The Amber Road (20 page)

They had reached that part of the palace given over to the household of Licinius. The torch which had led the procession was thrown. Sparks streamed as it tumbled through the night air. A bold onlooker caught it and gained the promise of long life. The bride wreathed the door posts with wool and rubbed them with oil and wolf fat. The latter was hard to obtain, but Gallienus had declared the traditions of the ancestors should be observed at an imperial wedding and parsimony was out of place.

Attendants carried the bride over the threshold. While she was taken off to touch fire and water in her new home, Gallienus led his wife into the atrium. The other guests followed. They stood around the marriage bed set for the
genius
of the bridegroom and the similarly incorporeal
juno
of the bride. A slave offered drinks to the imperial couple. Chosroes of Armenia presumed upon his royal status to approach and speak to Gallienus. He had been expelled by the Persians more than a decade before, but the last king of the Arsacid dynasty was a useful bargaining tool. Politics might dictate Chosroes was treated as if he were a reigning monarch, but the Roman emperor felt under no obligation to listen at all closely to his platitudinous conversation in oddly accented Greek.

Gallienus gestured for another drink. He sensed the disapproval of Salonina and felt a flash of anger. What cares did the woman have to carry? How to spend money? Which philosophical sect to patronize? It was as if she had forgotten the existence of their murdered son. Gallienus had not forgotten, drunk or sober. The gods willing, this summer the first acts of his revenge would fall on Postumus. They would fall on the child-killer both in Raetia and at the same time from a less expected direction. Admittedly, the previous expedition Censorinus had sent into the far north had disappeared without trace. But the centurion Tatius had not impressed Gallienus, and the titular leader of the mission, a fat equestrian called Julianus, a collector of amber, had been like an actor in a bad mime. Ballista was a different proposition. Although some in the north may not welcome his return, Ballista was a
princeps
among his own people. Gallienus had known him since they were young, knew his capabilities. Things would have been easier if the previous mission had not failed, but Gallienus could imagine no one more likely to succeed among the Angles than Ballista.

Gallienus found he had a different cup in his hand. The world was getting a little off-set. Chosroes was still talking. Gallienus smiled benignly at the Armenian. His thoughts remained among the Hyperboreans.

Zeno would hate it beyond the north winds. The Greek was not without his own capabilities. He had been more than conscientious as
a Studiis
. His knowledge of Greek literature, especially the earlier writers, was admirable. When invited to attend the
consilium
, at first he had spoken out cogently and with frankness on whatever issues were discussed. There was nothing wrong with that: Rome was not an oriental despotism like Armenia. Measured freedom of speech was to be allowed. But then Zeno had gone further. He had begun to criticize Gallienus’s military appointments. Repeatedly, at inapposite moments, the Greek had inveighed against what he called barrack-room upstarts. He had dared to announce that the
mos maiorum
demanded that high commands should be reserved for senators. The presumption of claiming to know the ways of the ancestors better than his emperor had been bad enough, but also it had raised questions of motive and integrity. Zeno was neither senator nor soldier. Although the
frumentarii
detailed to investigate had unearthed no evidence, Gallienus was convinced some disaffected faction of senators – the gods knew there were enough of them – had bribed the pompous
graeculus
. Zeno had been dismissed, and got out of the way as part of a diplomatic mission that crossed the lower Ister. That the embassy had failed could not be held against him. There had never been a realistic likelihood of turning the Tervingi, Gepidae, Carpi and Taifali against each other or their allies. But Gallienus was not ready to let the impudent little Greek return. Zeno had been particularly virulent against Ballista. He would watch the northerner like a hawk. That was good. Ballista was not above suspicion. Once their bias was filtered, Zeno’s reports might prove useful. Gallienus wondered if vanity and prejudice would blind his sometime
a Studiis
to who was really leading the expedition. Still, if the
graeculus
hampered the mission, Ballista carried something from Gallienus that would make the position clear.

Loud applause brought Gallienus back from the frigid north. There was no relief about the bride now; nothing but naked anxiety. With her husband, she was brought before Gallienus. Her eyes kept flicking to the bed in the atrium. No doubt, her thoughts ran to the other one, the one inside to which not her
juno
but herself would be taken. It was time for the
epithalamium
. Gallienus handed his drink to a servant. Holding the hands of the bridal pair, he recited the verse he had composed:

‘Come now, my children, grow heated together in deep-seated passion,

Never, indeed, may the doves outdo your billings and cooings,

Never the ivy your arms, or the clinging sea-shells your kisses
.
’

The rest slipped his mind. Another couple of lines; something about playing … watching … the lamps.

