Conqueror

VI

At last Macson opened his eyes.

He was lying on a straw-filled pallet, in a small, smoky, mud-walled room. He turned his head to see Belisarius, who sat gravely on a battered couch in a corner of the room. Macson raised his right hand. Belisarius had stripped it of its bandages. At the sight of his ruined palm, Macson blanched.

Belisarius waited patiently.

Macson said something in a tongue Belisarius didn't recognise. Then, evidently remembering further, he repeated it in Latin: 'Where am I?'

'A tavern,' Belisarius said. 'Near the docks. I took a room.'

'You brought me here.'

'It wasn't cheap. I had to hire two men to carry you.' Two of those accusers who had filed out of the church, in fact, who hadn't been averse to accepting a little of Belisarius's silver.

Macson looked at his hand. 'What have you done? The bandage-' 'The priest's rag would not have helped. I removed it and bathed your wound in wine, which may stop it festering. And it is better to leave the burn exposed to the air, rather than to cover it.'

'You are a bookseller, not a doctor.'

Belisarius frowned at how much this stranger seemed to know about him. 'True. But I have always travelled. I have necessarily picked up a little medical knowledge, if only to keep myself healthy. The Moors, in fact, are proficient in medicine, having preserved ancient wisdom and built upon it.'

Macson moved his hand cautiously; it was rigid, claw-like. 'I'm not even in much pain.'

'I gave you a little opium. The pain will return, I'm afraid.' Macson turned to him. 'Thank you. You helped me. Though I'm not sure why.'

Nor was Belisarius. He had no business here, save to sell his books, and he certainly didn't want any entanglement with local criminals. But perhaps there had been something in the dignity of this shabby Latin-speaker, tortured before his eyes by barbarian Germans, that had appealed to his soul. He said simply: 'You asked me.'

Macson propped himself on his left elbow and laughed, hollow. 'A man may ask for charity from a bishop, but he doesn't always receive it.'

'Besides,' Belisarius said carefully, 'you claimed you know me.'

'So I do. You are Basil-'

'Belisarius.'

'Yes. Belisarius the east Roman. You deal in rare books from the libraries of Constantinople and Alexandria. I have worked for Theodoric before. You may not remember me – but I do you.'

Belisarius didn't remember this man, but he had no reason to believe he was lying. 'You are not a German.'

'No. I was born on the other side of the estuary of the river Sabrina, in what was known as the land of the Silures, – in the days when this island was a province of Rome.'

'You are of the wealisc.' Welsh.

He grimaced. 'I am British. The wealisc is what the Germans call us. It is a word that means "foreigner". Or "slave".'

'Tell me what was being done to you, in that church.'

'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 i

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 i

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?'