‘It is Strabo the geographer who claims that nomad women in general are available,’ Hippothous said. ‘Anyway, they smell, never wash.’ He addressed the latter to Maximus.
‘I heard they kept their virginity until they had killed three men in battle,’ Castricius said.
‘And cut their right breast off,’ added Ballista.
‘Their mothers are said to burn them off,’ the interpreter pedantically corrected.
The wind had got up, whipping the branches above their heads. The sky was dark, threatening rain. Down by the river, bitterns boomed, deep and resonant.
‘Gods below, it is getting cold,’ said Maximus.
‘Not as cold as it will be out on the Steppe,’ remarked Castricius. ‘Winter is near continuous all year round. The north winds are charged with bitter rain, chilled with ice and snow.’
‘Mules and asses die in the cold, and cattle lose their horns,’ Mastabates joined in. ‘Only animals small enough to live underground can survive.’
‘And summer lasts but a few days. Even then there is mist. On the few occasions the sun does appear, it has little warmth,’ Castricius said.
‘That is not what Strabo says,’ Hippothous put in. He seemed to be attempting to outdo the interpreter in pedantry. ‘According to the geographer, the summer heat is too severe for those unaccustomed to it. Anyway, as a man of culture, I look forward to seeing strange and wonderful creatures – the tarandos, which changes its colour, and the colos, which runs swifter than a deer. It drinks through its nostrils and stores water in its head.’
‘Fat and smelly? Well, I do not really care, as long as they are willing,’ Maximus mused. ‘Actually, even if they are not all that at first …’
A violent gust of wind ripped across the river, bringing the first of the rain. It was not yet heavy, but squalls flurried across the ground where the camp had stood, around the wagons. The beasts stood in what shelter they could find, heads down.
‘Enough of this. Everyone on their feet,’ Ballista announced. ‘Help get your things into your wagons.’ The company scattered, heads cocked into their shoulders against the rain.
Ballista walked over to where the auxiliaries were sheltering in and around the wagons with the gold. ‘Where is your centurion?’ Hordeonius stuck his head out from under the felt canopy, half sketched a salute. ‘Leave half your men on guard, and send the others to load the wagons,’ Ballista ordered.
‘But …’
‘Yes, Centurion?’ Ballista’s voice was icily polite.
‘Nothing – we will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The centurion set about rousting out his men with needless harshness, a swing of his staff here, a kick there.
Ballista stamped through the weather to the wagon where the haruspex and the staff were. He climbed up on to the tailgate and stuck his head through the hanging. Pale, sullen faces gazed at him from the gloom. ‘Everybody is to help load the wagons.’ The others looked to the haruspex. After an insolent pause, the latter nodded. Ballista got down. Led by the priest, the occupants clambered from the wagon and went off unhappily.
Ballista stood, the still centre of squelching activity. The rain ran down his face. His long hair was wet on his shoulders. He felt eyes on him. The gudja was standing on the driving box of his wagon. In his rain-slick sable cloak, he looked like a ragged carrion crow. The gudja smiled, obviously enjoying the disquiet among the Romans.
The first day’s travel was not good. There were only a few curtailed hours of daylight left when the wagon train finally moved out. Curtains of rain swept in from the north. Water sluiced off the felt canopies, darkened the hides of the oxen. The horses on their long leads plodded after, heads and tails down. Occasionally, one snickered its displeasure. The unsprung wagons jolted along at a snail’s pace. The noise was deafening. As the inexperienced occupants had not properly secured the coverings, they leaked. The Sarmatian drivers out in the elements, caps pulled down to meet their cloaks, only their eyes and noses showing, seemed impervious. Everyone else, huddled and jarred in the body of the carts, was thoroughly miserable.
When it became fully dark, they made camp. It was a protracted, chaotic affair. The fires did not want to light. Some of the provisions had got wet. Their patience worn thin, men cursed, cuffed the slaves. They had not travelled above three miles – four at most.
The next morning, things were much improved. Hippothous had slept well. He and his slave, Narcissus, had been assigned a wagon with Castricius, Biomasos and Hordeonius and their two slaves. When not in motion, the wagons were comfortable; snug, yet agreeably roomy.
