The Wolves of the North

XXIV

Two hours before dawn, Ballista and Maximus got dressed in the dark. They had laid out their hunting clothes and equipment the night before. They did not talk and were as quiet as could be managed. They woke Calgacus anyway. He cursed them as clod-hopping, clumsy bastards making enough din to raise the fucking dead. Neither the Caledonian’s injured arm nor being told the previous evening that he was to remain in the camp had done anything to improve his habitual waspish temper.

It was cold outside, with a chill bite to the wind. Ballista pulled on a thick leather coat, stamped his feet. Tarchon led up two of the Sarmatian horses. Working as much by feel and habit as sight, Ballista and Maximus tacked up and slung their weapons and gear. The breath of the horses was sweet in their faces. Tarchon held the bridles as each mounted.

They waited as Castricius and Hippothous emerged from the next tent. Biomasos brought round their horses. Soon the four who had been invited to join the hunt were in the saddle. They said farewell to Tarchon and the interpreter, and reined about to set off.

The dim form of Calgacus emerged from the tent. ‘A creaking bow, a croaking raven, a yawning wolf, a grunting wild boar; never be such a fool as to trust such things.’

‘We will take care,’ Ballista said.

‘A coiled snake, a burning flame, a flying arrow.’

‘Enough.’ Ballista clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, and his horse walked on. He grinned in the darkness. The old Caledonian was getting protective like a nursemaid. He had noticed it in himself: the older you got, the more you worried.

Men were stirring all through the camp. Ballista and the others joined a stream of warriors walking their horses southward between the tents.

Out on the plain, several large fires had been lit. The ceaseless north wind pulled sparks away high into the night sky. Standards flew upwind of the fires, and the Heruli assembled in their stations. The royal hunt was a great undertaking. A division of four thousand riders had already left the afternoon before under the command of Andonnoballus. In all, another thousand would follow this morning with Naulobates.

Ballista and his familia joined those under the banner of three wolves pursuing a tamga that resembled three circles pierced by an arrow. Ballista greeted Pharas, but the Herul looked distracted and only nodded. It was slightly offhand, but the twenty or so men waiting to ride with the First-Brother were all quiet. The clicking and cracking of the fire sounded sharp over the creak of leather and the jink of bridles.

Naulobates trotted into the circle of firelight. He was flanked by Uligagus and Artemidorus, the former slave from Trapezus. Behind them rode Mar Ammo. The Manichaean looked thoroughly miserable. Naulobates raised his hands to the dark sky and intoned a prayer to Artemis and an eclectic range of other more obscure deities of the chase. Nomads did not make libations. His words ended, Naulobates made the signal, and they moved off south into the Steppe.

The sun was not yet up, but the sky promised a good day. The wind had dropped a little, lost much of its cold edge. To the east, the horizon was a band of pale blue-gold. Above it, fanning out from the south-east, were ribbed, purple-gold clouds, as solid as dunes in a desert. High above, gaps in the clouds showed a heaven of pure aquamarine. A flight of birds, half a dozen black shapes, gave a sense of scale, of the sheer majesty of it all.

They were riding at an easy canter that ate up the miles. At the head of the small column, Naulobates was bare-headed, laughing. Uligagus and Artemidorus also looked happy. Pharas, the other Herul with them, appeared rather more subdued.

The sun came up. Naulobates halted and, bowing in the saddle, blew it a kiss from his fingertips. His proskynesis performed, Naulobates called Ballista and his familia to ride up with him. The Heruli fell back, but Naulobates indicated for the Manichaean Mar Ammo to stay.

‘Everything I know about hunting was taught to me as a child by my father’s friend Phanitheus. He spared me no criticism, held nothing back. He was a warrior feared across the Steppe, a mighty hunter, and a stern teacher. His vigour remained in him a long time. It was only two years ago it deserted him, and obviously it was time for him to die.’ Naulobates shook his elongated head sadly. ‘I still find it hard to believe he did not face it better.’

There seemed little to say to this.

