Attila:The Scourge of God

SEVENTEEN

Crowning its huge timber plinth, the Sacred Scimitar glittered in the pale spring sunshine. Looking at the shining blade, Attila smiled to himself as, accompanied by his guide, a one-eyed, smiling little Greek, he rode out of the Hun camp at the start of his long journey to the north-east. Years previously, the sword had been gifted to him by a herdsman who had dug it from the ground after one of his heifers cut its leg on the sharp point hidden in the grass. Attila had laid the thing aside and forgot it until, on becoming co-ruler with his brother Bleda, he had considered its potential as a symbol to enhance his kingship. For the sword possessed a strange quality which, in the eyes of unsophisticated nomads, gave it magical powers. Though made of iron, it never rusted.¹ When cleaned after its removal from the earth in which it had lain for unknown decades, it was as bright and unblemished as though it were fresh from the swordsmith’s forge, an appearance it had retained ever since. Traditionally, his people had worshipped a naked sword stuck in the ground. The Sacred Scimitar, imbued with both ancient custom and magic power, could, Attila realized, be valuable in building his personal legend.

Attila’s production of the scimitar had created an effect beyond his expectations. After a trial period, in which it was exposed to the elements and observed not to rust, it was accepted by the Huns as a manifestation of their warlike god Murduk, and deemed to bestow on its owner semi-divine status. This, Attila thought, must give him a considerable advantage in the power struggle which he saw developing between himself and Bleda.

Since becoming king, a plan for his people’s destiny had begun to form in Attila’s mind: a vision of a great nation whose homeland would span the vast steppes extending between the empires of the Romans and the Chinese. In order to survive, and not, like innumerable nomad peoples in the past, flourish briefly, only to be absorbed or annihilated by the next westward-advancing wave, a nation must develop written laws, and institutions. Without these things, Attila believed, there could be no long-lasting stability. Rome had lasted for hundreds of years, China for thousands; with a viable constitution, and the energy of its teeming population productively channelled, there was no reason why the Hun Empire should not outlive them both. Was there? And who better than his friend Aetius, now ruler of the West Romans, to help him build the foundations for such an empire?

But Attila knew that his brother, unless kept in check, would compromise his vision. Jealous, vindictive, insatiably ambitious, Bleda made up in cunning what he lacked in intelligence. It was inconceivable he would co-operate with Attila in the furtherance of his plan. Therefore he must be sidelined. Two things should help to ensure that: Attila’s possession of the Sword of Murduk; and, if his current journey bore sweet fruit, the immense boost his prestige could receive. If the fabled sage and seer Wu Tze were to predict favourable auguries for Attila’s reign, that would confer on the king an authority decreed by Fate.

‘Callisthenes of Olbia’ — it has a certain ring, you must agree. You won’t have heard of me, of course. Yet. But you will, you will. And why is that? I hear you ask. The answer, my friends, is because I have decided to cast in my lot with that of one who I predict will prove to be the greatest man the world has ever seen — to wit, Attila, nephew of the late King Rua, and now joint ruler of the nation of the Huns. Lest you be tempted to dismiss my claim as mere sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, let me explain.

I am what you might call a man of business (a definition I prefer to ‘merchant’) from a long line of traders settled in Olbia, a Greek outpost city near the north coast of the Pontus Euxinus,² now in the Huns’ domain. My family were among the original settlers when Olbia was founded, a century and more before the Graeco-Persian Wars. The place was set up with the sole purpose of commerce, in which activity it was extraordinarily successful, establishing trading links throughout the Scythian world³ and beyond — to India and China. One of my ancestors, another Callisthenes, was chief supplier to Alexander the Great (not, I hasten to add, the Callisthenes who paid with his life for daring to criticize the Macedonian’s adoption of Persian regalia and mores). He ensured a constant flow of supplies, not only for Alexander’s army but for the flood of scientists, settlers, officials, and artisans that followed in its wake to consolidate his empire — the same categories of men that Attila will himself need when he implements his Great Plan.

You see, since choosing me (on account of my contacts throughout Scythia, and — though I say it myself — unrivalled knowledge of its peoples, tongues, terrain, and climate) to be his guide on his present journey to consult the seer Wu Tze, he has confided to me something of his ambitions. An Empire of the Steppes, bridging the realms of Rome and China: a virtually empty land providing a splendid opportunity for the eastern expansion of his people. What the Germans, in their drive to claim new territories within the Roman frontiers, call Volkerwanderung. What a man! What a vision! But to turn that vision into reality, he will need to build upon the vast network of trading links and multifarious interest groups that permeate Scythia. In other words, he will need me.

