Hippothous had taken his own station at the front. He had peered out of the hanging. An arrow had winged towards him. He had ducked back.
The sounds of fighting, the whooping of the Alani and the higher yipping of the Heruli came from outside. In the gloom, Hippothous waited, trying to master his breathing, trying to fight down his fear.
After what seemed an eon, the noise lessened. Hippothous had peeped out again. The Alani had gone.
Hippothous had emerged into the ghastly aftermath. There were loose horses, some still running; others were wounded, either head down standing still, or limping. There were broken bits of weaponry in the grass, and arrows sprouting on unlikely surfaces. And, wherever you looked, there were dead men strewn. Ten were dead from the caravan: three auxiliaries, two of the Heruli – Aluith and Beras – and two of their slaves, the slave of the interpreter, and two Sarmatian drivers. Three others were severely wounded: old Calgacus, another auxiliary, and one of the Roman scribes. Mysteriously, two men were missing: Castricius and Hordeonius the centurion. No one had seen them during the fighting, and no one could remember where they had been before it started.
The Alani had left twelve of their number dead on the trampled grass. Hippothous was not squeamish – far from it – but watching the Heruli scalp and skin them had been unsettling. The Heruli were skilled; their long knives flicked and sliced quickly. They took extra trouble over where the skin of the Alani was tattooed. Andonnoballus assured him the tattoos made the best trophies; wearing them made certain the dead men could not escape serving their killers in the afterlife. Hippothous knew most Hellenes would be both shocked and revolted by both deeds and belief, but as Herodotus had written everywhere, custom was king. Who was he to judge their habits? The mutilated corpses – repulsive pink-blue things, no longer human – were thrown out on the Steppe for the birds of the air and the beasts of the Steppe to eat.
Now, the next day, their own fallen – Heruli, Romans and Sarmatians – were consigned to the flames. It was not the elaborate and measured cremation of Philemuth. There were too many bodies and there was too little time. But you could not fault the Heruli for offerings: gold, furs, unguents, all sorts of expensive goods. Hippothous was impressed. Such disregard for the things of this world could allow the freedom to concentrate on the things that really mattered: on the souls of men – your own and others.
It was a large pyre. It had taken the remainder of the day of the ambush and the following morning to build. Two of the wagons had been dismantled to add to its bulk. Again, Hippothous was full of admiration. It exhibited a ruthless pragmatism, providing more firewood while also shortening the baggage train. After all, they were now two drivers short.
The pyre had more than enough room for Aluith and Berus to be placed a little apart. All the others would be interred here where they fell. The bones of the two Rosomoni, however, were to be carried back to the summer camp of the Heruli. Andonnoballus said there were further rites to be done. Everywhere, custom is king.
The smoke streamed out, high and long across the plains. It would be visible for many miles.
‘Will they come again?’ Ballista put the question that all the survivors had been thinking, but none had asked.
‘They might not,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘They had no banners, and none of them had armour. There were none of their nobles riding among them. It might be they were just a raiding party of young warriors out to prove themselves, maybe even from the Aorsoi or the Sirachoi or some other tribe subject to the Alani. It could be they were just bandits.’
The older Herul, Pharas, shook his elongated head. ‘I do not think so, Atheling. They were well informed. They knew which wagons held the Roman diplomatic gifts. But more than that – they fought too hard. Bandits never want to leave twelve of their own behind.’
Hippothous knew that was true.
‘They could have left their banners and armour off, hoping we would think them just a party of bandits,’ Pharas continued. ‘Safrax, the King of the Alani, is cunning. He could hope to get the Roman gold and our horses, maybe to kill the man who defeated him last year at the Caspian Gates, and then if your … if King Naulobates threatened him with war, Safrax can deny it was any of his doing.’
‘If they come, next time we will be ready,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘We have pickets out, a well-formed wagon-laager. Tomorrow, we will keep proper march discipline.’
Hippothous noted what he did not say. There were only just over twenty fit fighting men left with the caravan: Andonnoballus and Pharas themselves, their two Heruli ex-slaves, six Roman auxiliaries, eight Sarmatian drivers, the Gothic gudja, and Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous himself.