After a while, Naulobates brightened. ‘But, just as a good death does not necessarily redeem a bad man, so the reverse must hold true. I remember the time Phanitheus beat me for forgetting the hunting spears. What a beating that was. He did not spare himself.’ Naulobates laughed happily.

Again, this did not invite any obvious rejoinder.

‘Were you beaten much as a child?’ Naulobates suddenly asked Mar Ammo.

‘No more than is usual,’ the Manichaean said.

‘Hmm, perhaps you should have been beaten more. When Mani was Corbicius, he was beaten regularly. Did him a lot of good. It might do you some.’

Mar Ammo was entirely unable to shape an answer.

‘Most pleasures are corrupting,’ Naulobates said. ‘Beating men, for example. Even sex and drink, if taken to excess, weaken a man. Reading too much is the same. But hunting is entirely good for one — the body becomes stronger, the soul braver, and it gives exercise in all martial skills. A man must ride, run, meet the charge of big game, endure heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and get used to suffering all hardships. An envoy from Palmyra told me King Odenathus has always lived in the mountains and deserts, facing lions, panthers, bears and other beasts of the wilderness. No wonder the Persians run before him and the Romans have ceded half their empire to such a man.’

An embassy from Odenathus to the Heruli — Ballista thought on that. It was important news; if it were true. He was not going to point out that, in Roman terms, the King of Palmyra was a magistrate governing the eastern provinces on behalf of the emperor Gallienus.

‘Hunting does more,’ Hippothous said. ‘It has a moral purpose.’

Naulobates turned in the saddle and regarded him.

‘A hunter sights his quarry, then he loses it,’ Hippothous said. ‘The repeated experience teaches him to bear the sudden reverses of fortune. Hunting instils self-control better than any philosophy lecture.’

Naulobates’ eyes remained unwavering, fixed on the Greek.

Silence, apart from the jinking of bits and the stamp of hooves. The entourage rode stony-faced.

Naulobates laughed, high and loud, with genuine pleasure. He reached across and patted Hippothous on the shoulder. ‘You,’ he told him, ‘would make a good Herul.’

They rode south-east, and by noon were approaching a bend of the Rha river. The Steppe, as if tired of its own flat monotony, rolled gently. It was greener here. There were copses, pools of standing water and small tributaries ran east to where the Rha lay broad and shimmering in the sun two miles or more distant.

Horsemen were waiting for them. Naulobates and his entourage took their place, the rest of the newcomers flanking them. The battue was formed. A great line of riders curved away on either side; rising and dipping, and passing out of sight among shaded trees. Five thousand mounted men in a semicircle would drive the game against the banks of the Rha.

It was hot. Ballista rolled his heavy coat and tied it to the rear horns of his saddle. They ate and drank on horseback; strips of air-dried meat washed down with fermented mare’s milk from leather flasks. Despite the presence of the First-Brother, an easy congeniality was on them. Ballista noticed it did not include the Manichaean missionary, or, oddly, Pharas the Herul. The latter fidgeted, and looked abstracted. He was sweating more heavily than the weather allowed.

‘The battue is real hunting,’ Naulobates said. ‘The Greeks on foot with nets are no better than the primitive forest tribes of the north. The Romans who sit on cushions to watch the slaughter of animals in the arena are too contemptible for words. The rich of the imperium, who hunt with horse and hound, are always too few. It is no training for the manoeuvres of war. The Persians are a little better. Yet in their paradises the animals are in poor condition, lacking the heart that comes from true freedom. The battue of the Steppe is the only real hunt. No nets, no walls, just the line of riders. It is a true test of horsemanship, of archery, of the courage of man. With luck, we will find wild boar, even bear, down by the riverbank.

‘It is time,’ Naulobates said. His standard dipped, and a horn rang across the Steppe. All along the line the signals were repeated. ‘Remember, you are not Persians waiting for the king to take the first shot. We are Heruli. We are brothers.’