But that is for the future. This present journey of some two thousand leagues (or, if you prefer, six thousand Roman miles) to the shores of the Baikal lake, involving the crossing of six mighty rivers — the Borysthenes,⁴ the Tanais,⁵ the Rha,⁷ the Bantisus,⁸ the Yenisei, and the Lena — might seem to the ordinary traveller an immense and daunting undertaking. But to a Hun, and to a Greek acquainted with the region, it is nothing. For it follows all the way a fine and level road, greater by far than any the Romans ever made. A road a thousand miles wide and paved with grass, extending all the way from Old Dacia⁹ to China: the Highway of the Steppes. Rivers apart, there are only two natural obstacles, the Carpathus and Imaus Mons,¹⁰ and they both easy to surmount, both traversed by passes. Travelling light, with remounts, the round trip of four thousand leagues should take no longer than three months, four at most, for the Hun horses are sturdy and tireless, able to cover a hundred miles a day, more if ridden hard. Such a trip’s only to be undertaken from May to August, the northern steppes being gripped by winter in the other months, when the cold — at least beyond the Urals — can be really terrible.

And now, preamble concluded, I, Callisthenes, a Greek of Olbia, trader extraordinary, traveller, natural philosopher (and, if you will, both an Aristotle and an Arrian to

Attila’s Alexander) begin this chronicle, The Attiliad, a Scythian Odyssey, in the twenty-seventh year of the reign of the second Theodosius, Emperor of the East Romans.¹¹

XVII Kalends Junii.¹² Today crossed our third great river, the Rha some hundred leagues above its entry into the Mare Caspium. The stream here above a mile in width, which made the crossing lengthy; but the absence of strong currents, and the abundance of shoals and banks, allowed our horses to swim over safely and in stages. As far as eye can see, gently undulating plains clothed with rich grass, and destitute of trees; yet in the bottoms of the deep ravines concealed by the undulations of the steppes, a variety of trees and shrubs — willows, wild cherries, wild apricots, and others. For several days have noticed large mounds of earth up to forty feet in height. Ancient tombs?

Soon after our river crossing, encountered a band of nomads travelling with their wagons, the men riding, the women and children in the wagons, together with their flocks and herds. Found them courteous and hospitable, as are all steppe peoples who, though very warlike among themselves, are invariably kind to strangers. Invited by them to share a meal, a pottage of onions, beans, and garlic, with horse-meat, lamb, and goat, cooked in a great bronze cauldron. Tunny and sturgeon (dried) also offered as side dishes, but declined. To drink, wine and the ubiquitous kumiss, or fermented mare’s milk. Men’s garments — close-fitting tunic and trousers (convenient for riding and therefore universal in the steppes, and even copied by the imperial cavalry of China). Their women wear long dresses and a tall headdress covered with a veil. Clothing of both sexes ornamented with colourful designs, cut out separately then sewn on to the garment, much jewellery displayed, especially gold. Clear skies. Weather very hot.

In this one band alone is displayed a wide variety of tints: hair red, fair, and black; skins white to olive; eyes blue, green, brown, black. Regarding these differences, which show clear intermingling of races and may in part be explained by polygamy being general among the nomads, they seem quite indifferent. (A lesson here, perhaps, for Romans, for whom intermarriage with Germans is forbidden.) Indeed, though diverse in blood, the peoples of the steppes show a remarkable uniformity of culture and, though all have their separate tribal languages, can communicate with each other easily enough in a bastard Persian, which serves as a common tongue. On their departing, presented them with some beads of amber from the shores of the Mare Suevicum¹³ (from our store of trade goods for just such occasions), which pleased them greatly.

Post Scriptum.

Everywhere we’ve passed, Attila spoken of with interest and respect, proof that his reputation as a leader is already to be reckoned with. (We travelling incognito as traders, Attila not recognized for who he is, though his presence and gravity of demeanour never fail to impress all we meet, that here is a man of consequence.) Have heard reported many supposed ‘sayings’ of Attila, which amuse him greatly (the only times I’ve observed him to smile), some of which I here set down:

A wise chieftain never kills the Hun bearing bad news, only the Hun who fails to deliver bad news.

Great chieftains never take themselves too seriously.

Every decision involves some risk.

Huns only make enemies on purpose.

Never appoint acting chieftains.

