The Wolves of the North (33 page)

The nomad pony shied, its rider released. The arrow whistled high. The last few inches of Ballista’s sword caught the animal’s front leg near the knee. The impact tried to drag the hilt from his grip. Hanging on, the momentum of the falling pony dragged Ballista to the ground. Scrabbling among the fallen leaves, he saw the nomad jump clear. The pony went down in a tangle of limbs.

‘Run!’ A hand on Ballista’s shoulder was hauling him to his feet. ‘Run!’ Maximus shouted again.

The nomad was on his feet, pulling his sword free. Maximus, almost casually, dropped him with two blows. Ballista noticed the nomad’s clothes were sodden.

They ran pell-mell down the slope. The Manichaean was standing stock-still, mouth open. Ballista took his arm, spun him round, yelled at him to run. They did not wait to see if the missionary did as he was told.

Something plucked at Ballista’s sleeve and sped on ahead. He swerved as he ran.

At the foot of the knoll was a mass of briars. They fought their way into them. Ballista felt them catch at his tunic and trousers, felt sharp flares of pain as they tore his flesh.

‘Over here.’ Maximus dived into the space where two elms grew close together. Ballista threw himself in after.

‘Fuck,’ Maximus said.

Gasping for breath, Ballista looked back. The horsemen were outnumbered, but more Heruli were falling. One of the riders was circling his mount. ‘Naulobates and Ballista,’ he shouted above the cacophony.

Ballista saw Naulobates. The Herul had a blade in each hand. He was ringed by three riders. He had no chance.

From nowhere, Uligagus threw himself on one of the horsemen, dragging him to the ground. Naulobates feinted towards the opening, then doubled back at the opposite rider. An arrow hit him in the leg. He kept going. The pony reared. Careless of the flailing hooves, Naulobates ducked under its belly, swords darting. He emerged the other side, as the animal collapsed. Its rider jumped clear. Naulobates killed him. The third mounted man shot. Naulobates went backwards. A pack of Heruli threw themselves on the last rider. Pony and man were hauled to the ground and disappeared beneath the hacking blades.

It was over as it started, with no warning.

Ballista and Maximus fought their way painfully out of the thorn bushes. They trudged up to the ring of men around Naulobates.

The First-Brother of the Heruli was sitting up. There was an arrow in his left shoulder, the broken shaft of another in his left leg. He was very pale behind his tattoos, bleeding heavily. His men were cutting away his clothes.

Naulobates opened his eyes, looked at Ballista. ‘Three honourable wounds in one day.’ He smiled. ‘You should be honoured,
Angle. These Alani were prepared to die to kill two men – me and you.’

‘We should get the horses,’ Ballista said, ‘before we all burn to death.’

Calgacus knew that the details of the fight were lost beyond human comprehension. They always were. Only fools thought different. But now it was seven days later, the
kalends
of July. He had talked to several of the survivors, and the general plan of the Alani ambush of the hunting party was easy to reconstruct. Some had set a line of fires in the dry grasses to the north, knowing the wind would bring it down to where the Heruli rested. In the confusion, a small band had swum their mounts across the Rha. No sentries had been posted on the riverbank. The Alani had got among their enemy with complete surprise. Only the foolhardy courage of the Heruli, and luck – or divine providence, as Naulobates would have it – had prevented them killing the two men whose lives they had come to take.

He should have been there. He was old, and his arm and shoulder were not good, but he should have been there. Calgacus felt sick every time it struck him how close he had come to losing Ballista. All these years together, and now there was the curse on the boy –
Kill all his family, all those he loves
– a curse on both of them. Pythonissa had prayed not for Ballista to die, but to live on
in misery. But curses can play out in unexpected and awful ways if the powers of the underworld listen. Who would they heed, if not a priestess of Hecate? Calgacus was not going to let Ballista get killed out here in this alien wilderness of grass. He was not going to leave the bastard’s side until they were hundreds of miles away, not until they were safe back in Sicily, safe in the villa in Tauromenium.

