The Amber Road (21 page)

A movement among the trees, not an animal. A creak, not a rubbing bough. Ballista threw himself sideways with an incoherent yell. As he hit the bottom of the boat, the arrows hissed through the air. One took the Olbian guide in the arm. He started to topple off the prow. Ballista grabbed him, hauled him back. Shouts and screams from the rear. A loud splash. More arrows, gouging white furrows from the gunnels, thumping into flesh.

Ballista snatched his shield, got to his knees. Scrabbling over the floor, he brought the linden boards up. Barking his shins, he swung the shield out to cover the man on the bench behind him. More arrows whipped around them. At least two men were down. No one was paddling. The way was coming off the boat.

‘Keep paddling. Get us clear.’ Ballista realized it was his voice. ‘Paddle!’

The small craft tipped to the right. Maximus and Tarchon were alongside him, their shields forming a ragged wall. The man at the steering oar was gone. The boat was dead in the water, listing badly.

‘Maximus, take the helm.’

The Hibernian scrambled into the stern. An arrow plucked at his tunic.

‘Paddle, you fuckers! Get us out of here!’

Ragged, with no cohesion, the crew stabbed the water. One misjudged his stroke, missed the surface, fell forward. A shaft slammed into Ballista’s shield, snapped his jaws shut. He bit his tongue, spat blood.

‘Paddle!’

Maximus had the steering oar, shield held awkwardly across himself. The boat was moving, picking up speed. The arrow storm was easing. Ballista looked around his shield. Figures among the branches. Not many of them. A tall man in a white cloak, shouting. The following boat was almost up with them. Now the shafts swarmed around it, flicking up the water, sprouting from shields and woodwork.

‘Ahead!’

Two low dugout canoes were pulling out from under a canopy of willows. Five men in each. Four dark men at the benches in tunics, one armoured man in the bows. Ballista scanned the surroundings. Nothing. No sign of another vessel. Just ten men – odds of four to one against them. They must be insane.

‘Maximus, take us straight at the first one.’

The leading canoe had paddled out to block the channel. Its crew were bringing its bows around. Its companion was a little way behind.

‘Diocles, take the second.’

The young Danubian shouted something back. His boat was clear. The bowmen had switched their aim to Castricius, the third in line.

‘Ram them.’

Ballista hauled the wounded Olbian guide back, braced himself in the prow. His sword was in his hand. He had no memory of drawing it.

The boats met bow to bow. The dugout was driven back, half under the surface. Shield up, the warrior at the front leapt for the larger vessel. Ballista surged up, brought his blade down, weight behind the blow. The shield shattered. Off balance, a foot in each boat, the warrior tried to thrust at Ballista’s stomach. Ballista smashed the metal boss of his shield into the man’s face. He fell into the river. His long blond hair fanned out as his mailshirt dragged him down.

The other four had abandoned the waterlogged canoe. They swam like otters back towards the bank. Tarchon reached past Ballista, and fended the canoe away.

‘Paddle. Keep going.’

Ballista looked back. The other dugout had thought better of it, and was nearly back at the shore. Now Heliodorus’s boat in the rear was running the gauntlet of the arrows, but would soon be clear.

XIV

The Borysthenes River

After the ambush, they paddled hard for at least an hour. They would have stopped sooner, but all the landing places were on the bank to their right. Eventually, there was an island in midstream, still marshy, but solid enough to disembark.

Maximus accompanied Ballista as he moved through the men. It would have been worse if there had been more archers, much worse if their attackers had possessed more than two dugout canoes. But it was still bad. Two crewmen were dead: a Roman from Ballista’s boat and an Olbian from that of Castricius. Ballista’s steersman was gone. If he was not dead when he hit the water, he was either drowned or captured. Nine had taken serious wounds; the guide and eight paddlers, four of them Roman and four Olbian. A couple of the latter looked certain to die. The uninjured did what they were able: hurriedly buried the dead, washed and bound the wounds of the living, gave them alcohol, spoke encouraging words. The barbed arrowhead embedded deep in the arm of the guide would have to wait until they reached the fortified village.