Some have solutions for which there are no problems.

Every Hun has value — even if only to serve as a bad example.

Suffer long for mediocre but loyal Huns; suffer not for competent but disloyal Huns.

IV Nones Junii.¹⁴ Made camp on the shores of the Cham lake, halfway between the Irtish and Bantisus rivers. Though hot by day, the nights now very cold. (The reason I think may be this: as we approach the centre of this vast continent of Asia, so the land, becoming ever further from Ocean, is no longer warmed by its winds; also, as we progress, our direction being north of east we trend away from the temperate lands, towards the Boreal. If Ptolemy is correct, we should now be near the latitude of Ultima Thule.¹⁵) Rivers here have gravelly bottoms, and from constant changing of their beds have formed strange abandoned banks and islands, marooned in the midst of dry land! We now encounter fewer parties of nomads (some for the first time displaying the Mongol cast of feature) and, though always from a distance, more wild animals than formerly — elks, bears, wolves, bison, wild horses. Stands of timber, mainly pines, birch, and larch, more and more commonly seen. The steppe in places carpeted with sanfoin and wild thyme which, with the increasing frequency of trees, helps to break the monotony of the endless sea of grass. (I’ve heard that these vast steppes can, in some travellers, induce a weariness or sickness of the spirit.) Abundance of francolin and pheasant, a number of which Attila (like all Huns a superb marksman with the bow) shot — a welcome change to our usual fare of dried flesh. These delicious seasoned with salt, which the nomads obtain from the many salt lakes hereabouts, and which they’re willing to trade for trinkets — mirrors, needles, and the like.

Attila much given to contemplation. As we ride, he observes everything around him with a hunter’s eye, distinguishing an eagle from a buzzard when to me both are mere dots in the sky, yet all the time thinking deeply, as evidenced from the penetrating questions he continually shoots. Why, think you, Callisthenes, does the sun appear to move round the earth? What makes objects fall? Why do things appear smaller with distance? Why does a stone acquire more force the further it drops? Which shows that, in addition to possessing a supreme gift of leadership, Attila has a deep and penetrating mind.

That notwithstanding, I remind myself he is still a savage — an unlettered barbarian without recourse to written store of knowledge, and so limited by memory and observation to everything he can know or recall. Can a barbarian, however noble his vision, ever transcend such limitations? Ever react to, or plan against, what is not in the present? Construct a water-clock or understand Pythagoras? I venture to think that Attila might indeed discover the power to snap the bonds of barbarism, and escape the tyrrany of the immediate. For he seems aware of such restrictions, and that surely must be half the battle to free himself of them. A man who cannot read, provided he has the will and can command the influence, may at least surround himself with those who can, and thus provide himself with access to learning.

XII Kalends Julii.¹⁶ Arrived today at the shores of that great inland sea, the Lake of Baikal or Bai-Kul (which the Mongols call Dalai Nor or ‘Holy Sea’) enclosed by high, fir-covered hills. Since crossing the Yenisei river ten days ago, the country much changed — a chain of tall mountains always on our right hand,¹⁷ and the grassy plains much interrupted with hills and forests. Several days of heavy rain (from the proximity of mountains?); plagued by mosquitoes. Since the Yenisei, all the natives of Mongol race — Calmucks, Buryats, Ostyaks — in appearance so resembling the Huns that they take Attila for one of themselves, and seem surprised he does not comprehend when they address him in their own tongue. Which is surely proof that the belief of some natural philosophers, that the Huns originated from a region to the north of China, is correct. These people all herders of reindeer, which they also ride sitting on their necks or shoulders, the animals’ backs being not strong enough to bear a man’s weight. They introduced us to a drink called chai; this comes in the form of a cake a little of which, broken off and infused with boiling water, is drunk with a lump of butter. Somewhat bitter, but refreshing and much to be preferred to kumiss.

A curious incident occurred as we pitched camp on the banks of the Lena, not long before we reached the lake. We were struck by hearing a low, pleasing, musical note, repeated time after time and issuing from beyond a nearby rise. Investigating, we observed a great bear standing on his hind legs and, with his forepaw, bending then releasing a broken-off bough projecting from a tree, whose vibrations caused the sound. (Which proves that the myth of Orpheus charming the beasts with his lyre was based on true observation — namely, that animals are not indifferent to music.) Seeing us, the bear made off; Attila and I then tried in turn to bend the branch, but could not move it.

