Make the whoreson chase his own tail like a damn dog.’ He pressed a thick finger into my chest. ‘But when you can, go for his legs.’ He tilted his head towards Svein. ‘These big trolls always leave their legs vulnerable. I’ve never seen a tree that couldn’t be cut down with a good blade on the end of a strong arm.’

I nodded. My mouth was as dry as a long-dead corpse’s fart. ‘What if I get the Greek?’ I asked. Bram thought about this for a while and then gave a slight shake of his beard.

‘Then run, Raven,’ he said. ‘And I’ll kill the cur just as soon as I’ve finished with my own snot-swilling son of a crone.’

‘We could just take those chests,’ Svein suggested, nodding towards Lord Guido and his Long Shields. Svein was right. There were enough of us to kill the Long Shields and carry the silver back to the ships. I doubted the Romans or the visiting crews or anyone else would try to stop us.

‘You know as well as I do, Red, that this isn’t about the money any more,’ Bram said, and I knew he was right too.
Svein nodded, finishing off a thick red braid, for it does not do for a man’s hair to fly in his eyes when he is trying to avoid sharp steel. ‘We’ll leave this place with a fame-hoard that’ll outshine Baldr’s golden ball sack,’ Bram said, tightening straps and tugging a fold of his brynja up and over his belt to spread the weight of it.

Lord Guido had made us walk into the middle of the arena so that everyone could watch how we moved and get a look at our weapons. And we must have looked like war gods. The rings of my brynja glinted in the sun and my helmet was polished, so that it looked more like silver than iron. I was wearing my tall boots and had sheathed my lower legs and forearms in boiled leather because I had seen too many men take cuts in those parts. It was not for nothing that many men’s swords were named Leg-Biter. I had sword, long knife, short knife, shield and spear. Bram was armed the same as me, but Svein hefted the long two-handed axe and its edge was honed to the keenest, thinnest, most wicked smile. We wore no cloaks, because a cloak can snag a blade or trap your arm, but were iron men ready to plough flesh and sow death. Whatever the reputation of the three champions we were to fight, if I were in the crowd that day I would not have been quick to put money against us.

‘Here, lad, give me your hand.’ I turned to Olaf, who had come to wish us luck. Cynethryth was with him. Wide-eyed, she was looking up at the crowds, perhaps imagining what the place must have been like in the time of the old emperors. I held out my right hand, letting Olaf tie a braided leather thong around my wrist. The thong had a slip loop on the other end. ‘If it comes to sword work, pull that tight over the grip,’ he said, nodding at the looped end. The thong was so that when I died I should still be able to grip my sword, and that thought soured my guts even more. ‘It’s just in case, lad,’ he added, slapping my shoulder and smiling through his beard. ‘I expect you to spear-gut your man before it ever gets to swords.’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ I managed, rolling my tongue around my mouth, trying to stir some saliva. Olaf reached into the scrip on his belt and pulled out a silver coin.

‘Put this under your tongue. It will help.’ I did and it did. ‘I’m proud of you, Raven,’ Olaf said then, looking up at the time-ravaged walls of the Amphitheatrum Flavium. ‘Sigurd is too. More than he’d ever like you to know.’

I took the coin out of my mouth and smiled weakly. ‘He told me to fuck the gods,’ I said. Olaf turned back to me, his eyes blue as glacier ice.

‘Then fuck them,’ he said.

Olaf went over to speak to Bram and my eyes met Cynethryth’s. I had not been this close to her for a very long time and at that moment we were the only two people in the Amphitheatrum Flavium, so that I was only faintly aware of the din of the crowd like the murmur of some distant seashore, and of my own blood gushing through my veins.

‘Did you know, Cynethryth?’ I said, the frost in those words making my face bones tremble.

‘Know what?’ she asked. Her hollow cheeks were pools of shadow that defied the midday sun. Her once golden hair was a greasy tufted crop and her skin was as pale as the dismembered statues that still looked down on us from the heights.

‘That Asgot put the raven’s wing in his sack,’ I said. Her green eyes flickered at that. ‘You think I would be standing here if I had a choice?’

She frowned. ‘All I know is that Asgot fears you,’ she said. ‘He believes you are Óðin-shielded, though he will not admit it. He thinks that shield is our curse, Raven.’ Try as I might I could not penetrate her gaze. It was as though she were the other side of a smoky hearth. ‘For the Father of the Slain’s name means frenzy and his love of chaos clings to you.’

‘So you believe in our gods now, Cynethryth?’ I said. One brow lifted and her lips twitched like a fishing line between finger and thumb.

‘Death follows you, Raven. Or perhaps you follow death.’