The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

‘There,’ said Wada the Short, pointing.

  Maximus glowered at him.

  Ballista stood, held the prow and climbed on to the freeboard.

  Ahead, the water sparkled in the sun. It widened out into a bay. There were two low islands between them, and the gulf beyond. And moored by the islands were two longships. The dark, curved and double-prowed profiles left no doubt.

  ‘Stop rowing.’ Ballista spoke quietly, even though the warships were almost a mile away. ‘Take the way off her with your oars.’ He turned to the pilot. ‘Whose are they?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Ballista stared at him. The boat lay dead in the water.

  ‘They could be Brondings.’ The Rugian licked his lips, his eyes evasive.

  As Ballista went to study the ships, the pilot spun around, took two or three scrambling steps and hurled himself over the side. He landed clumsily in a fountain of spray.

  Without thinking, riding the sudden rocking of the boat, Ballista shrugged his baldric over his head, unbuckled his sword belt. Scabbards and belts clattered to the deck. He went to the gunwales. Stopping, he dragged off his boots. There was a splash as someone else dived.

  The pilot was swimming for the larboard bank, about fifty paces away.

  Ballista dived.

  The river was still very cold. He came up spluttering, swallowed some water and, coughing, struck out after the Rugian pilot.

  The fugitive was near the shore. Another swimmer was almost up with him. Ballista concentrated on swimming. He was strong in the water, but his sodden clothes hindered him, dragged him back.

  The Rugian was wrestling with someone, thrashing wildly. Ballista caught the Rugian’s hair, pulled his head back, under the surface. In the struggle they both went under.

  In the green, dark world the man’s face was pallid. His eyes were wide. Weeds clutched at them. The man clawed at Ballista’s eyes. Forcing the hand aside, Ballista tried to get a grip on his throat. The man had him by the arm. Twisting, entwined together, they sank to the riverbed. Clouds of silt billowed up around them. Ballista’s lungs were hurting, his ears throbbing.

  Another shape in the gloom. The hold on Ballista vanished. He shot up, broke the surface, sucking in air. The head of the Rugian appeared. It was twisted in pain. Maximus surfaced behind him, closing in again.

  ‘Do not kill him!’ Ballista shouted.

  Maximus enveloped the pilot, driving him back under. Ballista was unsure if the Hibernian had heard.

  Ballista took a deep breath and prepared to dive again.

  Maximus bobbed up. He had the Rugian. The latter was curled, not fighting. Maximus spat and grinned. ‘He will not die. I just gave his balls a little squeeze.’

  Wada the Short swam to them. Maximus stopped smiling. Together they got the Rugian back to the boat. The crew hauled them aboard, the Rugian roughly.

  ‘Tie his hands.’

  Water sluicing off him, Ballista went to the prow. Both longships were pulling towards them. Brondings or not, their intention was obvious.

  ‘Reverse positions.’ Ballista retrieved his boots, sat to pull them back on.

  The helmsman had already got the steering oar at the stern inboard. He rushed past, slotted the other one into position. The rowers reversed their places on the benches.

  ‘One, two, three – row.’

  The blades bit the water. The boat seemed to hesitate, then edged forward. With the second stroke, it gathered way. In moments they were gliding fast away from the threat. It was one of the beauties of a double-prowed northern warship.

  ‘Bring the pilot here.’ Ballista walked to the new prow, struggling back into his sword belt.

  Maximus thrust the bound Rugian to his knees. Wada the Short gave the captive a clout around the head.

  Ballista leant down, took hold of the man’s chin, tipped it up. With his other hand he drew his dagger, ran it across the man’s throat with just enough pressure to cut the skin. He held the bloodied point just in front of the man’s left eyeball.

  ‘I want there to be no misunderstanding between us. If they catch us, you will be the first to die.’

  The Rugian said nothing.

  ‘Take us back into the delta. Find us somewhere to hide. You know these waters; the Brondings do not.’

  Ballista touched the eyelid with the dagger. ‘Will you do this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tie him to the prow. Diocles, watch him. Maximus, help me arm. Those with mailshirts, make your choice whether to wear them.’

