No sooner was there a lull than Ballista had to get back to his feet as the king entered the hall. Heoden led his queen by the hand. He stood in front of the throne, she by his side. His hair was white; hers golden. He looked over the hall, and the ale-benches fell silent as he began to declaim.
‘Tonight in the hall of the Black-Harii, the Walkers-of-the-Night, we celebrate the return of Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, my sister’s son, my foster-son. Since his time among us, no man of the north has travelled further or won higher renown among distant peoples. Like the Allfather his ancestor, he goes by many names. The Romans know Ballista, the Persians tremble at the name Nasu, the Tervingi run from Vandrad. And we feast his Battle-companions. From the way they carry themselves, I am thinking it is not exile but adventure and boldness of spirit which brings them here. They will have many tales to relate as we feast. At no other time is the heart so open to sincere feelings or so quick to warm to noble sentiments. Let the soul of every man here be laid completely bare in the freedom of friendship and festive surroundings.’
As the Harii roared, Heoden seated himself on the dark, rune-carved throne.
Ballista thought the king had pitched far too high the praise of the ill-assorted Romans and Olbians who followed him. The eunuch Amantius had never shown himself possessed of much of an adventurous disposition. Still, the words might well have pleased Zeno, if he had been able to understand any of them.
The queen took the feasting cup, and, as was only right, offered it first to her lord, the guardian of the people. The theoden tasted the mead, and pronounced it good. She passed among each part of the hall, offering the treasure-cup to every man according to his rank. After the eorls of Heoden had drunk, she came to Ballista.
‘Greetings, Dernhelm, son of Isangrim. I give thanks to the gods that my wish has been granted to meet the nephew of my lord.’
Ballista put the cup to his lips. The mead was bright and sweet. The girl was good to look at, her arms very white. She was young, this Myrging princess, Heoden’s new wife. Ballista thought of Julia.
The queen looked into Ballista’s eyes. ‘All hold you in honour, even to the cliffs at the world’s end, washed by ocean, the wind’s range. As you remember the benevolence of my lord in your youth, so I am sure you will repay answerable kindness to the young sons I have given him, and guard them honourably.’
Ballista said he would. Like his own father, Heoden had married several times. The king of the Harii had older sons from his previous wives. Everywhere in the world where one man ruled, inheritance was a problem. It could not be otherwise, unless by custom the eldest took power, and then an unworthy man might sit on the throne.
Servants brought in food: great platters of roast meats, hot bread. Ballista drank from a silver goblet with scenes of men assaulting a city on it, most likely the seven against Thebes. A thing of great worth, made by a Roman craftsman, it was filled with local beer.
As the drink went round, the warriors became boisterous. Crude jokes and outrageous boasts were joined by hard words. Drinking vessels and fists slammed down to give weight to what was said. A bone was thrown, then another.
The target was an ill-favoured warrior seated at the end of Heoden’s hearth-troop near the door. The first missiles went wide, and he tried to ignore them. Those near him edged away. His tormentors were his own companions among Heoden’s men. A beef bone caught him on the shoulder. A roar went up. More things were thrown. The victim ducked and tried to fend them off.
Lithe as an eel, Maximus vaulted the table. He caught a bone in mid-air, turned and hurled it back. The warrior who had thrown it was too surprised, too slowed by drink to move. It hit him in the forehead. He crashed backwards like a felled ox.
There was silence in the hall. Warriors got to their feet, reaching for their weapons, outrage in their movements.
Ballista climbed over the table, stood between Maximus and the men on their feet. ‘My friend Muirtagh has a good arm and a good heart. The odds seem unfair. It is unseemly for many to persecute one.’
Castricius and Diocles came to stand by Ballista. A moment later, Heliodorus joined them. As the latter moved, the other Romans and some of the Olbians got to their feet. No one had yet drawn a blade, but violence was only a moment away.
‘Hold. There will be no fighting in my hall without my word.’ Heoden stood. Despite his age, he stood straight and tall. All eyes were on him.
