‘Nothing — we will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The centurion set about rousting out his men with needless harshness, a swing of his staff here, a kick there.
Ballista stamped through the weather to the wagon where the haruspex and the staff were. He climbed up on to the tailgate and stuck his head through the hanging. Pale, sullen faces gazed at him from the gloom. ‘Everybody is to help load the wagons.’ The others looked to the haruspex. After an insolent pause, the latter nodded. Ballista got down. Led by the priest, the occupants clambered from the wagon and went off unhappily.
Ballista stood, the still centre of squelching activity. The rain ran down his face. His long hair was wet on his shoulders. He felt eyes on him. The gudja was standing on the driving box of his wagon. In his rain-slick sable cloak, he looked like a ragged carrion crow. The gudja smiled, obviously enjoying the disquiet among the Romans.
The first day’s travel was not good. There were only a few curtailed hours of daylight left when the wagon train finally moved out. Curtains of rain swept in from the north. Water sluiced off the felt canopies, darkened the hides of the oxen. The horses on their long leads plodded after, heads and tails down. Occasionally, one snickered its displeasure. The unsprung wagons jolted along at a snail’s pace. The noise was deafening. As the inexperienced occupants had not properly secured the coverings, they leaked. The Sarmatian drivers out in the elements, caps pulled down to meet their cloaks, only their eyes and noses showing, seemed impervious. Everyone else, huddled and jarred in the body of the carts, was thoroughly miserable.
When it became fully dark, they made camp. It was a protracted, chaotic affair. The fires did not want to light. Some of the provisions had got wet. Their patience worn thin, men cursed, cuffed the slaves. They had not travelled above three miles — four at most.
The next morning, things were much improved. Hippothous had slept well. He and his slave, Narcissus, had been assigned a wagon with Castricius, Biomasos and Hordeonius and their two slaves. When not in motion, the wagons were comfortable; snug, yet agreeably roomy.
Climbing down, Hippothous saw that the rain had blown away south. A line of trees marked the Tanais to the left. Above, the sun shone from an enormous, washed-out blue sky. They ate breakfast — rye bread, dried meat, salted fish — and set about getting ready.
Having checked Ballista had no need of his services as accensus, Hippothous asked if he could exercise one of the horses. There were only twelve, and he was delighted when Ballista assigned one permanently to him. The bandit-turned-secretary tacked up, slung his weapons and kit and rode out across the Steppe. Apart from the trees marking where the river ran, a flat sea of grass spread in all directions. None of the spring grass came up to the soles of his boots. There were some low mounds in the far distance, oddly regular in shape, but nowhere else could he see anything which offered concealment. The bandits — Alani or whatever they were — who had trailed them up the Tanais were nowhere in sight.
From a distance, the great wagons and oxen looked like a row of toys laid out by a serious-minded child. Hippothous watched Ballista riding up and down the train. The order of march was the wagon of the gudja, that of Ballista and his familia, the two containing the soldiers, that of the haruspex and functionaries, three wagons with the stores, the eunuchs’, and Castricius’s at the rear. Hippothous assumed Ballista’s thinking was to have the Goth at the front as the guide and the two senior officers at either end of the rest. Given his past profession, Hippothous was unsure it was wise to have half the gold in the last wagon.
When Ballista must have considered all was vaguely in order, the whole was got under way. The cracking of whips, the complaining of beasts and the squeal of the axles travelled clearly to Hippothous. With the breeze behind them, sounds could travel a long distance out on the Steppe.
Back in the town of Tanais, Ballista had encouraged those who considered themselves fighting men to purchase local bows and quivers. Now, Hippothous took his out and began to practise shooting from horseback. To his irritation, he found it almost impossible. At a canter, let alone a gallop, the string bounced out of the notch of the arrow. On the rare occasions he managed to keep it in place long enough, the shot careered off nowhere near where he intended. It proved impossible to find some of the wayward shafts in the grass.
After a time, Hippothous gave up. He stowed the recalcitrant weapon back in its gorytus, and fished in his saddle pack for a book. Other riders were about. Castricius, Hordeonius and Biomasos all galloped separately across the Steppe, exercising their mounts. Hippothous ignored them. With the morning sun on his shaven head, he unrolled the papyrus and read the Physiognomy of Polemon. His horse ambled along, the reins loose on its neck.
At midday, Hippothous cantered back. They were to take lunch on the move. At the lead wagon, Hippothous found a difference of opinion between Ballista and the gudja.
‘It is asking for trouble,’ said Ballista.
‘We are too many for casual bandits, and it could draw the unwanted attention of others,’ the gudja advised.
‘There should always be outriders,’ responded Ballista.
‘This grazing is disputed between the Alani and the Heruli. Both send out raiding parties of young warriors. Scouts and the like would draw them down on us. Remember, we Urugundi know these Steppes and these tribes. You do not.’ The Gothic priest was not to be contradicted. Reluctantly, Ballista gave way.
The second day went better. The wagon train made at least eight miles. By the third, they were getting into a routine. Although some dark clouds scudded across, the weather continued fine. Hippothous rode alongside Ballista’s wagon, where the northerner’s young slave, Wulfstan, was sitting up front alongside the Sarmatian driver. Hippothous had approached him before, the previous year back in Byzantium. The boy had turned him down flat, using words the servile should not utter. Hippothous had not taken much offence, none of it to heart. He knew the reason. The youth had been forced and mistreated by several owners before Ballista. Still, time had passed. His own slave, Narcissus, was getting past his first bloom. The young barbarian was more than attractive; he was beautiful.
Hippothous put himself out to be charming. It was hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of the wagon. Although studiedly polite, the boy quickly made it abundantly clear he was uninterested. Rejection never sat well with Hippothous, especially dished out twice by a slave. Outwardly maintaining an affable demeanour, talking lightly about trivial things, he turned the searching eye of a physiognomist on Ballista’s pampered pet.
The boy did not have the form of a typical northerner. While he was tall for his age, with the expected red-blond hair and blue eyes, his skin did not look rough to the touch, nor did his ankles appear thick. In some ways, he was close to a pure Hellene: erect posture, beautiful in face and appearance, a squareness to the face and a slimness in his lips. His head was finely proportioned, between small and large, from which one could judge intellect, perception and clemency. His ears also were evenly proportioned, which showed alertness. His hands were well made, with the broad white nails of understanding and memory. He was heavy in his speech, a sign of sadness but also of long-lasting ambition and strong desire. But, as ever, it was the eyes that were the key. The eyes are related to the heart, and it is through them you look to the conversation of the soul.
The youth’s beauty would blind many, but to the close scientific study of a trained physiognomist his eyes revealed the terrible story of his soul. His cow-like blue eyes inclined downwards and had a shade of green; the eyes of one vehement in thought and force, a lover of killing, a lover of blood. His eyes were flurried, with much movement — the eyes of one governed by a rebellious and angry daemon; a vengeful daemon which will visit harsh trials upon him and all those around him.