The Wolves of the North

VIII

It was true. The Heruli were not as other men. Ballista tried not to stare. The six Herul horsemen were identical, and like nothing he had seen before. Each had bright, dyed-red hair, moustaches and goatee beards. Almost every bit of skin visible — faces, necks, hands and wrists — was covered in red tattoos like heraldic symbols or letters from some outlandish script. But it was not any of this, and not their clothes — bulky nomad coats — which made them so very strange. It was their heads: great, pointed skulls, nearly twice as long as they should be, slanting up and back like those of antediluvian predatory beasts or creatures from the underworld.

‘We are sorry we are late,’ one of them said. He spoke politely in the language of Germania; his accent close to that of Ballista himself. ‘We would have met you at the river, where our grazing lands begin, but my brother Philemuth was unwell.’

Now he looked, Ballista saw there were differences of age and physique. The one indicated looked old. He was slumped forward in his saddle. Behind the dyed hair and tattoos, his face was pale and drawn; there were blue-green smudges under his eyes. He looked deathly ill.

‘It is you again, Gudja ’ — the first Herul spoke warily — ‘and as ever the haliurunna is with you.’

The Gothic priest nodded slightly, but the old crone at his side cackled and made fast, strange movements with her hands.

Making a quick gesture of his own, the Herul turned away from the Goths towards Ballista. He placed the palm of his right hand flat on his forehead. ‘I am Andonnoballus, and the brothers that ride with me are Philemuth, Berus, Aluith, Ochus and Pharas.’

Ballista bowed. ‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Legatus extra ordinem Scythica, sent by Imperator Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus Augustus. To my own people I am known as Dernhelm, son of — ’

‘Son of Isangrim, son of Starkad, of the Woden-born house of the war leaders of the Angles. A Herul would forget his own name sooner than your lineage and the name of your grandfather.’ The Herul did not pronounce the words fondly.

Ballista ignored the reaction of the Roman party around him. All looked at him in surprise, except old Calgacus.

‘That was then; two generations ago,’ he said.

‘We Heruli keep some of the old ways.’

‘As do we Angles. Trust me, we have not forgotten the things done then.’ Ballista smiled, as if putting the subject aside. ‘Let me introduce my deputy, Gaius Aurelius Castricius.’

Again, the Herul placed his right palm flat to his forehead. Castricius dipped his head and saluted in acknowledgement.

‘But you have not honoured us with the names of your fathers,’ prompted Ballista.

‘Only the gods might say. We are Heruli, all brothers.’

‘The father of your King Naulobates was Suartuas, and his father before him was Visandus,’ Ballista said.

The Herul laughed. ‘We have not held to all the ways of our ancestors in the north. Many things are different on the sea of grass. It changes men. We are not the people Starkad knew.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Our camp is to the east. If it pleases you, we will go there. Our slaves are preparing food, and the vapour baths we are told you enjoy.’

The Heruli rode ahead, and the others followed after. Ballista studied the nomads. Biggish men on small, rough horses. Each had a combined bowcase and quiver, decorated with patterns akin to their own tattoos, although in different colours, a long sword and a dagger on their hips and a round leather shield hung from their saddles. They wore voluminous sheepskin coats; no helmets or armour. They were equipped as typical light-horse archers.

Maximus nudged his horse alongside Ballista. ‘You will be noticing their splendid trophies?’

Horsehair pennants fluttered from their reins and horse furniture. Ballista looked harder. No, not horsehair — human scalps, some dark, some lighter; all too many of them. And their quivers were not painted or embroidered, they were tattooed human skin.

‘What exactly is a haliurunna?’ Maximus asked.

‘A Gothic witch. They commune with the underworld, mate with unclean daemons. It is said they can see the future, change the weather, raise the dead,’ Ballista answered.

‘And do you want to tell me how come you and the Heruli know so much about each other?’

‘Not now; another time.’

‘Another time then.’ They rode in silence for a while, before Maximus spoke again. ‘Who was it told them we liked the cannabis?’

Ballista did not answer.

Maximus looked thoughtful. ‘That witch — rather the daemons than me.’

The Steppe spread all around them. The grass was enamelled with bright flowers: tulips, irises. Up above, below the white clouds, four rooks circled, harrying a lone vulture.

Slowly, very slowly, a line of round, grassy mounds drew nearer.

‘ Kurgans,’ said Biomasos. ‘The tombs of long-dead warriors and chiefs of the grasslands. At night, lights can be seen within; the sounds of ghostly feasting drift out. The gods strike down any who disturb them.’

The lumbering ox-wagons clanked and squealed between two of the larger kurgans. Beyond was the camp of the Heruli. There was but a handful of tents, and four or five of the smaller shelters for inhaling hemp. Half a dozen slaves stood waiting for their masters. The slaves were dressed just like the Heruli, but they had no tattoos, their hair was not dyed and their skulls appeared completely normal. On the far side was a herd of animals: sheep, camels, mainly horses. There had to be over a hundred horses; mainly chestnuts, and some light greys. They were all hobbled and grazing quietly; an immense number for so few men.