‘Your actions show your courage and the nobility in your souls. But you do not know the reasons for this thing. The man you protect swore his sword-oath to me. He was not the least among my warriors. Many times I rewarded his bravery in battle. But Rikiar stole from one of his companions. Now he must sit in the lowest place and endure their taunts until such time as I declare his punishment over. It is that or he must go into exile, sorrow and longing his sole companions.’
Rikiar rose from his place at the foot of the table. ‘I was drunk. It was no more than a jest. This dishonour has lasted too long.’
Others of the hearth-troop hissed their disapproval. It was not for Rikiar to speak. They did not trust this outsider, this Vandal. Let him endure or go into exile, a lordless man, a nithing.
‘Lack of trust, dissension in a sworn-band is a terrible thing. It undermines the shieldwall.’ Ballista pitched his voice to carry to the furthest recesses of the hall. ‘There is another way. We must travel a long road before we reach my home. We must pass by the Aestii and the Heathobards. They are enemies of my father. The Rugii pay him tribute, but they do not love me. Another sword in our company would be welcome. If Heoden, the Master of Battle, will release this Vandal from his oath, and, if Rikiar is willing, let him swear a new oath to me, here in this hall, in the sight of all.’
‘I am willing,’ said Rikiar.
‘To release a man from his vow is no light thing,’ said Heoden. ‘But let it be as Dernhelm wishes.’
As it will when men are drunk, the mood changed in a moment. The Harii shouted praises of their lord, of Dernhelm, even of the recently reviled Rikiar: the Vandal might be light-fingered and ugly, but he could fight. Bring out the gift-stool. Do it now. All would stand witness.
Ballista drew his sword. He sat on the gift-stool and laid his blade across his knees. It was notched from its hard use on the Borysthenes.
‘Wait,’ said Heoden. ‘It was in my mind to welcome my foster-son with a gift. Bring me Battle-Sun.’
Gifeca took the sword down from where it hung with the others behind the throne and passed it to his king.
Heoden unsheathed the steel. ‘This blade was forged in ages past by the Brisings. It was won from them by Wade, the sea-giant. The hero Hama wielded it at Fifeldor and Bravoll. From his hand it was given to Helm, the founder of my line. Now I, Heoden of the Harii, give it to Dernhelm, my sister’s son. May he carry it with heart and courage.’
‘Heart and courage!’ the warriors bellowed.
Ballista sheathed his own blade and put Battle-Sun across his legs.
Rikiar knelt, his head against Ballista’s knees, his hands on the sword. Ballista put his hands over those of Rikiar.
‘By this sword, I, Rikiar, son of Rikiar of the Vandals, swear my oath to you, Dernhelm, son of Isangrim of the Angles. As I eat at your hearth, so I will follow you into terrible battle, among the perils where renown is won. I will defend and protect you. If you fall, I will not leave the field alive, or suffer lifelong infamy and shame.’
After the oath, Ballista led Rikiar back to sit among his men. Much more drink was taken, but the feast proceeded in the most amicable fashion. It was as if every man saw how narrowly violence had been banished from the hall, and none wished it to return. Sometimes it was better to eat and drink than to fight.
When men were beginning to reel and put their hands on the serving girls, Heoden summoned Ballista. The queen had retired to her bedchamber. Heoden waved Ballista to sit by him.
‘You look well, boy.’
‘As do you, uncle.’
Several Harii eorls on the high table laughed.
‘How is my mother?’ Ballista asked.
‘Old, like me. But she is well. As always, she keeps your father’s hall in Hlymdale. Your father still moves between there and his Frisian wife at Gudme. Now he is even older than me, he travels less. Last year he did not go to his eorls on Latris. It is two summers since he went to the mainland. He should take another young wife to keep his bed warm, like me.’
‘It will be good to see them.’
‘Good to see Kadlin …’
Ballista felt light-headed from the mead and beer. ‘That was long ago.’
