The words mocked him. Already he had asked the gods for much. There were no rings on his hands, no bracelets on his wrists. He had given all his fine things to the gods for his safety. Now he must ask for more.
It all made sense. At the outset, the storm in the Euxine that had driven them to the island of Leuce had been divinely ordained. It had been a test, and they had failed. They had not put their trust in the gods and gone back aboard the warship. They had defied the divine prohibition and spent the night on the island. They had brought down on themselves the implacable anger of Achilles. It all stemmed from that: the murderous fight in the bar, the attack on Olbia, nearly being crushed by the raft of logs on the Hypanis, the Goths on the Borysthenes, the Brondings off the Vistula and the tempest in the Suebian Sea. Time and again souls had been snatched from the midst of life, those without the coin to pay the ferryman condemned to wander for eternity.
Amantius knew the anger of Achilles was not played out. It would fall on them again when Unferth came for his revenge. Amantius’s possessions had all gone to the gods. Desperate need had made him bold. Eunuchs were always suspected of peculation. To cover his tracks he had hidden a few of the coins he had taken from the diplomatic gifts in the possessions of the Vandal called Rikiar and in the paltry things of one of Zeno’s slaves. The former had the reputation of a thief, and Zeno habitually thought the worst of his servants. Amantius had made the offering in the lake, the nearest thing he could find to a place he recognized as sacred. To salve his conscience, he had included both of them in his prayers.
Publius Egnatius Amantius to Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus, Praetorian Prefect …
What did it matter? There was nothing to say. There was no way to send the report anyway. No one would ever know the things that happened on this doomed embassy.
Amantius got up, secured the writing materials to his belt. He smoothed down the barbarian tunic and trousers he was reduced to wearing. It was time to get back for the leaving feast.
Ballista waited outside in the dark under the low eaves of the hall. They had followed the old custom and drawn lots for who sat where at the feast. The lots had not been kind. Still, he had been surprised when the slave-girl whispered her message.
‘Kadlin.’
She stood in the light from the doorway. She was as he remembered her: tall, slender, standing very straight. Her long hair framed her face, her very dark eyes.
‘Over here.’
She looked back into the hall, and quickly all around, before stepping into the dark passage between the wall and the overhanging thatch.
He took her hand and drew her further away from the light.
They stopped behind a pile of stacked logs. He let go of her hand. She moved a little back from him. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, not much lower than his own. He had forgotten just how tall she was.
‘It has been a long time,’ he said.
‘A very long time.’ He sensed as much as saw her smile.
‘You look well.’ After all these years, he found nothing but banalities to say.
‘Your have broken your nose and teeth.’
She moved towards him. She was very close, almost touching. He could smell her perfume, her breath, the warmth of her body.
‘Did you …’ What did he want to say? Did you miss me? You know I did not want to go. Do you still love me? He could not say any of them.
Her hand came up, touched his face. She was smiling again, her eyes bright in the gloom. ‘How long have you been waiting out here?’
‘Long enough.’ He was smiling, too. ‘You took your time.’
‘What?’
‘The slave-girl, your message.’
She stepped away. ‘I sent you no message. Quick, we must go back.’
As he followed her into the light, Oslac came out from the hall.
Kadlin half turned to Ballista. ‘Thank you for escorting me.’ She spoke formally. ‘I hope we will have a chance to speak before you leave tomorrow.’ She turned back to her husband.
Oslac stood very still, his eyes moving between the two of them.
‘Kadlin.’ Ballista nodded to his brother. ‘Oslac.’
Ballista could not make out Oslac’s words as he walked back into the hall, but the tone of interrogation was unmistakable. Oslac was a jealous man; all the Himlings were. If he harmed her, he would answer for it.
XXVIII
The Inlet of Norvasund on the Cimbric Peninsula
The forest was full of the sounds of axes biting into hardwood, the smells of fresh-cut timber, disturbed earth and animal dung. Ballista walked down towards the inlet of Norvasund. Sixty men were employed cutting down trees. They had been working in shifts for three days. Every draught animal, all the plough horses and oxen from miles around on the east coast of the Cimbric peninsula, had been gathered. Harnessed in teams, they hauled the felled trees. Ballista stopped to watch one begin its short but laborious journey to the water. The mighty oak lay entire and untrimmed on the ground. Its crown fanned up to the sky, the leaves still green and vigorous. Stout ropes lashed around the severed trunk and lower branches ran to the complicated harnesses of the twenty waiting bullocks. The man in charge gave the command. The long whips of the drovers flicked out. Bellowing with pain and effort, the oxen strained against their traces. For a moment, the trunk did not move. The whips snapped again, and men shouted. With a deep rending sound, punctuated by the sharp cracks of breaking boughs, the huge oak inched forward on to the waiting rollers. Dust billowed up from the dragging foliage. The gentle incline was with them, but it would take hours before the oak reached the water.
Ballista went on down to the strand. The inlet of Norvasund ran north-west into the Cimbric peninsula. Some way inland from the sea, a promontory on the western side, the far side from where Ballista stood, narrowed the water to less than four hundred paces. He surveyed the progress of his defences. The seaward line of some hundred vertical poles already stretched all the way across, hammered down hard and roped together. The first dozen oaks were braced to them, in a row, their crowns all to the east. Two longboats were towing the next into position. The crew of another vessel were working along, fixing the inner poles, roping the whole barrier together. The final two boats were further out. Their task was to drive individual sharpened stakes in at an angle.
It would be a formidable obstacle to attack from the sea when finished. Some enemy ships should run foul of the outlying stakes, perhaps even tear their bottoms out. The oaks floated low in the water, no more than a foot or so of their trunks above the surface. But their branches would hinder any attempt to ride over them. With archers on both shores and on the five defending longships deployed inside the barrier, any attempt to sever the many binding ropes and breach the structure by towing trees away would bring large numbers of casualties. It would be a formidable obstacle, if it was finished before Unferth arrived. Ballista estimated it would take at least forty oaks. They were only a third of the way there. And it would be as good as useless if the land defences on either side were not completed.
‘Food, Dominus?’ Diocles said.
‘What have you got?’
‘Re-heated stew; not sure what is in it. I think there is some rabbit, some chicken, and definitely cabbage — very good for you, cabbage. There is bread from yesterday.’
‘If there is enough, thank you, yes.’
‘It is not Lucullan, but there is plenty.’
There were eight men, Romans and Olbians together. With Maximus and Tarchon, his two constant shadows, Ballista joined them. The firewood and kindling had already been gathered. Diocles fished out his fire-making kit. He took tinder from a pointed oval wooden case. Using a firesteel, he angled sparks from a special striking stone. With the ease of long practice, he had the fire going in no time at all.