Not all was monotony. Groups of rounded barrows of the dead came and went. Then, abruptly, the convoy would come upon small watercourses. Hidden in their own declivities, the streams sparkled, refreshing the eye. Snipe flew up, and there were chub, tench and pike, even crayfish, to be caught. Mice and larger rodents dived into holes and burrows. Maximus claimed to have seen all sorts of other animals – wild asses and goats, a vixen playing with her cubs – but Calgacus’s old eyes were not sharp enough to catch them. The Hibernian was probably lying.
The days were one thing, but the nights were another. In the day, unless you rode away from the din of the caravan, you could not hear the Steppe singing. But, at night, when men and beasts slept, there was no escaping it. The wind – and there was almost always wind – sighed through the fresh spring grasses. The sibilant whistling and whispering insinuated thoughts of regret and loss, instilled a feeling of trepidation. Nightingales and the call of owls added to the melancholy. On those nights when there were no clouds, the moon was bright enough to illuminate every blade of grass. The unfathomable immensity of the sky made Calgacus uneasily aware of the fleeting insignificance of man. He thought of Rebecca and the boy Simon, of his own hopes of comfort and domesticity. If he survived this – and in the face of such alien vastness it seemed somehow implausible – he would marry her. Ballista might hanker for a return to the north, at least in half his heart, but Calgacus wanted none of it. He had been a slave there. In the south, he had freedom. He wanted nothing more than to live out his days under the hot Sicilian sun, a son of his own playing at his feet.
On the fifth morning, Calgacus rode with Ballista and Maximus away from the others.
‘So, would now be a good time for you to be telling me how you and the longheads are so well informed about each other?’ Maximus asked Ballista.
‘You might as well know,’ Ballista said. ‘Once, the Heruli lived in the north, on the island of Scadinavia, across the Suebian sea, north-east from my people. In my grandfather’s time, the Heruli killed their king, for no better reason than they did not want to be ruled by him any more.’ Ballista smiled.
‘We Germans do not exalt our rulers like the Persians or Romans, but among the Heruli their kings enjoyed practically no advantage over any other warrior; all claimed the right to sit with him, eat with him, insult him without restraint.’ Ballista smiled again.
A brace of partridge flew up, their whirring wings making the horses skitter. Ballista soothed his mount, and took up the story once more.
‘They chose a new king, Sunildus. He was more to their taste. They were numerous and warlike. They soon conquered most of the thirteen neighbouring tribes on Scadinavia. Both the powerful Gauti and the savage Scrithiphini fell under their sway. Their king tried to call a halt, but they reviled him, called him effeminate, a coward. Their natural avarice was aroused. He did not dare try to curb them. They crossed the sea. The Eutes were subjected. The Heruli moved south, raided far and wide. The terrible things they did roused the other tribes against them: the Varini, Farodini, Reudigni, Saxones, Aviones and the Angles.’
Ballista stopped. Calgacus was half listening; he knew the tale of old.
‘And?’ Maximus prompted.
‘And, my grandfather had been away when the Heruli came. They raped and killed his first wife, their two daughters. It was Starkad who formed the tribes into alliance against the Heruli, persuaded their subjects to revolt. He killed their king Sunildus with his own hands. The Heruli were driven from their lands. Sunildus’s son, Visandus, led them into exile. Many of the Eutes went with them. Now they are here.’
Maximus laughed, and turned to Calgacus. ‘Did you know this?’
‘Aye.’
‘And you both thought telling anyone might cast a further blight on the spirits of your companions?’
‘Something on those lines,’ Ballista said.
‘I can see your point,’ Maximus said. ‘Being tracked by an unknown murderer through a wilderness utterly forsaken by the gods but seemingly crowded with your enemies; that I am sure they can take in their stride. But should they discover that if, by some miracle, we are lucky enough to reach our destination alive, we will have delivered ourselves into the hands of a people who have good reason to want to see your entire family, and probably anyone connected to you, dead, now that might depress anyone a little.’
‘Like hunting bear across ice with a cracked bow and a torn hamstring,’ Calgacus said.
The other two ignored him. He wheezed his own amusement.
Then, for a while, they rode in silence.
‘Who do you think it is?’ Ballista said, breaking into their thoughts.