‘How long before the two messengers you sent yesterday will reach the camp of Naulobates?’ Ballista asked.
Straight after the retreat of the Alani, even as the dead were being numbered and collected, Andonnoballus had presented the four surviving Heruli slaves with the shields of freedom. Two of them were immediately sent to get help. Thoughtful of encirclement, Andonnoballus ordered them initially to ride in different directions; one to the north-east, one due north.
‘It is some distance to the summer camp,’ Andonnoballus replied.
‘How long before they get there, and how long before Naulobates’ men will reach us?’ Ballista was insistent.
Andonnoballus and Pharas looked at each other. Pharas shrugged.
‘Riding hard – and they each have four spare horses – they might get there by nightfall today.’ Andonnoballus stopped.
‘And how long before we can expect relief?’ Ballista was not going to be deflected.
‘It might take a couple of days for King Naulobates to gather a large war party. After that, three days to ride down here.’ Andonnoballus smiled. ‘But, of course, we will be moving towards them ourselves.’
‘Four days at the minimum, more likely five, and it could even be six,’ Ballista said. ‘That is, if your men got through.’
‘If they got through,’ Andonnoballus agreed.
XIV
Calgacus was being trampled and kicked. The hooves were coming down so hard the ground was bucking, throwing him from side to side. The worst was the horse stamping on his right shoulder and arm. It was quite deliberate. The pain was unbelievable. He cried out. Someone was lifting his head. A flask was put to his lips. Liquid ran into his mouth and throat. It tasted bad. He choked, coughing it up. The flask was back at his lips. A familiar voice was talking some soothing but insistent rubbish. Swallow it, swallow it. He swallowed the stuff. They laid his head down. The noise and movement and pain receded. The darkness came back.
They were back in Sicily, out on the estate on the lower slopes of Aetna. Maximus had bought a horse. It was a big bay Sarmatian, called Akinakes. Anyone but the half-witted Hibernian could see it was unbreakable – cunning as a snake, vicious beyond reckoning. The thing was even named after some eastern weapon. Ballista had been holding the twitch when Maximus put the roller on its back. Feeling the unaccustomed weight, the mad animal had reared. Ignoring the pain of the twine twisted tight around its upper lip, it had torn the wooden handle of the twitch clean out of Ballista’s hands.
The pain was white, then a dark red. Figures moved in its murk. One had bones in his hair. He was talking quietly to Ballista. It was the gudja. More of the unpleasant liquid at Calgacus’s mouth. Everything slipped away again.
Somehow, the Hibernian had got a saddle on the horse. They were in the big stone barn. It was always cool and dark in there. The Sarmatian was standing, ears back, showing a lot of white of eye. Sure, I will be fine. Maximus vaulted on to its back. For a moment, nothing happened. Let go the bridle. Ballista let it go. The horse took off. Ballista dived back over the gate out of the way. Rearing, plunging, the horse careered around the confined space. Maximus clung on like a monkey.
The horse stopped. It was snorting. Maximus grinned. The horse backed towards the wall. Maximus booted it forward. The horse ignored him. Maximu
s booted it some more. The horse reared high on to its back legs. Maximus clung on. The horse threw itself over backwards. It smashed Maximus against the wall. It slid down. Maximus was trapped, the immense weight of the horse grinding him against the rough stonework.
The horse scrambled up. Maximus lay unmoving. Long whip in hand, Calgacus jumped off the gate, Ballista with him. Quite deliberately, the horse kicked out at Maximus’s prone body – once, twice, three times. Then, careless of the lashes, it trotted to the far end of the barn. Bastard animal, utterly evil; as bad as any man.
The dark receded. The pain was back; the jolting, the thumping, the deafening noise. Gods, it all hurt. Calgacus opened his eyes.
Ballista was leaning over him. The lad smiled. He was trying not to look worried.
Maximus peered down at Calgacus. ‘You are not dead then.’ The Hibernian handed some coins to Ballista. He looked at Calgacus with grave disappointment. ‘I had a bet you would die.’
Ballista helped Calgacus sit up a little, gave him a drink. Watered wine, no hint of anything else.