Climbing down, Hippothous saw that the rain had blown away south. A line of trees marked the Tanais to the left. Above, the sun shone from an enormous, washed-out blue sky. They ate breakfast – rye bread, dried meat, salted fish – and set about getting ready.
Having checked Ballista had no need of his services as accensus, Hippothous asked if he could exercise one of the horses. There were only twelve, and he was delighted when Ballista assigned one permanently to him. The bandit-turned-secretary tacked up, slung his weapons and kit and rode out across the Steppe. Apart from the trees marking where the river ran, a flat sea of grass spread in all directions. None of the spring grass came up to the soles of his boots. There were some low mounds in the far distance, oddly regular in shape, but nowhere else could he see anything which offered concealment. The bandits – Alani or whatever they were – who had trailed them up the Tanais were nowhere in sight.
From a distance, the great wagons and oxen looked like a row of toys laid out by a serious-minded child. Hippothous watched Ballista riding up and down the train. The order of march was the wagon of the gudja, that of Ballista and his familia, the two containing the soldiers, that of the haruspex and functionaries, three wagons with the stores, the eunuchs’, and Castricius’s at the rear. Hippothous assumed Ballista’s thinking was to have the Goth at the front as the guide and the two senior officers at either end of the rest. Given his past profession, Hippothous was unsure it was wise to have half the gold in the last wagon.
When Ballista must have considered all was vaguely in order, the whole was got under way. The cracking of whips, the complaining of beasts and the squeal of the axles travelled clearly to Hippothous. With the breeze behind them, sounds could travel a long distance out on the Steppe.
Back in the town of Tanais, Ballista had encouraged those who considered themselves fighting men to purchase local bows and quivers. Now, Hippothous took his out and began to practise shooting from horseback. To his irritation, he found it almost impossible. At a canter, let alone a gallop, the string bounced out of the notch of the arrow. On the rare occasions he managed to keep it in place long enough, the shot careered off nowhere near where he intended. It proved impossible to find some of the wayward shafts in the grass.
After a time, Hippothous gave up. He stowed the recalcitrant weapon back in its gorytus, and fished in his saddle pack for a book. Other riders were about. Castricius, Hordeonius and Biomasos all galloped separately across the Steppe, exercising their mounts. Hippothous ignored them. With the morning sun on his shaven head, he unrolled the papyrus and read the Physiognomy of Polemon. His horse ambled along, the reins loose on its neck.
At midday, Hippothous cantered back. They were to take lunch on the move. At the lead wagon, Hippothous found a difference of opinion between Ballista and the gudja.
‘It is asking for trouble,’ said Ballista.
‘We are too many for casual bandits, and it could draw the unwanted attention of others,’ the gudja advised.
‘There should always be outriders,’ responded Ballista.
‘This grazing is disputed between the Alani and the Heruli. Both send out raiding parties of young warriors. Scouts and the like would draw them down on us. Remember, we Urugundi know these Steppes and these tribes. You do not.’ The Gothic priest was not to be contradicted. Reluctantly, Ballista gave way.
Th
e second day went better. The wagon train made at least eight miles. By the third, they were getting into a routine. Although some dark clouds scudded across, the weather continued fine. Hippothous rode alongside Ballista’s wagon, where the northerner’s young slave, Wulfstan, was sitting up front alongside the Sarmatian driver. Hippothous had approached him before, the previous year back in Byzantium. The boy had turned him down flat, using words the servile should not utter. Hippothous had not taken much offence, none of it to heart. He knew the reason. The youth had been forced and mistreated by several owners before Ballista. Still, time had passed. His own slave, Narcissus, was getting past his first bloom. The young barbarian was more than attractive; he was beautiful.
Hippothous put himself out to be charming. It was hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of the wagon. Although studiedly polite, the boy quickly made it abundantly clear he was uninterested. Rejection never sat well with Hippothous, especially dished out twice by a slave. Outwardly maintaining an affable demeanour, talking lightly about trivial things, he turned the searching eye of a physiognomist on Ballista’s pampered pet.
