The Wolves of the North (19 page)

Ballista sighed. He did not want Calgacus to dismiss his idea out of hand. It had seemed much more plausible earlier, when riding alone. He decided to come at it obliquely.

‘When we were in Antioch, before the battle of Circesium, I read a lot of a Greek writer called Lucian.’ Ballista smiled. ‘I was reading his satire
The
Dance
just before I was attacked by those assassins wearing pantomime masks – odd coincidence.’

‘Pretentious fucker,’ Calgacus muttered, perfectly audibly.

‘One of the satires is set out here on the Steppe; well, some of it.’

Calgacus let his breath hiss through his teeth.

‘There is a Scythian,’ Ballista said. ‘A blood-friend of his is insulted by the King of Bosporus when he asks to marry one of
the king’s daughters. So the Scythian says he will bring his friend the head of the king.’

‘Bollocks,’ Calgacus snorted.

‘So the Scythian,’ Ballista ploughed on, ‘got himself sent on an embassy to the Bosporus. They dealt with normal things: the payment of tribute by the king, grazing rights, the punishment of criminals. The Scythian said he had some private business to discuss with the king.’

‘Utter fucking Greek nonsense.’ Calgacus was not being carried along.

‘Anyway’ – Ballista realized he would have to end the story quickly – ‘the Scythian persuaded the king to go into a temple with him on his own …’

‘Stupid fucker.’

‘… and they locked the door behind them.’

‘Of course they did.’

‘When the Scythian came out, he had something under his cloak, but he called back into the temple that he would return in a moment.’

‘And,’ Calgacus interrupted, ‘he jumped on his horse, and took the king’s head back to his friend.’

‘Yes,’ Ballista said.

Calgacus wheezed his amusement. ‘I thought you hated Greek novels.’

‘I did not say I believed the story. It is more that it points to a –’

‘A way of doing things.’ Calgacus finished the sentence for him.

Ballista nodded.

‘You did not have to retreat into the fiction of the
Graeculi
.’ Calgacus turned his domed head towards Ballista; suffering had not improved his looks. ‘Not that long before our time – when things were just threatening to go bad for the Romans – the emperor Septimius Severus wanted rid of the man he had appointed
Caesar. He sent five envoys to Albinus in Gaul. They asked to speak to Albinus alone. The Caesar was suspicious, and had them arrested. Concealed knives were found. Under torture, they confessed they were
frumentarii
with orders to kill him.’

‘How did you know that?’ Ballista asked.

‘I have been in the
imperium
of the Romans as long as you. I just do not parade my knowledge like you.’

Ballista accepted the rebuke with a smile.

‘You think it may be we are being used as a screen for a
frumentarius
to get close to Naulobates and assassinate him,’ Calgacus said.

‘Yes.’

‘And this
frumentarius
is getting his hand in early.’

Put like that, Ballista thought it sounded particularly unconvincing. ‘Some men develop an unhealthy taste for killing.’

‘You were out riding in the sun too long. The killer is just an insane individual.’

‘
Just
an insane individual?’ Ballista said. ‘He has murdered at least three, if not four or five.’

‘Two slaves and a eunuch, that we know; maybe another couple of slaves – none of them fighting men. He poses little threat to the likes of us.’

Ballista laughed. ‘You are getting better; more like your old, heartless self. In no time you will be back to bothering the baggage animals.’

Calgacus told his
patronus
to fuck himself.

They sat in silence, having to cling on in the jolting, rocking wagon. It was all very amicable.

‘
Atheling
.’ Wulfstan came in. ‘There is a cross up ahead.’

Ballista went to look. There
was
a cross, a simple ‘T’ shape, planted on top of a tall burial mound. Even at a distance, it was obvious there was a man on the cross.

Ballista had to put the saddle back on his horse. By the time he reached the tumulus, there were several riders at its foot. They parted to let him through. On the cross was the missing centurion Hordeonius.

Dismounting, Ballista automatically hobbled his horse. He walked up the steep, grassy slope. The wind sang in his ears. You could see for miles from the top. The plain shimmered in the sunshine.

The centurion was nailed to the crossbeam through the forearms. His ankles were nailed to the sides of the upright. His body was twisted, head hanging forward. He was naked, and his legs had been broken, their position grotesque. All over his body were small cuts. Below the body, the wood of the cross was stained with his blood and filth.

