The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  Disparagingly, Amantius thought that Olbia might be less crowded in future. When the siege had been lifted and boats had returned to the docks, there had been an undignified rush of citizens booking passage south: to Byzantium, Chalcedon, Miletus, to any place of greater safety. At least the exodus had been of use. During his stay in Olbia, Amantius had not been quietly approached by a frumentarius. It was hardly surprising given the remoteness of the town and the confusion after the fighting. In the absence of an official channel for clandestine communication, there had been a wide choice of merchant vessels all leaving for the Hellespont. For discretion, he had entrusted the arrangement to Ion. A slave boy would have drawn less attention on the dockside than the distinctive figure of an imperial eunuch. Ion was a sensible boy. He had selected a reliable-sounding skipper, who, for a high fee, had promised to deliver the letter to a certain soldier stationed in Byzantium. From there the frumentarius could send it on to the Praetorian Prefect by the cursus publicus.

  The missing centurion Regulus entered Amantius’s mind. It was an unwelcome, even vexatious arrival. Amantius did not condemn him for his desertion. If opportunity had offered, and he had thought he could weather the consequences, he would have done the same. Presumably, Regulus would have taken the Fides back to her station on the lower Ister. He would have had to account for her unexpected reappearance, and for the absence of the imperial embassy and most of her crew. Amantius took pride in the veracity of the news he conveyed. It was likely that whatever exculpating tale the centurion had concocted might find its way to Censorinus. The safety of the sacred Augustus Gallienus – the very safety of the imperium – might often rest on the accuracy of the information available to the Praetorian Prefect. If the centurion’s inventions cast Amantius himself in a bad light, the personal consequences might be serious. It might spell the end of his hopes to return to the Palatine and the imperial court. If the charges were grave, it would be much worse. There was never a public trial for those who failed Censorinus, but punishment was inexorable and draconian. The gods willing, Amantius’s report would make clear the true turn of events. In any case, Amantius was sure, things would not go well for centurion Regulus.

  The desertion of Regulus and the flight of the refugees had combined to pose serious problems for the embassy. After the departure of the Goths, three days after the battle, Zeno had strode into the Bouleuterion still clad in full armour. The Vir Perfectissimus recounted how he had taken up arms and made his stand on the wall. It was the duty of any man who wanted a name for virtue to do likewise for his friends. Zeno’s rank and a level of tact precluded too close investigation of the claim or his whereabouts since. He had proceeded to rant against the cowardice of Regulus. He would see the centurion executed, and in the rigorous, old-fashioned way. The governor of Moesia Inferior, Claudius Natalianus, was a friend. He would see the thing was carried out, and in public, before the eyes of gods and men. The terrible execution would serve as an example to all. Yet, by all the gods, it could not remedy the fatal blow the coward had dealt to the embassy. The Fides was to have conveyed the mission to the north, and she was gone. All the ships in port were sailing for the south. There was nothing for it. The embassy would have to take passage back to Byzantium, and seek further instructions.

  It had been a fine oration, possibly not quite as extempore as it implied, but powerful nevertheless. It was what one would have expected from a man of culture who had been a Studiis to the emperor. In his heart, Amantius could not have agreed more with its conclusion. Yet it had been undone in a moment. The first archon Callistratus had taken the floor. There were boats on his estates at the settlements on the other bank of the Hypanis. They were rustic things, but serviceable, good for shallow rivers. In fact, they were more suited for the portages of the Borysthenes than the Fides itself. As some small recompense for the services to the polis of Marcus Clodius Ballista and Gaius Aurelius Castricius, and of course Aulus Voconius Zeno himself, it would give Callistratus nothing but pleasure to present them to the embassy. He would not hear of accepting payment. Only what you gave to your friends was yours for ever. The councillors of Olbia had shaken back their cloaks and applauded. At once, unanimously, they had voted such extra crew as were required be seconded from the civic militia. The strategos Montanus was to select men suitable for the labours and dangers of the voyage.