Heoden looked at Ballista over the top of his drink. ‘That first husband of hers – the one she married straight after you left – pity he took an Aestii spear in the guts. She has been married to your half-brother a long time now.’
‘Hmm.’ Ballista took another drink.
‘Oslac will not be overjoyed to see you return.’
‘We were very young – a long time ago. I never had a problem with Oslac.’
Heoden pulled a wry face. ‘Not long enough for him to forget who took the virginity of a girl who is now his wife, all those winters ago.’
‘How –’
‘I did not know – not until right now.’ Heoden smiled, pleased with himself. ‘You do not hold the throne of the Black-Harii without some low cunning.’
The black-clad eorls laughed indulgently.
Ballista raised the silver goblet to the king.
‘Morcar always had a problem with you – with Froda, Eadwulf and you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Take no offence, but Froda was the best of you.’
‘I always thought so.’
Heoden put his arm around Ballista’s shoulder, pulled him close. ‘I was going to talk about this tomorrow, when we were sober, but …’ The king shrugged.
‘The Persians discuss great matters twice: first drunk, then sober.’
‘You have been in many places.’ Heoden squeezed Ballista’s shoulder. ‘Do not talk about it too much now you are back. Men do not care to be reminded that others have won greater renown.’
Ballista nodded in acknowledgement.
Heoden leant in, the fumes of his breath sickly in Ballista’s nostrils.
‘Things are not good in the realm of the Himlings. Gallienus has sent no gold since your half-brother Arkil and his men swore their swords to the other Roman emperor in Gaul.’
‘I know this. The emperor Gallienus told me in the letter ordering me home.’
‘There were Roman soldiers where none should have been. It is said Arkil was betrayed.’
‘Who?’
‘Old wives’ tales. No one knows.’ Heoden paused as a girl filled their cups.
‘Postumus sends your father no gold. It is said the Gallic emperor has none to spare. Why should he open his treasure hoard, when he holds a thousand Angles hostage? Your father is old. Isangrim has less gold to give, less swords at his command. The Himlings’ grip on the Suebian Sea has weakened. The Brondings of Abalos follow a new leader, a fearsome, masked warrior from overseas. This warrior Unferth has cast off your father’s authority. The men of the islands – the Wylfings of Hindafell, the Geats of Solfell – have hailed him Amber Lord. Unferth’s longships raid where they will around the shores. Last summer Unferth’s son descended on the Heathobards. But those loyal to the Himlings – the Farodini, the Dauciones – they have suffered with the rest. I fear this will be a bitter homecoming for you.’
Part Three
HYPERBOREA,
(Summer AD264)
XVIII
The Vistula Delta
Escape from the river was not easy. The Vistula reached the Suebian Sea in a wide delta. It twisted and turned, dividing and redividing into any number of channels. They were hard to distinguish from the narrow creeks which coiled away, turning back on themselves, to end in mudflats or vanish into impassable reed banks. Ballista had been here before, but that was no help. It had been more than twenty years, and the navigable waterways had shifted out of all recognition. There were no discernible landmarks. Visibility was limited by the reeds and half-submerged trees. The open stretches of water frequently were obstructed by fish traps and weirs. The passage was slow going. It demanded skilled handling of the boat, much patience and faith in the taciturn river pilot they had taken onboard at Rugium. The last was somewhat hard to maintain, as they seemed to spend as much time going in every other direction as towards the north.
As the dawn mist lifted, Ballista saw a beauty in this strange landscape, where fresh- and saltwater merged with land, where sand martins and tern darted and bitterns boomed.
‘Another fucking great marsh,’ said Maximus.
The journey down had not been particularly quick. It was twenty days since they had left the hall of the king of the Harii. But almost all of it had been easy, pleasant even. Heoden had given his foster-son a longboat, well founded and packed with supplies. Two warriors of the Harii had asked permission to accompany them. Wada the Tall and Wada the Short were brothers; Ballista had known them in his fostering. They were amiable company. Both knew well the upper and middle courses of the river, and they had sailed the sea beyond.
