The Wolves of the North (30 page)

‘My Lord Gallienus requests to ransom those of his subjects in your power,’ Ballista said.

‘We took his subjects in war. It was the will of God. If Gallienus desires them back, he should come and put the issue before God on the field of battle.’ Naulobates gestured to one of the men seated at his feet. ‘Having tasted true freedom and brotherhood among the Heruli, many, like my brother Artemidorus, would not choose to return to the slavery of the
imperium
.’

‘We have made a long and dangerous journey so that those who do wish might have the chance to return with us,’ Ballista said.

‘Dangerous in the extreme.’ Naulobates shifted his gaze above Ballista’s head. ‘I have observed the trials; yours and those of my Heruli. I was with you every step of the way. Brachus, my
tauma
, moved among you.’ Naulobates, seeing the word meant nothing to Ballista, smiled. ‘You might call it my daemon.’

Ballista could think of nothing to say. He sensed both Castricius and Hippothous stiffen.

‘My
tauma
observed everything. The treacherous attacks of the Alani, and the treachery within your own party.’ Naulobates was
not smiling now. ‘The murderer among you is subtle. His daemon hid from Brachus in devious ways. I would let him know his fate should he disturb the peace of my campfires.’

At a sign from Naulobates, a bound man was brought forth. The prisoner struggled wildly. Through his gag he made incoherent sounds. Four young Heruli manhandled him off to one side, towards where the trees formed the rustic arch.

‘This despicable criminal is a traitor to the God-given customs of the Heruli. A thief and a murderer, he sought to appropriate for himself what is the property of all. When another man went to the woman, this sacrilegious wretch burst in and struck him at the moment a man can least defend himself.’

The four young Heruli roped the man to the tied-together branches of the two bent trees. Ballista had heard of such things, but never expected to see them.

‘Let the murderer among your party see what will become of him should he let his daemon indulge itself in the camp of the Heruli.’ Naulobates nodded.

One of the young Heruli swung an axe. It sheered through the ropes binding the trees together. With the vigour of youth, the saplings sprang apart. Where there had been a man, now severed body parts hung like badly butchered sides of strange, unpalatable meat.

After the dismemberment, Naulobates had told the Romans to produce their diplomatic gifts. The consular ornaments had survived the vagaries of the journey reasonably well. Naulobates studied the white toga with the broad purple stripe; the nasty bloodstain on the lower hem had come out quite well. He had peered at the boots with their many, complicated laces which were reserved for Roman senators. The Herul had seemed especially struck by the twelve
fasces
; the rods symbolizing the power to chastise, bundled around the axes representing the right to kill. After musing over these
ornamenta consularia
for some time, Naulobates had looked over the heads of the embassy, out beyond the remnants of the dead man in the trees, beyond the things visible to normal men, and had announced with deafening certainty that one day he would indeed be Roman consul; and that not in token but in reality. No one, Maximus included, had so much as smiled.

The silver dinner service, embossed with scenes of Roman heroes killing barbarians, had not held the attention of Naulobates. Sharing it between members of his entourage as gifts, he had
dismissed the embassy from his presence. That had been four days before. They had not seen him since.

Andonnoballus had taken them to the lodgings provided. They consisted of four round nomad tents at one end of the camp. These were more than adequate, given there were but seventeen left in the embassy. Maximus was in the largest, situated at the western end of the row. He was in with Ballista, Calgacus and Tarchon. In the next one were Castricius and Hippothous, with the interpreter and the two remaining members of the official staff: a scribe and a messenger. The three soldiers and their two freed-slaves were billeted in the next adjacent. At the far end was Amantius. The two remaining slaves had no say in sharing with the eunuch. That was just as well, because no one else wished to share with him.

Maximus had no trouble settling into the life of a temporary nomad. Given some of the places they had been forced to sleep over the years, this was close to luxury. The tent was about thirty foot across, and each man had ample room for his bed roll. It was constructed of a framework of curved poles, over which felt hangings were stretched. An ingenious arrangement of cords allowed the hangings to be raised independently of each other to admit whatever breeze was blowing. The Heruli had brought food, a joint of mutton, strings of horsemeat sausages, and lots of their fermented mare’s milk. Maximus was developing a taste for the latter, and Calgacus, although still hampered by his arm, cooked the former outside.

