The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Ivar Horse-Prick.’

  ‘Dernhelm, you little fucker.’ Encumbered by shields and weapons, they embraced. ‘It is him, even uglier than when he left.’

  A cheer came from the warriors. Not all joined in.

  ‘Why have you come?’ The young warrior’s tone was still unwelcoming.

  Ballista looked at him measuringly. ‘I do not know you.’

  ‘I am Ceola, son of Godwine. The atheling Morcar has entrusted me with the defence of this shore. Your father is not here.’

  ‘I know that. If you will give me a horse, I will go to see my mother in Hlymdale. When I return, we will sail to Varinsey to see my father at Gudme.’

  Ceola considered this. ‘Your men will remain here. They will cause no trouble, or you will answer for them. Ivar Horse-Prick will accompany you.’

  Ballista and Ivar Horse-Prick rode knee to knee through the open, gently rolling countryside. The sun was warm on their backs. Cattle grazed in the meadows, the winter wheat was just showing green. Their path wound inland past wet depressions fringed with alder. The mounds of the burial ground loomed on the horizon. Ballista had recounted his long journey from Olbia to the Heathobards helping to repair the Warig, and two warriors of that people joining the crew. Nothing had happened in the final two days’ sailing to need comment.

  ‘It has always been the way,’ Ivar said. ‘Young warriors with a name to make want to follow a war leader of reputation.’

  Ballista smiled. ‘Young Ceola did not seem in a hurry to join my hearth-troop.’

  ‘He is your brother’s man,’ Ivar said. ‘Your father is old; Morcar makes many appointments. Ceola is too young to be among the duguth. His father the eorl Godwine is a good man. You remember him?’

  Ballista grunted.

  Ivar Horse-Prick laughed. ‘I forgot. Godwine did not approve of you or Eadwulf Evil-Child. And he was jealous of Froda. We were all jealous of Froda.’

  Men were working among the burial mounds. Ballista reined in to watch. The chamber was nearly finished. The long sides had been revetted with overlapping vertical planks, shored up by struts. The labourers were forming the short walls by fitting horizontal timbers behind the ends of the construction.

  ‘Heoroweard,’ said Ivar.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Of course, you would not know.’ Ivar shook his head. ‘At the Nerthus ceremony. Some Brondings, and a few Wylfings and Geats – Morcar said they should be searched, your brother Oslac and the priest argued against it – they had concealed knives. Paunch-Shaker died fighting. He will be in Valhalla.’

  ‘Who else?’ Ballista’s chest was very tight.

  ‘Two young warriors; you would not know them. A few others took wounds, Oslac among them – nothing serious. Two of the Brondings were taken alive.’

  ‘Was Kadlin there?’

  Ivar gave him a sharp look. ‘Yes, she got to the boats.’ Ivar looked away. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘Her son Aethelgar fought well. Oslac’s boy is growing into a fine man.’

  Ballista looked down into the grave. ‘I had hoped to see Heoroweard Paunch-Shaker this side of Asgard.’

  As they came near Hlymdale, much was the same, as if the years had counted for nothing. Smoke rose from the halls. That of his father stood far the largest. They dismounted inside the stockade. Grooms led their horses to the stables. The piggeries still stood to the left; the thatch of their roofs slumped, as he remembered, lines of green moss growing across them where the ties ran. Swine snouted, busy in the sunshine. As in his childhood, the mud was flat, closely pocked by their sheds, rougher, more churned further out by the wattle fences.

  ‘Come,’ said Ivar Horse-Prick. ‘You have not travelled all this way to look at pigs.’

  They walked up past the forge. There were new buildings, but, sensibly, none had encroached on the domain of the smith. The grass was springy under his boots, again as Ballista remembered. The wind whistled through the lime, beech and hazel of the wood backing the settlement.

  The great hall of the cyning Isangrim was empty except for a couple of serving women. The lady was not expecting visitors. She was with her women in the weaving hall.

  The day was mild, and the door was open. It threw a rectangle of bright light into the building. There was the click and shuffle of the looms; the smell of wool and charcoal. Ballista stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The women formed themselves in his vision from the gloom. They sat on their stools before the frames, their fingers paused as they regarded him.

