The Wolves of the North

VII

Ballista watched the long line of ox-wagons. There were ten of them, each drawn by eight bullocks. Slowly and very noisily, half hidden by the dust raised, they pulled into a wide circle. The drivers unspanned the beasts and began to herd them down to water in the river. There seemed no end to the animals.

‘Ho, Sarmatians, where are your women?’ one of the Urugundi called.

From under their caps, the drivers cast dark looks at the Goth.

‘Driving wagons is women’s work,’ the Urugundi said to Ballista in the language of the north. ‘Once, the Sarmatians were lords here. Now they are our skalks. These Sarmatian slaves try to keep their women away from us.’ He laughed. ‘They are right to. Their women are a good ride — big tits, good fat arses. They have no interest in their husbands when they have had a Goth between their thighs.’

The gudja silenced the warrior with a curt gesture then spoke to the drivers in a language Ballista did not know, presumably Sarmatian. It could be the tiresome interpreter Biomasos might have a use after all. The Sarmatians grudgingly acknowledged whatever the gudja had told them and carried on seeing to the oxen and hobbling the dozen or so horses which had travelled tied to the rear of the carts.

‘Now the wagons are here, my Goths will take the boats downstream to Tanais.’ The gudja spoke to Ballista in the language of Germania. ‘I will remain to guide you to the Heruli. Their winter pastures are not far from here, but they left for their summer ones some time ago. It will be a long journey east and north before we overhaul them.’

‘Thank you,’ Ballista said.

‘I doubt you will when we reach them. As everyone will have told you, they are not as other men, and their ruler Naulobates is the worst of all. The superstitious say he is not a man at all but a malignant daemon.’ The gudja smiled, as if in anticipation of the encounter.

‘I have no choice in the matter.’

‘No, I suppose you do not. The Sarmatians can help your slaves load your baggage. I will keep one wagon for myself and my servant.’ At the mention of her, the priest’s ill-favoured acolyte gave a one-toothed, senile grin.

Maximus leant close to Ballista. ‘Thank the gods we will not be without female company. Do you think the old Goth will share her?’

The next morning, the Goths were gone not long after first light. By midday, the remainder had gone nowhere. Ballista had allocated the wagons, apart from that already claimed by the gudja. The meagre money for ransoms had been divided into two. The soldiers loaded the gold into the carts in which Castricius and Ballista himself would travel. Hordeonius then officiously ordered his auxiliary archers to stand guard over them. It was a rare command of the centurion’s with which his men were perfectly happy. As it transpired, no one seemed to want to trust the Sarmatians with handling their property; conquest and cuckoldry were thought to do something to a man. So the tribesmen sat and scratched themselves as seven slaves tried to break camp and manhandle everything into the wagons. Biomasos the interpreter, Porsenna the haruspex and the other imperial functionaries, let alone the eunuchs, knew such manual labour to be far beneath their dignitas.

To get somewhat out of the chill north wind, Ballista and the freemen of his familia sat in the shelter of some willows. Castricius, Biomasus and the two eunuchs joined them. They talked in a random, inconsequential fashion as they watched the uninspiring scene.

‘If I was the sort of man to fuck another man’s wife,’ Maximus said, ‘ideally, I would like to see him disarmed.’

They all looked at the nearest Sarmatian. He was leaning in the lee of his wagon; a big man, blond, handsome. From his boots to his cap, his clothes were embroidered nomad-style. Everything about him was surprisingly clean. On his hip was a long, straight sword, suitable for a mounted warrior. A long dagger was strapped to his thigh. He had a coiled bullwhip thrust through his belt.

‘The Urugundi might have told more than the truth,’ Ballista said.

‘It could be a Sarmatian cares more if you take his sword than his wife,’ Hippothous said. ‘His chief god is worshipped as a sword, and he swears his most solemn oaths on his sword. On the other hand, if he comes home to his tent and finds another man’s quiver hanging outside, he wanders off until the stranger has finished with his wife.’

‘Marvellous,’ Maximus said. ‘A whole tribe of complaisant husbands.’

‘Oh no,’ Hippothous said, ‘no good even for you. You see, nomad women are quite hideous. Because they breathe the damp, thick air of the Steppe, drink water from snow and ice and do no hard work but sit in wagons all the time, their bodies are not hardened. They are heavy and fleshy, their joints covered, watery and relaxed, their cavities very moist. Not being swaddled as children, they are disgustingly flabby. Their very obesity prevents them receiving male seed easily.’

‘I do not know, it does not sound too bad,’ Maximus said. ‘I sometimes like my women carrying a bit of weight — warmth in the winter, shade in the summer — moist cavities and little danger of getting them pregnant. Did I ever tell you about the time — ’

‘Nonsense.’ The interpreter cut him off. ‘The promiscuity of nomads derives from an outdated story in Herodotus about one tribe, the Agathyrsi. The Sarmatians, like their cousins the Alani, are polygamous. Having several wives does not mean they are happy if another man tries to lie with them. Doubtless the Heruli are the same.’

