An owl hooted, stilling the scurrying of the small things of the night. The killer regarded the river rolling by, and thought about water, and Medea and her brother Apsyrtus.
There was no wind, and the noise of another making his way to the tall stand of oaks on the riverbank was easy to hear. The watcher sat on. The other blundered nearer, twigs snapping, reeds rustling. A night bird took wing. Some things have to be, thought the one waiting.
‘Where are you?’ The voice was low and anxious.
The watcher remained silent, reflecting on the retribution of the gods.
‘Are you there?’
‘Over here.’
The slave emerged, furtive, from the shadows.
‘Over here.’ The watcher stood up, face bland.
The slave came over, smiling. ‘I was not sure you would be here.’
‘You would do well to trust me.’
‘Yes, of course I do. I do. But it is just so hard to believe — that you will buy my freedom.’
‘Hard to believe, but true. You will be free, more free than any man alive.’
A purse, weighed down with coins, passed from one to the other. Holding it reverently, like a token of salvation, the slave got down on his knees. He kissed the other’s hand. ‘I cannot begin to thank you.’
‘No, it is best you do not. Others should thank me — but would they, even if they knew?’
Not understanding the gnomic utterance, the slave looked up. The other gripped his throat, thumbs driving into his windpipe. Taken unaware, the slave could do nothing but scrabble at the hands throttling him, ineffectually beat at the arms. The slave tried to wrench away. The killer, arms locked with the effort, held him. Slowly, the slave was bent backwards — almost double. And the remorseless pressure mounted.
In the bright moonlight their struggling shadows were a hunched parody of some act of love. The efforts of the slave were weakening. His face was suffused, eyes bloodshot and protruding. Of a sudden, there was a sharp tang of urine.
At length, the life choked out of him, the slave convulsed then was still. The killer got up stiffly, breath coming in short gasps. Stretching an aching back, flexing sore fingers — at least three fingernails broken — the killer went over to the bag and removed the accustomed instruments.
Breathing more controlled, the killer stopped to listen. The faint sound of a lyre, some muted hubbub from the camp. Nearer, the timid rustling of nondescript small creatures disturbed by the murder from their nocturnal activities. The plop of a fish or something out on the river. Nothing at all to worry about. The killer sniffed — the river mud, dead reeds, the voided contents of bladder and bowels; soon to be joined by blood, a great deal of blood.
The killer regarded the corpse. He had been a slave as evil, as full of vice, as any. The deed felt right, justified. The gods approved of this wild justice, the justice of the Steppe.
This time, the killer started with the heavy work: the big cleaver and the feet. It went much better with a piece of fallen wood under the ankles. Two, three heavy chops, and the left foot was severed. This was an acquired skill. As the blood pooled black in the moonlight, he picked up the foot, and stood considering Medea and Apsyrtus. In some tellings, when her father’s men were overhauling her, she delayed their pursuit by casting the dismembered parts of her brother on to the waters. The killer threw the foot out into the river. As the ripples spread out, he hefted the other leg on to the makeshift butcher’s block. If the water was good enough for the age of heroes, it would more than serve in an age of rust and iron.
VI
In the morning, there was much fog. It hung a few feet off the water, slowly coiling up through the spars of the ships and the trees. Colour had leached out of the world, and everything was reduced to muted shades of grey. The camp was unnaturally quiet.
‘Where is it?’ Ballista asked as he buckled on his sword belt.
‘Downstream,’ the soldier said.
They set off, two other troopers and Maximus and Wulfstan following, through the tents and shelters. Most of the fires had gone out. Amphorae and wine skins were scattered in the trampled grass. A few revellers lay, insensible, where they had fallen. Apart from the lack of blood and sobbing women, it resembled the aftermath of a sack.
Following the Cilician auxiliary, Ballista concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The going was uneven. His head hurt, and there was an unease in his stomach. The cold sweat on him was only partly due to the fog. The Goth that told him cannabis left no hangover had been lying. But, he had to admit, he had drunk a fair amount of wine as well.
Beyond the encampment, the grass was longer and very wet. Ballista’s boots were soon sodden, his trousers to the knee no better. The fog seemed denser out here. The far side of the river could not be seen. Only a faint lightening, a hint of warmth, indicated the presence of the risen sun.
Past a stand of tall oaks, the soldier cut off down to the river. They pushed through a bank of reeds and stopped at the edge of the water. A tall elm had been submerged, and the thing was entangled in its stripped, white branches.
‘What were you doing out here?’ Ballista asked.
‘Taking a shit, Dominus.’
‘You went out to it?’
‘Only to pull it in out of the current, so it did not drift downstream.’
Ballista studied the reeds and mud. He was half aware of more men arriving behind him. There was a clear trail where the soldier had waded out and back; no other disturbance. The killing had not been here. The body had floated down the river. There was no way of telling how far. Turning to the other two auxiliaries, he told them to bring it ashore. They looked back at him, crapulous and dubious.
‘That was an order,’ he snapped.
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready,’ they muttered.
The water would be cold, and they were undoubtedly suffering from the night before, but the discipline of the soldiers detached from the first Cilician cohort of mounted archers was poor. Ballista would have to speak to Hordeonius, although he was unsure what good it would do; the centurion was already a martinet.
Reluctance, bordering on dumb insolence, in every movement, the auxiliaries went down the slippery bank and splashed out into the shallows. The water came to their thighs. With high, exaggerated steps, they retrieved the bulky, unpleasant object and manhandled it to the side, dragging it the last part, up to where Ballista waited, backed by the newly formed crowd.
The corpse was naked. Where not streaked with fresh mud, it was pallid from its time in the water. Its extremities had been cut off: feet, hands, penis. Its face was a ruin: ears and nose gone, eyes gouged out. Liquid ran viscous from its orifices and wounds. The eunuch Amantius reeled away and threw up noisily. The rest looked on queasily. Still more men were arriving from the camp, drawn by the macabre news.
Ballista put a reassuring hand on young Wulfstan’s shoulder and asked those around the obvious question: ‘Who is it?’
No one replied. Anyone would be difficult to recognize in such a condition.
Shifting his scabbard to one side, Ballista crouched down and began to scrutinize the mutilated corpse. He remembered examining another cadaver years ago in a tunnel in the city of Arete. He had not been hungover then, and he had been thinking clearly. Today, every little thing would be an effort, let alone something like this.
Irritatingly, some fool in the crowd was intoning an apotropaic prayer in Greek. Too late to avert evil now, Ballista thought.
There were bruises on the neck, punctures and short rips in the skin where fingernails had caught. With a grunt of effort, Ballista half turned the body. Wulfstan bent down to help — the boy had spirit. There were no other obvious killing wounds. The man had been strangled.