The Wolves of the North (27 page)

‘Poor bastards,’ Calgacus agreed.

‘I suppose sending the herald to us was irony,’ Ballista said.

A chilling scream cut across the plain.

‘At least one is alive, then,’ said Hippothous.

‘They will all be alive,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘If he can take the pain and not move, it can take a man hours, sometimes a day or more to die. It all depends how you insert the stake up his arse.’

‘You know this?’ Ballista said.

‘I know this,’ Andonnoballus said.

‘Alani indeed is the most cruel of savages,’ Tarchon said. ‘And most terrible ones for thieving. When they cross the Croucasis so their ponies can eat the sweet meadow grasses of Suania, always they are stealing; apples, pears, small children, all manner of things.’

‘They have put them out there to dishearten us,’ Ballista said. ‘If any of us go out to help them, we will be ridden down.’

Another ghastly scream echoed across the Steppe.

‘We have to do something,’ Maximus said.

‘Wax,’ Tarchon said. ‘Beeswax best in the ears. Next to no sound gets through.’

‘Something for them.’

‘Oh, in that case, we must shoot them.’

‘The Suanian is right,’ Andonnoballus said.

‘It is a long, difficult shot,’ judged Ballista.

‘I would take it myself, but they are your men.’

‘Yes,’ Ballista agreed. ‘They are my men.’

They brought him his own bow, the one he had loaned to the slave down by the river, and gave him some space to concentrate.

A bright, sunny June day, not much past noon. As hot here as it would be in Sicily. A steady wind from the north. He would have to allow for that. The grass shimmered in the nearly three hundred paces between him and the twisted figures on the stakes. Silkweed and side-oats waved above grass. He drew the composite bow – two-fingered, back to the ear, sighted down the shaft – released, and missed. The arrow slid past the right of the central figure. He had overcompensated for the breeze.

The second arrow missed as well; same side, a touch closer. The third took the man in the leg. Ballista killed him with the fourth. In all, it took nine arrows to kill the three men. It took quite a long time.

When he had finished, Ballista walked alone down to the stream. Calgacus followed him at a distance. Ballista sat and stared out across the water. Calgacus sat not far away and watched him. From things Maximus had said, Calgacus imagined that Ballista might be thinking about hauling the
haruspex
off Tarchon’s horse and leaving the diviner to his fate. Right from the start, from the days by the Suebian sea, Calgacus had said Dernhelm was no natural killer. He had always said that. Now, the boy was a man called Ballista, as proficient a killer as varied training and extensive experience could make. Yet, in some ways, nothing had changed.

Maximus walked down to where Calgacus was sitting. ‘The Alani are stirring.’

‘How long?’

‘No great hurry. Their outriders are just leaving the camp.’

Calgacus nodded and levered himself to his feet. Hercules’ hairy arse, his shoulder hurt. ‘You go back. I will fetch him.’

Ballista was looking away, his gaze fixed a distance upriver. Some birds were darting among the reeds. They were small, fast; maybe a brace of snipe. Calgacus could not tell. ‘The Alani,’ he said.

Ballista looked at him, a question on his face.

‘Plenty of time. The main body is still in the camp.’

Ballista motioned for Calgacus to sit down. ‘Herodotus says the nomads blind all their slaves; presumably, to stop them running away. He must have been misled. Having blind slaves would not work. The herald would not have found our camp. It is hard to think of a worse place for a slave to make a run for freedom. There is nowhere to hide on the Steppe, except for the grave mounds that have been opened and in the watercourses.’

Calgacus said nothing. He had long grown used to Ballista’s oblique approaches to what troubled him.

‘A story in the
Toxaris
of Lucian is set out here, on the Tanais river. The Scythians lose their camp and herds to a surprise Sarmatian attack. A Scythian warrior – I forget his name – is among those who escape. But his blood-friend has been captured. I do not remember his name either. The one who escaped goes to ransom his blood-friend. The King of the Sarmatians laughs in his face. What will he use for ransom, as the Sarmatians have already taken all his possessions? He answers his own body. The Sarmatian king says he will only take a part of the ransom offered – he will take his eyes. The Scythian lets himself be blinded. Somehow, the two swim the Tanais to safety.’

Calgacus sat, waiting for Ballista to talk himself out.

‘But does the story end well? Inspired by the sacrifice, the Scythians rally and defeat the Sarmatians. The two friends live out their
days honoured by their people. But the one who was ransomed cannot bear to see his friend’s sightless eyes. Maybe the empty orbs are a constant reproach to him. Anyway, he plucks out his own eyes. Presumably, they sat out the rest of their lives in the wagons with the women and the children, in their shared darkness.’