  The pursuing longboats were still about half a mile behind when the boat slid around a bend and they were lost to sight.

  The marsh closed around them. The green water ran down the sides of the boat. There were no sounds of pursuit, just the splash of their oars in the water, the creak of the rowlocks, the breathing of the rowers. The pilot conned them, just loud enough to carry the length of the boat to the helmsman.

  Perfidy aside, the Rugian knew his calling. Watching the colour of the water, he guided them this way and that, ever deeper into the labyrinth of the delta. At length, he had them pull towards what looked to be a solid bank. The keel scraped through mud. Parting the hanging branches of two willows, they emerged into an isolated backwater. Midges were thick in the air. Black vegetation wrapped itself around the blades, weighting them down. Some duck flapped up off the surface and wheeled away. After fifty or so strokes, the channel forked. The pilot guided them to the left. The little channel dog-legged, then opened into a still, black pool.

  There was a dilapidated hut. They ran the boat up next to it. Castricius, Tarchon, Rikiar and the Wada brothers swarmed ashore. The rowers and steersman reversed positions. Ballista and Diocles jumped out, ready to push off. They waited, tense, as the landing party searched the hut and its surroundings. Maximus kept a blade to the throat of the Rugian.

  Satisfied there was no one in the vicinity, Castricius waved them ashore. There was no need to tell anyone to be silent, not even Zeno, Amantius or their slaves.

  Ballista sent Tarchon and Rikiar struggling back through the mud and undergrowth to keep watch where the channel divided, and posted Wada the Tall and two of the Romans as sentries away from the water. When they were in position, Ballista got out of his war gear and soaking clothes. Maximus and Wada the Short did the same. Naked, they towelled themselves down and put on dry things from their chests. Nothing else was unloaded from the boat.

  The sun arced up across the sky. The duck returned. There were moorhens on the pool as well.

  Ballista went and spoke to the Rugian. ‘Your king betrayed us to them?’

  ‘Perhaps. I do not know. There are several passages to the gulf. He told me to use that one, take my time getting there.’ He stopped abruptly, as if reluctant to say more.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you spare me?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘The news of your coming ran long before you. There was another Angle here. He left just two days before you arrived.’

  ‘One of my brothers?’

  ‘No. A tall, thin warrior. He wore a hood. I did not talk to him. He did not dine in the hall. He spoke with the king alone. Then he left in a small boat. But there was a longship out in the roads.’

  Ballista mulled this over, but could make little of it.

  ‘Will you let me go?’

  ‘This is what will happen. We will lay up here until dark. Tonight you will take us out by unfrequented ways. There are many channels out of the delta. The Brondings cannot be watching them all. If we get clear, I will put you ashore somewhere to the west.’

  ‘If not?’

  ‘Use the daylight to plot our course.’

  ‘If we run into them?’

  ‘You will die.’

  XIX

  The Vistula Delta

  Snakes were everywhere on this river, big fuckers, absolutely fucking everywhere. Maximus knew he should get some rest. There would be none to be had tonight. But in t
his dismal marsh it was hard to find a place where a snake could not get at you. Most of the crew had stretched out on the bank near the hut, dozing in the sun. That was just asking for trouble. The snakes could swim, and the boat had a low freeboard, so that was no good either. The idea of a pointed black head, forked tongue flicking, eyes full of malice, sliding over the gunnels, thick, grey body coiling after, slithering up while you slept, all defenceless, was too horrible to contemplate. Fuck, he hated snakes.

  Maximus could not settle. He went and sat with Ballista. One of the half-witted Harii, the taller one, was droning on about one of his relatives who was a shape-changer. When the fellow went to sleep his spirit roamed the woods in the form of a bear. Absolute fucking nonsense. Perhaps the Greeks and Romans, like that little shite Zeno over there, were right and northern barbarians were stupid beyond belief. Of course, the southerners did not know much about Hibernians. Not many of them came to the island, and quite a few that did had not been alive to leave.