‘A man who does not like slaves or eunuchs,’ Maximus said. ‘It could be me.’
‘So you do not think it is the old witch?’ Ballista asked.
‘Sure, you can never tell,’ Maximus said. ‘She is a villainous-looking old bitch.’
‘Never succumb to the soft words of a witch, or her snaring embraces; every sweetness will turn sour, you will take to your bed broken with sorrow,’ Calgacus said.
‘Stop it,’ said Ballista, smiling. ‘When you get happy enough to start quoting northern aphorisms, it always depresses me.’
‘Aphor-what?’
‘Sayings.’
‘Are you sure it is not the Borani?’ Maximus asked.
‘Quite sure. They want me dead, not some slave and an imperial eunuch.’
‘Pythonissa cursed you and all you love. Now, unless your girl thinks you have taken to loving eunuchs, it is not going to be her behind it. Come to that, it is not going to be her brother Saurmag or the Alani either.’
Ballista nodded in acceptance.
‘I have been wondering if it might be the King of the Urugundi,’ Maximus said. ‘He will not be wanting to be attacked by the Heruli, and he has that old gudja on hand, and he is a nasty piece of work.’
‘If Hisarna knew we are meant to set the Heruli on him, he would not have let us cross his lands. He could have sent us back, or just had us killed.’
Again they rode in silence. Another group of barrows was looming.
‘But you might be right that it is political,’ Ballista continued after a time, as if he had not stopped speaking. ‘We are in the middle of nowhere, cut off from all news. But out there the dance of emperors and kings goes on, and for all we know we may be a small part of it. The Persians do not want the Urugundi fighting the Heruli. The easterners want them and the other Goths free to raid the imperium. As Corrector of the Orient, Odenathus of Palmyra has been taking the fight to the Persians. They would rather he was distracted chasing northerners around the southern shores of the Euxine. There again, Postumus the pretender in the west must know Gallienus is preparing to attack him. It is better for him if Gallienus has to deal with Gothic raids in the Aegean and Greece.’
‘How is killing a eunuch and a slave going to make the embassy fail?’ Maximus asked.
‘If the Heruli think there is a killer with us, they might not want us coming too close to their king,’ Ballista said. ‘It could be politics.’
Calgacus hawked and spat. ‘Was it politics drove you to kill those two eunuchs in Cilicia?’
Ballista shot him a fierce, unhappy look.
‘You were out of your mind,’ Calgacus continued. ‘Same here; no politics, no deep reason – it is the work of a madman.’
‘Who?’ Maximus raised the question.
‘Of course,’ Calgacus went on, ‘it might not be a man at all. No one has seen the killer. Maybe not a man, but a daemon.’
They rode past the first of the tombs. From its summit, an ancient stone effigy of a warrior holding a sword gazed down.
X
Hippothous felt like a character in a novel. Not one of those centred in the Hellenic world, but an adventure story that roamed to the ends of the earth; something like The Wonders Beyond Thule. Certainly, this journey was tough, brought its dangers: Numberless are the challenges which lie b
efore you on your outward journey and on your return. But I am destined by the hateful decision of a god to die far away, as Idmon had prophesied to the crew of the Argo. Hippothous was sure the first line was the one that was relevant to him.
The sea of grass was a constant delight. That afternoon, they had ridden into camp across a carpet of hyacinth and tulip. The scent of the thyme crushed by their horses’ hooves mingled with the intoxicating tang of wormwood. The customs of the Steppe were fascinating, well worth study. Hippothous was not one of those Hellenes who, no matter where they went, just found Hellas. He saw himself more like Herodotus; interested in other peoples for their own sake, not in a hurry to judge, prepared to accept that, everywhere, custom is king.
Like Herodotus, like those men of culture who accompanied Alexander, he was venturing beyond the known, opening new fields of enquiry. That was why Hippothous was so pleased to be able to attend the ritual that was to unfold after the feast.
The fire was sawing in the perpetual wind, tongues of flame drawn away into the night. The air was pungent with mingled woodsmoke, animal dung and roast lamb. Philemuth, seated on the left of Hippothous, knew some Greek. As the participant in the forthcoming ritual, it was unsurprising the sickly Herul did not want to talk. On the other side of the fire, Ballista was talking to Andonnoballus; Maximus and Calgacus with a couple of other nomads. They were using one of the languages of the north. Hippothous, of course, could not understand a word.