Mastabates felt light-headed, and a little sick. The vapour tent was close, oppressive; the laughter too loud in his ears. It was not the amount he had inhaled or drunk but the strange alcohol the Heruli had dispensed. Although clouded in his thinking, he was quite adamant on that point.

Still, bizarre as they looked, you could not fault the hospitality of the nomads. No sooner had the wagons been circled and the beasts seen to than a feast had been ready. It had been completely without ceremony. There were no sacrifices or prayers beforehand, not even the most cursory libation. Men sat in no order, where they pleased, on rugs or on the grass. When they had served the food, the slaves of the Heruli joined their masters. And the slaves talked — not only to each other, loud enough to be heard by all, but they even addressed the free men unbidden. It was like an impromptu rustic Saturnalia.

There was no bread of any sort, but more than enough food: mutton stew, sausages — Mastabates enjoyed them even after he was told they were horsemeat — and a good, strong cheese. But the drink was another matter. When handed a leather skin, he had incautiously taken a long draught. The effects had been instant: a sharp stinging on his tongue, a sweat breaking out all over his body as the liquid went down. The Heruli had laughed as he spluttered. One who had a little Greek told him it was fermented mare’s milk. Not wishing to give offence, he had persevered with small sips. It was not totally unlike a thin yoghurt, but sharper; a Hellene would always sweeten his oxygala with honey or cut it with oil. Once he had got accustomed to it, he began to quite like its after-taste of bitter almonds.

Just when Mastabates had begun to relax, one of the Heruli had jumped up and grabbed his ears hard, tugging vigorously at them. Thinking he was being attacked, he had scrambled backwards to his feet, making ineffectual slapping gestures of defence. This had provoked uncontrolled mirth. His assailant had begun to clap his hands and dance. Ballista had come over, slapped Mastabates on the shoulder and explained that the Herul was doing him honour, was inviting him to drink with him.

Prodigious quantities of food consumed, they had split up and gone to the cannabis tents, taking many skins of alcohol with them. Mastabates was in a shelter with Ballista, Maximus and old Calgacus. The gudja was there; inscrutable as ever. Andonnoballus and another three Heruli crowded in with them.

One of the Heruli started to play a martial air on the lyre. As he began to sing, Ballista and Calgacus stopped laughing. Maximus’s hand went to his hilt. At a sharp word from Andonnoballus the singer stopped. He smiled, obviously apologized, and his plectrum picked out a different tune. Although unable to understand a word, Mastabates could tell this new song was a sentimental love ballad. He found himself giggling — as the singer was a Herul, most likely it was addressed to a donkey.

As the lyre player drifted into a lengthy instrumental passage, men began to talk again. The conversation, like the songs, was in the northern tongue.

The Herul to Mastabates’ left — the sickly-looking one, Philemuth — spoke some Greek. He exhaled and smiled sadly. ‘King Cannabas that guides our King Naulobates.’

Unable to think of any response, Mastabates asked him about the anarieis. The men who took a woman’s part, were there many of them, and were they really regarded with reverence in Scythia? It soon became apparent the Herul had no idea what he was talking about, and seemed set to take offence.

‘How did you learn Greek?’ Mastabates changed the subject. At the imperial court, you failed to learn tact at your peril.

Philemuth brightened. ‘I went’ — he used a barbaric word — ‘into the Kingdom of the Romans with the Borani and Urugundi. We were at Trapezus. There were many Roman soldiers. They were drunk, lazy. They had no courage. We placed tree trunks against the walls. The Romans fled. We sacked the town. It was good; much gold and silver, much wine, and women, many women. I took many slaves home.’

Unsure how to respond, Mastabates made a noncommittal noise.

‘One girl — a Greek, her name is Olympias — very beautiful.’ Philemuth coughed. The old Herul looked sad. ‘I took her as my fourth wife. She gave much pleasure; to me, to my brothers. But now I am ill. If I need to die, it will not be good for her.’ The Herul began to weep; openly, without shame.

The tent suddenly seemed very small to Mastabates. The fumes were suffocating. The elongated skulls of the Heruli were becoming ever more daemonic. Calgacus’s misshapen head was no better. The taste of almonds was cloying. Mastabates felt his gorge rising. He had to get out.

Stumbling over legs, muttering apologies, he crawled to the opening. He heard laughter; assumed it was mocking.

Outside, the air was cool. He could breathe. He gulped down big lungfuls. He steadied himself against a guy rope. It was a still, cloudless night. Overhead, the panoply of stars wheeled.

‘Too much mare’s milk?’ The voice was inebriated, but kindly. Mastabates had not noticed anyone approach.

‘Here’ — the man passed an amphora — ‘this will take the taste away, cleanse your palate. It is Arsyene. Not a noble wine, but light and clean.’

Mastabates drank. He felt better. He was surprised at the consideration shown him.

‘Thank you.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ The other took back the wine, took a long swig. He swayed slightly. ‘A beautiful night.’

‘It is.’

‘A night of endless possibilities, a night for wild feasting. Come, walk with me.’

As if in a dream, Mastabates fell into step beside him. They had a torch to light the way.

‘One of the kurgans has been opened — tomb robbers, I suppose. Let us go and see if it is true that the ancient chiefs feast by night.’