Ballista stopped.

‘What happened to the staff,’ Calgacus said; ‘it was not your fault.’

‘Not even Porsenna the
haruspex
?’

‘From what Maximus says, he was endangering Tarchon’s life; all of your lives. You did what you had to do.’

‘You always find a path to it not being my fault.’

Calgacus frowned, obviously framing his words with care. ‘Not always. The things you did the year before last in Cilicia – those you did not have to do. Torturing the Persian prisoners – or at least your pleasure in the torture – killing the Sassanid king’s eunuchs in cold blood, raping his concubine Roxanne; you did not have to do any of those things. But at that time you thought your sons and Julia had been killed by the Persians. Your grief and desire for revenge had driven you mad.’

‘So, again, you would say it was not my fault,’ Ballista said. ‘If you had been a Greek, you could have been a Sophist.’

Calgacus wheezed. ‘You read too many Greek books.’

Ballista smiled at his old friend. ‘I was reading Euripides back then in Cilicia; I have not read him since.’

‘The Alani will not wait for your philosophizing.’

‘Euripides was not a philosopher. He was a poet, a tragedian.’ Ballista got up, and helped Calgacus to his feet.

‘Probably much the same bollocks,’ Calgacus grunted.

‘In some ways,’ Ballista said.

The Alani arrayed themselves in a loose but complete circle
around the wagon-laager, all mounted, about three hundred paces out.

‘The
battue
,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘The hunting formation of the Steppes. It drives the game into the centre.’

‘So, they are thinking to hunt us down like animals,’ Tarchon said.

‘No, for us it will be different.’ Andonnoballus seemed remarkably cheerful. ‘I imagine they will ride in fast, putting a lot of arrows in the air. They will come close, maybe only twenty paces from us. Some will stay in the saddle, shooting. Behind them, the rest will dismount. The ones on foot will move into …’ He struggled for the right word in the Greek he was speaking. ‘Into
chisel
formations – is that right,
chisel
? The pointed thing sculptors use?’

‘Yes, chisel,’ Ballista said.

‘Good. Then they will storm the laager in chisel formations.’

‘How many points of attack?’ asked Ballista.

Andonnoballus laughed. ‘I have no idea. But as there are so few of us, providing they attack in at least two places, they will overrun us.’

Doomed, Calgacus thought, fucking doomed. And it was odd Andonnoballus could recognize the poetry of Sophocles, but claimed he was not sure of the Greek for ‘chisel’. Strange people, these Heruli.

‘But,’ Andonnoballus said, ‘I do not think the gods will let that happen. I have been observing the heavens. From the flight of birds, I know the gods are watching over us. And I heard a wolf howl not long ago.’

‘And that is good?’ Ballista questioned.

‘Very good,’ Andonnoballus replied.

Not far away, the other surviving one of the Rosomoni, Pharas, was laughing. He seemed at ease, content with the way things
were. From the other side of the laager, the last Herul, Datius, looked across with comparable equanimity.

Out of their minds, Calgacus thought. Absolutely fucking out of their minds. Surrounded, outnumbered beyond measure, in the middle of nowhere, and a wolf and a few birds convince them we will be fine. Had they not noticed the Steppe was full of fucking birds, probably lots of wolves too? It was certainly full of fucking Alani warriors. Obviously, having your skull bound into a point as a baby did something to your brain.

‘What are they up to now?’ Maximus asked.

‘They are going to sacrifice some of our oxen,’ responded Andonnoballus.

‘Sure, I could do with some roast beef myself,’ Maximus said.

Ignoring the irreverence, Andonnoballus, who seemed now in an expansive mood, decided to explain the ritual. ‘You see the naked sword? It catches the sun, just to the right of the oxen. That is Akinakes.’

‘I had a horse called that once,’ Maximus said.

‘The Alani, like the ancient Scythians, are simple, childish in their religion. They worship but two gods: Anemos and Akinakes. They say there is nothing more important than life and death. So they worship Anemos and Akinakes because Wind is the source of life, and the Sword the cause of death.’ Andonnoballus pointed to one of the drivers. ‘Their Sarmatian cousins hold the same view.’

‘The north wind that quickens their mares?’ Ballista said.

‘And the wind that is their breath. They are simple people. They build no temples. Nothing but thrust a drawn sword into the ground. See, now they are offering the blood of the oxen to Akinakes.’