Calgacus was in their wagon. It was rattling along faster than he had yet known. They had put lots of cushions and rugs under and around him, but they were still being jarred around. The motion was agony. His arm was splinted, and his shoulder strapped.
‘How long?’ Calgacus said.
‘Bugger,’ Maximus said. He handed more coins to Ballista. ‘I said your first words would be a more traditional Where am I?’
‘Three days inclusive,’ Ballista said. ‘You came round later that day. We gave you the poppy and a lot of drink, kept you near-unconscious all yesterday.’
‘My arm?’
‘Broken. The gudja set it. He is not happy with your shoulder either.’
‘Nor am I.’
‘You remember what happened?’ Maximus asked.
‘Of course I fucking remember. A horse buried me.’
‘Actually, no,’ Maximus said. ‘You jumped clear. You just fell awkwardly, bust your arm, knocked yourself out; all very clumsy.’
‘Wulfstan?’ Calgacus asked.
‘Fine,’ Ballista said. ‘He has cooked you some food, been keeping it warm on a brazier, nearly set fire to the wagon.’
‘Chicken soup, sure it is finer than your mother made,’ Maximus put in.
‘Anyone else?’ Calgacus said.
‘No one that matters; except Castricius is missing. So is the centurion,’ answered Maximus.
‘Missing out here is not good,’ said Calgacus.
Wulfstan came into the covered part of the wagon with the food. The other two left. Wulfstan helped him eat, gave him more wine and more poppy. Calgacus fell into a narcotic half-sleep.
When next Calgacus woke, Tarchon was staring at him.
‘I am most pleased you did not die,’ the Suanian said.
‘So am I.’
‘If you have been dead, I could not have repaid my debt.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Calgacus was not sure he was ready for this sort of conversation concerning Suanian honour. He gestured for Tarchon to pass him a drink. ‘And would you open the hangings?’
‘However, Kyrios, if you have dead, I still can repay Ballista.’
‘Will the Alani come again?’ Calgacus asked.
‘Most likely. But we are running away as fast as the wind – well, as fast as oxen go. Also, the longhead Andonnoballus and the kyrios Ballista have been busy, most thorough.’
‘Huhn.’ Calgacus made a noise indicating he doubted it, but Tarchon should explain anyway.
‘The Heruli are out on all sides as …’ Tarchon said something in Suanian. ‘How you say in Greek? Kaka … something.’
‘Kataskopoi,’ Calgacus said. ‘And apart from the scouts?’
‘It is highly thorough. The wagons goes in two lines; the first and the last ready to turn in to form a laager. That is right – laager?’
‘Yes, laager; a northern word, a camp or temporary fort.’
‘Good – laager. Anyhow, there is just eight wagon now. The stores ride in two not three, and the soldiers haves one not two. Other soldier ride in the one with the eunuch Amantius, and another with the’ – a Suanian word, obviously not flattering – ‘mans of the staff, as well as a soldier in with each of the stores. The spare horses runs in the centre.’ Tarchon grinned, proud of his grasp of things. ‘See, we are most highly prepared.’
Calgacus made a sound expressing profound misgiving. ‘How many fighting men are left?’
Tarchon started counting on his fingers. ‘Do I count also the wounded?’
‘No.’
‘And not mans missing?’
‘No – definitely not mans missing.’
‘The Sarmatian drivers?’
‘Yes.’ Calgacus found it hard work, even without the pain.
Tarchon began counting again. ‘Twenty-four.’
‘We are fucked,’ Calgacus said.
‘Yes, we are most fucked.’
Calgacus lay back watching the sun arc up over the Steppe. It was hotter now they were into June. With every slight jolt, sharp stabs of pain shot through his shoulder and arm. His head ached dully.
‘Where is Ballista?’ Calgacus said.
‘I get him for you, Kyrios.’
Calgacus rested as still as he could, swallowing the pain, trying to think through it.
Ballista and Maximus climbed into the wagon with Tarchon.
‘How are you?’ Ballista asked.
‘We have changed direction,’ Calgacus said.
‘We are heading north-east to the camp of Naulobates,’ said Ballista.