The boy did not have the form of a typical northerner. While he was tall for his age, with the expected red-blond hair and blue eyes, his skin did not look rough to the touch, nor did his ankles appear thick. In some ways, he was close to a pure Hellene: erect posture, beautiful in face and appearance, a squareness to the face and a slimness in his lips. His head was finely proportioned, between small and large, from which one could judge intellect, perception and clemency. His ears also were evenly proportioned, which showed alertness. His hands were well made, with the broad white nails of understanding and memory. He was heavy in his speech, a sign of sadness but also of long-lasting ambition and strong desire. But, as ever, it was the eyes that were the key. The eyes are related to the heart, and it is through them you look to the conversation of the soul.
The youth’s beauty would blind many, but to the close scientific study of a trained physiognomist his eyes revealed the terrible story of his soul. His cow-like blue eyes inclined downwards and had a shade of green; the eyes of one vehement in thought and force, a lover of killing, a lover of blood. His eyes were flurried, with much movement – the eyes of one governed by a rebellious and angry daemon; a vengeful daemon which will visit harsh trials upon him and all those around him.
‘Ahead! Heruli!’ The voice of the gudja broke Hippothous’s concentration. The wagons were grinding to a halt. Reaching for his sword, Hippothous reined his horse away from the column to see.
About half a mile away, a line of six horsemen were silhouetted on a low rise. Immobile, the Heruli looked like black sentinels to another world.
PART TWO
The Wolves of the North
(The Steppe, Spring–Autumn, AD263)
The Heruli observed many customs not in accord with other men.
–Procopius VI.14.2
VIII
It was true. The Heruli were not as other men. Ballista tried not to stare. The six Herul horsemen were identical, and like nothing he had seen before. Each had bright, dyed-red hair, moustaches and goatee beards. Almost every bit of skin visible – faces, necks, hands and wrists – was covered in red tattoos like heraldic symbols or letters from some outlandish script. But it was not any of this, and not their clothes – bulky nomad coats – which made them so very strange. It was their heads: great, pointed skulls, nearly twice as long as they should be, slanting up and back like those of antediluvian predatory beasts or creatures from the underworld.
‘We are sorry we are late,’ one of them said. He spoke politely in the language of Germania; his accent close to that of Ballista himself. ‘We would have met you at the river, where our grazing lands begin, but my brother Philemuth was unwell.’
Now he looked, Ballista saw there were differences of age and physique. The one indicated looked old. He was slumped forward in his saddle. Behind the dyed hair and tattoos, his face was pale and drawn; there were blue-green smudges under his eyes. He looked deathly ill.
‘It is you again, Gudja’ – the first Herul spoke warily – ‘and as ever the haliurunna is with you.’
The Gothic priest nodded slightly, but the old crone at his side cackled and made fast, strange movements with her hands.
Making a quick gesture of his own, the Herul turned away from the Goths towards Ballista. He placed the palm of his right hand flat on his forehead. ‘I am Andonnoballus, and the brothers that ride with me are Philemuth, Berus, Aluith, Ochus and Pharas.’
Ballista bowed. ‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Legatus extra ordinem Scythica, sent by Imperator Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus Augustus. To my own people I am known as Dernhelm, son of –’
‘Son of Isangrim, son of Starkad, of the Woden-born house of the war leaders of the Angles. A Herul would forget his own name sooner than your lineage and the name of your grandfather.’ The Herul did not pronounce the words fondly.
Ballista ignored the reaction of the Roman party around him. All looked at him in surprise, except old Calgacus.
‘That was then; two generations ago,’ he said.
‘We Heruli keep some of the old ways.’
‘As do we Angles. Trust me, we have not forgotten the things done then.’ Ballista smiled, as if putting the subject aside. ‘Let me introduce my deputy, Gaius Aurelius Castricius.’
Again, the Herul placed his right palm flat to his forehead. Castricius dipped his head and saluted in acknowledgement.
‘But you have not honoured us with the names of your fathers,’ prompted Ballista.
