The Wolves of the North wor-5

by Harry Sidebottom

  Maximus felt somewhat better. He had persuaded Calgacus to cook, and he had eaten a great deal in the morning. If only there had been some bacon. He had dozed most of the rest of the day. Now, he was little worse than weary. Before they left the tent, he had drunk a cup of unmixed wine to liven himself up.

  They came to the trees around the meadow, dismounted and tethered their horses. Even in the heat of August — Maximus made it eight days before the ides, but he was far from sure — the meadow was still green. The flowers had gone, but the grass was verdant. There had to be a spring or watercourse just below the surface. A quick look up confirmed that the treetops contained no miscreants, live or dead, to spoil the idyll. Perhaps his overwhelming victory had mellowed Naulobates. Still, they had better be careful. The gods alone knew what insane instructions for the First-Brother Brachus might bring back from the world of daemons.

  A broad, roofless chamber of screens had been erected under the spreading oaks. They belled out in the steady northern wind. There was much activity around the cooking fires downwind.

  At the entrance, they were greeted by two Heruli in the fine accoutrements of Alani noblemen. Both guards smiled, put their right palms to their foreheads.

  One by one, they were announced. Somehow, Maximus’s thoughts were still not sharp. He was the last. Waiting, he noticed the screens were of fine linen and the sort of ornamented hangings the Greeks and Romans prepared for a wedding.

  Inside, Naulobates sat alone on a couch at the far end. Two lines of chairs, most occupied, ran the length of each side towards the First-Brother. Maximus was given a silver cup to make his prayers. He was not a man given to bothering the gods, but he knew what was expected. He composed his face into what he considered a suitably pious expression, emptied his mind and drank the wine in one. It caught a little on the back of his throat and was unwelcome in his stomach. Thanks to the earlier livener, he neither spluttered nor brought it back up.

  A Herul showed him to where the Romans were seated. Ballista was first, on the right of Naulobates, then Castricius, Tarchon, Biomasos and Hippothous. Maximus was seated between the Greek and the Herul leader, Pharas. Checking, Maximus could see no obvious danger. He was only a few paces from Ballista, and they were all armed. He must try not to get too drunk.

  The space was lit by torches. Dark clouds scudded over the swaying branches above. Maximus realized that Naulobates was not alone. At one end of his long couch sat Andonnoballus and a boy of about seven or eight. Looking at the opposite line of chairs, Maximus saw Peregrim, the nephew of the Urugundi King Hisarna. More startling, next to him was Aruth. The Herul looked thin and badly sunburnt. Either Naulobates had shown uncharacteristic clemency, or Aruth had survived nine nights and days in the cage.

  A servant poured two cups of wine in front of Naulobates, and took one to Ballista. The First-Brother and Ballista drank to each other. The next cup went to Peregrim, the third to Castricius. There were thirty men on the chairs. It went on a long time. The cups passed out glittered silver in the wavering torchlight. Naulobates’ was plain wood. Each guest downed his; Naulobates merely sipped.

  The toasts concluded, tables were set up and food put out. Again, Naulobates paraded his unconcern for luxury. On the wooden platter placed in front of him were some simple cuts of cooked meat. The guests ate elaborate dishes off heavy silver. The cooks had to be captives from Greece, probably from Ionia.

  Maximus asked Pharas who the boy with Andonnoballus was. The Herul looked uncomfortable, and leant close to reply.

  ‘It is a prophecy the First-Brother received on one of his daemon journeys. He was told that after he had sacked the city of Athens he would relinquish his rule of the Heruli when he was translated simultaneously into both master and slave. Andonnoballus would succeed him. When the latter fate befell Andonnoballus, the boy Odoacer would be the chosen, who would lead the Heruli to a better place.’

  ‘What better place?’

  Pharas shrugged.

  ‘And Naulobates believes this?’ asked Maximus.

  ‘Naulobates believes this,’ Pharas said in a flat voice.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘The First-Brother has the mandate of the deity.’

  After the first course, there was another round of toasts. Maximus was feeling much better. He had no problem at all downing his cup to the First-Brother.

