There was no reason for further prevarication. Gallienus drew his eagle-hilted sword. Freki the Alamann and another of the German bodyguard closed up on either side of the emperor they had sworn to die protecting.
‘Are you ready for war?’ Gallienus flourished the sword.
‘Ready!’ The cry spread out through the army.
‘Are you ready for war!’
As the third response echoed off up the hillsides, Gallienus told the bucinator to sound the advance.
The brassy notes were picked up by trumpet after trumpet through the army. The thing was in motion, and there could be no stopping it now. With the tramp of measured tread, the infantry moved forward. The cavalry walked after, the hooves of their horses crushing the yellow flowers which carpeted the valley.
The Raetian army waited, dense and immobile. The only movements were the flags fluttering above.
Gallienus transferred his sword to his hand with the reins while he wiped the sweat from his palm on his thigh. He prayed silently, his lips barely moving: Hercules, Guardian of Mankind, Overthrower of Tyrants …
The tide of the imperial comitatus slowly flowed up the slope. Twice, parts of the line halted to let the rest catch up. They dressed their ranks. There, Gallienus thought, that was the advantage of professional officers over senatorial amateurs. No wild charges like the uncontrolled pursuit unleashed by that young senator Acilius Glabrio at Mediolanum. Here, Gallienus’s protectores had their men well in hand.
When the front rank closed to within four hundred paces, trumpets rang out from the Raetian lines. Their standards inclined to the fore. Like a great vessel slipping its moorings, their whole force moved downhill.
Gallienus’s spirits soared. His men were within ballista range. Simplicinius Genialis had no concealed artillery. And the Raetians were moving. They had not sown the ground in front of them with caltrops. They had not dug those concealed pits with stakes at the bottom the soldiers called lilies. Simplicinius Genialis had had the time to prepare the battlefield. Perhaps the portly equestrian had not been metamorphosed into such a man of war after all.
At about two hundred paces, just outside effective bowshot, the imperial army halted again. ‘Testudo!’ — the call came back to Gallienus from dozens of centurions — ‘Testudo! Testudo!’ Big shields swung up, locked together, and the heavy infantry roofed and walled themselves against what must come.
Gallienus felt a dip of disappointment. The Raetian troops had halted. Their front ranks, too, were going into testudo. Of course, they were Roman regulars as well. It was only to be expected. Gallienus noted the Angles on the enemy left were going into their version of the formation. What was it Ballista had said they called it? A shield-burg, something like that. It was strange to think he would never see the friend of his youth again. In his report, the centurion Regulus who had fought his way out had said he had not seen Ballista’s body but made it clear there was no possibility he had survived the Gothic sack of Olbia.
Like sentient siege engines created by some latter-day Daedalus, massive artifices made of men and wood and steel, the leading edges of the two armies ground towards each other. There was no moving fast in testudo.
As if choreographed at a lavish imperial spectacle, trumpets simultaneously sounded from both sides, to be followed on the instant by a myriad twanging bows and the awful sound of thousands of arrows slicing through the air. They fell like squalls of dark, evil rain. Thunking into wood, glancing off steel; all too many found a place in flesh, human and equine. Men and beasts screamed. Horses, maddened with pain, reared and bolted among the eastern horse archers in front of Gallienus. Most of the victims in either army were in the rear ranks. Warded by their shields, in the gloom, the inhabitants of each testudo shuffled and nudged ahead.
Gallienus watched the eagle of Legio III Italia Concors. The gilded bird advanced steadfastly over the testudo of Bonosus’s rebel legion. Arrows began to fall among the imperial party. It was good. As Gallienus had thought, the purple draco was too tempting a target. He was drawing the aim of the Raetian archers away from his fighting men at the front. Gallienus called for a shield. Freki the Alamann gave him a surprised glance. Let him look. It had been a long time since Gallienus had entered battle without his divine comes. There had been no need for a shield when Hercules had wrapped him in the skin of the Nemean lion; it was proof against iron, bronze, stone.