  Some cannabis would have been good. But with the gods knew how many longboats full of Brondings combing the delta there could be no lighting a fire. Cold food and no cannabis: it was going to be a long day. It seemed an eternity since he had had a woman. Now the other of the Harii, the short-arsed one, was talking about another relative. Apparently this one wore women’s clothing to help him communicate with whatever benighted gods haunted the forest. It appeared that holding a horse’s severed cock helped the process. Maximus had had enough of this.

  Saying he would stand watch, Maximus left. Having collected some things from his pack on the boat, he made his way to where the creek divided. It was hard going, mud sucking at his boots. He used his sword to probe the reeds for snakes. You could never be too careful.

  Rikiar thanked him, and went back. At least the Vandal did not yap like an old woman; not like those Harii. Actually, he was too quiet. He needed watching. If he stole anything from Maximus, it would be more than a few mutton bones around his ears the fucker would be getting.

  Maximus hunkered down with Tarchon to watch. The Suanian took his duties seriously and was quiet. The water was still, black in the sun. The reeds meant you could not see far. It was more a matter of listening.

  From nowhere came a feeling of loneliness. Maximus missed Calgacus. Odd, he never had when the miserable, ugly bastard was alive. The old Caledonian might have moaned the whole fucking time, but you could trust him. Not like a light-fingered Vandal or a couple of superstitious Harii. It had been better when the familia was just the three of them: Maximus, Calgacus and Ballista.

  Chewing some air-dried beef, Maximus fished out the one book he owned, Petronius’s novel, The Satyricon. He unrolled the bulky papyrus at random. It was the dinner of Trimalchio, the part where the host tells the story of the midnight hags stealing the body of a baby. It reminded Maximus of something. He scrolled back. Yes, there it was: the story of the soldier who was a werewolf. Gods below, the Romans were no better than a bunch of Harii barbarians from a forest in the middle of fucking nowhere. At times Maximus wished he had never had to leave his own people.

  In the mid-afternoon, Maximus and Tarchon were relieved. Back at the boat there was much to be done. Ballista had ordered the oars muffled and the rowlocks greased. The men had to stow all the metal ornaments from their gear and wrap rags around the fittings of their scabbards and bowcases. They were to wear dark cloaks, hoods pulled up over their helmets and blacken their faces and hands. The order was inclusive. Maximus enjoyed watching Zeno and the eunuch Amantius having river mud rubbed into their delicate skins by their slaves.

  The sun was low when they set out. The boat glided from shadow to shadow through bands of golden light, hazed with insects. The water was thick with blown leaves, solid like amber. Beyond the screen of willows, they turned south.

  Maximus crouched by the pilot. He kept the short sword below the side of the boat, but let the man see it. Ballista was on the other side of the Rugian, the latter once again tethered to the prow.

  The sun went down, and they threaded their way in near-darkness. The smells of rotting vegetation and wet mud lay over the tallow and pitch rising from the boat. It was deathly quiet, every slight noise amplified: the run of water down the sides, the soft splash of the oars, the scuttle and plop of night creatures taking to the river, and the hiss of the breeze shifting the reeds. At the pilot’s whisper, they turned now left, now right. Lost, unsure of their heading, Maximus was far from trusting the Rugian. He felt the smooth leather of the hilt, reassuring in his hand.

  A light showed through the trees ahead. A yellow-orange fire flickering just above the water level some way off. Maximus readied himself to kill the Rugian without sound. No one else seemed concerned. He looked again. It was the moon, enormous, just past full. Moving branches made its light into dancing flames.

  Time lost all meaning. The carved head on the prow led them onward, like a stern deity guiding them to some unalterable fate.

  The moon had risen free of the trees. Its light made the shadows along the banks impenetrably black. But when they emerged they could not have been more exposed.

  Maximus smelt the open sea long before the guide murmured for utter silence. One more turn and they would be at the mouth of the channel.

  Keeping to the shallows, tight against the shore, the boat nosed around the bend. A soft indrawn breath from those at the prow. Ballista gestured back down the boat. The noise of the oars in the water was fearfully loud as they stopped the boat.

  Not a hundred paces ahead were two moored longboats.

