The Wolves of the North wor-5

by Harry Sidebottom

  Of the second development I am almost too frightened to write. While we were still in camp on the Tanais, twelve days before the kalends of June, the body of a slave owned by Gaius Aurelius Castricius, deputy to the Legatus, was found in the river. It had been horribly mutilated. Just six days later, the morning after we encountered the Heruli, my colleague Publius Egnatius Mastabates — my only amicus in this cavalcade of savagery — was discovered in an ancient barbarian tomb. He too had been cruelly killed and his body desecrated. One of the barbarians laughed and said it was just a eunuch, easy to replace. Some bloodthirsty killer or daemon preys on this caravan and, as the victims are but slaves and eunuchs, no one cares. May the gods hold their hands over me.

  In camp on the Steppe, by my reckoning seven days before the ides of June but, on the Steppe, even time becomes uncertain.

  XII

  Maximus was glad he had not had to kill the old Herul Philemuth. It was a couple of days ago but, oddly, still on his mind. It had not done Ballista any good. Maximus remembered Calgacus talking one night when they were drinking. Where had it been? In Ephesus? No, before that. Maybe it was one of those small, ravaged towns in Cilicia. No, it was Cyprus; Keryneia in Cyprus. It was in the small bar with the blonde with the generous mouth. What was she called? Callirhoe, or something like that; claimed she was a high-born virgin who had been kidnapped. Likely story, she went at it like a sparrow when you got her going — and everyone in the world knew how depraved sparrows were; worse than quails. When Maximus had come back from his first bout with her, Calgacus had started going on about how Ballista was not a natural killer, unlike Maximus. The old Caledonian was drink-taken, but he might have been right.

  Killing had never bothered Maximus. It was what warriors did. If you did not want to be a farmer and shovel shit, or a slave and be fucked up the arse, you learnt how to fight and kill people. There had been little call for sophists or philosophers in Hibernia, and Maximus was hardly cut out to be a priest.

  Most of the men Maximus had killed had been trying to kill him. And the others? Well, most men were vicious bastards. Probably, they were better off dead. It could be he had done them and those they would have run into a good turn. Anyway, Calgacus was on thin ice — he had never shown any inclination towards turning the other cheek, like one of those demented Christians.

  Cutting the elderly Herul’s throat seemed to have upset Ballista. He had not been himself since Pythonissa cursed him the year before. Having to kill Philemuth had made him worse. He could still make the odd joke, but something boyish in him had been lost. He looked withdrawn, glum. He rode along with the expedition like a passenger, caught up in it by mistake, rather than the leader it required. He needed something to take his mind off the Herul. Maximus was worried about Ballista. He could think of nothing better than a fight to bring Ballista out of his passivity, to bring him back to himself.

  Of course, part of it was that Maximus owed a great debt to Ballista. The Angle had purchased him from a gladiatorial troop. Most would consider that a good turn beyond price. But it was not all that. Maximus had not minded fighting as a gladiator. Actually, he had enjoyed the applause of the crowd. Killing men in the arena, on a battlefield; what difference did it make? He had slaughtered people in all sorts of strange places. His mind wandered to the enormous aqueduct outside Nemausus in Gaul. Nasty, long way down for the fellow.

  It was nothing to do with the arena or any of that. The debt was more recent. It went back to Africa. Ballista had saved his life there. Maximus could still picture the moment clearly — losing his footing on the marble floor, his sword jarred out of his reach — always attached it by a wrist loop since then — the fierce brown face, the raised sword, and Ballista cutting the man down.

  Maximus had sworn he would not take his freedom until he had repaid Ballista. Yet he had accepted manumission anyway, on a burnt hillside among the remnants of a defeated army. They had all thought they were going to die. But that made no difference. They had not died, and the debt still existed. Maximus would settle it with Ballista one day. They were bound together, and, if truth be told, Maximus loved the man. It was that simple.

  They were riding, the three of them, with the Suanian Tarchon tagging along behind. They were well to the north of the dust and noise of the column. Young Wulfstan and Ochus were yet further out. The Heruli were still trying to help Wulfstan master the nomad draw from a galloping horse. Ochus now took over when Aluith was needed elsewhere. The Steppe spread all around. It was less flat here. There was a wind. The grass rolled in waves. Flowers flashed on the dark-green surface. The Steppe looked like an ocean when the sun was on it, but the storm was swelling.