  Caught, like an insect in amber, there had been nothing Zeno could do but accept. The equestrian had made a reasonable stab at dignified gratitude. But Amantius suspected he was not alone in seeing behind the mask. Amantius knew himself lacking in courage. But he was a eunuch, and his kind were not as robust as others. Zeno was entire, and he was a coward. Spite and cowardice often went hand in hand. Back in the rebellion instigated by Macrianus the Lame, Zeno had run from his province of Cilicia rather than face Ballista. It did not augur well for the two men travelling hundreds of miles in proximity, and it did not augur well for the success of a delicate mission.

  Olbia slid out of sight behind a low, wooded island. The Olbian guide in the first boat had led the small flotilla between dank islands, oozing mudflats and treacherous shoals. They would take the far channel of the Hypanis down to Cape Hippolaus. The leading boat was turning south into it now. Splashes, laughter, obscenities and shouted orders indicated they were making a poor fist of it.

  Amantius shifted his soft haunches on the hard bench. He gripped the side nervously. The four boats had been a great disappointment. Narrow, low in the water, open to the elements, they were fragile-looking things. They reminded him of the camarae of his childhood in Abasgia, and that was not a good thing.

  Each vessel had a local steersman and was paddled by ten men. The two bringing up the rear were crewed by Olbians, but the leading pair had the remaining men of the Fides at the benches. Used to rowing, the Romans were finding it difficult to adjust to paddling facing forwards. As the vessel on which Amantius was an unwilling passenger came about, it yawed and dipped alarmingly, the green water all too close to the edge. He clung on tighter, his chubby knuckles whitening.

  The boats could take only four passengers in addition to their crew. The mission had been distributed among them. Ballista, Maximus and Tarchon rode in the first with the guide. Amantius had been assigned to the second with Zeno, the Danubian peasant Diocles and a slave. Castricius and the insolent-looking Egyptian soldier Heliodorus commanded the last two, each accompanied by two slaves.

  Amantius was not just uncomfortable and anxious, he was simmering with resentment. Zeno had insisted Amantius travel with him, in case he should have sudden need of a secretary. The imperial envoy now lounged on a cushion at the rear by the helmsman, Diocles next to him in the place of honour. Amantius had been brusquely ordered to the front with one of Zeno’s slaves. Amantius’s own boy had been sent off to the last boat. It was as if Zeno were determined to remove the last shreds of dignitas from the imperial eunuch.

  At least the weather was fine. Here the current ran smooth and strong, and there was little labour for the crew. Off to the right, in the creeks between the islets an unruffled calm prevailed, the surface as still and dark as polished wood. Trees grew out of the water, their bare trunks like the masts of a drowned fleet. The mudbanks were alive with wading birds, busy and completely indifferent to the passing boats. Amantius relaxed a little, his mind turning over ideas of the transience of humanity, its helplessness in the teeth of fate.

  On the left the muddy shore slipped by, overgrown with reeds and trees. And there, at the river’s edge, stood an enormous creature. Glossy black, it had the form of a bull, but was near the size of an elephant. Massive, double-curved horns overhung the water. Was this the auroch, the great beast of the northern forests of which Caesar had written? Amantius would have liked to ask, but he was not going to demean himself by calling down the boat to the steersman, let alone talking to the slave or soldiers at hand. As they passed, the beast lifted its head. Drops of water fell from its muzzle as it regarded the boats.
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  The Hypanis bore the boats along. The channel was broader here, other faster-flowing branches joining it from the right. Behind Amantius, easy on their benches, the crew sang an obscene marching song about the needs of a young widow. The sun sparkled on the placid water. Amantius thought of the bull from the sea sent by Aphrodite to bring death to Hippolytus for scorning her mysteries.

  A warning shout from ahead. The boat in front was turning hard to the left. The crew – urgent, but all out of time – thrashed the river with their paddles. The voice of the steersman came across the water, taut with anxiety.

  Gods, the barbarians could not be upon them already.