Ballista had not liked Hordeonius, but it was a slow and horrible way for anyone to die.

A horrible way to choose to die. For nine days, the Allfather had hung on the tree of life, pierced by the spear. No one had comforted him. No man had offered him a drink. Thus he had won the wisdom of the dead. He had died and risen again: an offering of himself to himself. Ballista did not know how long the god of the Christians had lasted.

The wind moved the centurion’s hair.

Behind Ballista, someone spoke of getting Hordeonius down.

‘No’ – Andonnoballus’s voice was hard – ‘he stays up there. The Alani crucified him here not just to terrify but to delay us. We keep moving. They will be close.’

The centurion’s head moved. His eyes opened.

‘Gods below, he is alive!’

There was a babble of voices. Men were scrambling off their horses, starting up the slope.

The arrow missed Ballista by a palm’s breadth. It thumped into Hordeonius’s chest.

Andonnoballus was holding his bow. He was still mounted.

There was silence, apart from the wind in the grass.

‘He would not have lived,’ said Andonnoballus.

It was just before sunrise. Wulfstan sat on the box by the driver. The long whip of the Sarmatian cracked loud above the backs of the oxen, and they put their weight against their harness. With a groan, the wagon shifted, paused, then gathered way.

Behind, in the covered body of the wagon, Calgacus cursed. All the others – Ballista, Maximus and Tarchon – had already ridden off into the near-darkness to take their posts. The old Caledonian had not liked being told by the
gudja
yesterday that he must continue to rest. The enforced inactivity was making him even more than usually vile-tempered.

Wulfstan would have liked to ride. Yet after the depredations of the Alani, and the two Heruli messengers each taking four spare horses, only fifteen mounts were left, and these were assigned now only to men of fighting age. Wulfstan had survived the charge with Ballista, but he knew he was not yet a warrior. He had not killed an Alani. He had not killed anyone in the fighting. He had not even struck anybody. But he had survived. Wulfstan could not wait to be a warrior. Another two winters and he would be the age Ballista was when he first stood in the shieldwall of their
people, first killed a man. Maximus had been even younger, just a winter older than Wulfstan.

It was not too bad sitting up front. The driver had a smattering of the language of Germania – his people had been subject to the Urugundi for some years. Already Wulfstan had quite a few words of Sarmatian. They could converse. Now and then, they did so, but mainly the Sarmatian was silent. Wulfstan did not mind. The young Angle had a
gorytus
on one hip, a man’s sword on the other. He had to think himself into the man’s role he must play when the Alani caught them. And he had a lot of other things to think about.

Presently, the sun came up.

The raking light gilded the tops of the grass, but threw deep shadow into every hollow and made forbidding black boundaries of any watercourses. The intense clarity of the light made every shrub of wormwood, every lonely tree stand stark.

Now it was light, they quickened their pace. All around whips cracked, pots rattled, axles screeched, and right behind Wulfstan the old Caledonian swore, voluble and exceedingly foul.

Wulfstan thought of the stark cross yesterday. He had enjoyed seeing the centurion nailed there. It was especially good he had still been alive, good he had suffered for a long time. Hordeonius had been a cruel man, with the soul of a tyrant. You only had to look at the weeping, broken slave the centurion had left behind to know the latter’s endless tirades against the servile had been more than just words. Wulfstan admired the matter-of-fact way Andonnoballus had despatched the centurion. Allfather, there was much to admire about these Heruli.

There were many other men – evil, bad men – Wulfstan would love to see despatched. From the brutal slave dealer in Ephesus to the merchant of Byzantium, to the sea captain from Olbia, to the traders along the Borysthenes and Vistula rivers all the way back to the Suebian Sea and the Langobardi raiders. Not the quick arrow or the clean steel for any of them. The things they had done called for much worse; called for the cross – a slow, agonizing death in their own piss and shit – or the stake thrusting up their arses and into their bowels. It would not be quick. It would take Wulfstan months, maybe years, to carry his vengeance the length of the Amber Road.

The wagon hit a rut, pitched violently. Wulfstan shot out a hand to hold on. The Sarmatian grinned sardonically. From behind, Calgacus let loose a torrent of repetitive obscenity.

