A Herul slave came out of the darkness to Philemuth. It was time for the scapulimancy. The slave carried the shoulder blades of three sheep; he passed them to the nomad. Everyone, even Maximus, was quiet. The bones were very white; scraped, possibly boiled clean. Philemuth turned them in his hands. Everyone knew the question Philemuth was putting to them. He was asking his gods: Should I die?
At length Philemuth handed the bones back. Using tongs, the slave placed them one after another in the heart of the fire. The flames licked white around them. The shoulder blades would crack in the heat. If but one cracked cleanly lengthwise, the answer to the question was yes.
No one spoke as they waited. Beyond the sounds of the wind and the fire an owl called in the immensity of the Steppe. Hippothous wondered what deities drew near across that dark ocean of grass. The Heruli worshipped many gods; none gentle or mild.
‘Hunh.’ Philemuth grunted, then coughed. The slave went forward and retrieved the bones. They were black now. He placed them on the ground to cool.
Philemuth sat cross-legged. His fate was decided, waiting to be discovered, but he showed no impatience. Once, he doubled up coughing. But he forced himself upright again, motionless.
A horse snickered out in the darkness. Philemuth gestured. The slave gave him the first shoulder blade. Philemuth peered close at it, lips moving as if reading a book. He took his time, then he put it aside. Three fine cracks were discernible running across the bone.
A gesture, and the slave gave the next one into Philemuth’s hands. The Herul spent less time studying it. Before he put it down, Hippothous could see the round flakes that had burnt off, the fine patina of cracks covering the whole surface.
Philemuth seemed to barely glance at the final shoulder blade. He put it down on the grass, and stood up.
Hippothous saw the clean break running lengthwise.
Philemuth walked out of the circle of firelight into the darkness.
‘No, no.’ The young Herul Aluith was laughing, although not unkindly. ‘You draw the arrow like this.’ He leant out of the saddle, across between the horses. Wulfstan could not understand how he did not fall.
Aluith again guided Wulfstan’s fingers in the strange nomad draw: the thumb pulling the bowstring back, right forefinger locked against the thumbnail, the whole hand twisted to the left so the knuckle of the forefinger held the arrow in place.
‘Now, try again.’
Wulfstan booted his mount into a canter. Although gripping as hard as he could with his legs, the young Angle bounced precariously. It felt very unsafe with no hands on the reins. The horse picked up speed. The Steppe rattled by all too fast. The sack stuffed with straw came nearer. Wulfstan nudged the horse on to a slightly different approach. Concentrating hard, as Wulfstan nocked the arrow, he remembered to place the shaft to the right of the bow. The string cut into his thumb as he drew — everything about this nomad way of doing things seemed wrong. He tried to aim. The motion of the horse made it impossible. He was almost on top of the target. He released. The arrow flew well wide. Grabbing both the reins and the tuft left low down on the mane for that purpose, he pulled the horse around in a wide circle. He trotted back again, dispiritedly.
As soon as the wagon train had got going that morning, Ballista had asked the Heruli if they would teach him and some of his men how to shoot at the gallop in the nomad style. Andonnoballus, Pharas and young Aluith had agreed, seemingly delighted to demonstrate their skills. Seven had assembled for instruction. The centurion Hordeonius had claimed his auxiliary light-horse bowmen were already more than well trained. The gudja had smiled disdainfully. No one had suggested asking the Sarmatian drivers.
Irritatingly, Ballista, Maximus and Hippothous had grasped the basic technique in a reasonably short time. Castricius and Calgacus had taken rather longer. The latter never came anywhere near real proficiency. The Suanian Tarchon had given up altogether. Now, only Wulfstan was still trying. He was very hot and tired. He had been at it all morning.
It was good of Aluith to remain behind, good of him to teach a slave in the first place. When the idea was raised that morning, Wulfstan had been prepared to beg Ballista to be allowed to use a horse and try. No opportunity to learn was to be spurned. When free, he would need all the killing skills he could possess. Wulfstan had been pleased Ballista had granted his request without demur. He had ridden ponies often before he was enslaved. The big Sarmatian warhorses — and he was on his third this morning — were very different. Guiding a horse just with your legs was difficult, but drawing a bow with your thumb, not your fingers, and trying to aim the arrow all at the same time was quite impossible.
‘You must relax. A horse trained by a Sarmatian is not as good as one trained by a Herul, but it still knows what to do. Just point it in the general direction. Pull the bow back smoothly, try to hold the position I showed you earlier; think of it as an extension of your arms. Let me demonstrate again.’
In one fluid motion, Aluith pushed his mount into a gallop and withdrew bow and arrow from his gorytus. He made high yipping noises as he raced across the Steppe. The bow curved back. An arrow sped towards the target. As it thumped home, another left the bow, then another. Aluith spun the horse around in its own length. Thundering back through the dust of his own making, he shot another three shafts into the sack.
Wulfstan spat. The bitter taste of wormwood was in his throat. He grinned ruefully. ‘How?’
‘It comes naturally, when you have learnt as a small child. Now you try again.’
Gamely, Wulfstan nocked another arrow. His thumb hurt. The blisters had burst, and they were bleeding. He squeezed the barrel of the horse with his thighs. As it set off, Wulfstan felt momentarily light-headed. The grass accelerated under him; bright flowers flashed by. The sack seemed to blur in his vision. The pressure of the string cut into his thumb. Wulfstan felt dizzy. He released the bow. The arrow went nowhere near the target. He reined the horse back to a standstill.
In the distance, the horizon shifted. It and the sky ebbed away. They were retreating faster and faster, dragging the Steppe after them. The grasses, the wormwood shrubs, the bright dots of flowers were racing away. Wulfstan felt it pulling at him. There was a great heaviness in his body, behind his eyes.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, I do not think so.’ Wulfstan was on the ground.
Aluith cradled Wulfstan’s head, put a flask to his lips. Wulfstan coughed it up.
‘I am sorry. I forgot some outlanders do not like fermented mare’s milk. I will get something else.’
Wulfstan lay back, closed his eyes again.
‘Try this.’ Aluith lifted Wulfstan’s head once more, put another flask to his lips. It was watered wine. Wulfstan drank. He sat up, opened his eyes. The Steppe had stopped moving.
‘You have been out here a long time. I should have made you drink more,’ Aluith said.
‘No, it was not that. It was… strange. The Steppe seemed to move.’
‘Yes, it can do that; even to those born here. The spirits try to pull you to them. Many die from it.’
Aluith, squatting on his haunches, took Wulfstan’s hands, looked at the deep cut on his thumb. ‘You have tenacity. You put aside the pain. You would make a good Herul.’
‘How? I am a slave.’ There was no disguise to the bitterness in Wulfstan’s voice.