Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant (19 page)

A look of relief crossed my friend’s face. ‘Surely that dream is about the past, not the future. It’s about the death of the elephant that Abram was bringing to
Carolus.’

There was a sudden flicker in the air as a bat swooped over the dying fire in pursuit of a flying insect. The night was drawing in. Though the air was still warm, I shivered. ‘I think
I’ll stay in the tent after all. It’ll save me from the midges,’ I said as I got to my feet.

I made my way back to the tent, carrying the bestiary; something was nagging at the back of my mind. I crawled into our tent, slipped the book inside my saddlebag, and was fastening down the
flap when, all of a sudden, I had a faint recollection that the Oneirokritikon did offer an explanation about elephant bones: someone seen extracting the bones from a dead elephant in a dream meant
that the person would make a great profit from an endeavour. I racked my brains, wondering how the prediction might make sense. Then, in a flash of understanding, I knew: Abram was using our
embassy as an opportunity to line his pockets. That explained the six laden pack ponies on the day he met me on the road outside Aachen, and the extra waggons hired for the overland journey to the
Rhone. Our dragoman was carrying his own private trade goods, buying and selling as we travelled. As I tied the final knot in the leather lace, I wondered what items Abram was carrying that were so
profitable. I decided I would not ask. If Abram wanted to keep his business dealings a secret from me, that was his affair. The dream of Abram and elephant bones was an omen. If he was to make a
great deal of money from our journey then that, in turn, implied that our embassy would be a success.

That night, my mind at ease, I slept so deeply that Osric had to shake me awake when it was time to get up. He made some light-hearted remark that he and Walo had finally got a good
night’s rest, without my wild dreams to disturb them. None of us could have anticipated that what lay ahead was to be as bad as any nightmare.

I
N THE LAST WEEK OF
August a broken bridge halted us. The crumbling stone structure looked as if it dated back to Roman times. The central arch had
collapsed into the river below, cutting the road. Several flatboats were drawn up on the gravel bank, ready to serve as ferries. Their narrow shapes reminded me of weavers’ shuttles. Each had
an ingenious arrangement so that the blunt bow and stern could be lowered to form a ramp and carts could be wheeled aboard. Worryingly, our oversize waggon for the aurochs appeared to be too wide
to fit. Abram went forward to talk with the boatmen and when he came back after some time, I was surprised to see that he had a pleased look on his face and was carrying his itinerarium.

‘Let me show you where we are,’ he said to me, unrolling a section of the drawing and laying it out on the tailboard of the nearest cart. ‘This dark wavy line is the river
ahead of us. Our road meets it at a point close to where you see that symbol for a monastery.’

He unrolled the itinerarium another few inches. ‘If you follow the line of the river you will note that it soon joins a larger one. That in turn flows into the Rhone.’

‘You’re suggesting that we travel by water once again?’ I asked. ‘The river here looks too small to be navigable.’

‘I’ve checked with the ferrymen. They say that last spring there was much rain, and there is still enough depth of water to take their craft downstream.’

I took a second look at the river. It ran sluggishly, its murky water an opaque green. ‘Where do we find boats?’

He pointed with his chin towards the waiting ferries. ‘With a little modification, those are suitable.’

I was still dubious and must have showed it in my expression because Abram quickly added, ‘The local monastery owns the bridge and charges a toll to use it. But the monks have discovered
that they can make more money by collecting fares for the ferry. The boatmen are obliged to work for the monastery a certain number of days each year, and they resent it. Several of them are
willing to work for us.’

He gave me a sideways look. ‘If the monks lose their boats, they’ll be obliged to repair the bridge. You would be doing a service to other travellers.’

I had to smile at his deviousness. ‘I’ll go to see the abbot.’

As it turned out, the abbot was away on business. I met instead his deputy, the cellarer. A small, timid man, he was suffering from hay fever and used his gown’s sleeve to wipe his
streaming eyes as he read my letter from the palace treasurer. When I asked to be provided with the ferries, he let out a tremendous sneeze, then two more in quick succession, before recovering
enough to tell me that first he had to consult with the abbot. I stressed that I was on royal business and short of time. I cautioned that, if necessary, I would simply commandeer the boats. He
released another massive sneeze and used his sleeve again, this time to staunch his runny nose. It would be simpler, I suggested, if he agreed to my request and sent a claim for compensation to the
king’s treasury. In a gesture of goodwill I offered to leave our horses with the monastery since they were no longer required. His eyes filled with tears and his chest heaved as I waited
patiently for his answer. He was helpless, sucking in air before the next volcanic sneeze. All he wanted was for me to leave him in peace. He waved one hand at me in desperation. I took it as his
agreement and left.

As soon as I got back to the others, Abram set about organizing our transfer into the boats. Two were fastened side by side to make a surface wide enough to carry the aurochs’ waggon.
Supervised by Abram’s attendants, a team of ox drivers backed the waggon down the riverbank and manoeuvred the vehicle aboard. The boatmen then removed the large solid wheels and, with a
series of levers, carefully lowered the cage with the aurochs inside it to sit firmly on the platform. Next it was the turn of the ice bears in their waggon to be placed on a second boat –
again the wheels were removed in what seemed to be a lengthy and needless operation but the ferrymen insisted it was done. By the time they were satisfied the light was fading, and we set up camp
and held a farewell feast for the ox drivers.