Ballista rearranged the crews as best he could. All the five slaves were drafted to the benches. It remained to be seen how useful they would prove. One each of the Olbian paddlers from out of the boats of Diocles and Heliodorus was assigned to that of Ballista. The more experienced of the two took over the steering oar. It left nine men to propel the boats of Diocles and Heliodorus, and eight those of Castricius and Ballista. In the latter, Maximus and Tarchon volunteered to help. No one, least of all themselves, suggested Zeno or Amantius might help.

In less than two hours they were ready to return to the boats. There was some debate about wearing armour. The fate of the warrior from the dugout weighed against the obvious protection. Maximus told the tale of his maternal cousin Cormac. Hard pressed by his enemies, Cormac had swum a loch in full war gear. It was not just any loch either, but one of the great ones on the west coast; a good mile or more. Ballista said not every man had the stamina or the limitless breath of a Hibernian hero, and Maximus had agreed that was true. Possibly influenced by the deed of his cousin, those with mailshirts – Ballista, Castricius, Tarchon and Diocles – had joined Maximus in donning them. This time, every fighting man made sure both shield and bowcase were to hand.

Back on the water, Maximus felt a little put out. He thought he had managed the steering paddle well. If you could sail a coracle, as he had in his youth, you could handle any vessel. Admittedly, it was a bit smoother with the Olbian at the helm, but it was just a matter of a bit of practice. Maximus seldom thought about his home. Muirtagh of the Long Road he had been called then, not with any great seriousness. In those days he had not travelled far, but he had always told a fine story. Sure, he had travelled long roads since the cattle raid had gone wrong and he had been captured. Of course, if he had not been knocked unconscious, he would never have been taken. He had been sold to a Roman slaver, shipped to Gaul and resold into a gladiatorial troop. The latter had not been a bad time. At first he had been a boxer, then fought as a
murmillo
. He was good at killing, and the adulation of the crowd was good – that and the women it brought. He had won a fight in the great arena in Arelate the afternoon Ballista had bought him. The Angle had been on his way to Hibernia and needed an interpreter and bodyguard. Maximus had taught Ballista his language and fulfilled the latter function ever since. Back in Hibernia on that journey, he had seen High Kings made and overthrown. Indeed, he had near killed one himself. But their path had not led him to the far west. He would like to return home one day; not for ever, not even for very long. Just for long enough to kill his enemies, burn their homes and rape their women.

They made slow progress. All were tired. The two slaves of Zeno and the eunuch’s pretty boy were of but little use. After no more than a quarter of an hour, they had been drooping, their paddles trailing in the water.

It was near full dark, just a residual glow on the water, when they reached the village. Mudflats made the approach to the landing stage difficult. To give the guide his due, he remained at his post, and conned them through, despite the pain from his arm.

The settlement was on the bank from which the ambushers had struck. But it was well fortified, and, on receipt of the news, the villagers mounted a good guard. Ballista, Zeno and the other men of any account among the mission were invited to dine with the headman.

As there was no doctor, Maximus remained with the guide in the barn assigned as their lodgings. By candlelight, with care and much gentleness, he sawed through the shaft of the arrow, removed the fletching. As it was barbed, the arrowhead could not be withdrawn. Maximus gave the injured man drink and a leather belt to put between his teeth. Two Olbians held him down. Considerable force was needed to push the arrowhead through the arm to the other side. It was not a thing that could be hurried. Maximus had to make first one, then another incision to grip the arrowhead and work the slimy thing out. When it came free, the blood flowed fast. The guide grunted a few times, but bore it well. If he did not die from loss of blood, infection or some malign fate, this Olbian – Hieroson by name – could be thought a man of some regard.

The meal was all but over when Maximus entered the house of the headman. The diners were talking over nuts and dried fruit.

‘If there had not been so many of them, they would never have dared such an attack.’

Zeno sounded drunk. No one corrected his estimate of the numbers.

Maximus was passed some food Ballista had saved. There was more to drink here than at Cape Hippolaus or the other place. Maximus still had some cannabis in his bag. If there were women later, reasonably clean women, this could all be fine.

‘The pirates have never been known so far upriver,’ said the headman.

Ignoring the local, Zeno began to recite some Greek poem:

‘A howling …

That brought tremendous Laestrygonians swarming up

From every side – hundreds, not like men, like Giants!

Down from the cliffs they flung great rocks a man could hardly hoist

And a ghastly shattering din rose up from all the ships –

Men in their death-cries, hulls smashed to splinters.’