For many days have observed quantities of huge bones littering the ground: rhinoceros and elephant, but from animals of a size far exceeding that of any members of those species known today. Which leads me to speculate: did the Creator fashion such creatures (which in respect to size are so different from their modern counterparts) on the Fifth Day, along with the other beasts? Or could they be the ancestors (as Empedocles — who held that forms are constantly changing from an inferior to a more perfect state — seems to imply) of today’s rhinoceroses and elephants, grown smaller through the ages? And is it heresy (by challenging Holy Writ) to raise such questions? I trust not; after all, the Schools of Athens are still permitted to discuss all matters freely, whether or not they touch on the Divine Logos.

Tomorrow, Attila sets out for the abode of the sage Wu Tze, to ask (myself interpreting) what the Fates portend — as the Greeks of old, before embarking on any great enterprise, sought out the Delphic Oracle.

Excursus:¹⁸ Terra Nova?

The nomads here tell of a land beyond Ocean to the east, not further than a four moons’ journey north-eastwards to its nearest point, where it’s separated from the end of Asia by a narrow strait of only ten leagues’ width, in which are three islands. This, the local people, who are called Inuit, cross with ease in their canoes, paddling from island to island, as we would cross a river using stepping-stones; also, when the sea’s frozen, on sleds drawn by dogs, but then with more difficulty on account of the ice being hummocky, not smooth. Could this be that lost island of Atlantis of which Plato wrote in the Timaeus and the Kritias, and which was spoken of (although I think on hearsay) by Pliny, Diodorus, and Arnobius? Lucian, in his True History, speaks of an island eighty days’ sail westwards of the Pillars of Hercules, but this has generally been dismissed as imagined. The Celts believe in a Land of the Dead beyond the Western Sea, which they call Glasinnis or Avalon (the Hesperides or Isles of the Blessed, of our Greek forebears?); these things however pertain rather to Legend than to Geography.

Atlantis, then: substance or mere shadow? And, if more than fabled, could it be related to the land visited by the Inuit? Had but the modern Hellenes the same spirit of enquiry and adventure as that Greek of old, Pytheas,¹⁹ then might we know the answer ere too long.

And now, for the moment, Callisthenes must lay aside this his chronicle, as translating for both Attila and Wu Tze will take precedence over other matters.

With anticipation not unmixed with doubt, Attila drew near to the abode of the holy man Wu Tze. Reputedly over a hundred years old, the famed seer was a native of China, whence, so ran the story, he had travelled as a child with his father as part of a mission to the court of the great Constantine, when Rome was still the mightiest power in the world. On the journey home, the party had been captured and enslaved by Alans. The young Wu Tze, however, had impressed his masters by exhibiting a rare gift: an apparent ability to contact the world of spirits and dead ancestors. Released from bondage, he developed this talent through following a regime of contemplation and rigorous disciplines, gradually acquiring a status of pre-eminence among the shamans consulted by the nomads of the plains.

After dismounting, and hobbling their horses and remounts, Attila and Callisthenes approached the shaman’s felt tent, or yurt. Attila had made the pilgrimage with the intention of gaining from the sage a prediction of what the future held regarding his Great Plan. Although totally cynical about the supposed magical properties of the Sacred Scimitar, he shared with all his race a belief in the existence of the spirit world, and reverence towards individuals who professed to be able to make contact with it. He had had some doubts about the wisdom of leaving Bleda behind as sole ruler during his absence, but, with no great enterprise afoot involving the Huns, Bleda could do little damage. And the cachet that he, Attila, hoped to gain as a result of receiving favourable omens from Wu Tze, and of making contact with the spirits of his dead father and uncle — Mundiuch and the mighty Rua — must surely far outweigh the effects of any spiteful slander his jealous brother might spread.

Before he reached the entrance to the yurt, a high-pitched, bell-like voice from inside called, ‘Enter Attila. You are welcome.’ Attila started; how could his presence have been known in advance? Travelling incognito, he and his Greek guide had encountered on the journey only the occasional band of nomads, who could scarcely have had time or opportunity to spread word of his coming, even if they had discovered his identity.

Callisthenes following, Attila entered the yurt. The interior, heated by glowing charcoal in a bronze brazier of Chinese design, was pleasantly warm, in contrast to the keenness of the air outside. To Attila’s surprise, there was none of the usual shamanistic clutter — skulls, bones, dried animal parts, and so on. The tent was furnished, richly if simply, with nomad rugs, Chinese calligraphic scrolls, and a small square altar of dark wood. Wu Tze himself was a tiny figure, encased in a long tunic of soft deerskin, and high felt boots. Abundant white hair hung to his waist, framing a face whose skin was smooth and semi-transparent, like parchment, and of much the same colour and texture. It was as though the long passage of the years had refined and condensed his body, instead of inflicting on it the normal ravages of age.

