The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Fratricide is a terrible thing.’

  Maximus was pulling at the straps as he would a horse’s girths. ‘Sure, Morcar is an evil bastard.’

  ‘I was thinking about myself.’

  Maximus stopped what he was doing, gripped Ballista’s shoulders, forced his friend to look into his eyes. ‘You can think about that when you have killed him. Empty your mind of everything except the fight.’

  Ballista nodded.

  ‘And if you are dying, I will challenge, kill fucker very dead.’ Tarchon beamed at the latter prospect. ‘I keep his skull as another cup. Every time I drink, I think of revenge for you.’

  Ballista grinned. ‘You are not an Angle. He would not have to accept.’

  ‘But he could not refuse my challenge,’ young Eadric said. ‘If you fall, I will take revenge.’

  Ballista saw Maximus put his thumb between his fore and middle fingers to avert evil.

  ‘Morcar is a duel-fighter of much experience.’ Ivar Horse-Prick was very solemn. ‘He defeated the Bronding, killed the champion of the Hilleviones before both armies. He has won four judicial duels among our people. If he wins today, I will fight him. He is of our generation. It is for us to wipe away the dishonour.’

  ‘Enough about losing,’ Maximus said. ‘Give the man some space.’

  When the others had drawn back, Maximus leaned close. ‘He is not your brother. He is your brother’s killer. Empty your mind. Nothing but the fight.’

  Ballista unsheathed his dagger an inch or so, snapped it back, did the same with Battle-Sun, touched the healing stone tied to its scabbard.

  ‘Watch the blade. Get your feet moving straight away. Treat each blow on its merit.’ Maximus hugged him, kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Time to go. Watch the blade.’

  It was very bright outside the hall, the sky very high.

  The dense crowd parted to let them get to the duelling place. Morcar was waiting. Mord was with him, holding his two other shields.

  Ballista and Maximus stepped over the sprigs of hazel. Six paces by six, the cloth seemed tiny.

  A high seat had been set up to one side for the cyning. Isangrim sat hunched on it. Ballista tried not to imagine his father’s thoughts.

  Ballista took a shield in his bandaged left hand. He stepped up to Morcar.

  ‘You and me,’ Morcar said, ‘like snow blowing from one tree to another.’

  Ballista said nothing.

  Morcar stepped back. As the challenger, he had to wait for the first blow. He settled into the ox guard; half turned, shield out, blade held palm down, jutting down like a horn.

  Ballista hefted his sword high, shifted to the left then the right, getting himself moving, his muscles warm.

  Quick steps, feet close together, Ballista closed in, swinging down from the right at Morcar’s head. In a fluid motion, he dropped to one knee, switched the strike towards the ankle. Morcar brought his shield down. The impact ran up Ballista’s arm. He took the counter-blow on the boss. Pain flared in his injured left hand. Ballista surged up, shoving Morcar away. He stepped back.

  They watched each other. Morcar moved into a charge guard, his sword low and hidden behind his body.

  Ballista remembered how Morcar had fought the Bronding. A long defence, then a sudden attack. Ballista could wait. Time was no issue. Not taking his eyes off his brother’s sword, he moved around the cloth, feeling its footing, exploring its edges, memorizing its dimensions.

  With no warning, Morcar attacked. He feinted a cut from the left, rolled his wrist, chopped from the right. The steel sliced through the leather rim of Ballista’s shield, cracked the boards.

  ‘Shield!’ Ballista shouted.

  Morcar pulled back, the tip of his blade pointing to the cloth.

  Ballista took his second shield from Maximus. Blood was seeping through the bandages around his left knuckles.

  No sooner was the shield in Ballista’s hand than Morcar tore in again. A surprisingly wild overhand vertical chop. Ballista brought his shield up. Morcar pulled the blow, hooked the pommel of his sword over the rim of Ballista’s shield, dragged it forward, the blade arcing down. Ballista twisted down and away. The edge of the steel slid off his shoulder piece. He stepped forward and to the right. They were wedged together, Morcar’s shield jammed between them.

  ‘Snow — one tree to another,’ Morcar hissed. ‘We are the same, nothing to choose between us.’