‘Why now?’ Calgacus’s voice sounded weak and peevish to him.
‘Because he is our only fucking hope,’ Maximus said.
‘You mean, why not before?’ Ballista asked.
Calgacus grunted.
‘Why did the Urugundi land us on the southern bank of the Tanais?’ Ballista was frowning with concentration. ‘Why not the northern side, head north-east, then cross the river higher up?’
Maximus and Tarchon had assumed thoughtful airs that failed to hide their incomprehension.
Ballista continued, thinking out loud. ‘Why did first the gudja and then Andonnoballus lead us due east, through the grazing disputed between the Alani and the Heruli?’
Calgacus wheezed and muttered, ‘Fucking clever now.’
‘A deliberate provocation,’ Ballista said. ‘They both wanted the Alani to attack.’
‘Maybe,’ Calgacus grunted.
‘Fuck,’ Maximus said.
‘Oh yes,’ Tarchon put in brightly. ‘As I was saying to the kyrios Calgacus, we are most fucked.’
‘Why?’ Ballista said.
A high call – yip-yip-yip – cut off any answer. Wulfstan stuck his head around the awning. ‘Horseman approaching from the south-east.’
Everyone rushed out. Calgacus listened to them mounting, riding a little ahead.
After a time – hard to judge when he hurt that much – Calgacus rolled on to his good left arm, and painfully crawled to the front. He looked out over the right shoulder of the stolid Sarmatian driver.
A lone rider was coming. Even at a distance, it could be seen that his horse was dead beat. The man himself was slumped forward in the saddle.
A small knot of horsemen were waiting to one side of the wagon train. They were all gazing at the man approaching, except Ballista and Andonnoballus, who were looking all around, everywhere else.
‘Not as fucking stupid as some,’ Calgacus said to himself.
‘Castricius,’ Maximus shouted, ‘you little bastard.’
The Roman let his horse stop next to the others. It looked ready to drop.
‘What happened?’ Ballista asked.
‘I was out for a ride, bumped into a group of Alani warriors coming from the south. About a dozen of them chased me. I went off east. They followed – persistent buggers. Finally slipped back through them last night.’ Under the ingrained dust, Castri
cius’s face was pale.
‘You are hurt,’ Ballista said.
‘It is nothing, a scratch.’ Castricius put his hand to his left leg. ‘The spirits of death are still not ready for me.’ His small, angular face creased into a smile. ‘And now, my good daemon has saved not just me, but all of you as well.’
Narcissus heard the commotion outside. He clambered through the cluttered wagon to see. It was time for the evening meal. A horse was loose in the camp. Something had spooked it. Unable to escape the encircling wagon-laager, it careered around, sending things flying, overturning cooking pots. Men ran after it, shouting, making things worse. The other horses were getting stirred up.
Let someone else deal with it. Narcissus had his orders. He went back into the empty wagon to continue sorting out everyone’s jumbled possessions. He moved a heavy leather bag. A papyrus roll fell out. Narcissus had been educated to be a secretary. He unrolled the first sheet and went nearer the lamp to read. Taking my start from you, Phoibos, I shall recall the glorious deeds of men of long ago who propelled the well-benched Argo … It was the Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes.
A memory came to Narcissus, then the realization tumbled in: Mastabates asking about epic poetry, the denials that had been uttered, the killings and mutilations that had haunted the caravan, the ritual mutilations that followed that of Apsyrtus by Jason in the poem.
A noise outside. Without thought, Narcissus stuffed the roll into his tunic. He must tell someone, must tell Ballista.
Narcissus jumped down from the tailgate of the wagon. The camp was still in uproar.
‘What have you got there?’
The voice was behind Narcissus. He spun round. ‘Nothing.’
‘Give it to me.’
Narcissus fished the roll out. ‘I was just tidying, doing my duty.’
‘Of course.’
The left hand held it out.
As Narcissus passed it over, the other’s right fist closed on his throat. The papyrus fell to the ground. Narcissus clawed at the hand choking him. He could not break the grip. He could not shout. He was being dragged into the darkness out beyond the wagon.
The Wolves of the North Page 13
