The Wolves of the North (18 page)

‘How long?’ Calgacus said.

‘Bugger,’ Maximus said. He handed more coins to Ballista. ‘I said your first words would be a more traditional
Where am I?
’

‘Three days inclusive,’ Ballista said. ‘You came round later that day. We gave you the poppy and a lot of drink, kept you near-unconscious all yesterday.’

‘My arm?’

‘Broken. The
gudja
set it. He is not happy with your shoulder either.’

‘Nor am I.’

‘You remember what happened?’ Maximus asked.

‘Of course I fucking remember. A horse buried me.’

‘Actually, no,’ Maximus said. ‘You jumped clear. You just fell awkwardly, bust your arm, knocked yourself out; all very clumsy.’

‘Wulfstan?’ Calgacus asked.

‘Fine,’ Ballista said. ‘He has cooked you some food, been keeping it warm on a brazier, nearly set fire to the wagon.’

‘Chicken soup, sure it is finer than your mother made,’ Maximus put in.

‘Anyone else?’ Calgacus said.

‘No one that matters; except Castricius is missing. So is the centurion,’ answered Maximus.

‘Missing out here is not good,’ said Calgacus.

Wulfstan came into the covered part of the wagon with the food. The other two left. Wulfstan helped him eat, gave him more wine and more poppy. Calgacus fell into a narcotic half-sleep.

When next Calgacus woke, Tarchon was staring at him.

‘I am most pleased you did not die,’ the Suanian said.

‘So am I.’

‘If you have been dead, I could not have repaid my debt.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Calgacus was not sure he was ready for this sort of conversation concerning Suanian honour. He gestured for Tarchon to pass him a drink. ‘And would you open the hangings?’

‘However,
Kyrios
, if you have dead, I still can repay Ballista.’

‘Will the Alani come again?’ Calgacus asked.

‘Most likely. But we are running away as fast as the wind – well, as fast as oxen go. Also, the longhead Andonnoballus and the
kyrios
Ballista have been busy, most thorough.’

‘Huhn.’ Calgacus made a noise indicating he doubted it, but Tarchon should explain anyway.

‘The Heruli are out on all sides as …’ Tarchon said something in Suanian. ‘How you say in Greek?
Kaka
 … something.’

‘
Kataskopoi
,’ Calgacus said. ‘And apart from the scouts?’

‘It is highly thorough. The wagons goes in two lines; the first and the last ready to turn in to form a laager. That is right – laager?’

‘Yes, laager; a northern word, a camp or temporary fort.’

‘Good – laager. Anyhow, there is just eight wagon now. The stores ride in two not three, and the soldiers haves one not two. Other soldier ride in the one with the eunuch Amantius, and another with the’ – a Suanian word, obviously not flattering – ‘mans of the staff, as well as a soldier in with each of the stores. The spare horses runs in the centre.’ Tarchon grinned, proud of his grasp of things. ‘See, we are most highly prepared.’

Calgacus made a sound expressing profound misgiving. ‘How many fighting men are left?’

Tarchon started counting on his fingers. ‘Do I count also the wounded?’

‘No.’

‘And not mans missing?’

‘No – definitely not mans missing.’

‘The Sarmatian drivers?’

‘Yes.’ Calgacus found it hard work, even without the pain.

Tarchon began counting again. ‘Twenty-four.’

‘We are fucked,’ Calgacus said.

‘Yes, we are most fucked.’

Calgacus lay back watching the sun arc up over the Steppe. It was hotter now they were into June. With every slight jolt, sharp stabs of pain shot through his shoulder and arm. His head ached dully.

‘Where is Ballista?’ Calgacus said.

‘I get him for you,
Kyrios
.’

Calgacus rested as still as he could, swallowing the pain, trying to think through it.

Ballista and Maximus climbed into the wagon with Tarchon.

‘How are you?’ Ballista asked.

‘We have changed direction,’ Calgacus said.

‘We are heading north-east to the camp of Naulobates,’ said Ballista.

‘Why now?’ Calgacus’s voice sounded weak and peevish to him.

‘Because he is our only fucking hope,’ Maximus said.

‘You mean, why not before?’ Ballista asked.

Calgacus grunted.

‘Why did the Urugundi land us on the southern bank of the Tanais?’ Ballista was frowning with concentration. ‘Why not the northern side, head north-east, then cross the river higher up?’