When the wedding guests realized there was no more to come, they voiced their appreciation.

Gallienus watched the girl being led away. She was beautiful and very young. It was fortunate for her the ways of the ancestors had changed and the bedding was no longer public. She looked terrified as it was. Still, at twenty-six, Licinius’s son had a certain experience. He was not an unkind man. Out of concern for her timidity, her hymen would remain intact tonight. Of course, he would make up for his forbearance by buggering her, and tomorrow he would fully enjoy his new wife. Such consideration was to be admired.

XIII

The Borysthenes River

The entrance to the Borysthenes lay between the Temple of Demeter on Cape Hippolaus and the grove of Hecate on Hylaea. The connotations could hardly have been less auspicious. The awful curse of Pythonissa, priestess of Hecate, terrifying, triple-headed goddess of the dark, had occupied Ballista’s thoughts.
Kill his sons. Kill all his family, all those he loves
. Demeter had lost her child, snatched away to the underworld.

It was impossible to tell where the river began and the great estuary it formed with the Hypanis ended. From the height of the village, innumerable islets, reed banks and mudflats had spread out, creating a green labyrinth of channels and creeks, the open water often betrayed by only the glint of the sun. Down in the boats, hemmed in by feathery walls of reeds, visibility had seldom been further than a javelin cast.

To minimize the chance of any encounter with the once-servile pirates infecting Hylaea, the Olbian guide had kept as much as possible to the bank on their left. He had had no time to talk. The silt shifted the shallows day on day. Each year, the river presented a fresh map of dangers and dead ends. Alert as a hunting dog, he had peered over the bow, calling directions to the helmsman in the stern. Ballista had sat behind him, silent with bad thoughts.
Kill all his family, all those he loves.

The first day had been calm. In the creeks, the current was imperceptible. But in their winding course, they made few miles. They had spent that night in another village. Mean dwellings packed behind ditches and ramparts, only the absence of a temple to Demeter distinguished it from the one at Cape Hippolaus.

In the next four days they paddled against a headwind as well as the more noticeable flow of the river. Progress was slow. They passed more villages. These, they avoided. The cracked walls and smoke-blackened roof beams jagged against the sky marked them as places of tragedy and ill omen. Some of the burning was recent enough to leave its reek on the air. Three nights they camped on muddy islands, and once on a stinking peninsula full of cormorants and gulls.

Despite the threats of barbarians and pirates, they were not alone on the river. Fisherfolk in dugout canoes slunk off into the shallowest backwaters at their approach. Four small trading vessels travelling in convoy and several rafts of logs being poled down to the Euxine had no option but to approach. They did so cautiously. The crews of the boats were armed and looked prepared to fight, even against the odds. Those on the timber were few, near naked, and ready for flight. A short swim and they would be hidden among the thick vegetation of the banks. As the distance narrowed, Greek voices were not enough – whatever their origins, the runaway slaves on Hylaea would know Greek – but the names of the great men of Olbia reassured.
Health and great joy
. The voyagers exchanged news. The gods be praised, no one had encountered anything worse than the mundane hazards of riverine travel.
May the gods hold their hands over you
. Both sides parted a little heartened, but somehow more isolated on the river after the meeting.

The sixth day out, the guide took them over towards the bank on their right. The only channel of any reasonableness was there. The slaves from Hylaea had never been seen this far upriver. A hard day, and tonight once again they could sleep easy behind the walls of a strong village, where the inhabitants would keep watch.

Practice had improved the paddling of the Romans. They were nearly as fluent as the Olbians. The wind had backed to the south-west. The sun shone, and the four boats sped along.

There were redshanks and kingfishers. High above, Ballista saw a pair of sea eagles. Some way up the river, from beneath a weeping willow, a heron took wing, its long legs trailing. Ballista’s mood had lightened a little, but still ran on his family and death. Not his wife and sons, but his family in the north. ‘Some are no longer there for me to see,’ he had said to Castricius. His half-brothers Froda and Eadwulf would not be there. Froda was dead, and Eadwulf eating the bitter bread of exile with the name Evil-Child.