They set off at a walk. Ballista had Maximus to his left, Hippothous and Castricius beyond him. To his right he was separated from Naulobates by Mar Ammo and Pharas. The Manichaean had a bow in his hands. He looked far from comfortable with it. Quite possibly he was suffering some crisis of conscience between his mission to convert Naulobates and the dictates of his religion that as one of its elect he should not kill.

Ballista fitted his thumb ring, chose an arrow, nocked it and part drew his recurve bow. The sun was on his face, the horse quiet and comfortable under him. Naulobates’ lupine banner snapped above their heads. The wind was rising again. Ballista noted its strength and direction. He should remember to allow for it. His head buzzed slightly from the drink.

They plodded down a grassy incline. Rabbits and marmots ran from them. Bows thrummed, and the shafts whistled out at their prey. Ballista took a shot and missed. Others had more success. Little animals tumbled and fell, white scuts and bellies displayed to the sun.

A covert of oaks tangled the line. When they emerged, a small herd of wild asses were in front. The Heruli yipped happily, automatically closed their spacing and trotted on. They wielded their bows with mastery. Where there had been motion, in moments there was dead game. Again, Ballista had missed.

A crane flew high across them. Naulobates called out something. The others did not shoot. He switched his bow to his right hand, leant far back in the saddle, drew with his left and released. The crane was transfixed. It plummeted, broken and ungainly. The Heruli applauded. Ballista joined in. It was a very fine shot, and worth noting that Naulobates could use a weapon with either hand.

The disciple of Mani seemed close to tears. Ballista could not understand these pacifist sects that seemed to be springing up: Manichaeans, Christians, Essenes. If god, or the gods, did not want man to hunt, why had he made it so enjoyable? Among the Manichaeans, at least, the non-elect were allowed to kill. None of the Christians were meant to take life; not human life anyway. They would have to change their tune, if any ruler ever were misguided enough to join them. Still, that was most improbable.

They were near the Rha; no more than two bow shots. Ballista could smell the water. He could see the great river here and there through the wide belt of trees and the high reeds on its banks. Naulobates called a halt to dress the line. Again, the order rippled away; banners dipping, horns blowing. The battue jostled into order and immobility. Horses swished their tails, flicked their ears. Horses and men were sweating. Gold-tinged horseflies bothered both.

The thickets ahead grew close-packed. They would be full of driven game, some of it dangerous. The riders’ formation would be broken. Ballista flexed his fingers and arms, rolled his shoulders. He took a long drink, put away the flask, and readied his bow. His palms were slick, and his thin linen tunic was sticking to his back. It was going to be chaotic in there.

Naulobates threw back his head and called a long, wild call: yip-yip-yip.

Like hunting dogs, the Heruli gave tongue: yip-yip-yip.

Caught up in the moment, Ballista hallooed. Next to him, Maximus was bellowing. Everyone was yelling, except the Manichaean and Pharas. Ballista saw the latter’s mouth open but somehow knew he was making no sound.

Naulobates kicked in his heels. His horse leapt forward. They all surged after.

Ballista dropped his reins, let his Sarmatian pick its own way into the dappled shade. Men and horses flashed through the bands of sunlight. Ballista bent low to avoid a branch. There were many things crashing through the undergrowth.

A boar started out. Its bald, leathery head and shoulders faced the horsemen. The Heruli yipped. The boar turned and broke into its scuttling, bouncing run. The hunters raced after. Glimpses of the beast’s shaggy, reddish-brown quarters showed through the bushes. Ballista was up by Naulobates. The Manichaean had disappeared.

Ballista took a shot. The arrow missed. Naulobates aimed. At the moment of release, the boar swerved to the right. Naulobates’ arrow snicked into the earth. They wheeled after it.

The boar went tumbling, crashing snout first into the fallen leaves. It got to its feet, its tail flicking. An arrow was embedded behind its near-front leg. Uligagus was right above it; backing his horse. Another arrow, then another thumped into the boar’s flank. It toppled sideways.

‘On, on,’ Naulobates shouted.

They were almost at the water’s edge. The bank of reeds was seething with wildlife. Splashes could be heard, as those that could swim hurled themselves into the broad river. Ducks flighted overhead. The horsemen slowed, pushing ahead more circumspectly, shooting all the time.

