‘The same,’ Morcar said, ‘one tree to another.’
As Ballista hesitated, a movement. Morcar’s left hand wrenching his dagger out.
Ballista thrust down, all his weight behind it. The steel tip of Battle-Sun broke the closely wrought rings of mail, broke open the ribcage they guarded.
XXXII
The Island of Hedinsey
Vengeful furies, punishers of sinners, black torches in your hands, hear my curse. Ballista sat on the high table in his father’s hall in Hlymdale, but in his mind he saw a village in the Caucasus, a dark village under a lowering sky. A woman standing in the rain, her hair unbound, her words cursing him.
There were many bad things he had done. Twice, he had broken the sacramentum. Rather than put the safety of the emperor above everything, as the Roman military oath demanded, he had stabbed Maximinus Thrax in the throat. With the emperor Quietus he had used his bare hands; thrown him to his death from a high place. He had sworn a terrible oath to return to captivity before the throne of Shapur, King of Kings. He had not returned. And now … now he had killed Morcar. As they said, the hand’s joy in the blow is brief. The Oath-breaker had become the Brother-killer.
Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the one the Romans called Ballista, knew himself cursed. Let him live — in poverty, in impotence, loneliness and fear. Let him wander the face of the earth, through strange towns, among strange peoples, always in exile, homeless and hated. He had failed to save old Calgacus, and now he had killed his own brother. There was a special place reserved in Hades for men like him. Brother-killer.
Isangrim rose to his feet. ‘My people, it is time for the dispensation.’
Ballista looked past Oslac to their father, and beyond him to Eadwulf. Twenty-eight winters had taken their toll on Eadwulf. His long, blond hair was turning grey. His nose had been broken, spread across his face. He was much heavier set. Yet Eadwulf shone with the joy of his return. And Ballista was leaving again.
The hall waited for Isangrim in silence.
‘The Suebian Sea is once more at peace. Abalos, Hindafell, Solfell, the Scadinavian coast — all have returned to their rightful allegiance. This peace will be protected. My son the atheling Oslac will build a new hall on Gnitaheath. My grandson Mord will travel with him to Abalos. The eastern Lords — Brecca of the Brondings, Yrmenlaf of the Wylfings, Hygelac of the Geats and Eudosius of the Dauciones — will swear their sword-oath to Oslac. In the south, the islands of Latris will be held by Hrothgar of the Wrosns. To Hrothgar we betroth our granddaughter Aelfwynn, daughter of Oslac. Hrothgar will oversee the Langobardi, Farodini and Rugii of the mainland. In accordance with the oath sworn in the hall of their king by our son the atheling Dernhelm, we welcome the Heathobards into an equal alliance. My son the atheling Eadwulf will go to the west. He will be accompanied by my grandson Aethelgar, son of Oslac. All the peoples of the peninsula, from the Cimbri in the north to the Reudigni in the south, will give Eadwulf their sword-oath. After his many years among them, Eadwulf brings the friendship of the Frisii. He will lead longships of the Frisii with those of the Angles against the coasts of Gaul held by the false-Roman Postumus, as desired by our son Dernhelm. Our regent on Varinsey will be eorl Eadwine, and here on Hedinsey it will be Hathkin, son of Heoroweard. Given the youth of the latter, eorl Godwine will act as his advisor. Now let those appointed give me their oaths.’
The gift-stool was brought out, and Isangrim took his seat. Oslac was the first to kneel before the cyning.
It was an impressive ceremony, and it promised unity for the time being. But it did not do the same for the future. Who would inherit the throne? Oslac and Eadwulf had been given wide domains, but neither held the heartlands of Hedinsey and Varinsey. When Isangrim died, would either stand aside? And what of the younger Himlings? Would Aethelgar be content to see his uncle, not his father, as cyning? And there was Mord. He had been brought up with his father, Morcar, as the unacknowledged heir. In time he would have thought to sit on the high throne himself. And there were the other great eorls. Two generations before, Eadwine’s Waymundings had ruled Varinsey as independent kings. A roll of the dice on Hedinsey, and the cynings would have come from Hathkin’s Wuffingas, and not the Himlings.
Eorl Godwine swore his oath to support Hathkin in all things, to be true in word and deed. Just one thing remained for Isangrim to say. Ballista’s thoughts shied away from it. They turned to Rome. He had done what Gallienus had ordered. He had turned the Himlings against Postumus. But what would happen when the northern longships appeared off the coasts of Gaul? What would Postumus do to Arkil and the other Angles in his power? Ballista had killed one brother with his own hand. Would he now be responsible for the death of another? Brother-killer.
Isangrim got to his feet, the years heavy in his movements. ‘Tragedy has come to the halls of the Himlings. Morcar challenged Dernhelm to the duel. There is no compensation to be paid. But I would have Mord reconciled to Dernhelm.’
Both Ballista and Mord stood. They did not look at each other. Ballista spoke first. ‘Although, by our customs, compensation is not due, I will offer it. Let the cyning set the blood price.’
‘No,’ Mord said.
Ballista looked along the high table.
Mord stood very still, his anger holding him rigid. ‘I will never carry my father in my money pouch. Either I will go the same way as he did, or I will take vengeance for him.’
Mord looked at Ballista now, his eyes full of hatred.
‘I am sorry for it,’ Isangrim said. ‘Dernhelm leaves tomorrow for the south, Mord for Abalos. By my order, no revenge will be sought within my lands.’
Ballista sat down, the words of the curse in his mind. Vengeful furies, punishers of sinners, kill his wife, kill his sons, all those he loves, let him wander the face of the earth, in loneliness and fear, always in exile, homeless and hated.
Perhaps the words would prove true; perhaps they would not. There was no doubt that Mord hated him. And there could be no question that he had to leave his childhood home. Ballista had killed his half-brother; he could not kill Morcar’s son as well. Yet he was reluctant to leave the north. It was still so much the same. It looked and smelt the same. The new buildings were much like the old. There were those here he loved: his father, his mother and Eadwulf. Most likely, he would never see them again. And there was Kadlin. But it could not become his home once more. Perhaps his sons might be young enough to make the transition, but his wife, never. And even if Julia did, there was Kadlin.
At least he was not leaving alone. He would lead the expedition back to the imperium, back by a more westerly branch of the Amber Road that would bring them via friendly tribes to Pannonia, and down into Italy at Aquileia. He would bring them all back safe: those he loved — Maximus and Castricius; those he cared for — Tarchon and Rikiar: and the others — like Diocles and Amantius. Who would have imagined the portly eunuch would survive when so many others had died?
And he was not going into exile. When he reached the comitatus, he would petition the emperor. It might be Gallienus would give him permission to retire to Sicily. Of course, the villa was Julia’s. But it was where his sons were. It was where his wife was. He missed his books, the baths, the garden with the view of the Bay of Naxos. Perhaps he and Julia could make things better, make them more what they had once been between them. Perhaps in a sense he was returning home, returning to protect his wife and his sons.