‘Ahead! Heruli!’ The voice of the gudja broke Hippothous’s concentration. The wagons were grinding to a halt. Reaching for his sword, Hippothous reined his horse away from the column to see.
About half a mile away, a line of six horsemen were silhouetted on a low rise. Immobile, the Heruli looked like black sentinels to another world.
PART TWO
(The Steppe, Spring-Autumn, AD263)
The Heruli observed many customs not in accord with other men.
VIII
It was true. The Heruli were not as other men. Ballista tried not to stare. The six Herul horsemen were identical, and like nothing he had seen before. Each had bright, dyed-red hair, moustaches and goatee beards. Almost every bit of skin visible — faces, necks, hands and wrists — was covered in red tattoos like heraldic symbols or letters from some outlandish script. But it was not any of this, and not their clothes — bulky nomad coats — which made them so very strange. It was their heads: great, pointed skulls, nearly twice as long as they should be, slanting up and back like those of antediluvian predatory beasts or creatures from the underworld.
‘We are sorry we are late,’ one of them said. He spoke politely in the language of Germania; his accent close to that of Ballista himself. ‘We would have met you at the river, where our grazing lands begin, but my brother Philemuth was unwell.’
Now he looked, Ballista saw there were differences of age and physique. The one indicated looked old. He was slumped forward in his saddle. Behind the dyed hair and tattoos, his face was pale and drawn; there were blue-green smudges under his eyes. He looked deathly ill.
‘It is you again, Gudja ’ — the first Herul spoke warily — ‘and as ever the haliurunna is with you.’
The Gothic priest nodded slightly, but the old crone at his side cackled and made fast, strange movements with her hands.
Making a quick gesture of his own, the Herul turned away from the Goths towards Ballista. He placed the palm of his right hand flat on his forehead. ‘I am Andonnoballus, and the brothers that ride with me are Philemuth, Berus, Aluith, Ochus and Pharas.’
Ballista bowed. ‘I am Marcus Clodius Ballista, Legatus extra ordinem Scythica, sent by Imperator Publius Licinius Egnatius Gallienus Augustus. To my own people I am known as Dernhelm, son of — ’
‘Son of Isangrim, son of Starkad, of the Woden-born house of the war leaders of the Angles. A Herul would forget his own name sooner than your lineage and the name of your grandfather.’ The Herul did not pronounce the words fondly.
Ballista ignored the reaction of the Roman party around him. All looked at him in surprise, except old Calgacus.
‘That was then; two generations ago,’ he said.
‘We Heruli keep some of the old ways.’
‘As do we Angles. Trust me, we have not forgotten the things done then.’ Ballista smiled, as if putting the subject aside. ‘Let me introduce my deputy, Gaius Aurelius Castricius.’
Again, the Herul placed his right palm flat to his forehead. Castricius dipped his head and saluted in acknowledgement.
‘But you have not honoured us with the names of your fathers,’ prompted Ballista.
‘Only the gods might say. We are Heruli, all brothers.’
‘The father of your King Naulobates was Suartuas, and his father before him was Visandus,’ Ballista said.
The Herul laughed. ‘We have not held to all the ways of our ancestors in the north. Many things are different on the sea of grass. It changes men. We are not the people Starkad knew.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Our camp is to the east. If it pleases you, we will go there. Our slaves are preparing food, and the vapour baths we are told you enjoy.’
The Heruli rode ahead, and the others followed after. Ballista studied the nomads. Biggish men on small, rough horses. Each had a combined bowcase and quiver, decorated with patterns akin to their own tattoos, although in different colours, a long sword and a dagger on their hips and a round leather shield hung from their saddles. They wore voluminous sheepskin coats; no helmets or armour. They were equipped as typical light-horse archers.
Maximus nudged his horse alongside Ballista. ‘You will be noticing their splendid trophies?’
Horsehair pennants fluttered from their reins and horse furniture. Ballista looked harder. No, not horsehair — human scalps, some dark, some lighter; all too many of them. And their quivers were not painted or embroidered, they were tattooed human skin.
‘What exactly is a haliurunna?’ Maximus asked.
‘A Gothic witch. They commune with the underworld, mate with unclean daemons. It is said they can see the future, change the weather, raise the dead,’ Ballista answered.
‘And do you want to tell me how come you and the Heruli know so much about each other?’
‘Not now; another time.’
‘Another time then.’ They rode in silence for a while, before Maximus spoke again. ‘Who was it told them we liked the cannabis?’
Ballista did not answer.
Maximus looked thoughtful. ‘That witch — rather the daemons than me.’
The Steppe spread all around them. The grass was enamelled with bright flowers: tulips, irises. Up above, below the white clouds, four rooks circled, harrying a lone vulture.
Slowly, very slowly, a line of round, grassy mounds drew nearer.
‘ Kurgans,’ said Biomasos. ‘The tombs of long-dead warriors and chiefs of the grasslands. At night, lights can be seen within; the sounds of ghostly feasting drift out. The gods strike down any who disturb them.’
The lumbering ox-wagons clanked and squealed between two of the larger kurgans. Beyond was the camp of the Heruli. There was but a handful of tents, and four or five of the smaller shelters for inhaling hemp. Half a dozen slaves stood waiting for their masters. The slaves were dressed just like the Heruli, but they had no tattoos, their hair was not dyed and their skulls appeared completely normal. On the far side was a herd of animals: sheep, camels, mainly horses. There had to be over a hundred horses; mainly chestnuts, and some light greys. They were all hobbled and grazing quietly; an immense number for so few men.
Mastabates felt light-headed, and a little sick. The vapour tent was close, oppressive; the laughter too loud in his ears. It was not the amount he had inhaled or drunk but the strange alcohol the Heruli had dispensed. Although clouded in his thinking, he was quite adamant on that point.
Still, bizarre as they looked, you could not fault the hospitality of the nomads. No sooner had the wagons been circled and the beasts seen to than a feast had been ready. It had been completely without ceremony. There were no sacrifices or prayers beforehand, not even the most cursory libation. Men sat in no order, where they pleased, on rugs or on the grass. When they had served the food, the slaves of the Heruli joined their masters. And the slaves talked — not only to each other, loud enough to be heard by all, but they even addressed the free men unbidden. It was like an impromptu rustic Saturnalia.
There was no bread of any sort, but more than enough food: mutton stew, sausages — Mastabates enjoyed them even after he was told they were horsemeat — and a good, strong cheese. But the drink was another matter. When handed a leather skin, he had incautiously taken a long draught. The effects had been instant: a sharp stinging on his tongue, a sweat breaking out all over his body as the liquid went down. The Heruli had laughed as he spluttered. One who had a little Greek told him it was fermented mare’s milk. Not wishing to give offence, he had persevered with small sips. It was not totally unlike a thin yoghurt, but sharper; a Hellene would always sweeten his oxygala with honey or cut it with oil. Once he had got accustomed to it, he began to quite like its after-taste of bitter almonds.