The armies were closing. The gaze of Gallienus switched between Bonosus’s eagle and his own heavy infantry. ‘Now!’ he whispered. ‘Surely now, Proculus.’ As if the thought caused the deed, the imperial front ranks halted. Not as neat as on a parade ground, but not too ragged or bowed. On the left, the column of legionaries commanded by Tacitus kept going. But there was no movement on the right. Had something gone wrong? Why was that wing stationary? What was Proculus doing?
With relief, Gallienus saw the two thousand on the right resume their advance. Proculus might be a whoremonger, but he was a fine officer. And he was loyal. Gallienus found himself grinning. It had been an inept attempt by the frumentarius of Postumus to entrap Proculus. The whore masquerading as wife to the frumentarius had admitted everything without torture. Gallienus had had her whipped anyway. Her pain — the livid stripes — had added to his pleasure when he had taken the bitch himself. Afterwards, he had been merciful; merely giving her to Proculus’s men. It might be doubted if they had exercised much clementia. The frumentarius, of course, had died slowly.
A roar brought Gallienus back. The Angles on the rebel left had burst from their Shield-burg into a wedge. They raced forward. Fleet of foot, they caught Proculus’s men by surprise. They crashed into the legionaries before the Pannonians had a chance to shift out from their testudo into a fighting formation. Gallienus could see Angle warriors actually climbing on top of the locked shields of the legionaries. They hacked down with their longs-words, like crazed roofers demolishing the structure beneath their feet. Only the twelve-man-deep formation of the Pannonians, the constant pressure from the rear, was preventing them from being swept away.
Away to Gallienus’s left, the Roman legionaries of both sides were more circumspect. The big shields swept down, the men jostled further apart to allow them to wield their weapons. They exchanged javelins, drew their swords and then both sides charged. The clash echoed back from the hillsides. The advantage of the slope on the rebel side and the greater numbers on the imperial cancelled each other out. But it was an equilibrium purchased with men’s lives.
As the wings engaged, Legio III in the middle of the rebel line came to a standstill. There were perhaps thirty paces between it and the stationary centre of the imperial army. Gallienus stared at the rebel eagle, willing it to move. ‘Hercules, Saviour …’ He prayed desperately, mouthing the words aloud, unconcerned if mortals overheard. Deliberately, the eagle inclined forward. By all the gods, no. The eagle tipped further, swept right down to the ground. All the other standards followed. The legionaries put down their shields, reversed their swords, raised their right arms in salute.
‘Ave Imperator Gallienus!’ The men of Legio III chanted his name. Imperator Gallienus. It had worked. The deep-laid plot had worked. Venutus had achieved what he had claimed. The blandishments of gold had won over the spendthrift Spaniard Bonosus, and he in turn had brought his legion back to its right and proper allegiance.
Enfolded in hot battle, the men on the wings fought on, unaware of events in the centre. Things were different for the Raetian militia. Seeing themselves betrayed, as one they turned and sought safety in flight. The auxiliary archers, far from shooting them down, looked to get away first.
Gallienus looked up the valley, beyond the fleeing mob. The standards above the horsemen were turning, moving away. Simplicinius Genialis was enough of a commander to see the day was lost. The cavalry alae began to canter back towards the baggage. They would get through, but it would be difficult for the thousands on foot. Their numbers would hinder them, the carts and tents get in their way,
and the hills on the right came round close to those on the left, leaving but a narrow passage.
‘Sound the recall,’ Gallienus said to the bucinator.
The call was picked up across the valley.
On either wing the combatants stepped apart. Tacitus could administer the sacramentum to the legionaries from Germania Superior on the left. Proculus could do the same to the Angles on the right.
Gallienus handed back the shield, sheathed his sword. He tried to think of an epigrammatic saying suitable to the moment of success; something modest, stern but memorable. Nothing came. He did not care. He had won. He had proved to himself he did not need divine aid. Why should he? Was he not worshipped as a god himself? In time, he would slough off his mortality, and take his place on Olympus.
A rider clattered up from the left. The men of Legio VIII Augusta and Legio XXII Primigenia had sworn the military oath to their rightful Imperator.
Ordering just his German bodyguard to accompany him, Gallienus rode across to the right.