  His mother’s hair was grey. Otherwise, she looked unchanged. She sat, tall and stately among her women. A brooch gleamed with garnets and gold at her breast.

  Ballista knelt before her, put his hands on her knees. ‘Mother.’

  She put her hands over his. ‘Dernhelm.’

  He looked up. Her face had more lines, yet was the same. Her eyes were moist, nevertheless she smiled calmly. His father had often said she was self-controlled beyond other women, far beyond his other wives. Ballista thought of his own wife. Julia had the same quality.

  ‘You are filthy from the road.’ She told one of the women to bring water. ‘How old are your sons now?’

  Ballista had to think. ‘Isangrim has twelve winters, Dernhelm five.’

  ‘Do they look like your Roman wife?’

  ‘No, they are fair.’ Ballista felt like crying.

  ‘They are well?’

  ‘Yes, the last time I saw them.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Two years ago, in Ephesus.’

  His mother had to swallow, marshal herself before she could speak again. ‘It is hard to be far away from your children. You left your family safe?’

  ‘In Sicily – safe, the gods willing.’

  ‘The old Caledonian slave Calgacus?’

  Ballista had to fight not to break down. ‘Dead. Killed last year.’

  ‘You avenged him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The woman returned with a bowl and towel. Ballista washed his face and hands, and dried himself on the middle of the towel. His mother took it from him. ‘How uncouth you have become. Others will have to use this towel. You are not among the Romans now.’

  Ballista acknowledged the mild rebuke with a dip of his head. He knew then how much he had changed.

  ‘You will be hungry,’ his mother said. ‘You always were. When you have eaten, we will talk.’

  They ate in the great hall. Ivar Horse-Prick consumed an immoderate amount, even for a northerner. Ballista told his mother how her brother Heoden did, how things went among her people, the Harii. She admired Battle-Sun, her brother’s gift to his foster-son. Afterwards, Ballista and his mother retired to the privacy of his father’s chamber at the rear of the hall, upstairs under the eaves. There were different wall hangings, a couple of new chests. The rest was the same: the huge, dark-wood carved bed, some of his father’s favoured weapons. Ballista threw open the shutters, letting sunlight flood the room.

  Suddenly, his mother hugged him fiercely. Stroking his hair, she sobbed. Ballista held her, his own tears hot on his cheeks.

  She stepped away, drying her eyes. ‘It has been a cruel parting. Twenty-six winters. I prayed, but often doubted I would see you again. You are bigger, your teeth and nose have been broken, but you are much the same.’

  Ballista went to speak, but his mother silenced him.

  ‘Pull the chairs to the window.’

  He did as he was told. Side by side, they sat and looked out over the palisade at the trees stirring in the wind.

  ‘You have come back at a bad time,’ she said. ‘You will know about this Unferth and his son, Widsith. No one knows where they came from: some say they are from the south, others that they are not human. The father always goes masked. They gave their oath to the king of the Brondings, ate at his hearth, then – two years ago – murdered him, and took his throne. The Wylfings, Geats and Dauciones have cast off the rule of the Himlings and acclaimed Unferth the
Amber Lord.’

  Ballista carried on looking at the moving branches. ‘Your brother told me all this. The kings of the Rugii and Heathobards said the same.’

  His mother made a slight gesture of impatience that he remembered well. ‘You will not know how things are here. Your father has become old beyond his years. Sometimes he comes here; mainly he stays in the hall at Gudme. In most things, he lets Morcar rule. With you a hostage among the Romans, Arkil the same with the Romans in Gaul, and Eadwulf long in exile among his mother’s people in Frisia, there is no one else.’

  ‘Oslac?’

  ‘He does nothing except read Latin poetry and brood over his wife.’ She paused. ‘Kadlin’s eldest son, Starkad, is with Arkil in Gaul.’

  ‘Kadlin is …’

  ‘She is mourning her brother.’ Again, the little movement indicating impatience. ‘Your father is surrounded by Morcar’s creatures: Swerting Snake-Tongue; Glaum, son of Wulfmaer. Either Morcar or one of them is always there. Unferth and his men have burnt outlying farmsteads on Latris, even here on Hedinsey. They kill our people, raid our allies, and the Himlings do nothing. Morcar is a great warrior, but it is as if he is reluctant to fight Unferth.’