  Amantius was thrown sideways as the boat heeled to the right. His stomach hit the side. The water was no distance from his face. Fearing his own bulk would overturn them, he levered himself back. The vessel tipped the other way. Amantius found himself entangled with Zeno’s slave. Water slopped around his slippers. In a lather of terror and fury, Amantius fought free of the servile embrace.

  Back upright, he held on to the bench beneath his thighs for dear life. On an even keel, the boat was ploughing towards the eastern bank. The air was full of spray and grunted curses as the inexpert crew sweated to drive it faster.

  Almost too scared to look, Amantius sought the peril from which they fled. At first he could not comprehend what he saw. It was as if the river god himself had turned against them. The channel running in from the east was full. A mass of timber stretched almost from bank to bank. Low in the water, but incalculably heavy and bearing down fast, it would crush the frail vessels in its path without pause.

  Inexplicably, there were men standing on top of the logs. They had poles in their hands, and ran about like ticks on the hide of a hippopotamus. They were shouting and gesturing.

  Amantius looked ahead. The bank seemed far away. He looked back at the monstrosity bent on overwhelming them. It was much nearer, travelling fast. The boat was going so slowly. How could Hygeia have spared him from the barbarians only to deliver him to this? Had the rings and the cloak not been enough? He would give more. Most High Mother, accept my last treasure. Take the bracelet, my last link to the sacred court of the Caesars. Spare my life. Save me from the fishes and a watery grave.

  With no warning, the boat grounded. Amantius was hurled forward. His head cracked against a piece of wood. He sprawled on the floor. ‘Hygeia, all the gods, do not let me die.’

  Men were laughing. The crew were thumping each other on the back. The raft of lashed-together logs was drifting past. The men on it were polling it clear of the bank. They called out jokes.

  ‘A hazard of navigating these rivers,’ the steersman said. ‘They float the timber down to the Euxine, sell it to merchants. Good timber. Good for shipbuilding.’

  In the stern, Diocles was smiling, but Zeno was white-faced.

  ‘We get going,’ said the steersman. ‘Follow them down.’

  XI

  The Estuary of the Hypanis and Borysthenes

  On that day the expedition encountered four rafts of timber being floated down to the Euxine. None was as alarming as the first. Apart from them, they had the river much to themselves all the way to Cape Hippolaus. There were fishermen out, but at the sight of four unknown boats, they rowed into overgrown creeks and were lost to sight.

  Ballista enjoyed the journey. It was good to be on the water in a small boat very like the ones of his childhood on the shores of the Suebian Sea. The weather remained set fair. A gentle southerly breeze got up and ruffled the surface. It was warm in the spring sunshine. There were no clouds. In between the islands with their reeds and trees, the low, grey line of the western shore could be seen two miles or more away. There was a pale-blue band above it, straight as if drawn with a pencil; a white-blue sky above that.

  The Hypanis was rich. Resting happily in the prow, Ballista saw perch, bream and carp. There were many catfish. Once, a huge pike, solitary in its ferocity, came to investigate the boats, before flicking away to find sanctuary under a bank. He had been told there were sturgeon, but he saw none. Great gaggles of geese and ducks bobbed on the water. The shallows and mudflats were crowded with waders; high-stepping, beaks darting, tireless in their endeavours. When the boats came too close, the birds took wing, filling the air with their noise.

  The eastern shore was thick with reeds. Alder and willows grew among them. There were birch, oak and poplars behind. Animals moved through the vegetation, coming down to drink; herds of deer and wild sheep, lumbering bison.

  Amidst this plenty the signs of man were few. They passed only two Olbian settlements. They were sited on high bluffs. They looked down on the river from cliffs which were banded with pink and grey rock. Both villages were small, circumscribed by ravines and heavily fortified in stone. Their inhabitants could not be blamed for such prudence. But Ballista noted the area of cultivation around them was narrow. There was little terracing, no vines and few domestic animals. When the boats approached, those cattle that were grazing were driven up towards the walls.