‘I give you joy of your victory, Imperator.’ Proculus saluted.
‘What is the delay?’
Proculus shrugged. ‘The barbarians are reluctant to give their oath. They are too stupid to see their position is hopeless.’
Gallienus looked out over the crests of the legionaries. A big Angle chieftain stood out in front. Standards flew over the wall of shields: a white horse on a green field, various dracones, one white, another red.
These were Ballista’s people. The big, middle-aged chieftain even looked like him. Gallienus knew some words of their language. But it was unbecoming for an emperor to use such a tongue. He spoke in Latin, slow and clear.
‘Your leader has fled. The battle is lost. Give me your sacramentum, and you will serve in my comitatus.’
The tall Angle replied in decent Latin. ‘We gave our oath to Postumus, not to Simplicinius Genialis. Postumus has our word and our treasure.’
Gallienus unlaced his helmet, hung it on a horn of his saddle. Diplomacy should always be conducted with an appearance of confidence, and with an open hand. ‘Give me your word, and I will give you new treasure.’
‘We are not Alamanni. We do not break our word.’
Gallienus stilled his bodyguard Freki with a gesture. ‘I know the good faith of the Angles. I grew up with your princeps Ballista.’
At the name, the ranks muttered.
‘Ballista has served me for many years. Now, on my instructions, he travels to your homeland to bring your king and the peoples he rules back into my friendship. Swear your oath to me, and the Angles will be reunited.’
‘I must consult my principes.’ The warrior stepped back, and was surrounded by a group of mailed warriors, each as large as himself. They talked, low and earnest.
Gallienus sat his horse. It would not have been politic to tell these barbarians the truth, that Ballista was dead in the ruins of Olbia.
A different noble came out of their ranks. An older, grizzled man, his mail was clotted with blood.
‘You have not shown Ballista honour. We keep our word. We will leave this place.’ The chieftain moved back. The shields of the front ranks snapped together. The rest turned. Under the white horse banner and the white draco, they ran off towards their mounts. Those that remained beneath the red draco began to edge away.
For a moment, Gallienus was too angry to speak. A roar swelled up from the legionaries.
‘Kill them!’ Gallienus shouted. ‘Kill all of them, do not let one of them escape!’
XXIV
The Island of Hedinsey
Ballista walked down the gangplank. Maximus, Tarchon and Wada the Short followed him on to the dock; the rest remained on the Warig. He went up to the warriors. There were fifty of them, in full war gear. He did not recognize any of them. Under their helms, their eyes were unfriendly. Their spears were levelled. A dozen archers, bows drawn, stood off to one side, covering the ship. It was not quite the homecoming he had imagined.
A young warrior spoke the ritual challenge.
‘Strangers, you have steered your steep craft through the seaways, sought our coast. I see you are warriors, you are dressed for war. I must ask who you are. I will have your names now, and the names of your fathers, or further you shall not go.’
Ballista unlaced his helmet, took it off. ‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. It is with loyal and true intentions I have returned to Hedinsey. My bench-companions are from many lands; Romans and Olbians from the south, a Vandal, two Heathobards, a Rugian. Tarchon here is from Suania in the Caucasus, Muirtagh of the Long Road from Hibernia, Wada the Short is from the Harii.’
There was a stirring in the ranks, but the young warrior did not unbend. ‘If you are who you claim to be, I was a child when you left.’ He gestured.
An older warrior stepped forward, peered at the newcomer. Ballista peered back.
‘Ivar Horse-Prick.’
‘Dernhelm, you little fucker.’ Encumbered by shields and weapons, they embraced. ‘It is him, even uglier than when he left.’
A cheer came from the warriors. Not all joined in.
‘Why have you come?’ The young warrior’s tone was still unwelcoming.
Ballista looked at him measuringly. ‘I do not know you.’
‘I am Ceola, son of Godwine. The atheling Morcar has entrusted me with the defence of this shore. Your father is not here.’
‘I know that. If you will give me a horse, I will go to see my mother in Hlymdale. When I return, we will sail to Varinsey to see my father at Gudme.’