‘No, I am not sure…’ Mastabates had no wish to do such a thing.

‘Afraid?’ The other grinned, his teeth very white. ‘Me too. Come, unless you are not man enough?’

Again, Mastabates walked with him. There was something strangely attractive about his companion, as there often was with rough men.

Away from the camp, it was dark beyond the light of the torch. The mound loomed, massive and rounded. At its side was a black opening, like a door to Hades.

Mastabates followed him inside. A passage sloped down. After a while — twenty, thirty paces? — it opened into a hollowed-out circular chamber. They stepped over the worm-eaten remains of a wooden cart.

Inside, the chamber was large; twenty paces across. It was empty, except for some scattered bones and a large leather bag. Everything of value had been looted. The place smelt of earth and old decay.

Mastabates regarded the bones. There were a lot of them — at least fifteen skulls; a couple were horses’, the rest human.

‘They killed many of the chief’s servants to accompany him to the underworld,’ Mastabates said.

‘Maybe, but one of the Heruli told me these kurgans are often reused.’ He held up the torch, and Mastabates saw two entrances other than that by which they had entered. One was blocked, one open. ‘Sometimes there is more than one chamber. Robbers often dig more than one tunnel.’

‘What about their daemons?’ Mastabates asked.

The man took another drink. He seemed more sober now. ‘Not all daemons are bad. Anyway, only the ghosts of those unjustly slain harm the living. The gods let them walk to punish those who robbed them of the divine gift of life. It was the Scythians’ custom to sacrifice the servants, so they were killed justly.’ He passed the amphora to Mastabates. ‘Is it hard being what you are?’

Mastabates drank, trying to arrange his alcohol- and narcotic-fuddled thoughts. ‘Yes, it is not easy. Men — normal men, whole men — see us as things of ill omen: like eastern priests, cripples, like monkeys. They turn away if they meet us. No, it is not easy to be thought of as a monkey.’

The man considered this. ‘I went to a dream diviner once — probably a charlatan. He told me the kinds of men one should never believe if they spoke to you in a dream: actors, sophists, priests of Cybele, the poor and eunuchs. They all raise false expectations.’

‘Why did you bring me here?’

‘Nor should you trust Pythagoreans, or prophets who divine from dice, from palms, from sieves, or from cheese. But the dead are always worthy of credence.’ He put out a hand and touched Mastabates’ face.

‘I thought you were one of those who saw my kind as ill omened. I thought you did not care for my company,’ Mastabates said.

‘My likes and dislikes are of no importance. It is the will of the gods.’ He trailed the back of his fingers down Mastabates’ cheek as if measuring him. ‘Do you know what you are?’

Mastabates stepped back. The man’s eyes were odd. This was all becoming strange beyond measure.

‘I think you really do not know.’ The man’s eyes were flecked red in the torchlight. He stood between Mastabates and both the unblocked tunnels.

‘We should go.’ Mastabates heard the anxiety in his own voice. He had been a fool; a drunken, womanish fool.

The man drew his sword. In the flickering light, the steel seemed to ripple.

Mastabates took another step backwards, panic rising in his throat.

The other watched him.

‘You killed the slave in the river,’ Mastabates said.

‘And many others.’

Mastabates went to draw his own blade. He had forgotten the amphora. It slipped from his grip and shattered loudly. Wine splashed on to his boots.

The man made no move.

Mastabates fumbled his short sword clear of its scabbard. No need to abandon all attempts at manly virtue, he thought. A eunuch can still be a man.

The other flexed his sword arm.

‘Why?’ Mastabates said.

The man paused, as if he had been waiting for the question, had been asked it before under like circumstances. ‘For your own good, and the benefit of others. Because the gods…’

Mastabates thrust forward, sword aimed at the body.

Caught unaware, the man was late blocking. Mastabates’ blade was only a hand’s breadth away when a clash of metal deflected it. The eunuch’s momentum carried him. He crashed into the man, who staggered backwards.

Mastabates was clear. He was past the killer, was at the entrance tunnel. He went to hurdle the remains of the cart. A bone turned under his foot and his ankle twisted. He went down, crashing among the papery, dry baulks of timber. His sword slipped from his grasp.

The wind was knocked out of him, and his ankle hurt abominably, but Mastabates was up in a moment. He scrabbled on his hands and knees, groping in the dirt for his sword. Noises behind him. His fingers closed on the hilt. He rolled over, bringing the blade up.

A flash of burning light, a jarring impact, and Mastabates’ sword was smashed from his hand. The steel went spinning, skittering across the floor of the tomb to its dark further reaches.

The killer stood over him. He held the torch in one hand, his long sword in the other. The sword was pointed at Mastabates’ throat.

No, not disgrace myself. No, not beg, Mastabates thought. Be a man.

He was panting. So was the killer. Apart from their breathing, all that could be heard was the hiss of the torch.

Be a… The sword thrust down. Pain like nothing Mastabates had known. His body arched. He could not scream; could not breathe. He was choking on his own blood. Dimly, he noticed his own legs drumming on the ground. Blackness in all the corners of his vision. Horribly swiftly, the dark edged in, and closed over him.