‘There were not many of them,’ said Maximus.

Zeno rounded on Maximus. The Greek’s eyes were unfocused, as if there were a different thought behind each of them:

‘One man . . .

Who knew within his head many words, but disorderly;

Vain, and without decency.’

Keep going, thought Maximus; every day takes us further from your
imperium.

Ballista interrupted Zeno’s recitation. ‘I had a friend who looked more like Thersites than Maximus here does. Old Calgacus’s skull went up to a point, sparse hair covering it.’

Everyone, including Zeno, regarded Ballista in silence. Maximus wondered if the Angle also was drunk.

‘Our ambushers were not just the runaway slaves turned pirates,’ said Ballista.

Maximus could tell Ballista was sober.

‘Back in Olbia,’ Ballista said, ‘Montanus and Callistratus thought the Goths might have established the runaway slaves on Hylaea as a diversion. The warrior in the dugout, the one who drowned, was a northerner; most likely a Goth.’

‘A Goth?’ Much of Zeno’s bluster had vanished. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘The leader on the bank wore a white fur cloak, like the Tervingi
reiks
outside the gate at Olbia.’

Maximus nodded. ‘And a gilded helmet – the same man.’ His eyesight had always been good.

‘Why would the Tervingi pursue us?’ Zeno sounded as if he wanted reassurance that such a thing was unlikely.

‘Perhaps they covet the gifts you carry from Gallienus to my people. Perhaps they would like revenge on the men who defeated them at Olbia.’ Ballista raised his cup towards Zeno. Maximus decided he might be drunk after all.

Tarchon joined the discussion. ‘Why fuckers be attacking with so few fuckers?’

‘My guess,’ Ballista said, ‘is the
reiks
rushed on ahead with a couple of men, collected those pirates he could find, and was using them to delay us, while the rest of his men caught up.’

‘How far behind are they?’ This was all surprising, and very unwelcome to Zeno.

Ballista shrugged. ‘The gods know.’

‘How long before we are out of the territory of the Tervingi?’ Zeno asked.

‘The lands of the Grethungi begin at the rapids,’ said the headman.

‘How far is that?’

‘Five, maybe six days rowing upstream at this season,’ said the headman. ‘You will be safe from the Tervingi there.’

In the morning, one of the severely hurt Olbians was dead. Less expectedly, so was one of the Roman crewmen. Ballista arranged for their burial. The wounded were to be left at the village. As they had seen, convoys of trading boats still ran to Olbia occasionally. Those that recovered could take their chances on one of them. From Olbia, the Romans should be able to get passage back to the
imperium
. They were to tell the captains of the ships they would be paid by the army at their destination. Ballista wrote a letter for each man authorizing the payment. He admitted to Maximus they might not be honoured, but he would not leave the soldiers money. They would just spend it on drink. Maximus went with Ballista to visit the wounded. Money passed hands here, from Ballista to their hosts, generous provision being made for their care.

As the morning wore on, Zeno fretted and complained. They had been entrusted with a sacred duty by the most noble emperor. The mission was of greater account than any individuals. The importance of the mission could not be overstated. Nothing should be done to endanger it. Gallienus would hear of any who did so. Time was of the essence. They should leave at once.

As far as he could, Ballista ignored Zeno.

Maximus had asked Ballista who was this Thersites from the Greek poem the night before. The answer – an ugly rabble-rouser among the men before Troy, justly beaten by his betters – had not further endeared Zeno to him.

Finally, through the headman, Ballista had called for volunteers from the village to fill the benches of the boats. Not one man had come forward.

Just before midday, when they went down to the boats, for the first time Zeno and Amantius had eagerly helped stow their own belongings.

For three days they journeyed north. Knowing the river well, Hieroson the Olbian guide had refused to be left behind. He led them back and forth from one bank to the other to use the ebb flows and as far as possible avoid moving against the main stream. The Borysthenes here had cast off the aspect of a marsh and revealed itself as a great river, although still filled with obstacles. They paddled around and between green flats that broke the surface, great rafts of lily pads and floating islands of pale reeds like misplaced fields of wheat. In the distance, hills came and went, but the banks never changed, an endless screen of reeds with mud at their feet, walls of dark-green trees beyond.