‘It is Strabo the geographer who claims that nomad women in general are available,’ Hippothous said. ‘Anyway, they smell, never wash.’ He addressed the latter to Maximus.

‘I heard they kept their virginity until they had killed three men in battle,’ Castricius said.

‘And cut their right breast off,’ added Ballista.

‘Their mothers are said to burn them off,’ the interpreter pedantically corrected.

The wind had got up, whipping the branches above their heads. The sky was dark, threatening rain. Down by the river, bitterns boomed, deep and resonant.

‘Gods below, it is getting cold,’ said Maximus.

‘Not as cold as it will be out on the Steppe,’ remarked Castricius. ‘Winter is near continuous all year round. The north winds are charged with bitter rain, chilled with ice and snow.’

‘Mules and asses die in the cold, and cattle lose their horns,’ Mastabates joined in. ‘Only animals small enough to live underground can survive.’

‘And summer lasts but a few days. Even then there is mist. On the few occasions the sun does appear, it has little warmth,’ Castricius said.

‘That is not what Strabo says,’ Hippothous put in. He seemed to be attempting to outdo the interpreter in pedantry. ‘According to the geographer, the summer heat is too severe for those unaccustomed to it. Anyway, as a man of culture, I look forward to seeing strange and wonderful creatures — the tarandos, which changes its colour, and the colos, which runs swifter than a deer. It drinks through its nostrils and stores water in its head.’

‘Fat and smelly? Well, I do not really care, as long as they are willing,’ Maximus mused. ‘Actually, even if they are not all that at first…’

A violent gust of wind ripped across the river, bringing the first of the rain. It was not yet heavy, but squalls flurried across the ground where the camp had stood, around the wagons. The beasts stood in what shelter they could find, heads down.

‘Enough of this. Everyone on their feet,’ Ballista announced. ‘Help get your things into your wagons.’ The company scattered, heads cocked into their shoulders against the rain.

Ballista walked over to where the auxiliaries were sheltering in and around the wagons with the gold. ‘Where is your centurion?’ Hordeonius stuck his head out from under the felt canopy, half sketched a salute. ‘Leave half your men on guard, and send the others to load the wagons,’ Ballista ordered.

‘But…’

‘Yes, Centurion?’ Ballista’s voice was icily polite.

‘Nothing — we will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The centurion set about rousting out his men with needless harshness, a swing of his staff here, a kick there.

Ballista stamped through the weather to the wagon where the haruspex and the staff were. He climbed up on to the tailgate and stuck his head through the hanging. Pale, sullen faces gazed at him from the gloom. ‘Everybody is to help load the wagons.’ The others looked to the haruspex. After an insolent pause, the latter nodded. Ballista got down. Led by the priest, the occupants clambered from the wagon and went off unhappily.

Ballista stood, the still centre of squelching activity. The rain ran down his face. His long hair was wet on his shoulders. He felt eyes on him. The gudja was standing on the driving box of his wagon. In his rain-slick sable cloak, he looked like a ragged carrion crow. The gudja smiled, obviously enjoying the disquiet among the Romans.

The first day’s travel was not good. There were only a few curtailed hours of daylight left when the wagon train finally moved out. Curtains of rain swept in from the north. Water sluiced off the felt canopies, darkened the hides of the oxen. The horses on their long leads plodded after, heads and tails down. Occasionally, one snickered its displeasure. The unsprung wagons jolted along at a snail’s pace. The noise was deafening. As the inexperienced occupants had not properly secured the coverings, they leaked. The Sarmatian drivers out in the elements, caps pulled down to meet their cloaks, only their eyes and noses showing, seemed impervious. Everyone else, huddled and jarred in the body of the carts, was thoroughly miserable.

When it became fully dark, they made camp. It was a protracted, chaotic affair. The fires did not want to light. Some of the provisions had got wet. Their patience worn thin, men cursed, cuffed the slaves. They had not travelled above three miles — four at most.

The next morning, things were much improved. Hippothous had slept well. He and his slave, Narcissus, had been assigned a wagon with Castricius, Biomasos and Hordeonius and their two slaves. When not in motion, the wagons were comfortable; snug, yet agreeably roomy.

Climbing down, Hippothous saw that the rain had blown away south. A line of trees marked the Tanais to the left. Above, the sun shone from an enormous, washed-out blue sky. They ate breakfast — rye bread, dried meat, salted fish — and set about getting ready.

Having checked Ballista had no need of his services as accensus, Hippothous asked if he could exercise one of the horses. There were only twelve, and he was delighted when Ballista assigned one permanently to him. The bandit-turned-secretary tacked up, slung his weapons and kit and rode out across the Steppe. Apart from the trees marking where the river ran, a flat sea of grass spread in all directions. None of the spring grass came up to the soles of his boots. There were some low mounds in the far distance, oddly regular in shape, but nowhere else could he see anything which offered concealment. The bandits — Alani or whatever they were — who had trailed them up the Tanais were nowhere in sight.