  Ballista staggered as Morcar heaved him backwards. Morcar stepped forward. A low, rising cut. Ballista lowered his shield. Morcar kicked it across Ballista’s front, jabbing to the neck with the inside edge of his weapon. Ballista ducked. A metallic clang as the top of his helmet crest was sheered off. Ballista pivoted on his left foot, kicked his right boot hard into his brother’s right shin.

  Morcar grunted in pain. ‘Rest!’

  Ballista backed away. His ears were ringing from the blow to his helmet. His left hand hurt.

  As Morcar took a drink offered by his son, he flexed his right leg.

  The sacred truce over, Morcar hung back. Ballista feinted high and low from one side and the other, working him around. Morcar was favouring one leg, reluctant to put weight on his right. Ballista knew he had to finish it now, before his brother could work off the pain.

  With three quick blows, Ballista drove Morcar into a corner. Morcar crumpled as his leg gave. The killing blow was open. Ballista shaped to strike. He remembered the Bronding. He side-stepped to the right. Morcar, suddenly recovered, thrust. His blade whistling where Ballista’s stomach would have been, Morcar overshot. As he passed, Ballista hacked to the back of the thighs.

  Two, three steps, Morcar crashed to the ground. His shield rolled out of reach. He rolled on to his back, brought his sword up. Ballista beat it aside, got his boot on his brother’s sword arm, the point of his blade to his chest.

  ‘The same,’ Morcar said, ‘one tree to another.’

  As Ballista hesitated, a movement. Morcar’s left hand wrenching his dagger out.

  Ballista thrust down, all his weight behind it. The steel tip of Battle-Sun broke the closely wrought rings of mail, broke open the ribcage they guarded.

  XXXII

  The Island of Hedinsey

  Vengeful furies, punishers of sinners, black torches in your hands, hear my curse. Ballista sat on the high table in his father’s hall in Hlymdale, but in his mind he saw a village in the Caucasus, a dark village under a lowering sky. A woman standing in the rain, her hair unbound, her words cursing him.

  There were many bad things he had done. Twice, he had broken the sacramentum. Rather than put the safety of the emperor above everything, as the Roman military oath demanded, he had stabbed Maximinus Thrax in the throat. With the emperor Quietus he had used his bare hands; thrown him to his death from a high place. He had sworn a terrible oath to return to captivity before the throne of Shapur, King of Kings. He had not returned. And now … now he had killed Morcar. As they said, the hand’s joy in the blow is brief. The Oath-breaker had become the Brother-killer.

  Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the one the Romans called Ballista, knew himself cursed. Let him live — in poverty, in impotence, loneliness and fear. Let him wander the face of the earth, through strange towns, among strange peoples, always in exile, homeless and hated. He had failed to save old Calgacus, and now he had killed his own brother. There was a special place reserved in Hades for men like him. Brother-killer.

  Isangrim rose to his feet. ‘My people, it is time for the dispensation.’

  Ballista looked past Oslac to their father, and beyond him to Eadwulf. Twenty-eight winters had taken their toll on Eadwulf. His long, blond hair was turning grey. His nose had been broken, spread across his face. He was much heavier set. Yet Eadwulf shone with the joy of his return. And Ballista was leaving again.

  The hall waited for Isangrim in silence.

  ‘The Suebian Sea is once more at peace. Abalos, Hindafell, Solfell, the Scadinavian coast — all have returned to their rightf
ul allegiance. This peace will be protected. My son the atheling Oslac will build a new hall on Gnitaheath. My grandson Mord will travel with him to Abalos. The eastern Lords — Brecca of the Brondings, Yrmenlaf of the Wylfings, Hygelac of the Geats and Eudosius of the Dauciones — will swear their sword-oath to Oslac. In the south, the islands of Latris will be held by Hrothgar of the Wrosns. To Hrothgar we betroth our granddaughter Aelfwynn, daughter of Oslac. Hrothgar will oversee the Langobardi, Farodini and Rugii of the mainland. In accordance with the oath sworn in the hall of their king by our son the atheling Dernhelm, we welcome the Heathobards into an equal alliance. My son the atheling Eadwulf will go to the west. He will be accompanied by my grandson Aethelgar, son of Oslac. All the peoples of the peninsula, from the Cimbri in the north to the Reudigni in the south, will give Eadwulf their sword-oath. After his many years among them, Eadwulf brings the friendship of the Frisii. He will lead longships of the Frisii with those of the Angles against the coasts of Gaul held by the false-Roman Postumus, as desired by our son Dernhelm. Our regent on Varinsey will be eorl Eadwine, and here on Hedinsey it will be Hathkin, son of Heoroweard. Given the youth of the latter, eorl Godwine will act as his advisor. Now let those appointed give me their oaths.’

