Ballista nodded in acceptance.
‘I have been wondering if it might be the King of the Urugundi,’ Maximus said. ‘He will not be wanting to be attacked by the Heruli, and he has that old gudja on hand, and he is a nasty piece of work.’
‘If Hisarna knew we are meant to set the Heruli on him, he would not have let us cross his lands. He could have sent us back, or just had us killed.’
Again they rode in silence. Another group of barrows was looming.
‘But you might be right that it is political,’ Ballista continued after a time, as if he had not stopped speaking. ‘We are in the middle of nowhere, cut off from all news. But out there the dance of emperors and kings goes on, and for all we know we may be a small part of it. The Persians do not want the Urugundi fighting the Heruli. The easterners want them and the other Goths free to raid the imperium. As Corrector of the Orient, Odenathus of Palmyra has been taking the fight to the Persians. They would rather he was distracted chasing northerners around the southern shores of the Euxine. There again, Postumus the pretender in the west must know Gallienus is preparing to attack him. It is better for him if Gallienus has to deal with Gothic raids in the Aegean and Greece.’
‘How is killing a eunuch and a slave going to make the embassy fail?’ Maximus asked.
‘If the Heruli think there is a killer with us, they might not want us coming too close to their king,’ Ballista said. ‘It could be politics.’
Calgacus hawked and spat. ‘Was it politics drove you to kill those two eunuchs in Cilicia?’
Ballista shot him a fierce, unhappy look.
‘You were out of your mind,’ Calgacus continued. ‘Same here; no politics, no deep reason — it is the work of a madman.’
‘Who?’ Maximus raised the question.
‘Of course,’ Calgacus went on, ‘it might not be a man at all. No one has seen the killer. Maybe not a man, but a daemon.’
They rode past the first of the tombs. From its summit, an ancient stone effigy of a warrior holding a sword gazed down.
X
Hippothous felt like a character in a novel. Not one of those centred in the Hellenic world, but an adventure story that roamed to the ends of the earth; something like The Wonders Beyond Thule. Certainly, this journey was tough, brought its dangers: Numberless are the challenges which lie before you on your outward journey and on your return. But I am destined by the hateful decision of a god to die far away, as Idmon had prophesied to the crew of the Argo. Hippothous was sure the first line was the one that was relevant to him.
The sea of grass was a constant delight. That afternoon, they had ridden into camp across a carpet of hyacinth and tulip. The scent of the thyme crushed by their horses’ hooves mingled with the intoxicating tang of wormwood. The customs of the Steppe were fascinating, well worth study. Hippothous was not one of those Hellenes who, no matter where they went, just found Hellas. He saw himself more like Herodotus; interested in other peoples for their own sake, not in a hurry to judge, prepared to accept that, everywhere, custom is king.
Like Herodotus, like those men of culture who accompanied Alexander, he was venturing beyond the known, opening new fields of enquiry. That was why Hippothous was so pleased to be able to attend the ritual that was to unfold after the feast.
The fire was sawing in the perpetual wind, tongues of flame drawn away into the night. The air was pungent with mingled woodsmoke, animal dung and roast lamb. Philemuth, seated on the left of Hippothous, knew some Greek. As the participant in the forthcoming ritual, it was unsurprising the sickly Herul did not want to talk. On the other side of the fire, Ballista was talking to Andonnoballus; Maximus and Calgacus with a couple of other nomads. They were using one of the languages of the north. Hippothous, of course, could not understand a word.
Unable to join in the conversations, Hippothous ate his lamb quietly and sipped his drink. He was very sober; the significance of the evening did not encourage heavy drinking or much levity. With nothing else to do, as so often, he gave way to his passion for physiognomy. He was not in the mood to study the Heruli. Although they were interesting. Once you looked beyond their artificially distorted skulls and pale, rough, northern skin, they were surprisingly normal; some even evidently of good character. But they could wait until they reached the court of King Naulobates. Now Hippothous wanted to practise on two subjects he had put off for far too long, for three years — four, if you counted inclusively.
Calgacus was in direct view, well lit by the fire, and caught up in discussion with his neighbours. It was an ideal moment for prolonged scrutiny. The test of skill would be to penetrate behind the natural ugliness of the subject; to tear that unlovely veil aside and reveal the soul. No squeamish feelings of revulsion should be allowed to stand in the way.
The old Caledonian had a large head. Usually that was good, indicating intelligence, understanding and high ambition. But Calgacus’s head was too large; a horrible great dome-like thing. That must mean the opposite: a lack of knowledge and understanding, and a complete indifference. And his head was crooked, pointing to a failure of modesty and a dissolution of covenants. Not a man to be trusted, but nothing too bad so far.
Calgacus had a big chin. Which should denote the ability to suppress anger, but the tendency to talk at the wrong time. The latter rang true to Hippothous, but he was unsure about the former.
Calgacus shifted, scratched his crotch. From various trips to the baths, Hippothous knew Calgacus possessed a very large penis. Maximus often called him Buticosus, the ‘big-stuffer’ in Latin. Calgacus was the sort of man the frumentarii would have kidnapped in the reign of the pervert Heliogabalus to give the emperor pleasure. Although Hippothous could remember nothing at all in the Physiognomy of Polemon or that of Loxus about penises — an odd omission — a big cock was obviously a very bad thing. Everyone knew a small penis was the mark of a civilized man. The opposite was barbaric irrationality and loss of self-control.
The eyes are always the truest witness. Hippothous peered across at Calgacus. The northerner’s eyes were somewhat bleared. That was nothing but old age. They were an indeterminate shade of blue. Little to be made of that. They were small. That was more revealing — small like kinds of snakes, monkeys, foxes and the like. They most resembled the eyes of a serpent: malicious, intelligent, tyrannical, wary, timid, sometimes tamable, quick to change, and bad-natured. Hippothous thought the last obviously correct.
Calgacus was oblivious, still deep in conversation. His eyes were still, fixed, but his forehead and eyebrows were contracted as he listened to the Herul. It was the revelation Hippothous needed. As Polemon had written, when you saw eyes of such a type, Know that he is a hated man and an enemy, and, if they were combined with a frown, Judge him for perfidy and cunning.
Hippothous leant back. At last his judgement was made, scientific in its exactitude. He took a drink. He felt rather drained, but it was no time to rest.
Despite the subdued, even apprehensive, mood of the meal, Maximus was yapping away; hands moving, bird-like head nodding. Hippothous found it difficult to get past the missing end of the Hibernian’s nose; the scar was distractingly reminiscent of a cat’s arse. He took another drink, tried harder.
What was left of Maximus’s nose implied that it had once spread. That sign of fornication and a love of sexual intercourse could not have been more apt. The hair on his head was black, cropped short but thick. Its darkness indicated cunning and deception, in thickness it resembled that of a savage wild animal. The hair of his eyebrows was long, almost touching the temples, signifying much desire and the nature of a pig. Maximus wore a short beard, little more than stubble, but it was more luxuriant on the neck. The untrained viewer might think this nothing more than an indolence in shaving. The physiognomist knew better. It showed power, strength, even magnanimity, like a lion. But, as ever, the eyes were the key. They were never still, always moving fast, and that pointed to lack of truth, to wicked conjecture, and all the way to true evil.