From a distance, the great wagons and oxen looked like a row of toys laid out by a serious-minded child. Hippothous watched Ballista riding up and down the train. The order of march was the wagon of the gudja, that of Ballista and his familia, the two containing the soldiers, that of the haruspex and functionaries, three wagons with the stores, the eunuchs’, and Castricius’s at the rear. Hippothous assumed Ballista’s thinking was to have the Goth at the front as the guide and the two senior officers at either end of the rest. Given his past profession, Hippothous was unsure it was wise to have half the gold in the last wagon.

When Ballista must have considered all was vaguely in order, the whole was got under way. The cracking of whips, the complaining of beasts and the squeal of the axles travelled clearly to Hippothous. With the breeze behind them, sounds could travel a long distance out on the Steppe.

Back in the town of Tanais, Ballista had encouraged those who considered themselves fighting men to purchase local bows and quivers. Now, Hippothous took his out and began to practise shooting from horseback. To his irritation, he found it almost impossible. At a canter, let alone a gallop, the string bounced out of the notch of the arrow. On the rare occasions he managed to keep it in place long enough, the shot careered off nowhere near where he intended. It proved impossible to find some of the wayward shafts in the grass.

After a time, Hippothous gave up. He stowed the recalcitrant weapon back in its gorytus, and fished in his saddle pack for a book. Other riders were about. Castricius, Hordeonius and Biomasos all galloped separately across the Steppe, exercising their mounts. Hippothous ignored them. With the morning sun on his shaven head, he unrolled the papyrus and read the Physiognomy of Polemon. His horse ambled along, the reins loose on its neck.

At midday, Hippothous cantered back. They were to take lunch on the move. At the lead wagon, Hippothous found a difference of opinion between Ballista and the gudja.

‘It is asking for trouble,’ said Ballista.

‘We are too many for casual bandits, and it could draw the unwanted attention of others,’ the gudja advised.

‘There should always be outriders,’ responded Ballista.

‘This grazing is disputed between the Alani and the Heruli. Both send out raiding parties of young warriors. Scouts and the like would draw them down on us. Remember, we Urugundi know these Steppes and these tribes. You do not.’ The Gothic priest was not to be contradicted. Reluctantly, Ballista gave way.

The second day went better. The wagon train made at least eight miles. By the third, they were getting into a routine. Although some dark clouds scudded across, the weather continued fine. Hippothous rode alongside Ballista’s wagon, where the northerner’s young slave, Wulfstan, was sitting up front alongside the Sarmatian driver. Hippothous had approached him before, the previous year back in Byzantium. The boy had turned him down flat, using words the servile should not utter. Hippothous had not taken much offence, none of it to heart. He knew the reason. The youth had been forced and mistreated by several owners before Ballista. Still, time had passed. His own slave, Narcissus, was getting past his first bloom. The young barbarian was more than attractive; he was beautiful.

Hippothous put himself out to be charming. It was hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of the wagon. Although studiedly polite, the boy quickly made it abundantly clear he was uninterested. Rejection never sat well with Hippothous, especially dished out twice by a slave. Outwardly maintaining an affable demeanour, talking lightly about trivial things, he turned the searching eye of a physiognomist on Ballista’s pampered pet.

The boy did not have the form of a typical northerner. While he was tall for his age, with the expected red-blond hair and blue eyes, his skin did not look rough to the touch, nor did his ankles appear thick. In some ways, he was close to a pure Hellene: erect posture, beautiful in face and appearance, a squareness to the face and a slimness in his lips. His head was finely proportioned, between small and large, from which one could judge intellect, perception and clemency. His ears also were evenly proportioned, which showed alertness. His hands were well made, with the broad white nails of understanding and memory. He was heavy in his speech, a sign of sadness but also of long-lasting ambition and strong desire. But, as ever, it was the eyes that were the key. The eyes are related to the heart, and it is through them you look to the conversation of the soul.

The youth’s beauty would blind many, but to the close scientific study of a trained physiognomist his eyes revealed the terrible story of his soul. His cow-like blue eyes inclined downwards and had a shade of green; the eyes of one vehement in thought and force, a lover of killing, a lover of blood. His eyes were flurried, with much movement — the eyes of one governed by a rebellious and angry daemon; a vengeful daemon which will visit harsh trials upon him and all those around him.

‘Ahead! Heruli!’ The voice of the gudja broke Hippothous’s concentration. The wagons were grinding to a halt. Reaching for his sword, Hippothous reined his horse away from the column to see.

About half a mile away, a line of six horsemen were silhouetted on a low rise. Immobile, the Heruli looked like black sentinels to another world.