‘You both have journeyed far and must be tired,’ said the shaman (the Greek translating) in those strange musical tones, after Attila had presented him with a bale of fine furs and expertly cured skins. ‘Tomorrow, Attila, you will tell me the purpose of your visit. But now, when you have seen to your horses and your gear, you and your companion must sleep; first, some refreshment.’ And he pressed on both a simple but sustaining meal of dried reindeer flesh and barley cakes, washed down with kumiss.

Next morning, after a sound sleep on a bed of furs, Attila, the Greek beside him to translate, accompanied Wu Tze on foot on a search for a species of mushroom which would, the shaman explained, help to induce the state of heightened perception essential for making contact with the spirits. Attila felt filled with energy and confidence. On this bright, tingling day, it was joy just to be alive. Impatient enthusiasm to begin to implement the grand scheme for his people swept through him. He had no illusions about the magnitude of the task. He was, he knew, essentially the unlettered leader of a shepherd people — in Roman eyes, a savage, a barbarian. But he had the vision, the strength of purpose, and the will to learn, to make his plan succeed. After all, Philip of Macedon had been little more than the tribal chieftain of an obscure barbarian nation; yet his son Alexander had created an empire to rival that of Rome. As they tramped uphill towards the treeline through meadows of coarse grass, the vast expanse of Lake Baikal unrolled itself beneath them, reflected light from its surface seeming to fill the air with limpid radiance.

Attila asked the shaman if he could foretell what the future might hold for him as co-ruler of the Huns.

‘Understand that I cannot of myself foretell anything,’ replied the sage, who, despite his great age, set a pace Attila found hard to match. ‘I am a mere vessel, to be filled by whatever messages come to me from the spirit world. Nor can I explain their meaning. That is for the recipient to discern for himself, or, if he cannot, to wait for their fulfilment, when their meaning will surely become clear.’

They entered a stand of timber, outrider of the taiga, the great forest belt bounding the steppes, to the north. Here, they located the mushrooms, large red discs with white warts, thus easily visible. Soon, they had filled a small basket, after which they returned to the yurt. The shaman proceeded to burn a sweet-smelling substance on a bronze dish placed on the altar. Then, after preparing and consuming some of the mushrooms, he began to gyrate slowly round the inside of the tent, all the while beating a circular drum made of deerskin stretched on a wooden frame. The fumes from the altar and the insistent rhythmic drumbeat combined to make Attila feel drowsy. .

He started awake. Several hours must have passed, for no sunlight filtered into the tent, which was dimly illuminated by glowing coals in the brazier. Wu Tze had put aside his drum (the cessation of its thumping must have been what had aroused Attila), and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his shiny black pebbles of eyes seemingly focused on some distant object. Suddenly, in a flat sing-song, he began to speak: ‘I see a wild ass running over the plains, and an eagle flying above it. Together, they attack and put to flight a wild boar. Now the ass pursues another eagle, wounding it before it can fly away. But the wounded eagle turns on the ass, which leaves it to attack the first eagle. This eagle is now joined by the boar, and together they put the ass to flight.’ He paused for a few seconds, then went on, ‘The vision fades. There is no more.’

Wu Tze stirred and, shaking his head, appeared to come out of his trance. He turned to face Attila. ‘Whatever I have related is for you alone to interpret,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘I have no memory of it, and even if you were to describe it to me I would be unable to explain its meaning.’ He looked at Attila intently, and said gently, ‘But this much I can tell you. I feel you have a great heart and a powerful mind, Attila. But I sense also there are violent passions — anger, will, ambition. These things are not in themselves necessarily harmful; directed properly, they can work towards the good. All things turn on the struggle between two opposing forces, the dark, negative Yin, and the bright positive Yang. Let your Yang rule your Yin, and you will achieve great things. But should it be the other way round, I fear for the consequences. We have a saying in my country: “Happy the people who are governed by a strong ruler and a kindly sage.” You will be a strong ruler Attila; of that I have no doubt. But will you also be a kindly sage?’

