In the dawn, they were about half a mile offshore. The gods had not been kind. The Brondings were still there. They were closer, much less than a mile astern. The sun played on the water between. But behind them a great curtain of lurid purple-black cloud stretched across the eastern horizon. Lightning flickered in its heart.
‘This will be bad,’ Wada said. The evident profundity of the oncoming danger banished all fatigue. The crew leapt to lower the yard halfway down the mast. Wada had them brail up the sail so that there was only enough showing to keep steerageway. Back on the benches, the men feverishly tied their oars to the thole pins ready to be run out. Eight men were kept bailing.
With terrible speed the Brondings disappeared behind the outlying squalls.
The noise of the wind in the rigging rose to near a scream. The sun vanished.
A gust of spattering rain, then the storm was on them. It smashed the stern of the Warig to the right. She heeled, her starboard gunwales in the water. Men crashed from their benches. Wada was fighting the helm. Ballista scrambled across the sloping deck to help. The Warig was near side on to the sea, a tall wave bearing down. Ballista threw his weight on the steering oar. Agonizingly slowly, she began to come around, get her stern to the storm.
The wave towered over them, green and immense. The Warig shifted, heeled even further. Somehow, she did not tip but climbed crabwise up the wave. At the crest, she twisted, righted herself and slid down the far side.
The following wave was looming. Ballista and Wada strained. Her prow began to turn. The wave kicked in under her stern, throwing it high. Her bows lost in white water, again slantwise she rose up the awful incline.
A crack of wood, loud even in the uproar. The steering oar suddenly limp in Ballista’s hands. A moment of blank incomprehension.
‘Out oars!’ Wada was bellowing.
The steering oar had broken just below the handle.
‘Row! Larboard side, row hard. Starboard steady. Bring her round.’ Wada’s voice carried.
Ballista scuttled across the moving deck, grabbed an unused oar, hauled it back. Together with Wada, he shoved it over the side. The force of the water near tore it from their hands. The impromptu stern-rudder was far from effective, flimsy and likely to break any moment, but it was something to help control the ship.
‘Keep her stern to the waves.’
The rowers needed no urging. They bent their backs to the fraught task. The makeshift rudder groaned ominously. The wooden idol on the prow crept around to the west. The next wave hit, but now the Warig lifted as it drove almost square under her stern.
Ballista yelled to Maximus to lash two oars together to make a better rudder to steer them to shore.
‘It will break,’ Wada shouted in his ear.
‘If we just run — the men cannot row and bail — she will waterlog and go down,’ Ballista shouted back.
The rain fell hard now. Lightning hissed and threw fleeting hard-edged illumination.
Maximus and the Rugian lugged the ungainly thing they had created to the stern. They lashed it to a thole pin.
‘Rowers ready to turn to larboard. On command, starboard side full pressure, larboard easy.’
Ballista and Wada ran out the slender, inadequate-looking double oar.
‘Now.’
In the maelstrom, some blades missed the surface, others dug far too deep. One snapped altogether, flinging its rower down. Ballista and Wada braced the lashed-together oars. They kicked and struggled in their hands. Water streamed through the boat. The air was full of it. Yet little by little their head came around and they pushed across the storm.
Ballista realized he was praying. Ran, do not take me with your drowning net; spare me the cold embrace of your nine daughters.
‘Breakers!’
Ballista could not see anything. Unable to let go of the steering oar to wipe his eyes, he shook his head, trying to blink the spray out of them.
A line of white straight ahead. A dreadful roaring, like a hundred mill wheels.
The Warig surged into the wild water. She trembled, paused in her way. The deck vibrated under Ballista’s boots. A long way to the beach. She was on a sandbar. The next wave lifted the boat, threw her forward. She raced through the surf until her keel rasped into the sand. A big wave pushed her further in. The backwash began to drag her out. Another wave crashed clean over the stern, grinding her forward half clear of the water.
All discipline gone, men hurled themselves over the prow.
‘Anchor out!’ Ballista shouted. He was largely ignored. Slipping, Ballista joined Maximus and another figure wrestling with the awkward, heavy iron. As soon as it was over the side, they all followed, running and falling in their anxiety to get to safety away from the hideous sea.