You could not fault the hospitality of the Heruli. The very first evening they offered their guests some slave girls, attractive ones at that. For whatever reason – they muttered something about privacy – Ballista and Calgacus declined. Which was fine by Maximus. With what he deemed consideration, he took Ballista’s along with his own down to the riverbank. He chose what he thought was a secluded spot. Despite his long-enforced celibacy, everything
went fine. After a time – a creditable time, if he said so himself – when it was finished, he discovered he had been wrong about the seclusion. A group of three Herul women washing clothes had appeared near by. They had giggled. Far from seeming shocked, Maximus had thought they looked rather impressed.

The following day, things had improved still more. In the tent, Ballista had immersed himself in reading. Unfortunately, he had taken to reading out and elucidating passages from Tacitus’s
Annals
. Neither Calgacus nor Tarchon making a particularly receptive audience, the comments had ended up directed mainly at Maximus. After a brief time, to escape the relentless political insights and literary sleights of hand, Maximus had gone out.

Walking quite at random through the camp, Maximus had come to the market. It was surprisingly large. After he had paid some duty to a Herul official, a trader had been authorized to sell him a large amount of cannabis at a reasonable-seeming price. Strolling back, turning over in his head ways to consume it without bothering to build a special tent, he had run into one of the Herul women from the river. He had struck up a conversation with her. She spoke Greek. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he had decided to test the encouraging stories about the sexual mores of the Heruli. At first he thought he had misjudged things horribly. She had just stared at him, an inscrutable expression on her face. Even he had been surprised when, almost wordless, she had taken him straight to her tent.

Although there had been male belongings – among them a
gorytus
, a hunting spear and a couple of fine swords – they had a packed-away, unused air. Nevertheless, the woman had hung the bowcase outside. She had closed the hangings, spread bedding, removed her clothes and gestured for him to lie down with her. Something about her very brisk practicality – that and possibly her bizarre dyed-red hair – had set him aback. But he had persevered
– thinking about those two blondes in the brothel in Arete had helped – and after a time things went better. Afterwards they had talked a little, but she had looked sad, and told him to leave.

Now, on the fourth morning, Maximus was thinking about her. From the other side of their tent, Ballista was delivering what amounted to a lecture on the moral corruption of living under an autocracy as analysed by Tacitus. Calgacus was outside, cooking, his movements awkward because of his arm. Tarchon had vanished. Unable to account for the woman’s sadness, Maximus was wondering if it would be a good idea to visit her again.

Andonnoballus appeared at the entrance. They invited him to enter. Calgacus came in too. Maximus got them all a drink. At least, Maximus thought, it should call a halt to the drone about politics.

‘When will Naulobates grant us another audience?’ Ballista asked.

‘The answer to your request was unambiguous,’ Andonnoballus said.

‘There are other things, beyond the ransoms, we would discuss, preferably alone with the king.’

‘I am sure he will receive you again soon. Although the work of a lawgiver consumes his time. He does not spare himself, and he has been called away the past two days.’ Andonnoballus looked serious. ‘The
tauma
of Naulobates has brought back word that the deity prefers Naulobates be called not King but First-Brother.’

‘It is not an easy thing to change the laws of a people,’ Ballista said. ‘Solon, the great Athenian, went abroad when his reforms were complete. Sulla, the Dictator of Rome, retired into private life. When he introduced the rule of the emperors, there were attempts on the life of Augustus.’

Andonnoballus shot Ballista a hard look. ‘There is no question
of such with the First-Brother. The reforms are God-given. All Heruli are united in support.’

‘Yet people are accustomed to their old ways, often they resist …’

‘There is no resistance. Those who objected showed they were not true Heruli.’

‘Tell me about the reforms, especially about the women,’ Maximus said quickly.