  The gift-stool was brought out, and Isangrim took his seat. Oslac was the first to kneel before the cyning.

  It was an impressive ceremony, and it promised unity for the time being. But it did not do the same for the future. Who would inherit the throne? Oslac and Eadwulf had been given wide domains, but neither held the heartlands of Hedinsey and Varinsey. When Isangrim died, would either stand aside? And what of the younger Himlings? Would Aethelgar be content to see his uncle, not his father, as cyning? And there was Mord. He had been brought up with his father, Morcar, as the unacknowledged heir. In time he would have thought to sit on the high throne himself. And there were the other great eorls. Two generations before, Eadwine’s Waymundings had ruled Varinsey as independent kings. A roll of the dice on Hedinsey, and the cynings would have come from Hathkin’s Wuffingas, and not the Himlings.

  Eorl Godwine swore his oath to support Hathkin in all things, to be true in word and deed. Just one thing remained for Isangrim to say. Ballista’s thoughts shied away from it. They turned to Rome. He had done what Gallienus had ordered. He had turned the Himlings against Postumus. But what would happen when the northern longships appeared off the coasts of Gaul? What would Postumus do to Arkil and the other Angles in his power? Ballista had killed one brother with his own hand. Would he now be responsible for the death of another? Brother-killer.

  Isangrim got to his feet, the years heavy in his movements. ‘Tragedy has come to the halls of the Himlings. Morcar challenged Dernhelm to the duel. There is no compensation to be paid. But I would have Mord reconciled to Dernhelm.’

  Both Ballista and Mord stood. They did not look at each other. Ballista spoke first. ‘Although, by our customs, compensation is not due, I will offer it. Let the cyning set the blood price.’

  ‘No,’ Mord said.

  Ballista looked along the high table.

  Mord stood very still, his anger holding him rigid. ‘I will never carry my father in my money pouch. Either I will go the same way as he did, or I will take vengeance for him.’

  Mord looked at Ballista now, his eyes full of hatred.

  ‘I am sorry for it,’ Isangrim said. ‘Dernhelm leaves tomorrow for the south, Mord for Abalos. By my order, no revenge will be sought within my lands.’

  Ballista sat down, the words of the curse in his mind. Vengeful furies, punishers of sinners, kill his wife, kill his sons, all those he loves, let him wander the face of the earth, in loneliness and fear, always in exile, homeless and hated.

  Perhaps the words would prove true; perhaps they would not. There was no doubt that Mord hated him. And there could be no question that he had to leave his childhood home. Ballista had killed his half-brother; he could not kill Morcar’s son as well. Yet he was reluctant to leave the north. It was still so much the same. It looked and smelt the same. The new buildings were much like the old. There were those here he loved: his father, his mother and Eadwulf. Most likely, he would never see them again. And there was Kadlin. But it could not become his home once more. Perhaps his sons might be young enough to make the transition, but his wife, never. And even if Julia did, there was Kadlin.

  At least he was not leaving alone. He would lead the expedition back to the imperium, back by a more westerly branch of the Amber Road that would bring them via friendly tribes to Pannonia, and down into Italy at Aquileia. He would bring them all back safe: those he loved — Maximus and Castricius; those he cared for — Tarchon and Rikiar: and the others — like Diocles and Amantius. Who would have imagined the portly eunuch would survive when so many others had died?

  And he was not going into exile. When he reached the comitatus, he would petition the emperor. It might be Gallienus would give him permission to retire to Sicily. Of course, the villa was Julia’s. But it was where his sons were. It was where his wife was. He missed his books, the baths, the garden with the view of the Bay of Naxos. Perhaps he and Julia could make things better, make them more what they had once been between them. Perhaps in a sense he was returning home, returning to protect his wife and his sons.