Unable to join in the conversations, Hippothous ate his lamb quietly and sipped his drink. He was very sober; the significance of the evening did not encourage heavy drinking or much levity. With nothing else to do, as so often, he gave way to his passion for physiognomy. He was not in the mood to study the Heruli. Although they were interesting. Once you looked beyond their artificially distorted skulls and pale, rough, northern skin, they were surprisingly normal; some even evidently of good character. But they could wait until they reached the court of King Naulobates. Now Hippothous wanted to practise on two subjects he had put off for far too long, for three years – four, if you counted inclusively.
Calgacus was in direct view, well lit by the fire, and caught up in discussion with his neighbours. It was an ideal moment for prolonged scrutiny. The test of skill would be to penetrate behind the natural ugliness of the subject; to tear that unlovely veil aside and reveal the soul. No squeamish feelings of revulsion should be allowed to stand in the way.
The old Caledonian had a large head. Usually that was good, indicating intelligence, understanding and high ambition. But Calgacus’s head was too large; a horrible great dome-like thing. That must mean the opposite: a lack of knowledge and understanding, and a complete indifference. And his head was crooked, pointing to a failure of modesty and a dissolution of covenants. Not a man to be trusted, but nothing too bad so far.
Calgacus had a big chin. Which should denote the ability to suppress anger, but the tendency to talk at the wrong time. The latter rang true to Hippothous, but he was unsure about the former.
Calgacus shifted, scratched his crotch. From various trips to the baths, Hippothous knew Calgacus possessed a very large penis. Maximus often called him Buticosus, the ‘big-stuffer’ in Latin. Calgacus was the sort of man the frumentarii would have kidnapped in the reign of the pervert Heliogabalus to give the emperor pleasure. Although Hippothous could remember nothing at all in the Physiognomy of Polemon or that of Loxus about penises – an odd omission – a big cock was obviously a very bad thing. Everyone knew a small penis was the mark of a civilized man. The opposite was barbaric irrationality and loss of self-control.
The eyes are always the truest witness. Hippothous peered across at Calgacus. The northerner’s eyes were somewhat bleared. That was nothing but old age. They were an indeterminate shade of blue. Little to be made of that. They were small. That was more revealing – small like kinds of snakes, monkeys, foxes and the like. They most resembled the eyes of a serpent: malicious, intelligent, tyrannical, wary, timid, sometimes tamable, quick to change, and bad-natured. Hippothous thought the last obviously correct.
Calgacus was oblivious, still deep in conversation. His eyes were still, fixed, but his forehead and eyebrows were contracted as he listened to the Herul. It was the revelation Hippothous needed. As Polemon had written, when you saw eyes of such a type, Know that he is a hated man and an enemy, and, if they were combined with a frown, Judge him for perfidy and cunning.
Hippothous leant back. At last his judgement was made, scientific in its exactitude. He took a drink. He felt rather drained, but it was no time to rest.
Despite the subdued, even apprehensive, mood of the meal, Maximus was yapping away; hands moving, bird-like head nodding. Hippothous found it difficult to get past the missing end of the Hibernian’s nose; the scar was distractingly reminiscent of a cat’s arse. He took another drink, tried harder.
What was left of Maximus’s nose implied that it had once spread. That sign of fornication and a love of sexual intercourse could not have been more apt. The hair on his head was black, cropped short but thick. Its darkness indicated cunning and deception, in thickness it resembled that of a savage wild animal. The hair of his eyebrows was long, almost touching the temples, signifying much desire and the nature of a pig. Maximus wore a short beard, little more than stubble, but it was more luxuriant on the neck. The untrained viewer might think this nothing more than an indolence in shaving. The physiognomist knew better. It showed power, strength, even magnanimity, like a lion. But, as ever, the eyes were the key. They were never still, always moving fast, and that pointed to lack of truth, to wicked conjecture, and all the way to true evil.