  After the second course, there was no more food except nuts, cheese and dried fruits. There was a lot more drink. Maximus was warming to the occasion.

  A bard stood in the middle and sang a song of the glorious victory of the Heruli over the Alani. The singer concentrated on the martial virtues of Naulobates, but included graceful compliments to his ally Hisarna of the Urugundi, and to Ballista and Tarchon. The slaying of the evil Saurmag was a good verse. The audience was rapt. Some Heruli were moved to tears. Castricius and Hippothous, not knowing the language of Germania, appeared less involved. The little Roman had his eyes on the trees above, lost in thought. The Greek had his eyes fixed on a young Herul opposite. It had better be physiognomy, not lust, Maximus thought.

  The song ended with a flourish. Naulobates took a thick gold band from his arm, and gave it to the bard. Then he stood, and the only sounds were the splutter of the torches and the snap of the screens.

  ‘We have won a great victory, but not yet the war. Like a viper, Safrax has slithered back to his nest. We killed many, and many of his riders, but many remain. The Croucasis will see hard fighting. In the mountains, the great-hearted infantry of the Urugundi will come into their own.’

  The Heruli cheered and yipped. Peregrim, although rather flushed, made a face full of dignity.

  ‘But tonight is a celebration.’ Naulobates paused, looking out over the hangings at the racing blackness of the night.

  When he resumed, his voice was thoughtful. ‘A man can have only three blood-brothers. It is our law. I have Uligagus, Pharas and Aruth.’

  Naulobates gestured. Three armour bearers stepped into the middle. They carried a spear, a buckler and a gorytus bound in white leather. Behind them a man led in a great red horse. At the noise, the stallion rolled its eyes and tossed its head.

  ‘It is permitted a man to have many sons-in-arms. Tonight I will give the honour to Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, son of Starkad.’

  Maximus, along with everyone else, looked at Ballista. The Angle’s face was completely without expression. Ballista got to his feet. He went to the stallion and, with slow, open movements, he took its bridle. Speaking softly, with no hurry, he calmed the animal. Eventually, he brought his face close to its nostrils, talking all the time he needed, letting his breath mingle with that of the horse.

  Returning the bridle to the handler, Ballista stepped before Naulobates. He buckled the bowcase to his belt, the small shield to his arm, and took the spear in his hand.

  Ballista got to one knee. He placed the spear upright in front, both hands around its shaft.

  Naulobates cupped his hands over those of Ballista. ‘From this moment, you are my son. Wherever you go, my daemon Brachus will watch over you.’

  The horse was led out, and Ballista took his seat again.

  Naulobates had not finished. A servant appeared, carrying a cup that flashed gold.

  ‘Tarchon of Suania, you killed Saurmag, the would-be tyrant of your people, the crooked advisor of Safrax. When you drink, all will remember your valour on that day. It is a custom of our people.’

  Tarchon stood and took the cup. Now Maximus could see it was a gilded skull — the skull of Saurmag.

  Tarchon was beaming with straightforward pleasure.

  Naulobates turned to Ballista and smiled. ‘Your gorytus is bound in his skin.’

  Ballista looked down at the thing on his hip. When he looked up, again no emotion was to be read on his face.

  Later, much later, the Romans staggered back to their quarters. Everyone disappeared to their tents. Maximus did not. The blood was pounding in his head. He stood, leaning on the s
pear Ballista had planted, letting the cool wind play over him. Soon, he could hear the other three snoring inside his tent.

  Maximus raked the ashes off the cook fire, exposing its glowing heart. He sat, cross-legged, by it and drew two knives from his boots. With exaggerated care, he fished out a bag, and put some of the cannabis on the flat of one blade. He held it down with the other blade. He held the daggers in the heat, then hunched over, inhaled the aromatic smoke. He repeated it, until his head was light, buzzing.

  The wind fretted at the ropes of the tent, tugged clusters of sparks from the fire. Up above, glimpsed between the clouds, the moon continued its near-eternal flight from the wolf Hati. Maximus laughed, recalling the very different reactions of Ballista and Tarchon to their grizzly gifts. Soon, they would be gone from this mad place.