When Attila and Callisthenes reached the Hun camp, Attila was accosted on the outskirts by Balamir, the young Hun he had rescued from the Danube. He seemed agitated. ‘Sire, you are back none too soon!’ he said urgently. ‘Things have been happening which you should know about.’ He hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed. ‘Forgive me, Sire, but they concern your brother. I–I fear it may not be my place to inform you.’

Bleda. He might have known his brother would cause trouble the moment his back was turned, Attila thought furiously. Temporarily dismissing Callisthenes with grave courtesy, Attila turned to the boy. ‘You may speak freely, Balamir. A loyal friend has nothing to fear from telling Attila the truth — however unwelcome it may be.’ He had formed a liking for this youth who, in gratitude to Attila for saving his life, had appointed himself an unofficial guard and page.

‘The day after your departure, Sire, Lord Bleda called a full meeting of the Council,’ Balamir began. ‘He proposed that the peace treaty with the Eastern Empire, which was interrupted by the death of King Rua, be immediately resumed.’

A slow-burning rage began to build in Attila. How dare Bleda summon the Council in Attila’s absence, and without his agreement? It was a calculated insult — worse, a naked bid to undermine him. The proposed resumption of the treaty was, Attila suspected, a mere pretext for extortion.

The background to the treaty was complex. The Boii,²⁰ with some lesser German tribes who had recently submitted to Hun suzerainty, had revolted and asked the Eastern Emperor for protection. Theodosius, exhibiting the folly of a weak man trying to appear strong, had agreed, and the rebel tribes had entered into a formal alliance with the East Romans — who quickly discovered that they had roused a tiger. Outraged by this provocative act, Rua had demanded in the most forceful terms that the East retract its agreement with the rebels. Realizing that their attempt to play off one set of barbarians against another had badly miscarried, Theodosius and the Senate of Constantinople backed down with unseemly haste, and sued for peace. Negotiations were set in train but, on the death of Rua, were suspended.

‘How did the Council vote?’ asked Attila heavily, knowing in his heart what the answer would be.

‘When Lord Bleda suggested that a condition of the treaty should be that the East pay for its presumption in gold. .’ Balamir trailed off uncomfortably, the implication of his unfinished sentence only too clear.

Gold. It would prove the ruin of his people, thought Attila despairingly. In the past indifferent to the ‘yellow iron’, whose softness made it useless for any practical purpose, the Huns had recently become obsessed with it. Once they had made the momentous discovery that gold could command power and possessions without limit, they couldn’t, it seemed, get enough of it. Bleda had sown the seed of an idea in their minds: that the Eastern Empire could prove a milch cow for the precious stuff. Like greedy children who come across an unguarded peach orchard, they would become difficult to govern and direct, their minds preoccupied by the easy acquisition of riches, which in the end would avail them little. Unless he could nip that temptation in the bud, the task of realizing his dream — the forging of his people into a great nation, for which he needed the help and friendship of the Romans — would prove immeasurably harder. At one stroke, it seemed, Bleda might have dealt his plan a fatal blow.

¹ Probably through an accidental admixture, during its making, of chromium, a metal whose ore exists abundantly in Hungary, and which today is the vital ingredient in the manufacture of stainless steel.

² The Black Sea.

³ ‘Scythia’ was an imprecise term, implying roughly the whole of the steppe region.

⁴ The Dnieper.

⁵ The Don.

⁶ The place names are, as far as possible, taken from Ptolemy’s World Map (second century), supplemented in one or two cases from Ortelius’ Theatrum orbis terrarum. Some names, e.g. Danga Lacus (Ortelius) for Lake Baikal, are conjectural. Both Ptolemy and Ortelius show a large lake in roughly the right area for Lake Baikal, but this may be guesswork — although of a higher category than the ‘Here be dragons’ variety. Where the ancient name can’t be traced, the modern form (e.g. R. Lena) is used.

⁷ The Volga.

⁸ The Ob.

⁹ Romania.

¹⁰ The Urals.

¹¹ 434.

¹² 16 May.

¹³ The Baltic.

¹⁴ 2 June.

¹⁵ Probably the Orkneys or Shetlands, though some have speculated Iceland.

¹⁶ 20 June.

¹⁷ The Sayan Range.

¹⁸ Digression: a favourite device of classical authors, wishing to expand on a topic not necessarily connected with the main narrative. A famous example is Ammianus Marcellinus’ ‘Excursus on the Huns’, in his Histories.

¹⁹ A Greek navigator who, in the time of Alexander, sailed round the north of Britain, perhaps as far as Iceland, and explored the Baltic.

²⁰ Bavarians.