The conversation had been heading into uncomfortable places. It was unlike Ballista to be so tactless. It was almost as if he had been sounding out the loyalty of Andonnoballus to his father’s regime. For a nasty moment, Maximus wondered if Ballista had received further instructions from Gallienus’s court, instructions beyond the unlikely task of trying to turn the Heruli against their Gothic allies. Something pricked his memory, then disappeared again. ‘Tell me about the women,’ he said with an open, affable smile.

Andonnoballus laughed. ‘Outsiders always want to know about the women.’

‘You all have your women in common?’ Maximus asked.

‘As in Plato’s
Republic
,’ Ballista said.

‘Not at all, it is far better than Plato imagined,’ Andonnoballus said.

This was safer ground altogether. Although Maximus suspected that Plato might prove even less entertaining than Tacitus. The young Herul was obviously setting himself for some weighty discourse.

‘Plato abolished marriage, the home and the family. He took babies from their mothers. The guardians of his ideal
polis
were to be mated like hunting dogs, although the occasion would be called a festival. Who got to mate was decided by lot. To ensure only the best mated, the lots were to be fixed. It was cruel, unnatural and all based on deceit.’

‘And yours is better?’ Ballista said.

‘Without doubt. What is more natural than the family? The deity instructed Naulobates that men should continue to marry, should have a tent and possessions of their own. How could a warrior live on the Steppes without his herds? Their number are the measure of his valour. But to ensure harmony, to make us a true band of brothers, no husband objects if another man enjoys his wife. As paternity must be uncertain, every Herul regards every child as if it were his own.’

‘How do you avoid incest?’ Ballista asked.

‘It is a large tribe. You do not lie with the daughters of women you had around the time of the girl’s conception.’

‘So the Rosomoni are descended through the mothers?’ Ballista asked.

‘Not altogether. Only exceptionally will a Rosomoni woman lie with a man who is not Rosomoni.’

‘What sort of exception?’ Maximus was interested now.

‘If he is a great warrior, or for some other unusual reason.’

Maximus grinned and got up. ‘Sure, that helps me make a decision. I will be off to see the Rosomoni woman I saw the other day.’

‘What is her name?’ Andonnoballus said.

‘Olympias.’

A strange look crossed Andonnoballus’s face; not disapproving, let alone hostile, more compassionate. ‘Enjoy, but always remember, pleasure is fleeting.’

‘Not that fleeting,’ Maximus said complacently.

Outside, walking between the neat rows of tents and wagons, Maximus remembered the thing that had snagged at his memory earlier. He had meant to tell Ballista the other day, when Olympias had said it. They were the second embassy of foreigners in the camp this summer. King Hisarna of the Urugundi had ridden out two days before they had arrived.

He was back in Ephesus. Lost in the alleys of the potters’ quarter. It had rained. The stucco on the close, blank walls was running with water. Thick mud squelched under foot. In the band of sky visible the stars raced to their extinction.

He crouched in the shallow recess of a doorway. Doubled up, gasping. The door was barred. He did not dare knock. The labyrinthine alleys played with the sounds. The baying of the mob came first from one direction then another. Each time, it was closer. If only he had not lost his way. If only he could get
down to the Sacred Way, achieve the sanctuary of some holy place in the civic
agora
.

The mob rounded the corner. He could not run. They closed on him, their eyes as pitiless as the dying stars.

He woke, his heart racing, sweating heavily. It was dark in the tent. He forced himself to peer through the gloom into the further recesses. Only the humped shapes of his
contubernales
sleeping like brute beasts. No sign of the daemon. Just a dream then. Thank the gods for that.

He had made a mistake, had misread the signs. Just once, but that was enough. The daemons of those justly slain did not walk. The little girl in Ephesus had been innocent. Since her daemon had appeared to him, he had ensured another such could not happen. The mutilations kept any unjustly killed from seeking revenge. When time was pressing, licking and spitting the blood and wiping the blade on their heads should prove enough. Jason had not been haunted by Apsyrtus. If a murderer of the innocent stood on sacred ground, the gods sent madness and disease. He had been in temples. He was healthy and sane. To rid himself of her, he needed purification. But the ritual called for things he could not obtain. If not a priest, it demanded at least privacy and a suckling pig. Neither had been available as they crossed the Steppe, and neither were to be had here among the Heruli.