The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  There were more personal reasons for Oslac’s misgivings. In Himling’s tomb, Morcar had quoted the curse of the wicce. Somehow, Morcar had spied on his own brother, spied on the one member of the family who had always supported him, always defended him from the contempt of Froda, from the laughter of Eadwulf and Dernhelm, had always spoken out in the hall when men accused him of being overbearing. And there was the feast. It was Morcar who had told Oslac that Kadlin was outside with Dernhelm. In the face of his bitter accusations, Kadlin had said it was Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, who had suggested she leave the hall to see why the serving women had been slow bringing things from the kitchen. Glaum was ever by Morcar’s side.

  Tables had been spread further along the shore of the lake. Isangrim led the way. Oslac was seated between Kadlin and Yrmenlaf of the Wylfings of Hindafell, and opposite young Mord. Oslac and the Wylfing toasted each other, the beer drunk from Roman vessels designed for wine. The food was brought round, great platters of roast meat.

  A sudden silence spread along the boards. Dernhelm was standing. He pointed to a group approaching on foot down the road. Eorl Eadwine and his son Eadric flanked a tall, hooded and bound man. Four of Dernhelm’s men followed after: the daemon-haunted little Roman, the Hibernian with the end of his nose missing, the ill-favoured Vandal and the warrior from the distant Caucasus – a villainous crew.

  ‘Take off the hood,’ Dernhelm said.

  The prisoner swayed as it was done. His face was swollen and mottled from old beatings, his long hair matted with dried blood. A murmur of recognition ran along the benches: Swerting Snake-Tongue.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Morcar was on his feet, pale with anger.

  ‘Retribution,’ Dernhelm said. ‘Snake-Tongue, tell the cyning.’

  ‘No,’ Swerting said.

  Eorl Eadwine walked to face Isangrim, but raised his voice so all could hear. ‘Snake-Tongue has spoken before witnesses, myself and my son among them.’

  ‘I warn you to stop this. If you value your life, Eadwine, you will stop,’ Morcar said.

  ‘No, let Eadwine continue,’ Isangrim said. The old man’s face was set.

  Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, went to stand behind Morcar. And, although he looked bewildered, so did Mord.

  ‘Snake-Tongue has confessed to arranging the betrayal of the atheling Arkil and the Angles with him in Gaul. He acted on the orders of Morcar.’

  ‘That is a lie!’ Morcar said. ‘A lie.’

  ‘There is worse,’ Eadwine continued. ‘Snake-Tongue perjured himself when he gave evidence against Eadwulf. It was not the exile who murdered Froda. It was Morcar.’

  ‘Lies!’ Morcar shouted. ‘Evil-Child killed Froda, no one else. Swerting has been tortured. A man will say anything under torture.’ Morcar turned to his father, tried to rein in his fury. ‘You cannot believe this.’

  Everyone looked at Isangrim. The old cyning sat motionless.

  Morcar spun around. ‘You, Eadwine, how did Swerting come into your hands?’

  The eorl gave back stare for stare. ‘Dernhelm put him in my custody. Eadwulf captured Snake-Tongue off the Frisian coast. Snake-Tongue was on his way back to Gaul.’

  Morcar swung back to his father. ‘Dernhelm, Evil-Child: both exiles, worthless; both hate me. I am not the traitor. Dernhelm is the traitor. The little Greek Zeno told me Dernhelm carries secret instructions from Gallienus – there on his belt – instructions to overthrow the cyning, kill his father, take his place on the throne.’

  From his wallet Dernhelm removed a small ivory-bound diptych. He passed it to his father.

  Isangrim opened the document and read. ‘This orders him to take all measures to look to the safety and success of the embassy, if necessary to take command from Zeno; nothing more.’

  Morcar spun around. The Greek was nowhere to be seen.

  Morcar rounded on Dernhelm. ‘Oath-breaker, blood follows you. What you do now will turn against you.’

  Dernhelm stood still. ‘Some things just happen.’

  Morcar spread one hand in supplication to his father; the other jabbed at Dernhelm. ‘I will clear my name. I demand a duel.’

  The silence was complete. Not even a bird sang.

  ‘No,’ Isangrim said.

  ‘A duel – it is my right. I demand a duel.’

  Isangrim looked down. He seemed even older. Eventually, he looked up. ‘I would not see my sons fight. One of you can go into exile.’

  ‘Never!’ Morcar was lost in his emotion. ‘I am innocent.’

  ‘Dernhelm, you are returning to the imperium anyway.’ There was pleading in Isangrim’s voice. ‘You could leave now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So be it.’ Isangrim raised his chin. ‘Let the hazel twigs mark out the ground before the hall.’

  ‘Not the homecoming I had hoped for,’ Ballista said.

  Maximus continued to check the shoulder pieces of Ballista’s mailcoat.

  ‘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 rightful 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 look
ed 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?