‘Huhn.’ Calgacus made a noise indicating he doubted it, but Tarchon should explain anyway.
‘The Heruli are out on all sides as…’ Tarchon said something in Suanian. ‘How you say in Greek? Kaka… something.’
‘ Kataskopoi,’ Calgacus said. ‘And apart from the scouts?’
‘It is highly thorough. The wagons goes in two lines; the first and the last ready to turn in to form a laager. That is right — laager?’
‘Yes, laager; a northern word, a camp or temporary fort.’
‘Good — laager. Anyhow, there is just eight wagon now. The stores ride in two not three, and the soldiers haves one not two. Other soldier ride in the one with the eunuch Amantius, and another with the’ — a Suanian word, obviously not flattering — ‘mans of the staff, as well as a soldier in with each of the stores. The spare horses runs in the centre.’ Tarchon grinned, proud of his grasp of things. ‘See, we are most highly prepared.’
Calgacus made a sound expressing profound misgiving. ‘How many fighting men are left?’
Tarchon started counting on his fingers. ‘Do I count also the wounded?’
‘No.’
‘And not mans missing?’
‘No — definitely not mans missing.’
‘The Sarmatian drivers?’
‘Yes.’ Calgacus found it hard work, even without the pain.
Tarchon began counting again. ‘Twenty-four.’
‘We are fucked,’ Calgacus said.
‘Yes, we are most fucked.’
Calgacus lay back watching the sun arc up over the Steppe. It was hotter now they were into June. With every slight jolt, sharp stabs of pain shot through his shoulder and arm. His head ached dully.
‘Where is Ballista?’ Calgacus said.
‘I get him for you, Kyrios.’
Calgacus rested as still as he could, swallowing the pain, trying to think through it.
Ballista and Maximus climbed into the wagon with Tarchon.
‘How are you?’ Ballista asked.
‘We have changed direction,’ Calgacus said.
‘We are heading north-east to the camp of Naulobates,’ said Ballista.
‘Why now?’ Calgacus’s voice sounded weak and peevish to him.
‘Because he is our only fucking hope,’ Maximus said.
‘You mean, why not before?’ Ballista asked.
Calgacus grunted.
‘Why did the Urugundi land us on the southern bank of the Tanais?’ Ballista was frowning with concentration. ‘Why not the northern side, head north-east, then cross the river higher up?’
Maximus and Tarchon had assumed thoughtful airs that failed to hide their incomprehension.
Ballista continued, thinking out loud. ‘Why did first the gudja and then Andonnoballus lead us due east, through the grazing disputed between the Alani and the Heruli?’
Calgacus wheezed and muttered, ‘Fucking clever now.’
‘A deliberate provocation,’ Ballista said. ‘They both wanted the Alani to attack.’
‘Maybe,’ Calgacus grunted.
‘Fuck,’ Maximus said.
‘Oh yes,’ Tarchon put in brightly. ‘As I was saying to the kyrios Calgacus, we are most fucked.’
‘Why?’ Ballista said.
A high call — yip-yip-yip — cut off any answer. Wulfstan stuck his head around the awning. ‘Horseman approaching from the south-east.’
Everyone rushed out. Calgacus listened to them mounting, riding a little ahead.
After a time — hard to judge when he hurt that much — Calgacus rolled on to his good left arm, and painfully crawled to the front. He looked out over the right shoulder of the stolid Sarmatian driver.
A lone rider was coming. Even at a distance, it could be seen that his horse was dead beat. The man himself was slumped forward in the saddle.
A small knot of horsemen were waiting to one side of the wagon train. They were all gazing at the man approaching, except Ballista and Andonnoballus, who were looking all around, everywhere else.
‘Not as fucking stupid as some,’ Calgacus said to himself.
‘Castricius,’ Maximus shouted, ‘you little bastard.’
The Roman let his horse stop next to the others. It looked ready to drop.
‘What happened?’ Ballista asked.
‘I was out for a ride, bumped into a group of Alani warriors coming from the south. About a dozen of them chased me. I went off east. They followed — persistent buggers. Finally slipped back through them last night.’ Under the ingrained dust, Castricius’s face was pale.
‘You are hurt,’ Ballista said.
‘It is nothing, a scratch.’ Castricius put his hand to his left leg. ‘The spirits of death are still not ready for me.’ His small, angular face creased into a smile. ‘And now, my good daemon has saved not just me, but all of you as well.’
Narcissus heard the commotion outside. He clambered through the cluttered wagon to see. It was time for the evening meal. A horse was loose in the camp. Something had spooked it. Unable to escape the encircling wagon-laager, it careered around, sending things flying, overturning cooking pots. Men ran after it, shouting, making things worse. The other horses were getting stirred up.
Let someone else deal with it. Narcissus had his orders. He went back into the empty wagon to continue sorting out everyone’s jumbled possessions. He moved a heavy leather bag. A papyrus roll fell out. Narcissus had been educated to be a secretary. He unrolled the first sheet and went nearer the lamp to read. Taking my start from you, Phoibos, I shall recall the glorious deeds of men of long ago who propelled the well-benched Argo… It was the Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes.
A memory came to Narcissus, then the realization tumbled in: Mastabates asking about epic poetry, the denials that had been uttered, the killings and mutilations that had haunted the caravan, the ritual mutilations that followed that of Apsyrtus by Jason in the poem.
A noise outside. Without thought, Narcissus stuffed the roll into his tunic. He must tell someone, must tell Ballista.
Narcissus jumped down from the tailgate of the wagon. The camp was still in uproar.
‘What have you got there?’
The voice was behind Narcissus. He spun round. ‘Nothing.’
‘Give it to me.’
Narcissus fished the roll out. ‘I was just tidying, doing my duty.’
‘Of course.’
The left hand held it out.
As Narcissus passed it over, the other’s right fist closed on his throat. The papyrus fell to the ground. Narcissus clawed at the hand choking him. He could not break the grip. He could not shout. He was being dragged into the darkness out beyond the wagon.
The man got both hands on his throat. Blackness crowded Narcissus’s vision. The terrible pressure increased.
‘Just a dead slave’ were the last words he heard.
XV
A Sarmatian driver answering a nocturnal call of nature had found the body. It lay outside the line of wagons, but not so far as where the sentries patrolled out in the dark. No attempt had been made to conceal it.
In the grey light before true dawn, there was no time to lose. Torches fizzed and spluttered. The oxen were put under the yokes, the laager broken, the two lines of wagons arranged, the scouts sent out. While all that was going on, men — subdued by the time of morning, the news of the body, and their own fears for the coming day — took what breakfast they could. Out where the corpse had been found, the two slaves owned by the auxiliaries dug a shallow grave.
Ballista and three others paused to inspect the remains of Narcissus. The light was gathering.
‘Throat cut and strangled, very thorough,’ Maximus said.
‘Strangled, then throat cut,’ Ballista amended. ‘No point in strangling someone if you have already cut their throat.’
‘What would be the point the other way around?’
‘Make sure he was dead, not just unconscious, or’ — Ballista pointed to the dried blood in Narcissus’s hair — ‘so that you had a blade to wipe the blood on the victim’s head: “On his own head be it.”’
‘And you say the Greeks and Romans think that this might stop the dead man coming for revenge?’ Maximus spoke in tones of incredulity at the childlike beliefs of the southerners.