Ballista had closed up on Naulobates. Maximus was on his left. For a moment, the three were isolated. From behind, an arrow hissed between Ballista and Maximus. Without taking their eyes from the swaying curtain of reeds ahead, both yelled warnings.

Something very big was ploughing through the reeds ahead. Feathery tops jerked and vanished. Naulobates was crooning some prayer; willing the beast to him.

A full-grown stag, a noble spread of antlers above, burst from the cover. It turned to run. Naulobates surged upon it, drawing his sword. The stag swung back, antlers lowered to charge. Naulobates’ horse side-stepped. Not quite far enough. There was a spray of blood. As his mount passed, Naulobates cut back and down. The long straight sword went deep into the back of the stag’s neck. It collapsed like a sack. Naulobates had half decapitated the animal.

‘Your Manichaean would be glad he did not see that,’ Maximus said.

The feast was held down on the riverbank. The favoured men around Naulobates occupied a low knoll. Ballista and his familia rubbed down their mounts, keeping them from drinking until they had cooled down. The Heruli built fires and collected and butchered the game. When Naulobates had washed, salved and bound his own right leg, he saw to his horse, then skinned and broke up his stag. Like a good hunter and a gracious monarch, he dedicated a share to Artemis and the gods and handed the choicer cuts to those around him, keeping just the liver for himself.

They roasted the meat over the open fires. It tasted good; crisp and flavoured with woodsmoke, the juices running. They had salt, but Naulobates’ temper flared when he discovered there was no vinegar. The uncomfortable moment passed, and he began to drink. Ballista was glad he was not the Herul who had forgotten the vinegar. Naulobates did not strike him as the sort of man who forgot things himself. Ballista settled to drink with the First-Brother and his companions. Along the banks of the Rha, they all settled to drink copiously.

Full, half drunk, they sprawled in the shade to take their rest. Ballista lay on his back, patterns of light playing over his closed eyelids.

‘Fire!’ The shout meant nothing to Ballista. ‘Fire!’ His eyes were bleared. He forced himself up on one elbow. Sleep is the brother of death; for some reason the Greek idea floated among the fumes clouding his thoughts.

A Herul rode up to Naulobates, who was getting to his feet. ‘Brush fire, to the north.’

‘How long?’

‘With this wind, no time at all.’

‘Huhn.’ Naulobates tugged at his sparse beard. ‘The men who let their campfire get out of control will suffer.’

‘No, First-Brother, the fire started out in the Steppe, well beyond the sentries.’

Naulobates gave him a sharp look. ‘Ride on through the camp, tell everyone to gather their things and ride due west into the Steppe, fast as they can.’

The Herul clattered off.

Pandemonium ensued at Naulobates’ words. But it was a sluggish pandemonium. Everywhere, men staggered to their feet. Half asleep, part drunk, part hung over, they stumbled around. The horses were some way off to the west, hobbled to graze beyond the belt of trees. The less crapulous wandered off to round them up.

Ballista got up, buckled on his sword belt. His head ached, and his throat was dry. There was an unease in his stomach. A dozen or so riders were coming up from the direction of the river, urging their mounts through the reeds. As Ballista bent to get his gorytus, the Herul next to him straightened up with a flask and meal bag in his hands. The Herul sank to his knees. There was a look of incomprehension on his face. He toppled forward. The bright fletchings of an arrow stuck out from between his shoulderblades. Another arrow thumped into the leaf mould by Ballista’s boot.

‘Maximus!’ Gorytus in hand, Ballista ran towards the nearest large tree. Maximus was with him. Together, they dived behind the wide trunk of the oak.

‘Fuck,’ Maximus panted.

Ballista looked out. The riders were bearing down, shooting as they came. He ducked back. Dropping the bowcase, he unsheathed his sword.

The thunder of hooves got louder. Ballista and Maximus looked at each other. They pointed to each side of the tree, and nodded. The hoofbeats were almost on top of them. One-two-three. They leapt out either side, swords arcing.

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.’