  A noise — not the wind — made Maximus turn. He half overbalanced. A figure was approaching; tall, spectral, only part of this world.

  Maximus got to his feet unsteadily.

  Hippothous moved as if in a trance. The Greek’s face was white, immobile.

  ‘The horror,’ Hippothous said, ‘the horror.’

  Maximus had a knife in each hand.

  Hippothous took a step forward.

  ‘What?’ Maximus said.

  Hippothous started, as if realizing where he was.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Heruli… I found them. They were…’

  ‘What?’

  Hippothous balled his fist, thumb between index and middle finger, to avert evil.

  Maximus noted the Greek’s other hand was also empty.

  ‘Pharas was there, Andonnoballus too. They were…’ Hippothous struggled for the right words. ‘They were fucking a donkey. They laughed when they saw me; said it was the custom of the Rosomoni.’

  A moment’s pause, and Maximus started to laugh. After a time, he found he could not stop. The Heruli were not as other men.

  Water was slopping from the Fountain of Trajan, running down the street. He stood in the Sacred Way of Ephesus, irresolute, afraid. Above, swallows darted, their wings flashing in the sun. There was a single line of cloud, straight as if drawn by a pencil.

  Small figures crawled like ants over the debris of the terraced houses the earthquake had collapsed down the hill. A man was herding two blond children into the shelter of the Temple of Hadrian. He knew he should have killed the boys too.

  The mob spewed out from the commercial agora. Like a huge predatory beast, it sighted him. He turned to run uphill. His legs were not working properly. The Sacred Way reared in front, impossibly steep. The noise swelled. They would break him up like a stag.

  He woke, full of apprehension. He forced himself to look.

  The daemon was standing at his feet. She was a little girl, no more than five or six. She looked as he had left her; the white tunic bloodied, mud in her golden hair. The daemon never spoke. She just regarded him, almost dispassionately. As she had on that night, she held her hands out in supplication.

  Hecate, all the chthonic deities, all you Olympians, make it leave.

  As if in answer, the daemon turned and went out.

  He raised himself and looked around the tent. The others were sleeping, the scribe snoring hoggishly. He lay back, heart pounding in his chest.

  He had made a terrible mistake with the girl in Ephesus. She had been innocent. He should have mutilated her. The unjustly killed cannot walk if they have been mutilated. He had not made that mistake again. If he had only wiped the bloody blade in her hair, he would have been spared this recurring horror.

  What he had done, all of it, had been the gods’ will. It was a war on vice. In all wars, the innocent suffer. You should not suffer blood-guilt in a war.

  Outside, he could hear men moving. It must be the last watch of the night, near dawn.

  Why had the daemon returned now? It had been months since the last visitation. The gods of the underworld must have let her walk for a reason. He had let his work lapse while they were here. In truth, he had been scared of the Brachus of Naulobates. If he had continued his work, Naulobates’ daemon would have caught him. Of course he was not scared to die. The demonstration with the trees was laughable in its barbarian crudity. But if he were killed, the work of the gods could not be carried out, the Scourge of Evil would end.

  The gods had sent her to recall him to his duty. They would leave this place soon, and then it would be time to take up the struggle again.

  XXX

  There was no fanfare when Ballista finally led the mission out of the camp of the Heruli. Naulobates had ridden south with the majority of the nomad warriors three days after the feast. The First-Brother intended to join with Hisarna and his Urugundi and, although it would be late in the season, together they would take the war to Safrax in the Croucasis.

  Now, two days after the departure of the horde, the few remaining men and the women and children were packing up the great summer camp ready for the annual trek back down to the winter grazing on the banks of the Tanais. Ballista had received word that he and his men were free to begin their long journey back to Lake Maeotis and then on to the imperium.

  He pulled his horse out of the line, and shaded his eyes as he looked back into the rising sun. The column was in order so far. There were seventeen riders, including himself. Maximus, Calgacus and Tarchon rode point at the front with the guide provided by the Heruli. They were followed by the surviving members of the staff: Biomasos the interpreter, the scribe and the messenger, and Amantius the eunuch. It was odd seeing the latter in his red cloak and white tunic; odd that he was alive, when so many obviously tougher men had died.