As he walked with Ballista and the
familia
through the Heruli camp to the assembly, he turned the ambush over in his mind. It had been well planned. The Alani had struck at the right time, and in the right place. How had they known there were no sentries along the bank of the river? How had they known the
battue
would end there at all? Treachery was the obvious answer. Ballista had to be right; not all the Heruli were happy with the extraordinary reforms of Naulobates. It stood to reason: not every fucker wants his world turned upside down.

The market had been stripped of traders. Its open space was filling with black clusters of Heruli. As guests, Ballista and his
familia
wedged themselves right at the back, up against a wagon. A great drum thundered, and more tribesmen pushed in from the various alleys. The groups of Heruli coagulated into a solid, slightly shifting mass. Yet more surged in, creating small eddies in the crowd.

Naulobates clambered on to an open-top wagon on the far side. He moved stiffly, using a spear as a staff. He sat in his accustomed plain wood chair. He was on his own.

‘What is the meaning of this gathering? What do you want?’ Heruli called out from the crowd.

Calgacus smiled. The Heruli had not lost all their old equality in the God-given reforms of their king turned First-Brother. There was a spark left of the people who once killed their rulers for no better reason than they did not like them.

Naulobates raised the spear so he could be heard.

The Heruli were quiet.

‘I want your counsel.’ Naulobates’ strange, high voice carried well. It gave no sign of the wounds, or the pain he must still be suffering. Hercules’ hairy arse, but that fucker was tough.

‘Some years ago,’ Naulobates began, ‘we exchanged solemn vows of peace with the Alani. Both sides swore by
anemos
and
akinakes
, the only gods the Alani recognize. We spilt the blood of many oxen. Now the Alani have attacked our brothers who were escorting a Roman embassy. Against the laws of all gods and all men, they tried to kill the Roman envoy. Not content with such treachery and sacrilege, they ambushed us when we were hunting. They have broken their oaths. It means war. The gods are on our side. But how should we fight the war? Give me your counsel.’

The assembly buzzed like a disturbed hive. Discordant voices called out the names of those whom they wanted to speak. Calgacus knew some of them: Andonnoballus, Uligagus, Artemidorus. Eventually, the majority were shouting for one Aruth. The rest fell moderately quiet.

Aruth was a stocky man; one of the Rosomoni with a particularly pointed skull. He was fit to bursting with moral outrage. The Alani were scum; cowardly, sly bastards. His address was long for the brevity of its message. The Heruli should saddle their horses now, this very day, and ride south to sweep the fucking Alani shit from the Steppes. What Aruth lacked in oratorical skills was compensated for by his utter foul-mouthed vehemence.

The next speaker was Pharas. In more measured terms, he supported Aruth. There was no excuse for delay; what was needed was immediate retribution. They would be outnumbered, but the gods would hold their hands over the Heruli. There was laughter when someone yelled, Where had Pharas been when the
battue
was attacked? – he had not been so brave then. Pharas turned the
laughter to his own advantage. Yes, he had gone to relieve himself. Nothing was more typical of Alani cowardice than to attack a man when he was trying to have a shit in peace.

Clearly, the firebrand and scatological approach initiated by Aruth was not to all tastes. After much bellowing, Artemidorus was summoned to address the assembly.

‘At last, my brothers, I must break my silence. Listen to the words of an old man.’

There was much hooting and laughter. It seemed the lines were not new. Calgacus got the latter dark joke. He presumed the former must have something to do with the reputation of all Greeks for talking too much.

When the amusement ebbed, Artemidorus continued in statesman-like mode. ‘The Alani have thirty thousand riders. We muster no more than ten thousand. If we go south, their sheer numbers will overwhelm our courage. The gods do not favour reckless arrogance. We should elect a war leader, have him sit on the hide and summon our tributaries and allies. But, we should not forget, that will do no more than double our numbers. We should move the herds and the main camp north. Let the Alani come to us. If we draw them out on to the endless expanse of the sea of grass, our superior discipline and skill will let us isolate and surround them.’

Some roared their approval. Others shouted that it was just the sort of backsliding advice you would expect from a Greek. More speakers followed. None added anything new to the lines of the debate.

Nearly an hour later, Naulobates had heard enough. Leaning on his spear, he rose to address his brothers. For the first time, the silence was complete.