The men built an enormous bonfire on the riverbank, and sat around it, guzzling their rations and swilling vast amounts of ale as if determined to bring home their carts completely bare. As the
night closed in, sparks from the bonfire swirled up, carried high in the still air, their pinpricks of light reflected on the black surface of the river. Abram had paid them well, and there was a
carnival atmosphere. The men shouted and guffawed, their local dialect impossible to understand. Someone produced a flute and began a tune to which the others sang drunkenly or banged on makeshift
drums. Men stood up shakily and started to stamp and dance. The noise threatened to give me a headache so I left the circle around the bonfire and made my way down to the water’s edge. The
summer night was very warm and I was wearing a light shirt. Through the thin cloth I touched the thin scar on my side where the would-be killer in Kaupang had missed with his knife. The wound was
scarcely tender. Osric had cleaned it well. I wondered yet again whether the attack had been directed at me in person or was something to do with Carolus’s embassy to the caliph. If King Offa
had been behind the attempt to have me killed, every mile was taking me further from his reach. But if the Greeks in Constantinople had been responsible, then I should be increasingly wary as we
travelled eastward.

Out of the corner of my eye I became aware of two figures weaving their way down the slope of the riverbank. Two ox drivers were stumbling towards the boats. They had the loose-kneed, lurching
shamble of men who were very drunk, and occasionally they clutched one another to stop falling over. A snatch of drunken laughter reached me. My stomach gave a sudden lurch as it became clear that
they were heading towards the boat with the ice bears’ cage. They had to be intercepted. I scrambled up the bank, looking for Walo. I saw him at once. He was seated by the fire, playing his
deerhorn pipe, his head wagging loosely from side to side to the rhythm of the music. It was clear that he too was completely drunk. There was no sign of Osric and I presumed he had gone off to our
tent. There was no time to find him so I turned on my heel and set off at a run towards the boats. Ahead of me the two drunkards had already climbed aboard the boat and were standing next to the
ice bears’ cage. In the flickering light of the bonfire’s flames they were capering stupidly, dancing and calling out to the bears, encouraging them to join in. I suppose they must have
seen a travelling showman with a dancing bear and imagined that Modi and Madi would oblige them.

Desperately I hurled myself down the slope of the bank, shouting at them to stand clear of the cage. They did not hear me. One of the men stopped his capering and, egged on by his companion, he
leaned up against the cage, thrust his arm between the bars and beckoned. Modi and Madi were already on their feet. The noise and music from the campfire had roused them. Behind me the flames
flared up and in a sudden wash of brighter light I could see the two ice bears staring intently at the intruder. Their eyes were distinct black dots in their white faces. My shouts died in my
throat as I recalled the foolish dog in Kaupang whose face had been slashed by the claws of an ice bear cub when he came too close. Modi and Madi were no longer cubs. Half-grown, each was bigger
than a bull calf, and infinitely more dangerous.

I was too late.

With a deep-throated growl, one of the bears sprang forward. There was a glimpse of bared teeth and the jaws closed on the out-thrust arm. At the same moment the second bear rose on its hind
legs and flung itself against the bars, seeking to attack the second reveller. The boat rocked with the force of the impact.

A terrible shriek cut through the blare of singing and drunken music. Behind me the noise of celebration faltered, then died away. Instead there was scream upon scream of pain, and a low-pitched
growling, an awful sound, as the bear – I guessed it was Modi the angry – tugged and twisted at the human arm and tried to drag its owner into the cage. The other bear, Madi the strong,
kept dropping back on all fours, then rising up again and hurling his weight against the bars, roaring as he batted with his front paws, trying to reach the other drunkard.

The bile rose in my throat. I was only a few yards away but felt helpless. The entire cage was shaking. Ripples spread as the boat rocked. The agonized screams made it impossible for me to think
clearly. Several heartbeats later, someone ran past me – Abram. He was holding a flaming branch that he must have snatched from the bonfire. He jumped onto the boat and thrust the brand
between the bars, and straight into Madi’s muzzle. By then the bear’s victim was no longer standing, but slumped on his knees, his shoulder and arm pulled between the bars of the
cage.

Abram was yelling at the top of his voice, jabbing at the bear with the flaming timber. On his right the second bear, Modi, continued to roar, swatting at the bars.

Reluctantly, Madi opened his jaws and released his grip on the mangled arm. Then the bear half-rose on its hind legs, spun round clumsily and retreated to the back of the cage. I stumbled
forward, alongside Abram, and reached down to drag the bear’s victim clear. Between us we carried the badly injured drunkard away and up the bank, his damaged arm hanging uselessly. Behind us
Modi flung himself three or four more times against the bars, then he, too, dropped back on all fours, and began to pace up and down. Abram and I carried the moaning ox driver to the campsite and
laid him on the bed of an empty cart. The arm was crushed; white bone gleamed through the mangled flesh. His comrades, suddenly sober, clustered round and clumsily tried to help. Osric arrived to
wash the wounds as best he could and swathe the arm in tight bandages. An hour later a team of oxen was yoked and the cart had been driven away into the darkness, heading for the monastery
infirmary.

*

Next morning the men were hung over and still in shock. They went about their work in silence, ashamed and morose. To add to the sombre mood the day was sultry and oppressive,
heavy with the threat of a storm.

Walo also looked worse for wear, bleary eyed and pale. I did not have the heart to reprimand him for leaving the ice bears unattended. I suspected that the ox drivers had deliberately plied him
with strong drink for their own amusement. Together we went to check on the ice bears in daylight. Both were asleep in their cage.

‘Be careful with Madi,’ I said. ‘Abram poked him in the face with a firebrand to make him let go of his victim last night.’ I could see a burn mark and a black streak of
soot on the bear’s muzzle.

‘That’s Modi,’ Walo corrected me.

I looked again. ‘But I thought that Madi was the angry one.’

‘That’s Modi,’ Walo insisted. Ignoring me, he pulled out the peg that locked the heavy iron hasp that secured the door to the cage. I took a deep breath and told myself not to
interfere. When it came to understanding and handling animals, I had to trust Walo’s instincts.