There were men all over the beach. None of them was moving. Most stood, some were on their knees, a few, despite the wind and rain, had thrown themselves down as if to sleep. Ballista pushed his hair out of his face. It was stiff with salt. His hand came away filthy. His things were still on the boat. He should get them ashore. Waves broke around the stern of the Warig. Beyond, the sea raged. It seemed impossible that anything could live out there. The boat might survive, or the storm might yet break her up. Ballista was too tired to care.
Allfather, what was he thinking. ‘Diocles, get the men on their feet. Get a rope around her prow. We need to pull her clear of the water.’
No one moved. Fatigue fired Ballista’s temper. Diocles was a few paces away, staring away from the ship. Ballista marched over. ‘Centurion, I gave you an order.’
‘Dominus.’ Diocles pointed inland.
The beach shelved up for about forty paces. It ended in a low, crumbling cliff of sand. At the top, back from the edge so only their heads and shoulders could be seen, were warriors. At least a hundred of them, helmeted, carrying weapons. Heathobards.
Zeno felt like Ixion bound to the wheel. First he had been raised up. He had prayed to Zeus and Poseidon, promised each an ox and other fine things. They had heard his prayers, nodded in acceptance. When all seemed lost, they had rescued him from the howling, daemonic gale. The gods had cast him up on shore. Filthy, cold and exhausted, he had been saved. Honest earth under his feet, rather than treacherous, shifting planks, the retching sickness had receded.
With no pause, the wheel had begun its downward turn. Strange warriors had sprouted from the cliff, like barbaric sown men. Heathobards, someone said. In the face of this new threat, all courage and resource had deserted Ballista and the others. They had stood as if themselves rooted to the ground. They had dropped their weapons, and with no resistance let these seeming autochthonous warriors take them all captive.
The wheel had dipped still lower. With the unthinking arrogance and brutality of barbarians, the Heathobards had manhandled their prisoners into a rough line. Two huge, hairy warriors had seized Zeno. They had tied his hands and put a halter around his neck. A rope ran from his tether to that of Amantius in front and to the oarsman behind. At a stroke, Aulus Voconius Zeno, Vir Perfectissimus, had become part of a slave chain; an Abasgian eunuch in front, a pleb behind.
In the slanting rain, the Heathobards had driven them up a narrow, slippery path which climbed the cliff. Zeno had found it difficult to keep his footing. Each time his boot skidded or he hesitated, the shackle had tugged him forward, the rough hairs of the rope burning his neck. At the top they were herded for what seemed an eternity across an open, storm-blasted heath. They had trudged through the downpour to a stockaded settlement on a rise in the distance. On arrival, they had been led down a muddy lane between mean timber buildings. Water dripped off the thatch. Grimy barbarian children and huge women, as pale and monstrous as their menfolk, had come out in the rain to stare at them.
Their prison was a large, empty barn. The halters had been removed, but their hands remained bound. When the door was shut, it was dark. A heavy bar thumped into place.
Zeno sat, head in his bound hands, his back against the log wall. As far as he
could tell, the others had flopped down to sleep like dumb beasts. Certainly some were snoring. Zeno did not sleep. Like Odysseus in the cave of the Cyclops, his mind kept weaving, weaving cunning schemes. Physical escape was impossible: they were bound, it was too dark to see, the walls were stout, and he had seen that the ceiling was high. If they got out, they were in the middle of the territory of their captors, the boat miles away, most likely damaged, and probably guarded. Brute force and violence would not win their freedom.