  Maximus covered the pilot’s mouth with his left hand; with his right he brought the blade to the man’s throat.

  The warships had their awnings rigged to shelter their crews as they rested for the night. No sound came across the water. But low on the mast of each a lantern burned. In the bright moonlight there could be no sneaking past if so much as a single one of the Brondings was alert.

  The boat drifted slightly. Maximus felt the pilot’s breath hot and damp in his palm. His own breathing rasped in his throat. They were near the edge of the moonlight. Ballista had to make the decision now.

  As Maximus watched, one of the lanterns blinked as a figure crossed in front of it. Ballista had seen it as well. Quiet as a wraith, the big northerner moved back through the boat, motioning to the men on the benches.

  Every creak sounded like thunder as the rowers, with all the care in the world, pushed against their oars. Maximus’s eyes never left the darkness on the longship where the moving shadow had vanished. The man had to hear their blades leave the water, slide in again.

  Slowly, slowly, the boat inched sternwards. No alarm rang out. As they gathered a little momentum, the noise increased. The best oarsmen in the world could not back a boat without making a sound. Still no alarm. The deck heeled a little as the steersman brought them around.

  A bank of reeds slid across the view of the warships like a curtain. An all too audible sigh of relief, hurriedly shushed.

  There would be thumps and bangs if the crew reversed their positions. Instead the starboard oarsmen braced their blades in the water, while the larboard ones rowed circumspectly. With the steering oar hard over, the boat came about in a little over its own length. They stole away south again like thieves in the night.

  In the contingent safety of the delta, they pulled into a side-water and brought the vessel to a halt. They did not anchor or go to the bank. They rested on their oars. The water lapped at the sides.

  Ballista did not threaten or bluster. He spoke to the pilot as if they were old comrades-in-arms, this just the latest of many desperate ventures they had shared. Was there another obscure channel to the gulf, one the Brondings might have overlooked, one which they could reach before daybreak? The Rugian pondered the proposition. To give the man his due, he was calm, took his time, gave it his full consideration. Yes, there was one further west, but coming to it involved several detours. They would be lucky to be there before dawn. It
was both shallow and narrow, thus little frequented except by a few marsh-dwelling fishermen. At this time of year there should be just enough clearance for the boat. But there could be no guarantee the Brondings did not know of its existence. If they were aware of it, everything would depend on their numbers – if they had sufficient ships to blockade it as well as the more obvious places.

  Decisions are easy, Maximus thought, when there are no real alternatives.

  Like neophytes of some gloomy and clandestine sect, they followed the wooden idol carved on the prow through the marsh again. They moved through an unchanging landscape. The water was glossy and black. The drops from the oars shone like jewels in the moonlight. On either side, reedbeds slid past, the stalks bone-white, the feathery heads black and clear as if etched in metal. Down at water level, the wind had dropped. Up above, clouds chased across the haloed moon.

  Again, time had loosed its moorings, drifted away into something immeasurable. The rhythmic creak and splash of the oars, the water slopping down the sides of the boat, lulled Maximus into an altered state. It was like the calm that came over him in battle, but less urgent and more reflective.

  If they were alive and not captured, this time tomorrow, Ballista would be well on his way home. The Harii Wada brothers were drawing him back into that world. But Maximus was concerned it would not go well for his friend. All those years in the imperium had changed Maximus. They would have changed Ballista, too. And, leaving aside the nonsense about amber, there was the mission. The Angles were now allied to Postumus. Ballista was tasked with turning them against him, bringing them back into friendship with and obedience to Gallienus. Given the hostages held in Gaul, Ballista’s father and remaining half-brothers were unlikely to welcome that idea. Ballista had said nothing on the subject – the time in the imperium had taught him discretion – but Maximus had little doubt that if the king of the Angles refused to alter his allegiance, the imperial mandata ordered Ballista to replace him with someone more amenable. In Sicily, Ballista’s wife and sons were in the power of Gallienus. There could be no question of Ballista ignoring the mandata. If it came to overthrowing his father, there would be blood. A terrible burden came with patricide.