  ‘Everyone is afraid of someone,’ Ballista said.

  His mother laughed. ‘Whatever Morcar is, he is not a coward.’ The laughter went from her. ‘Nor is Oslac. Neither will welcome your return.’

  THE ISLAND OF VARINSEY

  Morcar looked up towards the severed horse’s head on the pole. It was too much. It could not be ignored.

  The village of Cold Crendon through which he walked had been a quiet place, its inhabitants farmers and fishermen. Now it was a reeking shambles. Two of the cottages must have been well alight before the rain came. Only their beams remained, shimmering with the fire still in their core. The thatch of others smoked wetly. It would have to be raked off. If there was anyone left to do it, and they had the heart to start again.

  Bodies lay in the mud. Men, women and children, old and young cut down indiscriminately. Some were naked; their heads had been hacked off and placed by their buttocks. Morcar felt their shame. These were his people. This was too much.

  Morcar walked up to the headland. The rain had blown away to the west. Just a few thin clouds raced after it. The north coast of Varinsey was spread out, its low islands and lakes deceptively peaceful in the gusting wind and returned sunshine.

  Rock thrust through the soil up here. The hazel pole had been wedged into a cleft. The horse’s head had been turned to face inland. There was writing cut into the pole. Morcar read the runes.

  Here I, Widsith Travel-Quick, son of Unferth, set up this Sorn-Pole and turn its scorn on the cyning Isangrim and the Himlings, and I turn its scorn upon the spirits that inhabit this land, its groves, springs and marshes, sending them all astray so that none of them will find a resting place by chance or design until they have driven the cyning Isangrim and the Himlings from this land.

  ‘The fuckers are taunting us,’ said Swerting. ‘They mean to drive us out, kill us all. No matter what Postumus the Roman says, we have to fight.’

  Snake-Tongue was right, Morcar knew. It had been bad enough before. Now Unferth’s son had burnt a whole village, and on Varinsey, deep in the heart of the empire of the Angles. The mutilations, the Scorn-Pole; it was all a direct challenge to the rule of the cyning. The Himlings needed strong leadership now. They needed it as they had not since the coming of the Heruli then the Goths in the days of the cyning Starkad. Morcar knew it fell to him. His father had fought in every battle at Starkad’s side driving out the Goths, but Isangrim was old now, his fighting days were done. Morcar’s brother Oslac would not answer. Oslac was brave, skilled at arms, but always he had thought too much and done too little. Oslac did nothing but dwell on Latin poetry – how would Virgil’s Pius Aeneas have acted? – and worry about his wife. Since Arkil had gone into Gaul, there was no one to lead the Himlings but Morcar himself.

  Yes, Snake-Tongue was right: if this went unavenged the Himlings would not have an ally left. The Rugii, Farodini, Hilleviones – even the Aviones, Varini and Reudigni, all the tribes of the Cimbric peninsula – would follow the islanders in deserting to Unferth. With them gone, it could only be a matter of time before the Himlings fought their final defeats on Hedinsey and Varinsey, before their great halls burned like this village of Cold Crendon.

  Morcar knew well in his heart that he must take the fight to Unferth. But the problem remained. Postumus was their ally, and the emperor in the west had been unequivocal in his orders: he would not countenance the Angles attacking the new Lord of the Brondings.

  Morcar turned his face to the sea, let the wind lift his long hair, play on his face. The thing was out of his hands. His father was still cyning, and Isangrim had decided to consult the gods about war. One of the Brondings taken after the Nerthus ceremony had been uninjured. Isangrim had announced that the Bronding would fight a champion’s duel against an Angle warrior. The gods would show the outcome of the coming war in the result. As the duel was inevitable, Morcar had demanded he fight for the Angles. He was not much afraid. When the Hilleviones had rebelled, he had defeated their champion before both armies and returned them to their allegiance with no further blood spilt. He had won four judicial duels among his own people. He did not know how many men he had killed in battle. It was not arrogance; he knew he was as good with weapons as any in the north.

  ‘Swerting, take the boat from Hronesness. Go to Postumus’s governor of Gallia Belgica, explain why we have to fight Unferth.’