Escape would take intelligence and cunning. It would take words. Zeno was skilled with words. That he had acquired only an inconsiderable smattering of the language of Germania on this ghastly journey need not be an insuperable barrier. His hands were eloquent, and his slaves had learnt more and could interpret for him. From what he knew, the tribe of the Heathobards had never had diplomatic dealings with Rome. Simple appeal to her maiestas, as reflected in his own person, her envoy, was unlikely to be effective. Yet while they might not be predisposed towards Rome, they might not be intensely hostile. They would have seen what her imperium could achieve. Roman gold and Roman-made swords had raised the Angles to wealth and hegemony among the barbarians of the far north. It had been said the Heathobards were not friends of the Angles. If they did not already know who they had captured, Zeno could offer them Ballista. A son of the king of the Angles should make a useful bargaining counter in the politics of the Suebian Sea. And Zeno could go further. He could offer them what the Angles had been given: Roman money and weapons. If they let him return south to win them the friendship of the emperor, they could keep Castricius and the others as hostages. Of course, out of imperial favour as he was, it was most improbable he could achieve anything of the sort. But that was no great matter. Once safely in the imperium, the whole course of the embassy could be recast in a very different light.
Outside, the bar was lifted. The door opened. Warriors with torches stood there. The light shone on their helmets and mailcoats. One of them spoke. Ballista and the Harii called Wada got to their feet and went to the door. Their wrists were untied. Zeno followed them. The Heathobard who had spoken before said something to him; from its tone, a question. Zeno gave him his full name and rank, trying to make the Latin sonorous and impressive. He announced his mission, repeating ‘envoy’ and ‘emperor’ in what he thought were the Germanic words. The Heathobard grunted, and unbound Zeno’s hands as well. He gestured for them to leave.
‘I need one of my slaves,’ Zeno said to Ballista.
‘We are going to talk for our lives, not to the baths.’ Ballista turned and left. Zeno had no choice but to follow.
It was difficult to tell the halls of northern kings apart. Outside, enormous beams set at unexpected angles and overhanging thatched roofs; inside, they were gloomy, always smoky despite their height, the benches packed with fierce-looking warriors. The hall of the Heathobards could have been that of the Rugii, the Harii, or any of the other oddly named tribes through whose territories they had passed. Zeno had plenty of time to study the interior. The talk was entirely in the northern tongue.
The king of the Heathobards was elderly. He spoke for some time, his tone neutral. First Ballista answered, Wada afterwards. Then two councillors, each of an age with their king, spoke. There was disagreement between them. One appeared not unkindly disposed. Zeno noticed him smile at Wada. Finally, the king made a brief pronouncement.
A Heathobard brought Ballista his sword, the barbaric blade the chieftain Heoden of the Harii had given him. The Angle unsheathed it. Placing the flat of the blade in his left palm, and holding the ring at the end of the hilt in his right, he delivered a solemn monologue.
The king drew his sword. He unclipped one of the golden rings on his right arm, slid it on to the point of the blade and held it out. Ballista put the tip of his sword against that of the king. With a rasp, the precious thing slid down on to Ballista’s weapon. He took it, and slipped it on to his arm.
The Heathobards hoomed their approval.
‘What happened?’ Zeno tried to sound as if he were back in the imperial court, questioning an underling about a meeting he had been too busy to attend.
‘We are free to go. The Heathobards would show us their hospitality first. They will help us repair the Warig.’
‘Why?’
Ballista smiled. ‘The enemy of their enemy has become their friend. The Brondings were here last year. It seems they hate Unferth and his son now more than the Himlings.’
‘You took an oath.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you swear?’
Ballista gave him a sharp glance. ‘It is of no concern to Rome.’
Zeno looked at the great, hulking, dirty barbarian. Now was not the moment, but he would bring this impertinent savage to heel. Fabius Cunctator had overcome Hannibal by patience, had won his cognomen through provident delay. Zeno would wait, but in the fullness of time, when the moment was right, he would reassert his command of this expedition, would bring Ballista down.
XXII
The Islet of Nerthus, South of Varinsey
Kadlin thought about Dernhelm. To begin with, in the first months after he had gone, he had been in her mind all the time. She had thought she would go mad. She had been very young, her life in confusion: the hastily arranged betrothal to Holen, leaving her family to live over the sea, her pregnancy, the painful birth, nursing the infant Starkad, trying to adapt to the role of mistress of a strange hall. All those things had played their part, but not accounted for the whole. It was wanting you that made me sick … the hollowness at heart. Over the many subsequent winters she had thought of him less often. His memory had become like an heirloom or the image of a household spirit; most of the time it remained locked away in a cupboard or dowry-chest. Now and then she had taken it out, turned it over and viewed it from different angles, each time to be surprised almost by its powers of evocation. Now he was coming home.