Even in the spring – it was now late May – the Vistula did not run particularly fast. But until the delta it was usually a single broad stream, and posed no problems. It had borne them along in great sweeps. The weather had been kind. There had been some grey days, when the water and sky had the same colour, but once they had emerged from Mirkwood on to the less forested great plain of northern Germania the scale of the purpled sunrises and sunsets had never failed in their majesty.
They had travelled through the territory of several tribes: Ombrones, Avarini and Frugundiones. Always Wada the Tall and Wada the Short had secured them generous hospitality. In each settlement Ballista had found himself the object of much curiosity: the son of Isangrim the Himling, the warrior at bloodfeud with the Goths of both the Tervingi and Borani, the northerner who had defeated the Persian king and who had briefly raised himself to the throne of the Romans. In one hall a scop had gone so far as to compose and sing a heroic version of his travels, almost unrecognizable even to Ballista himself. All the interest, bordering on adulation, had not been completely uncongenial. He was returning to his world, although such attention had showed that world now regarded him as something strange. He was no longer wholly part of the north.
Another thing slightly unsettling Ballista’s equanimity had been the foul mood of Maximus. The Hibernian had said it was just the watersnakes. There had been a surprising number of them in the Vistula, long, grey and shiny. They left a curved, overlapping twin wake when they swam, their black heads cocked evilly out of the water. Ballista knew the snakes had not been explanation enough. Despite their continual bickering, Maximus had got on well enough with Calgacus. The old Caledonian Calgacus had been with Ballista for ever. And over the years, Maximus had welcomed the Greek accensus Demetrius, Castricius and the demented Suanian Tarchon into the familia. But clearly he resented the rekindled intimacy from Ballista’s youth with the brothers Wada. At times the Hibernian was like a child – albeit a very dangerous and often very drunken child with a strong liking for cannabis. In many ways he had not been quite the same since old Calgacus died. Perhaps none of the familia would ever be quite the same.
The only place where the welcome had been less than wholehearted had been at Rugium, the last port of call before the sea. The Rugii were vassals of the Himlings of Hedinsey. They had not chosen that allegiance. The last time Ballista had been in Rugium it had been as part of an Angle-conquering army. In the sack of the settlement twenty-six winters before, Ballista had behaved no better than might be expected of a half-drunk youth who had just fought his way over a stockade into a now-defenceless town. He wondered what had happened to the girl. It would have b
een both tactless and pointless to ask. He had not known her name. It had been in one of the longhouses in the centre. Her clothes had marked her of high birth. Perhaps there had been a child. That would not identify her; that day, far too many women had been taken against their will.
To be fair, the Rugii had done their duty by their overlord, Isangrim. They had feasted his son and the men Ballista brought with him for two nights, although they had offered not much drink and no women or gifts. They had provided the river pilot. Yet things had not been convivial. The king of the Rugii had complained at length of the depredations of Unferth of Abalos. Late last autumn the masked warrior and his son Widsith Travel-Quick had led their Brondings, along with Wylfings, Geats and Dauciones, along the coast. They had killed, enslaved and burned. Early this spring, just after the ice had gone, one of their ships had been sighted scouting the delta. It was the obligation of Isangrim, if he wished to remain the Amber Lord, to protect those, like the Rugii, who paid him tribute. If Ballista reached his father, he should tell him these things.
Ballista sat in the prow, looking at a heron picking its way near the bank. He had not cared for the message of the king of the Rugii: not its unwelcome news that the Dauciones had joined those who had cast off their allegiance to the Himlings, not its implicit threat, and not its conditional nature. If he reached his father …
The heron took wing, implausible in its forward-weighted profile, yet oddly graceful. If he reached his father …
They rounded a bend, the starboard oars almost touching a line of stakes holding a fisherman’s nets. The surface was getting choppier. The banks fell back. At last, they must be nearing the open waters of the gulf which gave on to the sea.
‘Ahead.’ Maximus did not need to raise his voice. He was proprietorily next to Ballista.
The Amber Road Page 19