  The water level was high. The lower trees were half submerged. Bleached branches swept downstream had tangled on promontories. The winter must have been hard further north in the cold interior of the continent. Ballista remembered the winters of his youth on Hedinsey. In the bleak midwinter the snow could drift so high that only the smoke of their hearths revealed the outlying farms around his father’s hold of Hlymdale. In such a place it was easy to believe in Fimbulvetr, the winter of the world before Ragnarok, easy to believe the sun would never rise again, and that all except one man and one woman were destined to die.

  They reached their destination at sunset. Cape Hippolaus thrust out into the waters as sharp and firm as the beak of a ship. It was gloomy at the landing place. A broad cloak of clouds had formed and trapped the evening redness in the west.

  There was no one to greet them. They hauled the boats out of the water, took out what they needed, and set a guard. In near-darkness they climbed the broad stone steps.

  At the top the gate was shut. No torches burned, but men could be sensed watching from the wall. There was the sound of metal scraping on stone. Some of the Romans shifted uneasily, their hands reaching for the reassurance of their sword hilts.

  A voice challenged them in Greek: Who came in the dark to Cape Hippolaus and the Temple of Demeter?

  The Olbian guide announced himself, detailed those with him and what they were about. The names of the first archon Callistratus and the strategos Montanus were well received.

  Inside, torches flared, and at no long interval the gate swung open. Men in leather and horn armour emerged.

  ‘Health and great joy.’ The headman introduced himself and those considered of note in the village. He seemed predisposed to make much of Ballista and Castricius. News of the heroic defence of Olbia had not long reached Cape Hippolaus; it was an honour to welcome the saviours of the city. Zeno intervened. With the barest nod to civility, the imperial envoy demanded entrance. By the mandata entrusted to him by the most noble Augustus Gallienus, and in the name of Claudius Natalianus, governor of Moesia Inferior, within whose province this place lay, food and lodgings should be provided, suitable in both quantity and quality.

  Ballista thought there were many things that were dislikeable about Aulus Voconius Zeno. Some, above all his cowardice, were damning. Others, such as his endless, often inapposite quotations from Homer and his pretence of contempt for all later Greek literature, let alone anything in Latin, were merely tiresome. But his sanctimonious pomposity could put all the rest in the shade. Back in Cilicia, Zeno had abandoned his province and run like a deer. But he had left Ballista a letter whose carefully crafted sentences stressed how the departed governor’s actions had been dictated by good faith, piety and devotion to duty and should be emulated by others. Years later, the phrases still rankled.

  They were led through alleys so narrow they had to walk in single file. They came out into a tiny square. The torchlight revealed a smal
l temple on one side, what probably passed for a Bouleuterion opposite, and a stone-built house on each of the others. The council chamber and one of the houses were made over to the expedition, the occupants of the latter being summarily evicted. Ballista thought there were winners and losers in politics in this remote village, just as there were in the imperial consilium.

  The headman, who rejoiced in the title of Archon, invited Zeno, Ballista and Castricius to dine at his home, which turned out to be the other house facing on to the square. Provisions and firewood would be sent in to the rest. There was a well in the square.

  Between the inevitable eggs and apples – respectively hard-boiled and dried this time – the meal was made around a none too large, cold leg of mutton with cold, once-dried peas. The bread was from the day before. But there were fresh, plain, grilled fish.

  They drank a little well-watered wine from clay beakers and ate off a mixture of pottery. Most of the crockery was red; some pieces grey. Not all had been turned on a wheel. Ballista noticed the rings on the fingers of the locals were iron or bronze; their brooches were inlaid with beads of glass or paste. Most striking were the tallow candles – there was not a lamp anywhere.

  Conversation was uncomfortable. Zeno made no attempt to speak or hide his disdain. He seemed to take the poverty of the villagers of Cape Hippolaus as a personal affront. Given the air of suspicion with which he regarded everything around him, including every morsel he ate and those who offered them to him, it was possible he thought it all subterfuge. Perhaps he thought the villagers secretly as rich as Croesus, with caches of treasure buried under the floors. Perhaps he resented them passing this poor fare off on him, certain they had hidden larders groaning with delicacies.