Wulfstan’s mood lightened a little. Old Calgacus had been good to him. So too, although less overtly, Maximus and Ballista. The latter would have made a fine treasure-giver to the warriors of the Angles had the
norns
spun differently. And there was Tarchon. The Suanian had done him no harm. Indeed he made Wulfstan laugh: the absurd, touchy pomposity, and the bizarre formality as Tarchon mangled languages – that of Germania, Greek and Latin, and his own native tongue. The
familia
was not home – it would never be – but it was the first place since the Langobardi came where Wulfstan had felt almost safe.

He laughed at himself. To feel
almost safe
as they raced across this endless alien wilderness, pursued by a horde of nomads and haunted by a malignant killer, had to be a reflection on the terror he had felt before, rather than any sensible estimate of his relative safety.

And even in the
familia
not all was good. The little ferret-faced Roman officer Castricius with his endless stuff about daemons good and bad was unnerving. But he was not the real problem. It
was that odious secretary Hippothous. Back in Byzantium, Wulfstan had sent him away in no uncertain terms when the
accensus
had made disgusting suggestions. Here on the Steppe, the
graeculus
had approached him again, if in a more subtle way. After rebuffing that attempt, Wulfstan kept finding Hippothous staring at him. It was probably just something to do with his ridiculous obsession with trying to read people’s faces, but it was disconcerting. There was much about the shaven-headed Greek with the pale eyes that was disconcerting. Wulfstan would shed no tears if a stray arrow, Alani or otherwise, found Hippothous. As Wulfstan had learnt from the ambush, battle was chaos; almost anything could happen undetected.

Wulfstan ran a hand over the nomad bowcase on his hip. The
gorytus
was covered in decorations. Prominent among them was the personal emblem of Aluith. The
tamga
took the form of something like the Greek letter
Chi
or the Latin X with a curling line across the top. After Aluith had fallen, Andonnoballus had given the
gorytus
to Wulfstan. The young Herul leader had said it was fitting, as Aluith had taught Wulfstan to shoot from the saddle.

Aluith had been the closest thing to a friend Wulfstan had made since Bauto the young Frisian he had met in slavery. Bauto had looked after him; looked after him in the worst of times. Bauto had been lost overboard in a storm in the Euxine the year before. Wulfstan mourned both Aluith and Bauto.

Still, Aluith, with some help from the other Herul Ochus, had finally taught Wulfstan to master the nomad release. The Angle
was nearly as proficient as Datius and Aordus, the two ex-slaves now become Heruli who still rode with the caravan. How Wulfstan had envied them and the other two slaves; the ones gone north as messengers. Straight after the ambush, the three remaining Rosomoni had presented them with the shields which marked their freedom: just reward for their courage. As free Heruli warriors, the four inscribed
tamgas
of their own choosing on the small, round bucklers. What a contrast from Narcissus, promised his freedom by Hippothous but murdered before he was awarded it. Would it have been granted had he lived? And what a contrast from himself, riding in the charge which turned the day yet promised nothing, and given nothing.

Wulfstan himself would have given much – even an eye, as the Allfather had – to be Datius or Aordus. If Ballista eventually manumitted him, in the
imperium
he would remain reviled as a freedman. His subjection, the unthinkable things done to him, would be commented on and sniggered about. It would forever be a stain that could not be washed away. No Greek or Roman ex-slave could become a magistrate or serve in the legions. None of them could become a free warrior proudly bearing his own
tamga
on his horse and arms, like Datius or Aordus.

The smug self-satisfaction of the inhabitants of the
imperium
infuriated Wulfstan. The way they liked to equate the whole inhabited world with the part they tyrannized. The way they divided the world into their
humanitas
and all other peoples’
barbaritas
. The way they understood all other peoples through writings hundreds of years old about totally different peoples who happened to inhabit vaguely the same part of the world. This lazy, retarded thinking would betray them one day. Wulfstan snorted. For all their literary ethnographic posturing, men like Hippothous and Castricius, or the dead eunuch Mastabates, would never understand the Heruli. Wulfstan doubted they would ever hear the
names of Datius and Aordus, let alone understand what motivated them.