  The pack animals came next. There were twenty of them. The Heruli had been generous. One thing they did not lack was ponies. Roped into two strings, they were led by the two remaining slaves. Who owned these slaves was a moot point, given both Mastabates and Hordeonius the centurion were dead.

  Castricius and one auxiliary cavalryman were on flank to the north, Hippothous and the other trooper to the south. The two freedmen brought up the rear. These ex-military slaves had the worst of it. Anyone riding drag got to eat the dust raised by the rest.

  Their course lay west of south-west across the sea of grass. They would come to the higher reaches of the Tanais on the second day. There was a crossing place. Then they would take a direct line to the town of Tanais. Rudolphus, the guide, said it would be twelve days’ easy ride. Ballista saw no reason not to trust the Herul. Behind the swirling tattoos, Rudolphus had an open face. He had lost three of the fingers on his sword-hand, which accounted for why he was with them.

  That first day, they rode under a burnished sky, empty except for the occasional vulture or rook. They plodded along the open land, the sweat running down them. Rudolphus had said they did not need to wear their armour. They were unlikely to run into any serious trouble. Given the heat, they were all glad of that.

  In the afternoon, they saw great pulsating clouds of dirty yellow dust off to the north and rolling down towards them. One of the outlying Heruli herds, Rudolphus said. An hour or so later, from a slight rise they saw the ochre plain up there dotted with the tiny black shapes of cattle, hundreds of them. Like the main body of the nomads, these were making their way south. It would be a long journey. Rudolphus told them the herds — sheep, goats or cattle — if grazing as they went, usually travelled at no more than five miles a day.

  They came to the Tanais, before noon on the second day. The land here folded up a little more. They saw the trees fringing the river, and smelt the water before it came in view. The river was wide, but mainly shallow. Rudolphus led them straight into the water. They waded their horses out to a narrow island with a line of trees, then across to another. They had to swim the animals the last part. Ballista kept an eye on Tarchon. The Suanian would never make a natural horseman. It was quite a stretch, but the current was slow, and nothing bad happened. In retrospect, the crossing seemed easier than scrambling up a gulley in the higher wester
n bank.

  They saw to the horses, lit a fire, dried out themselves and the baggage, and ate lunch. Afterwards, while most rested in the shade of some willows, Maximus inhaled some hemp with Rudolphus. The Hibernian had grown to love that stuff.

  Hot and dirty, and not in the mood for narcotics or company, Ballista walked back down the gulley to the Tanais to bathe. Down by the water were the remains of a tiny settlement. The jambs and lintel of the doors of the two huts still stood. Their four-square solidity was strange against the rest. The walls were sagging or gone, and above the roofs were partial skeletons of joists and beams. The wattle of the stock pen wall had fallen and unwoven. Its warped sticks were strewn across the dust, while the sets of twin posts that had once held it upright stuck up at crazed angles, white like bleached bones.

  Ballista walked through it, held by the common human fascination for desuetude. How did this happen? Where did everyone go? Any portable possessions had long ago been robbed out. The dust sifted grey and fine on his boots. There was no sign of burning, but somehow he had no doubt violence had been involved in its abandonment. There were fish in the river, wildfowl would flight here, the soil was fertile. He had a vision of two hardworking families, models of rustic virtue. Maybe one had a daughter to betroth to the son of the other. They would sacrifice a specially fattened calf for their bucolic nuptials. And then the riders had come. They had steel in their hands, and quite likely they had red tattoos.

  The country beyond the river, while still flat, was not featureless. It was patterned with dry watercourses. The sides of these dropped down suddenly, as if they had been cut by the spade of a giant. Greyish shrubs grew in them, back flush to the level of the surrounding grass. They curved like dark tattoos across the face of the Steppe.

  That night, Ballista lay watching sheet lightning on the northern horizon. Rain would come soon, Rudolphus had said.

  The third day, the Steppe reverted to type, a flat run of brown-black grass as far ahead as could be seen. The north wind had brought down the clouds. Black and without a break, they slid south low overhead. As the travellers rode south-west, it was as if they were trapped between two solid planes, like the hemp between Maximus’s blades.