  It had not been that difficult to arrange, but Kadlin knew the risk she ran. The leaving feast continued in the hall. The drink was flowing. Most were drunk. When she saw him go, she had told her serving women what she wanted them to do. They had not been unwilling. They had taken his closest companions away; most likely taken the Suanian and the Hibernian to their beds. Was that what she wanted for herself? She was bathed, perfumed. She had dressed her hair and chosen her clothes with care. It was for him, not for her husband. Did she want him to take her to bed? Throughout her life she had overheard the whispers that she was no better than a whore. The whispers that had started all those winters ago were his fault, and perhaps they were true. If she was caught, that was what Oslac would assume, what everyone would assume. If that was what Dernhelm wanted, she would not be in a position to resist. Was that what she was doing, giving herself no choice, putting the choice, and all its ramifications and guilt, on him? No, she told herself, that was not the reason. He was leaving, and before he left he must be told. Most likely there would never be another chance.

  Muffled in the big, hooded cloak, she slipped into the outlying hall. It was empty. His hearth-troop were still drinking in the great hall. She climbed the stairs. Light showed around the door. She lifted the latch and went into the bedchamber.

  The shutters were open. Dernhelm had been sitting, staring out at the dark trees. He twisted to his feet, hand reaching for the hilt of the sword propped against his chair.

  She pushed back her hood.

  ‘Kadlin.’

  She walked right up to him. His hands fell to his sides. She touched his forearm. It was wanting you that made me sick. The line of poetry came into her mind.

  ‘Were you going to leave without seeing me?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He spoke quickly, but she heard the uncertainty.

  ‘I thought you — ’ He stopped, obviously unsure what to say. ‘- With your daughter being betrothed tonight, I thought you might not want to see me.’

  She took her hand from his arm, stepped back, suddenly furious. He was a fool; all men were fools. ‘Aelfwynn will marry for duty, as I did.’

  He stood irresolute, thrown by her sudden change. ‘Does Oslac treat you well?’

  ‘Yes.’ Was that all he could say? She could not imagine how, coming here, she had desired him.

  ‘I was sorry to hear your son Starkad was one of those taken in Gaul.’

  She wanted very much to hit him. If she had been a man, she would have knocked him down. Her sister would have knocked him down. Starkad was in Gaul. His son was in Gaul, and very likely this man, his father, had ensured he would die there.

  ‘May the gods hold their hands over you, see you saf
ely back to your wife and sons.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Kadlin …’

  She stopped.

  He held his hand out. She did not take it.

  ‘Kadlin, you know I never wanted to go, never wanted to leave you.’

  ‘I know.’ She managed to smile. ‘I never wanted you gone.’

  He moved to put his arms around her.

  ‘No.’ She stepped back.

  He looked hurt.

  ‘Life has not been kind to us,’ she said. ‘Now, I must return.’

  She did not look back. Outside, in the dark night, she began to cry.

  Our lips had smiled to swear hourly

  That nothing should split us — save dying —

  Nothing else …

  Some lovers in this world

  Live dear to each other, lie warm together

  At day’s beginning; I go by myself.

  Epilogue I

  Gallia Lugdunensis, AD264

  As he had not had sex with his wife, at dawn the emperor Postumus went out into the atrium to his household gods. The pleasures of the flesh had not been on his mind, not since the news last night. A fleet of Angle and Frisian longboats were off the coast of Gaul, their leader a barbarian called Evil-Child. The towns of Caracoticum and Iuliobona had been sacked and burnt.

  Postumus pulled a fold of his toga over his head. He picked up the incense box and with his right hand scattered a pinch into the fire on the little altar. The painted genius of the house mirrored the emperor: togate, veiled, incense box in hand. Two lares flanked the genius. A drinking horn in one hand, a wine bucket in the other, they danced, their short tunics flaring out. Their happiness did not reflect his mood. The statuettes of the gods — the deified emperors Augustus, Trajan, Marcus, and Pius, Alexander, Neptune and Hercules Deusoniensis — had a more sombre demeanour.

  It was the sort of legalistic question which entranced his son. Treachery makes a group of men your hostages. They prove their loyalty, but further treachery turns their countrymen into your enemies. Do you reward them for their own behaviour, or do you punish them for their compatriots’ betrayal? Such questions were all very well in the fictive world of Postumus Iunior’s Controversiae, but very different in the hard, indeed lethal, arena of imperial politics.