  Snake-Tongue nodded.

  ‘If you think it necessary, go inland to Postumus himself. Leave now.’

  After the tall figure of Snake-Tongue had gone, Morcar turned back to the sea. He closed his eyes, let the wind buffet him. It did not clear his mind. Like a dog with a bone, his thoughts returned to worrying at his problems. From the first, he had known the Angles must ally themselves with the breakaway Roman regime in Gaul. It was not the trade, and not just the clandestine money he received. It was simple geography. The mouths of the Rhine were but a short sea journey. The Angles were separated from the lands still ruled by Gallienus by innumerable miles of forest and plain, by many other peoples, many of them hostile. Postumus held Arkil and some thousand Angles. When Postumus heard the Himlings had gone to war with his other ally, Unferth, he might execute his hostages. The deaths of the others would be a pity, but that of Arkil would be far from a concern to Morcar.

  There was a much worse aspect. Postumus, of course, knew fine well how Arkil and the others had come into his power. Apart from Morcar himself and Swerting Snake-Tongue, among the Angles no one else knew; not even Glaum, son of Wulfmaer, or Morcar’s own son, Mord. There was no worry about Snake-Tongue. He had been part of a yet worse thing, and held it close in his heart for twenty-eight years. Swerting was trustworthy. Which was more than could be said of any Roman. How many Romans knew? Obviously, Postumus himself; Lepidus, his governor of Gallia Belgica; Celer, the frumentarius who had arranged the thing – any one of them could have told any number of others. Morcar felt like a man standing on a bastion already undermined by his enemies. At any moment, they might light the wood and pork fat. Would there be any sign – telltale wisps of smoke, a slight tremor; something which would give him time to get clear – or would the whole edifice crash down without warning?

  And now Dernhelm was coming home, with money and false promises from Gallienus. Morcar opened his eyes, looked at the wide sea, and smiled. Oslac thought no one knew he had paid the witch to curse Dernhelm. Perhaps when that failed, Oslac would turn to more practical measures. Oslac was mad with love for that slut Kadlin. What lengths would he go to if he happened to find her with Dernhelm? … Morcar had arranged more difficult things.

  XXV

  The Island of Varinsey

  Ballista reined in on the last rise, and looked at the home of the gods. The young tended to accept their surroundings as natural and immutable. Ball
ista had never dwelt on the meaning of Gudme. Now, seeing the place again, somehow, it was evident. The settlement was set in a sacred landscape. The lake of the gods and their springs marked its western border. From up here, he could see the Hill of Sacrifice a mile or two to the north, the Hill of the Gods beyond the lake, and the Hill of the Shrine off to the south. When his great-grandfather Hjar had taken control of the island of Varinsey – over a century before – he had realized that he needed more than his marriage into the ruling Waymunding dynasty, more than his success in war. He had needed the authority of the gods. Hjar had built his hall here at Gudme, the home of the gods, overlooked by those he had claimed as his divine supporters.

  Hjar had been no fool. For three generations, the gods had been kind. Gudme had flourished. Now it seemed to stretch for miles. There must have been sixty – a hundred – individually fenced farms. They were gathered in groups on the low hills, fields and meadows in the lowland in between. To Ballista’s eyes, long accustomed to the towns of the imperium, it was strange. It had a centre in the great hall of the Himlings, but no other civic buildings; no central agora with council house and temples. Some of its paths were paved, but they followed no pattern, were flanked by no porticos, no statues. There was not a stone building to be seen, not a tiled roof. No wall encircled Gudme. Apart from the lake, it possessed no real boundaries, nothing to mark the urban from the rural.

  The lack of an enclosing wall did not mean it was indefensible. Each farm had its own palisade. They were sited on the higher ground. An attacking force would get split up in the meadows. There were dead ends, natural killing places among the interlocking fences and buildings. In such an environment it would be difficult to keep control of the men. Best to start at the east, take one hillock at a time, move methodically through to the great hall. If you had artillery, site it on the neighbouring rise, use it to keep the defenders’ heads down until just before each assault. If time was short and you were unconcerned about plunder or what happened after, you could attack with the wind behind you and use fire; the thatched, wooden buildings would burn unless the weather was very wet.