  Ballista and Calgacus were banging on the same drum about the murders.

  ‘It was a lone madman,’ Calgacus said.

  ‘If I were you, I would not be so sure,’ Maximus put in.

  ‘Not more daemons,’ Ballista said.

  ‘Yes, lots of daemons. It is not just your male daemons fucking horrible Gothic harridans. Hippothous told me about the nomads. They descend from Heracles mating with a female daemon out on the Steppe. And her relatives are still out here. You are riding along, in the middle of nowhere, and there is a beautiful woman. She shows you her tits — fine, they are. She gets you all stirred up. You jump off your horse, ready to jump on her. And what do you find? Not a nice warm delta ready for the ploughing, oh no. From the waist down, those daemons are snakes. And they crush you to death. Your body starts to go rotten in an instant.’

  Calgacus rolled his eyes in comic exasperation.

  ‘I hear the same thing happens quite often in Libya,’ commented Ballista.

  ‘Hippothous may be off his head, but sure he has prodigious learning,’ Maximus said.

  ‘The killings are the work of a madman.’ The Caledonian addressed himself to Ballista. ‘You say it is all in some old Greek books, but only the insane would mutilate men like that in reality.’

  ‘Who?’ Ballista asked.

  ‘There is no shortage of probable lunatics among our travelling companions,’ Calgacus said. ‘That gudja; bones in his hair, muttering incantations all the time, claims he talks to the other world. Come to that, there is the hideous haliurunna with him.’

  ‘She looks a bit old and feeble to be strangling and stabbing grown men, even if it is only eunuchs and slaves,’ Maximus said. ‘And there is all the effort of cutting them up afterwards.’

  ‘If she really is a witch, maybe she gets one of your endless daemons to help her,’ Calgacus replied. ‘And what about that centurion Hordeonius? Nasty bit of work, and he hates slaves and eunuchs with a vengeance.’

  ‘We do not know anything about the interpreter Biomasos, the haruspex Porsenna, or any of the official staff,’ Ballista said. ‘And the same goes for the auxiliaries. Apart from it is a certainty there are a few frumentarii among the two groups.’

  ‘It could be Hippothous,’ Maximus said. ‘Always peering into your face, he is, going on about seeing people’s souls. Or Castricius — do not get me wrong, he has been through a lot with us — but all that stuff about the good daemon on his shoulder scaring off the spirits of death. And who knows what happened to him in Albania? If you ask me, they are both as mad as each other; as demented as a follower of Bacchus or Cybele, or whoever it is who cut their own balls off.’

  ‘They do both read a lot of books,’ Calgacus conceded.

  ‘The Goths think reading books cuts your balls off, metaphorically speaking,’ Ballista said. ‘They could have a point.’

  Something caught Maximus’s eye; an unexpected movement way off to the south, beyond the dust of the wagons.

  ‘Castricius and Hippothous have changed — got stranger — since we were in the Caucasus,’ Ballista continued.

  There it was again: tiny black shapes rising up out of a line of trees by one of the hidden watercourses. Ten, twenty of them — more — moving north.

  ‘Over there.’ Maximus pointed.

 
Calgacus squinted short-sightedly. But Ballista saw them. Tarchon had seen them too. He clattered up to join the others.

  Forty or more horsemen, riding hard towards the caravan.

  Hippothous was out front of the caravan, riding with the four Heruli. The nomads did not talk much, and when they did it was in the language of Germania. Hippothous did not mind. A couple of them, Andonnoballus and Berus, spoke Greek. He passed the odd comment with them, but most of the time he was happy to ride in silence.

  The long column stretched away behind. The wagon of the Gothic priest came first, the other nine, strung out in single file, following. Almost lost in the dust behind was the herd of Heruli horses, spare mounts and pack animals. The nomads’ slaves cantered around, hazing the horses into order.