Ballista, or Dernhelm as he was then, had known just fourteen winters. He had stayed with his father. Although sixteen, Arkil had remained at Hlymdale as well. The older sons of Isangrim had led the Angle longboats east against the Heathobards. There had been hard fighting and little booty. The Heathobards were renowned warriors. Yet the Himlings had the glory of the day. That night, in the tent of Froda, the brothers had celebrated as men of the north will. Oslac, always the quietest and most thoughtful, had left early enough to walk unaided. The others had drunk more, much more. Morcar and Eadwulf had quarrelled. None of the brood, except his full brother Oslac, cared much for Morcar. He was brave and clever, but always aloof and quick to sneer. Eadwulf had a temper; the slightest insult was known to enrage him. He had roared insults and threats at Morcar. Froda, the eldest, had told him to get out, come back when he was old enough to hold his drink. At the commotion, Eadwulf’s friend, Swerting, had rushed in and dragged him back to the tent they shared. Morcar had stormed off in the other direction. Froda was left alone.

In the morning Froda was dead. His body was cruelly cut, and in the shambles was Eadwulf’s sword. Eadwulf was still unconscious when they came for him. Taken back to Hlymdale in chains, Eadwulf had sworn his innocence. He remembered nothing after returning to his tent. He would never have harmed Froda. Some enemy had taken his sword, left it to incriminate him, to bring dissension to the Himlings.

Many believed Eadwulf. He and Froda had been close. But when questioned, at length Swerting had said he had got up in the night to relieve himself, and Eadwulf had not been in the tent. Having lost one son, the
cyning
Isangrim would not order the death of another. Before his seventeenth winter, Eadwulf went into exile, and men had started to call him Evil-Child.

Ballista had worshipped Froda. Eadwulf had done the same. Open and kind, Froda had been a man when they were still little more than children. Eadwulf had a temper, but Ballista had never believed him guilty.

Ahead, a flight of duck clattered up from the reed beds. Ballista idly watched them circle and stream away. The river was quiet when they had gone. There were no waders busy on the mudflats. Nothing but the splash of the paddles, and the water running down the sides of the boat.

Eadwulf and Froda were gone, but there were others Ballista had waited more than half a lifetime to see again. The resentment he had felt when his father had sent him away into the
imperium
had long dissipated. Since then, Ballista himself had been forced to make hard decisions. His father would be old now, as would his mother. A sharp stab of anxiety came with that thought. It took a long time for news to travel down the amber roads from the north to the
imperium
. Given the outlandish places where Ballista had served in the last two years, it was no wonder he had heard nothing from the Suebian Sea. Allfather, let them both be alive. Other faces swam into view – nothing could have happened to Heoroweard. His friend was indestructible. Always stocky, after Ballista had left he was said to have grown very fat, earning himself the name Paunch-Shaker. And then there was Heoroweard’s sister. Kadlin would not be a girl any more. She was the same age as Ballista. Not a wild girl of sixteen winters, a girl with a look in her eye. She would be a mature woman. Twice married, with Starkad, her son by her first husband, and a son and daughter by Oslac. If Ballista had remained in the north, most likely he would have married her. It would be strange to see her as wife to his half-brother, more than strange. Oslac might not welcome his return. For different reasons, Morcar certainly would not.

Ballista watched the willows slip past, their long fronds weeping down into the water, making dark caves along the bank. He wondered if any of the Angles would really welcome his return. He had been away a long time. Twenty-six winters in the
imperium
had changed him. He smiled. They were sailing past the woods of Hylaea, according to Herodotus, the scene of a particularly unhappy homecoming. Anacharsis the Scythian had gone south, travelled the world. He had lived in Athens, discussed philosophy with Solon. Although a barbarian, Anacharsis had been reckoned one of the seven sages of Hellas. On his return north, he had stopped at Cyzicus on the Hellespont. There he had witnessed the worship of Cybele. If the goddess granted him a safe journey, he had sworn to perform her mysteries in his native land. Back among his own people, Anacharsis had slipped away into Hylaea. Drum in hand, he had danced in honour of the Great Mother. His strange rituals had been observed. The Scythian king himself had killed Anacharsis. The moral was not hard to find.