A Herul slave came out of the darkness to Philemuth. It was time for the scapulimancy. The slave carried the shoulder blades of three sheep; he passed them to the nomad. Everyone, even Maximus, was quiet. The bones were very white; scraped, possibly boiled clean. Philemuth turned them in his hands. Everyone knew the question Philemuth was putting to them. He was asking his gods: Should I die?
At length Philemuth handed the bones back. Using tongs, the slave placed them one after another in the heart of the fire. The flames licked white around them. The shoulder blades would crack in the heat. If but one cracked cleanly lengthwise, the answer to the question was yes.
No one spoke as they waited. Beyond the sounds of the wind and the fire an owl called in the immensity of the Steppe. Hippothous wondered what deities drew near across that dark ocean of grass. The Heruli worshipped many gods; none gentle or mild.
‘Hunh.’ Philemuth grunted, then coughed. The slave went forward and retrieved the bones. They were black now. He placed them on the ground to cool.
Philemuth sat cross-legged. His fate was decided, waiting to be discovered, but he showed no impatience. Once, he doubled up coughing. But he forced himself upright again, motionless.
A horse snickered out in the darkness. Philemuth gestured. The slave gave him the first shoulder blade. Philemuth peered close at it, lips moving as if reading a book. He took his time, then he put it aside. Three fine cracks were discernible running across the bone.
A gesture, and the slave gave the next one into Philemuth’s hands. The Herul spent less time studying it. Before he put it down, Hippothous could see the round flakes that had burnt off, the fine patina of cracks covering the whole surface.
Philemuth seemed to barely glance at the final shoulder blade. He put it down on the grass, and stood up.
Hippothous saw the clean break running lengthwise.
Philemuth walked out of the circle of firelight into the darkness.
‘No, no.’ The young Herul Aluith was laughing, although not unkindly. ‘You draw the arrow like this.’ He leant out of the saddle, across between the horses. Wulfstan could not understand how he did not fall.
Aluith again guided Wulfstan’s fingers in the strange nomad draw: the thumb pulling the bowstring back, right forefinger locked against the thumbnail, the whole hand twisted to the left so the knu
ckle of the forefinger held the arrow in place.
‘Now, try again.’
Wulfstan booted his mount into a canter. Although gripping as hard as he could with his legs, the young Angle bounced precariously. It felt very unsafe with no hands on the reins. The horse picked up speed. The Steppe rattled by all too fast. The sack stuffed with straw came nearer. Wulfstan nudged the horse on to a slightly different approach. Concentrating hard, as Wulfstan nocked the arrow, he remembered to place the shaft to the right of the bow. The string cut into his thumb as he drew – everything about this nomad way of doing things seemed wrong. He tried to aim. The motion of the horse made it impossible. He was almost on top of the target. He released. The arrow flew well wide. Grabbing both the reins and the tuft left low down on the mane for that purpose, he pulled the horse around in a wide circle. He trotted back again, dispiritedly.
As soon as the wagon train had got going that morning, Ballista had asked the Heruli if they would teach him and some of his men how to shoot at the gallop in the nomad style. Andonnoballus, Pharas and young Aluith had agreed, seemingly delighted to demonstrate their skills. Seven had assembled for instruction. The centurion Hordeonius had claimed his auxiliary light-horse bowmen were already more than well trained. The gudja had smiled disdainfully. No one had suggested asking the Sarmatian drivers.
Irritatingly, Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous had grasped the basic technique in a reasonably short time. Castricius and Calgacus had taken rather longer. The latter never came anywhere near real proficiency. The Suanian Tarchon had given up altogether. Now, only Wulfstan was still trying. He was very hot and tired. He had been at it all morning.
It was good of Aluith to remain behind, good of him to teach a slave in the first place. When the idea was raised that morning, Wulfstan had been prepared to beg Ballista to be allowed to use a horse and try. No opportunity to learn was to be spurned. When free, he would need all the killing skills he could possess. Wulfstan had been pleased Ballista had granted his request without demur. He had ridden ponies often before he was enslaved. The big Sarmatian warhorses – and he was on his third this morning – were very different. Guiding a horse just with your legs was difficult, but drawing a bow with your thumb, not your fingers, and trying to aim the arrow all at the same time was quite impossible.
The Wolves of the North Page 9