  Hippothous enjoyed the Steppe. The patterns made in the grass by the strong breeze pleased him. There were clouds chasing south. The big sky was shades of variegated blue, like the most delicate intaglio work, where a skilled craftsman had cut away layers of glass. There was a freedom to the expanse of the Steppe. There was space for a man to be what he wanted. The Heruli might be almost the antithesis of Hellenic civic life, but there was something strangely appealing about them. They offered opportunities. It was true they were ruled by a king — and from what he heard, Naulobates was attempting to set himself up as a tyrant — but at the same time they still seemed to have something approaching a rough, barbaric democracy. Clearly, men could say what they thought. Hippothous liked the fact that a man could rise on his merits. One of Naulobates’ chiefs had been a Greek slave in Trapezus. A man achieved status among them by his deeds in war and his words in council. Aside from the Rosomoni, birth did not count; nor, seemingly, wealth. Unlike in the imperium, a man’s past did not weigh him down. Hippothous thought he might do well with them. He was not bound to Ballista for ever. Ballista seemed to have less and less use for him as an accensus. As things were turning out, he might have to leave the northerner’s familia soon.

  A corncrake took off in front of his horse. The following wind puffed the bird’s feathers up, giving it the size and appearance of a startled chicken.

  One of the Heruli — Aluith — called out, his tone urgent. Hippothous looked to the south, where he was pointing. Horsemen, fifty or more, on small Steppe ponies. They must be Alani. They were over half a mile away, but closing fast.

  A burst of guttural talk among the Heruli was cut short by Andonnoballus. He issued what had to be orders. Aluith wheeled his mount and set off in the direction of the leading wagon. Andonnoballus spoke some more. Pharas and Berus hared off towards the tail of the column. They kept to the far side of the approaching Alani.

  Andonnoballus was about to leave when he remembered Hippothous. ‘The Alani are after your Roman gold and our horses. We are going to circle the wagons. You should choose a place to fight.’ He spoke in Greek. He grinned. ‘Try to stay alive.’ He booted his horse, and clattered off after Aluith.

  Hippothous wondered what to do. He circled his horse. There was no sign of Ballista and the others to the north. Where in Hades had they gone? The first wagon was turning. The Sarmatian driver was plying his whip; the oxen shambling into a run. The Alani were still a way off. Hippothous could see them clearly now. Big men on small horses — they seemed top-heavy. It might have looked funny, if they were not so dangerous. They were all unarmoured. No banners flew above them. They were splitting up. The largest group — twenty- or thirty-strong — was angling towards the rear of the wagon train and the Heruli horse herd. Another, smaller bunch was aiming at the centre of the column. The final group, a dozen or so, was going to skirt around the front. They were coming straight towards Hippothous.

  What to do? Hippothous considered riding away to the north. If the Alani were just after loot, they might not chase him. But then he would be alone on the Steppe. He was not ready for that. And he wanted to impress the Heruli. He might well need them. His own possessions were in the last wagon. His books — his precious copy of Polemon — and armour, his money and his slave, Narcissus; he was not about to let the nomads have them. He sawed on the reins and kicked his horse into a gallop in the tracks of Pharas and Berus.

  Hippothous cut across the lead wagon. It was obvious at a glance the circle would not be complete in time. The Alani would reach it in a few moments. He could hear them whooping.

  As Hippothous raced past the third and fourth wagons, he saw the Roman auxiliaries peering out. They looked baffled. Gods below — he ought to do something. He skidded his horse around alongside.

  ‘Where is your centurion?’

  The soldiers looked blankly at him.

  ‘Where is Hordeonius?’ This time, he remembered to put it in Latin, the language of the army.

  ‘No idea, Dominus.’

  Hippothous cursed. What should he do? Fuck. He swore like the lowest plebeian. His life as a bandit chief told him they should all just run. Maybe sacrifice someone so the rest could get away. He had no real experience of commanding troops in battle. The auxiliaries were looking at him expectantly. What would Ballista do?

  ‘You lot in the first wagon, protect the gold in the legate’s wagon ahead of you.’ He had to bellow to make himself heard. ‘The rest of you, follow me.’

  The soldiers looked irresolute.