Maximus and Tarchon had assumed thoughtful airs that failed to hide their incomprehension.

Ballista continued, thinking out loud. ‘Why did first the
gudja
and then Andonnoballus lead us due east, through the grazing disputed between the Alani and the Heruli?’

Calgacus wheezed and muttered, ‘Fucking clever now.’

‘A deliberate provocation,’ Ballista said. ‘They both wanted the Alani to attack.’

‘Maybe,’ Calgacus grunted.

‘Fuck,’ Maximus said.

‘Oh yes,’ Tarchon put in brightly. ‘As I was saying to the
kyrios
Calgacus, we are most fucked.’

‘Why?’ Ballista said.

A high call –
yip-yip-yip
– cut off any answer. Wulfstan stuck his head around the awning. ‘Horseman approaching from the south-east.’

Everyone rushed out. Calgacus listened to them mounting, riding a little ahead.

After a time – hard to judge when he hurt that much – Calgacus rolled on to his good left arm, and painfully crawled to the front. He looked out over the right shoulder of the stolid Sarmatian driver.

A lone rider was coming. Even at a distance, it could be seen that his horse was dead beat. The man himself was slumped forward in the saddle.

A small knot of horsemen were waiting to one side of the wagon train. They were all gazing at the man approaching, except Ballista and Andonnoballus, who were looking all around, everywhere else.

‘Not as fucking stupid as some,’ Calgacus said to himself.

‘Castricius,’ Maximus shouted, ‘you little bastard.’

The Roman let his horse stop next to the others. It looked ready to drop.

‘What happened?’ Ballista asked.

‘I was out for a ride, bumped into a group of Alani warriors coming from the south. About a dozen of them chased me. I went off east. They followed – persistent buggers. Finally slipped back through them last night.’ Under the ingrained dust, Castricius’s face was pale.

‘You are hurt,’ Ballista said.

‘It is nothing, a scratch.’ Castricius put his hand to his left leg. ‘The spirits of death are still not ready for me.’ His small, angular face creased into a smile. ‘And now, my good daemon has saved not just me, but all of you as well.’

Narcissus heard the commotion outside. He clambered through the cluttered wagon to see. It was time for the evening meal. A horse was loose in the camp. Something had spooked it. Unable to escape the encircling wagon-laager, it careered around, sending things flying, overturning cooking pots. Men ran after it, shouting, making things worse. The other horses were getting stirred up.

Let someone else deal with it. Narcissus had his orders. He went back into the empty wagon to continue sorting out everyone’s jumbled possessions. He moved a heavy leather bag. A papyrus roll fell out. Narcissus had been educated to be a secretary. He unrolled the first sheet and went nearer the lamp to read.
Taking my start from you, Phoibos, I shall recall the glorious
deeds of men of long ago who propelled the well-benched Argo
 … It was the
Argonautica
of Apollonius of Rhodes.

A memory came to Narcissus, then the realization tumbled in: Mastabates asking about epic poetry, the denials that had been uttered, the killings and mutilations that had haunted the caravan, the ritual mutilations that followed that of Apsyrtus by Jason in the poem.

A noise outside. Without thought, Narcissus stuffed the roll into his tunic. He must tell someone, must tell Ballista.

Narcissus jumped down from the tailgate of the wagon. The camp was still in uproar.

‘What have you got there?’

The voice was behind Narcissus. He spun round. ‘Nothing.’

‘Give it to me.’

Narcissus fished the roll out. ‘I was just tidying, doing my duty.’

‘Of course.’

The left hand held it out.

As Narcissus passed it over, the other’s right fist closed on his throat. The papyrus fell to the ground. Narcissus clawed at the hand choking him. He could not break the grip. He could not shout. He was being dragged into the darkness out beyond the wagon.

The man got both hands on his throat. Blackness crowded Narcissus’s vision. The terrible pressure increased.

‘Just a dead slave’ were the last words he heard.

A Sarmatian driver answering a nocturnal call of nature had found the body. It lay outside the line of wagons, but not so far as where the sentries patrolled out in the dark. No attempt had been made to conceal it.

In the grey light before true dawn, there was no time to lose. Torches fizzed and spluttered. The oxen were put under the yokes, the laager broken, the two lines of wagons arranged, the scouts sent out. While all that was going on, men – subdued by the time of morning, the news of the body, and their own fears for the coming day – took what breakfast they could. Out where the corpse had been found, the two slaves owned by the auxiliaries dug a shallow grave.