‘Brothers, you give me good counsel, all of it expressed with the freedom of our forefathers. I am sure our brother Artemidorus
will not take offence when I say the Greeks have nothing to teach us with their so-called democracy.’

The Heruli enjoyed this.

‘If you will accept it, my plan takes these trails.’

The assembly listened.

‘Artemidorus and those of his mind are correct that we should move our animals, women and children north, as far as possible out of harm’s way. Again, they are correct that we must elect a war leader and have him raise all the warriors we can by sitting on the hide.’

There were murmurs of gratification from the more circumspect.

‘However, Aruth and the others have the right of it when they say we must not be supine and wait. Our inaction would encourage the audacity of the Alani. We must take the fight to the oath-breakers. When the levies are complete, we must ride south.’

There was a happy uproar. Naulobates rode the noise, letting it play itself out.

‘One thing remains,’ he said. ‘Who do you want as your war leader?’

Men shouted for Naulobates. What surprised Calgacus was that not every Herul shouted for the First-Brother.

‘Andonnoballus!’

‘No, he has still got his mother’s milk on his lips!’

‘Artemidorus!’

‘He is not up to it – too cautious!’

‘Aruth! We want Aruth!’

‘No brains!’

‘Naulobates! Naulobates!’ The name drowned out the others.

‘Do you all agree?’

‘We all agree!’

Four Heruli climbed up on to the open wagon where Naulobates
stood. Each had in his hands a clod of mud from the riverbank. These they placed on Naulobates’ head.

As the mud ran through his sparse hair, down over his face and into his beard, Naulobates thanked his brothers for the honour they did him.

It was the day after the assembly, and Maximus knew he should not attend the ritual. But something compelled him. If he had been Castricius, or maybe Naulobates, he would think it was his daemon. Ballista and Calgacus had been so strong against him going, Maximus had lied. He had said he needed to ride out on the Steppe to get far away from it, to make sure he was not tempted to intervene. He had ridden south out of the main Heruli camp but then had circled back, crossed the river and passed the meadow. The burial ground was in a copse. He stopped at the tree line, where the horses were hobbled. Through the foliage, he could see a crowd on foot: twenty or so Heruli, mostly Rosomoni. He could see Olympias.

The day Andonnoballus had come to their tent, Maximus had visited Olympias for the second time. She had seemed pleased that he had come. They had made love. She had seemed to enjoy it. Yet, afterwards, when they talked again, there had been a strange distance about her, some deep sadness in her eyes. It had been the same every time he went to her tent. On the fourth visit, he had asked her what was wrong. She had looked at him with surprise, and simply said she was the widow of Philemuth. It had taken a moment for Maximus to remember the old Herul; the one Ballista had been asked to kill out on the Steppe.

Later that night, Ballista had told him what would happen. Maximus had ranted against the perverse innovations of Naulobates. He would not let it happen. They could not just stand by and let it go ahead. Ballista had said there was nothing they could do. This
was not a new thing thought up by the deranged First-Brother. The Heruli had always had customs not in accord with those of other men. They had done the same in his grandfather’s day. It had been one of the things that made the Heruli notorious in the north. If Olympias laid claim to virtue and wished to leave a fair name, she would go through with it. It would be her choice. They could do nothing.

Maximus sat on his horse and watched. Philemuth’s weapons were spread out on the grave where his bones lay. They were garlanded with flowers. His favourite warhorse was led forward. It was dappled in the sun. The Heruli sang. Maximus was too far away to catch the words. A long blade flashed, and the horse bled and died by the grave.

Maximus heard the riders coming up behind. He did not look round. Ballista and Calgacus reined in on either side.

‘Do not fear,’ Maximus said, ‘I will not do anything.’

Ballista put a hand on his shoulder.

Maximus watched Olympias step forward. She was dressed in white, golden ornaments in her dark hair. She stood straight. She spoke words he could not hear.

Two other women helped Olympias up on to the bench under the bough. She put the noose over her own head. The other women adjusted the knot. Olympias kicked the bench away herself.

Maximus watched her feet kick, until the two women caught her thighs and pulled hard down.

Four days after the death of Olympias, in the meadow across the river, Naulobates, war leader of the Heruli, sat on the hide.