  ‘Now!’ Hippothous roared.

  The auxiliaries tumbled out of the moving wagons, falling, tripping, dropping their weapons, their disciplina a thing of ignominy.

  ‘Follow me!’

  Hippothous set off again towards the rear. He kept to a slow canter, trying to give the five soldiers on foot a chance to keep up. He looked over his shoulder. They were running, but falling behind anyway.

  The Alani had reached the rear of the caravan. There was fighting amidst the herd of horses. The two Heruli and their six slaves had to be outnumbered at least three to one. Horses were trumpeting, stampeding in all directions. A thick pall of dust swirled over the chaos. A little nearer, some of the Alani were swarming around the rear of the wagons. Hippothous dug in his heels. With luck, the auxiliaries would follow him into the fight.

  The Sarmatian driver of Hippothous’s wagon stood straddle-legged on the box. He wielded his whip with a will; lashing across the backs of his oxen then sending the vicious, knotted bullhide snaking out at any Alani horsemen who got too near. But he could not cover the rear of the wagon. Two Alani rode there, one of them leading a riderless horse.

  Hippothous dragged his mount around so that he was going alongside the wagon. He lifted himself by the twin horns at the front of his saddle and wedged his left boot against the near-side one. His horse was only cantering, to keep pace with the wagon, yet the evident danger of falling under the wheels made the speed appear greater. Hippothous checked that his sword and weapons were not caught on the saddle. He steeled himself to jump. There was a burst of whooping behind him. An arrow shot past his head. He felt the wind of its passing and jumped.

  Hippothous’s timing was all wrong. His shins barked against the side of the wagon. He was thrown head first on to the box and collided with the driver. It was like hitting a tree. Hippothous rebounded. Hands flailing, fingernails scrabbling on the wood, he was slipping, face down, back off the wagon.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. He was hauled up on to the box. Holding on for dear life, he struggled to his feet. The wagon was lurching and bumping like a mad thing. Hippothous started to thank the Sarmatian. But the driver grunted something and jerked his head back towards the enclosed body of the wagon. Above the clatter and squealing, Hippothous could hear screaming.

  The Sarmatian flicked the long bullwhip out as one of the Alani pressed up from the rear. The rider ducked, and reined back. He was reaching for his bow.

  Still clutching at one of the uprights, Hippothous drew his sword. He pulled back the felt hanging with his sword hand and stepped into the tent.

  It took a time for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He kept his blade out in front. There was sobbing, shouti
ng, the clash of steel.

  Two slaves — one of them Narcissus — were huddled down to his left. They were crying, their hands up in futile supplication.

  Another figure was standing with his back to Hippothous. It was the interpreter Biomasos. He had a sword and was desperately fending off the attack of an Alan. There was a body on the floor behind the nomad. There was a reek of blood, and an acrid stench of urine and fear.

  Hippothous went to aid the interpreter. He moved to his right. The floor of the wagon punched up under his feet and he staggered forward.

  The Alan lunged. The point of his sword was aimed at Hippothous’s chest. Boots scrabbling for purchase, Hippothous got his own sword in the way. Sparks flew. The Alan retrieved his weapon, regained his balance, readying himself to strike again.

  For a few frozen moments, the three men stood swaying. Pots and pans, any number of things, rattled and rolled around the dim interior.

  The Alan feinted at Hippothous, then twisted and cut at the interpreter. The sword hit the interpreter’s forearm. A howl of agony, and Biomasos reeled away. Clutching his injury, he lost his balance and went crashing into the side of the tent. He went down, curled up in pain.

  Hippothous struck. The Alan somehow wrenched his body out of the way. The momentum of Hippothous’s blow drove them together, chest to chest. The nomad’s beard rasped Hippothous’s face. Crushed together, boots shuffling and stamping, neither could get his sword into play. Their breath mingled, hot and foul.

  Hippothous clawed with his left hand at the man’s eyes. The nomad got a grip on Hippothous’s throat, then shoved him away.

  Fighting for balance, both men got their weapons up. As the wagon jolted along, they rolled like sailors in a storm; both searching for an opening. The eyes of the Alan were black, blazing with bloodlust.