‘Only the gods might say. We are Heruli, all brothers.’
‘The father of your King Naulobates was Suartuas, and his father before him was Visandus,’ Ballista said.
The Herul laughed. ‘We have not held to all the ways of our ancestors in the north. Many things are different on the sea of grass. It changes men. We are not the people Starkad knew.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Our camp is to the east. If it pleases you, we will go there. Our slaves are preparing food, and the vapour baths we are told you enjoy.’
The Heruli rode ahead, and the others followed after. Ballista studied the nomads. Biggish men on small, rough horses. Each had a combined bowcase and quiver, decorated with patterns akin to their own tattoos, although in different colours, a long sword and a dagger on their hips and a round leather shield hung from their saddles. They wore voluminous sheepskin coats; no helmets or armour. They were equipped as typical light-horse archers.
Maximus nudged his horse alongside Ballista. ‘You will be noticing their splendid trophies?’
Horsehair pennants fluttered from their reins and horse furniture. Ballista looked harder. No, not horsehair – human scalps, some dark, some lighter; all too many of them. And their quivers were not painted or embroidered, they were tattooed human skin.
‘What exactly is a haliurunna?’ Maximus asked.
‘A Gothic witch. They commune with the underworld, mate with unclean daemons. It is said they can see the future, change the weather, raise the dead,’ Ballista answered.
‘And do you want to tell me how come you and the Heruli know so much about each other?’
‘Not now; another time.’
‘Another time then.’ They rode in silence for a while, before Maximus spoke again. ‘Who was it told them we liked the cannabis?’
Ballista did not answer.
Maximus looked thoughtful. ‘That witch – rather the daemons than me.’
The Steppe spread all around them. The grass was enamelled with bright flowers: tulips, irises. Up above, below the white clouds, four rooks circled, harrying a lone vulture.
Slowly, very slowly, a line of round, grassy mounds drew nearer.
‘Kurgans,’ said Biomasos. ‘The tombs of long-dead warriors and chiefs of the grasslands. At night, lights can be seen within; the sounds of ghostly feasting drift out. The gods strike down any who disturb them.’
The lumbering ox-wagons clanked and squealed between two of the larger kurgans. Beyond was the camp of the Heruli. There was but a handful of tents, and four or five of the smaller shelters for inhaling hemp. Half a dozen slaves stood waiting for their masters. The slaves were dressed just like the Heruli, but they had no tattoos, their hair was not dyed and their skulls appeared completely normal. On the far side was a herd of animals: sheep, camels, mainly horses. There had to be over a hundred horses; mainly chestnuts, and some light greys. They were all hobbled and grazing quietly; an immense number for so few men.
Mastabates felt light-headed, and a little sick. The vapour tent was close, oppressive; the laughter too loud in his ears. It was not the amount he had inhaled or drunk but the strange alcohol the Heruli had dispensed. Although clouded in his thinking, he was quite adamant on that point.
Still, bizarre as they looked, you could not fault the hospitality of the nomads. No sooner had the wagons been circled and the beasts seen to than a feast had been ready. It had been completely without ceremony. There were no sacrifices or prayers beforehand, not even the most cursory libation. Men sat in no order, where they pleased, on rugs or on the grass. When they had served the food, the slaves of the Heruli joined their masters. And the slaves talked – not only to each other, loud enough to be heard by all, but they even addressed the free men unbidden. It was like an impromptu rustic Saturnalia.
There was no bread of any sort, but more than enough food: mutton stew, sausages – Mastabates enjoyed them even after he was told they were horsemeat – and a good, strong cheese. But the drink was another matter. When handed a leather skin, he had incautiously taken a long draught. The effects had been instant: a sharp stinging on his tongue, a sweat breaking out all over his body as the liquid went down. The Heruli had laughed as he spluttered. One who had a little Greek told him it was fermented mare’s milk. Not wishing to give offence, he had persevered with small sips. It was not totally unlike a thin yoghurt, but sharper; a Hellene would always sweeten his oxygala with honey or cut it with oil. Once he had got accustomed to it, he began to quite like its after-taste of bitter almonds.
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