‘The Heruli do not worship Akinakes and Anemos?’ Ballista asked.

‘Of course we do.’ Andonnoballus sounded surprised. ‘But we are
not so foolish as to ignore all the other gods: Air, Earth, Sea, Springs, Woden, Orestes, Abraham, Apollonius, Christ, Mithras. There are many, many gods. All must have their due. My …’ He paused. ‘My king is a most devout man. Naulobates has summoned holy men from different religions to his court. This summer, they will debate their beliefs in front of him; Persian
mobads
, Christian priests, Platonic philosophers, Manichaeans. He asked Mani himself, but he could not come. Perhaps it will happen while you are in his camp.’

‘A delight to anticipate,’ Maximus said, straight-faced. ‘If we survive today.’

Andonnoballus laughed again. ‘Have I not told you, the gods have their hands over us.’

The great war drum of the Alani began to beat. Akinakes having had his fill of blood, the ring of warriors began to whoop.

‘Not long now,’ Andonnoballus said.

Castricius ran up from the
zereba
. As he did, the whooping of the Alani faltered.

‘Over the river,’ Castricius said, ‘the Alani are moving. They are riding away.’

‘Did I not tell you?’ Andonnoballus said.

The war drum lost its rhythm and was silent. Anxious shouts replaced the exultant Alani whooping.

As Calgacus watched, the Alani formation broke apart. In moments, the nomads were dashing away to the south. In no order, individual horsemen scattered like so many terrified animals before a brush fire.

Andonnoballus turned to the north. Like a great wave born in the depths of the ocean, a wall of dust bore down on them. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of cavalry riding fast, bright banners flying in the choked air above them.

‘The wolves of the north,’ Andonnoballus said. ‘The Heruli are come.’

Maximus checked the girths of his mount and the packhorse. He kicked the latter hard in the stomach. It let out the breath it was holding. As he tightened the strap, it tried to bite him. It was a wilful, cunning brute. The Herul who had handed it over had said as much.

They were all nearly ready to leave. The scale of things, the speed with which everything had happened, had staggered them all, Maximus as much as the others. Less than forty-eight hours before, he had been reconciling himself to death. Not a bad life by his own lights. He had travelled the world, had his fill of drink and women. Not what a philosopher would call a considered life, but he had been a man. All that had remained was to die like a man by the side of Ballista and that old bastard Calgacus. He loved Ballista. There were worse men to die with than the ugly old Caledonian. Maximus had always known it had to come.

Then the ground had trembled and the air had been filled with the thunder of hooves and the
yip-yipping
of the approaching Heruli. A lifetime of experience had allowed Maximus to judge there were almost exactly two thousand of them. They were riding
two deep in a line that swept over a mile of the Steppe. Standards alive with
tamgas
and wolves snapped above them.

And then something almost more wonderful had happened. The Alani, the majority of whom had been fleeing south, came haring back. Some fool in the wagon-laager had called out, What were they thinking, had the gods driven them mad! It should have been obvious to a child. The keen eyes of Maximus had looked beyond them and spotted it straight away – the mile-wide cloud of dust coming up from the south. It had been the work of moments to find the matching clouds rolling in from east and west.

The Alani, careless in their good fortune, had been transformed from arrogant hunters of men to the hapless human quarry at the centre of an enormous
battue
. Afterwards, the Heruli said, with much plausibility, that not a single Alan had escaped. Many were killed, shot down in high spirits. Yet 107 survived to be taken prisoner; among them the chiefs with the horsetail and
tamga
banners.

Dismounted, the Alani had been divested of their weapons and portable wealth, often including their belts and boots. Several suffered unpleasant indignities after Maximus had mischievously suggested they hid coins up their arses. That very afternoon, sullen and often a little bloodied, they were put to work. One detail collected the dead. It was a demanding task. There were more than two hundred corpses, spread widely across the Steppe. Around the laager, those killed the day before were becoming noisome in the June sun. After the members of the caravan had salvaged what of their belongings had not been spilt, bloodstained or otherwise ruined by being enlisted as part of the barricade, a second group of Alani was set to breaking up the wagons. As this progressed, the final detachment had moved from gathering brushwood and begun to build pyres. As the
Sarmatians took their dead away for inhumation, there were three pyres. Two were small, one each for the fallen Heruli and the Romans. The final one was for the Alani. Although it was large, clearly it would not be able fully to consume the number to be cremated. No one but the Alani seemed to care, and their opinion had been of no account.