Ceola considered this. ‘Your men will remain here. They will cause no trouble, or you will answer for them. Ivar Horse-Prick will accompany you.’
Ballista and Ivar Horse-Prick rode knee to knee through the open, gently rolling countryside. The sun was warm on their backs. Cattle grazed in the meadows, the winter wheat was just showing green. Their path wound inland past wet depressions fringed with alder. The mounds of the burial ground loomed on the horizon. Ballista had recounted his long journey from Olbia to the Heathobards helping to repair the Warig, and two warriors of that people joining the crew. Nothing had happened in the final two days’ sailing to need comment.
‘It has always been the way,’ Ivar said. ‘Young warriors with a name to make want to follow a war leader of reputation.’
Ballista smiled. ‘Young Ceola did not seem in a hurry to join my hearth-troop.’
‘He is your brother’s man,’ Ivar said. ‘Your father is old; Morcar makes many appointments. Ceola is too young to be among the duguth. His father the eorl Godwine is a good man. You remember him?’
Ballista grunted.
Ivar Horse-Prick laughed. ‘I forgot. Godwine did not approve of you or Eadwulf Evil-Child. And he was jealous of Froda. We were all jealous of Froda.’
Men were working among the burial mounds. Ballista reined in to watch. The chamber was nearly finished. The long sides had been revetted with overlapping vertical planks, shored up by struts. The labourers were forming the short walls by fitting horizontal timbers behind the ends of the construction.
‘Heoroweard,’ said Ivar.
‘How?’
‘Of course, you would not know.’ Ivar shook his head. ‘At the Nerthus ceremony. Some Brondings, and a few Wylfings and Geats — Morcar said they should be searched, your brother Oslac and the priest argued against it — they had concealed knives. Paunch-Shaker died fighting. He will be in Valhalla.’
‘Who else?’ Ballista’s chest was very tight.
‘Two young warriors; you would not know them. A few others took wounds, Oslac among them — nothing serious. Two of the Brondings were taken alive.’
‘Was Kadlin there?’
Ivar gave him a sharp look. ‘Yes, she got to the boats.’ Ivar looked away. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘Her son Aethelgar fought well. Oslac’s boy is growing into a fine man.’
Ballista looked down into the grave. ‘I had hoped to see Heoroweard Paunch-Sha
ker this side of Asgard.’
As they came near Hlymdale, much was the same, as if the years had counted for nothing. Smoke rose from the halls. That of his father stood far the largest. They dismounted inside the stockade. Grooms led their horses to the stables. The piggeries still stood to the left; the thatch of their roofs slumped, as he remembered, lines of green moss growing across them where the ties ran. Swine snouted, busy in the sunshine. As in his childhood, the mud was flat, closely pocked by their sheds, rougher, more churned further out by the wattle fences.
‘Come,’ said Ivar Horse-Prick. ‘You have not travelled all this way to look at pigs.’
They walked up past the forge. There were new buildings, but, sensibly, none had encroached on the domain of the smith. The grass was springy under his boots, again as Ballista remembered. The wind whistled through the lime, beech and hazel of the wood backing the settlement.
The great hall of the cyning Isangrim was empty except for a couple of serving women. The lady was not expecting visitors. She was with her women in the weaving hall.
The day was mild, and the door was open. It threw a rectangle of bright light into the building. There was the click and shuffle of the looms; the smell of wool and charcoal. Ballista stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The women formed themselves in his vision from the gloom. They sat on their stools before the frames, their fingers paused as they regarded him.
His mother’s hair was grey. Otherwise, she looked unchanged. She sat, tall and stately among her women. A brooch gleamed with garnets and gold at her breast.
Ballista knelt before her, put his hands on her knees. ‘Mother.’
She put her hands over his. ‘Dernhelm.’
He looked up. Her face had more lines, yet was the same. Her eyes were moist, nevertheless she smiled calmly. His father had often said she was self-controlled beyond other women, far beyond his other wives. Ballista thought of his own wife. Julia had the same quality.
‘You are filthy from the road.’ She told one of the women to bring water. ‘How old are your sons now?’
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