Ballista and three others paused to inspect the remains of Narcissus. The light was gathering.

‘Throat cut and strangled, very thorough,’ Maximus said.

‘Strangled, then throat cut,’ Ballista amended. ‘No point in strangling someone if you have already cut their throat.’

‘What would be the point the other way around?’

‘Make sure he was dead, not just unconscious, or’ – Ballista
pointed to the dried blood in Narcissus’s hair – ‘so that you had a blade to wipe the blood on the victim’s head: “On his own head be it.”’

‘And you say the Greeks and Romans think that this might stop the dead man coming for revenge?’ Maximus spoke in tones of incredulity at the childlike beliefs of the southerners.

‘Poor Narcissus,’ Hippothous said. ‘He served me well.’

‘Although, surely he was getting a bit long in the tooth for your tastes,’ Castricius said. ‘I thought your sort liked them young: downy cheeks, tight arses and such like.’

Hippothous did not react. ‘I had promised him his freedom after the way he behaved when the Alani attacked. He was braver than you would expect from a slave secretary.’

‘You should know,’ Castricius said.

Hippothous half turned, hand going to hilt. ‘What do you mean?’

Castricius grinned, his face all wrinkled amusement, not all of it false. ‘Nothing deep. He was your slave. You were there. You should know.’

A high calling came from the front of the caravan; a high
yip-yipping
that was picked up by the other Heruli outriders. The wagon train was ready to move.

Ballista relaxed. They would not come to blows.

Maximus appeared oblivious, captivated by the flight of a bird far out over the Steppe. Ballista knew it was a pose.

‘Time to go,’ Ballista said. ‘That will have to do.’

The two military slaves climbed up out of the grave. They had already removed Narcissus’s boots, belt and purse. Now one of them removed a small coin from the purse and placed it into the dead slave’s mouth. They offered the rest of the possessions to Hippothous. He told them to keep them. The slaves thanked Hippothous, then, with no ceremony, rolled the body of Narcissus
into the hole, and started shovelling back the earth. It might be enough to keep off animals.

Ballista took the first watch as outrider to the north-west. Two of the Heruli always rode on the more likely approaches of the Alani to the south. The nomads knew the Steppe, knew how to recognize the signs. After four hours, Maximus cantered out to relieve him. Ballista had seen several vultures, a flock of crows, and some big mice, which scuttled away into holes. Away from the wagons, the grass sang and occasionally an invisible bird of prey screamed. With the blatant exception of the caravan, and some distant burial mounds, the sea of grass was devoid of human trace.

His watch over, Ballista went and hitched his horse to the wagon, unsaddled it, and clambered inside to be with Calgacus. The old Caledonian looked stronger, but his temper was no better than ever.

‘You know this is the twentieth day since we left the Tanais river,’ Ballista said.

Calgacus grunted.

‘By my reckoning, it is two days before the
ides
of June.’

‘Not rained for days, getting hotter; fuck me, it could be summer,’ Calgacus muttered.

‘I got married in June. You remember?’

Calgacus gazed balefully at him.

‘I was told by Julia’s family it was unlucky to marry before the
ides
of June. Not until the Tiber has carried the filth from the temple of Vesta down to the sea – that was what they said. Except they expressed it in Latin verse, very sonorous. It took me months to find out it was Ovid.’

Still, Calgacus did not reply.

‘Marriage is not for everyone. I miss the boys. Do you want to talk about Rebecca?’

‘No.’

‘It is your choice.’ Ballista nodded. ‘Did you know the wife of the Roman priest they call the
Flamen Dialis
will not touch him until after the
ides
of June?’

‘I could not give a fuck,’ Calgacus said.

‘No, nor could I,’ Ballista said.

‘You have that look on you.’ Calgacus peered myopically. ‘What did you really want to talk about?’

‘Rebecca.’

‘Apart from her.’

Ballista smiled gently at his old friend. ‘You remember back in Arete, the messenger from the Subura on the staff; the one who took a Persian arrow in the collarbone?’

‘Died slowly,’ Calgacus said. ‘They found the
Miles Arcana
disc of a
frumentarius
hidden on his body.’

‘Yes, that one.’

‘And there will be
frumentarii
on our staff now,’ Calgacus said. ‘There always are. Emperors do not trust people. Gallienus does not trust you. So what?’