The lowing of cattle announced the approach of the goddess. Men and women laughed, children played in the sunshine. The festival of Nerthus was a time of rejoicing, a time of peace, when all iron was locked away. It was a moveable feast. The priest in charge of the sacred grove had announced the epiphany more than a month in advance. It gave time for the news to travel, for celebrants to journey from far away to the tiny holy island. There were Aviones, Varini, Myrgings and others from the Cimbric peninsula. Farodini and Langobardi had travelled from the mainland, Hilleviones from Scadinavia. There were many Angles, of course. And there were a few Brondings, Wylfings and Geats, all men. Unsurprisingly, Unferth and his son Widsith had not appeared, but it would have been hard to turn away the people of the tribes which had fallen under their rule. Time out of mind, those on the islands had worshipped the goddess. With everyone else, they had handed their weapons over to the priest. Morcar had argued that if they were to be allowed to participate at all — a thing he opposed — they should be searched. Oslac had said that submitting them to such indignity would be unprecedented. In the absence of their father, the cyning Isangrim, the decision had been made by the priest. The island was inviolate; no man could be so sacrilegious as to think of bearing arms in the sight of the Earth Mother.
The cows could be seen, dappled coming out of the shade of the grove. The chariot they drew flashed with gold and silver. A cry went up as the goddess was seen. She shimmered, glorious in silken vestments. Kadlin felt her heart lift. It was impossible not to accept that the deity inhabited her statue. It swayed slightly as the chariot rumbled along, as if animated from within. Men and women raised drinking horns, called out things of good omen. Children ran, squealing. Only the slaves walking behind the procession remained sombre, as well they might. Later, when Nerthus returned to her grove, the slaves would wash her in the lake. And then they would die.
Kadlin was soothed by the presence of Nerthus, the bringer of all good things. The goddess had brought much that was good into Kadlin’s life. Her first husband, Holen of the Wrosns, had been a good man
; tactful enough not to question his new wife’s virginity, strong enough to ignore the rumours about the paternity of the infant she had given birth to in his hall. Holen had treated Starkad as his own. Kadlin smiled. Holen had been strong in other ways. She had appreciated his vigour in their bedchamber, and not just there. At the one Nerthus ceremony they had attended, he had led her away from the crowds. In one of the woods nearby, he had hauled up her skirts and taken her, fast and urgent, against a tree. The danger of discovery had added to her excitement. Their time together had been all too brief. When the news came that Holen had fallen fighting the Aestii away in the east, her grief had been unfeigned, as deep as when Dernhelm was sent away.
On Holen’s death, despite her unhappiness, she had done what was right. Starkad was only three winters old. The talk about his paternity would always have cast a cloud over his rule of the Wrosns. Having sought the cyning Isangrim’s permission, Kadlin had sensibly arranged for Holen’s brother Hrothgar to take the high seat.
Kadlin had had little desire to remarry. Holen had been generous. Along with the traditional oxen, bridled horse and shield, spear and sword, he had included several estates in her dowry. With those and the lands settled on her by her father, she could have lived independently in comfort. She could have raised Starkad. As a woman of means, if discreet, she could have taken lovers of her choice.
The position of her family had demanded she remarry. The Wuffingas stood second only to the Himlings on Hedinsey. Her late father and the cyning Isangrim had decided the two families should be more closely bound together. Conscious of her duty, she had raised no objection to marrying Oslac.
Kadlin looked across to where Oslac stood with her brother, Heoroweard, and her sister, Leoba. They made a striking group, all tall and blond, but very different. Oslac was powerfully built but slim. Heoroweard was vast and fitted his nickname, Paunch-Shaker. Leoba was the most unusual, a tall young woman dressed as a man. Kadlin got on well with her sister, but made no pretence of understanding her. What made a girl renounce the pleasures of men to become almost one of them as a shield-maiden was inexplicable to her. Kadlin had never had any ambition to fight. Her place was running a well-lit hall, decorously moving through the benches, acting as a peace-weaver. She liked jewels, fine things, pleasure. She wanted a man in her bed.
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