Those down by the river who could sleep despite the Alani still got little rest. Ballista had divided his command of six men into three watches. Only two were to stand down, while the other four remained on watch, and the rest period was just two hours. Wulfstan, with Castricius, had been the first off duty. The little Roman had pulled his cloak over him in the shelter of one of the lime trees and started snoring almost instantly. The continued work on the zereba did not disturb him in the slightest. Wulfstan, however, had been too excited to sleep. He had killed a man; his first man. Now, much later, some time after midnight, and with his next period of rest postponed, he wished he had had more self-control, wished he had at least shut his eyes.
Wulfstan was pleased he had not had to prepare food for everyone. Maximus had plucked and gutted the chicken he had acquired earlier and put it to boil in a pot suspended over the big campfire lit by the Heruli. Old Calgacus had scrounged or stolen various bits and pieces to add to the stew. With some dry, army-style biscuit and washed down with rough wine, it was not too bad. Once he had started eating, Wulfstan realized he was very hungry. He had even eaten the core of the apple he had been given. Calgacus had said they may as well eat most of their stores tonight, because by the end of tomorrow there would be fewer alive needing a share. Wulfstan had looked at the others and thought, You poor bastards, you poor, old bastards.
Ballista did not seem to rest at all. He disappeared back to the wagons for a time. Not long before midnight, he came back lugging two shovels and two big bundles of staves of wood. He roused his men out and quietly gave them his instructions. They were to tie dark scarves or cloths around their helmets, sword belts and scabbards. They were to smear mud on their armour and any exposed skin. Shield ornaments likewise were to be covered, if not prised off. Finally, if there were hobnails in their boots, they should muffle them with rags.
When the seven dark figures, reeking of river mud, were assembled, Ballista checked them over and then outlined what he intended. Three — Castricius, Calgacus and Tarchon — would remain behind the zereba. They should provide cover, if things went wrong. The other four were going to cross the river. Ballista himself, and Maximus, would work through to the edge of the scrub and keep watch on the Alani out on the plain to the north. Hippothous and Wulfstan were to take a shovel and a bundle of wood each. To make it as difficult as possible for the Alani in the morning, they were to dig shallow holes in the soft soil of the riverbank, plant the staves Ballista had sharpened point up in the bottom and cover the traps over with some brushwood. They would only be able to do a couple of short sections of the bank, but everything would help.
Crossing the stream, the four of them together, Wulfstan had not been unduly fearful. The bodies of the Alani caught in the reeds did not bother him, and the babbling of the water was somehow homely. Even the splashing of their passing did not make him think it would warn the Alani. Then Ballista had waved Maximus and Hippothous off to the left. Soon they had been lost in the undergrowth downstream. Ballista indicated where Wulfstan was to start digging. The big warrior then climbed the bank and, with no sound at all, was gone.
Wulfstan was alone. He had been alone for — he guessed from the stars — about an hour. To begin with, he had not minded too much. But now he was very tired, and the night and the isolation were growing oppressive. The scurry of small nocturnal animals no longer sounded reassuring. The play of shadows as clouds chased across the moon began to presage something dire. Every sound in the night, every plop as a rat or its like took to the water was enough to make him jump. When an owl called from one of the trees, he had to fight down an urge to run. His nerves were stretched, creaking like an over-drawn bow.
The scrunch as his spade bit into the moist soil was unfeasibly loud. The Alani were but a few hundred paces away; it must carry to them. He tugged aside a reluctant root with his bare hands. Allfather, he was tired.
Something splashed behind him, upriver off to his right. He forced himself to ignore it. Warriors — Angle or Herul — did not jump at the slightest sound. All these Steppe streams were full of fish — chub, gudgeon, pike — then there were all those mouse-like creatures: voles, marmots, all sorts of rodents.
Wulfstan bedded in another stake: tap-tap-tap. His hands were coated with dirt. It stung where the thorns had cut him. The wet riparian smell was strong in his nose. He reached for the spray of undergrowth he had already cut. The scratch of it was loud as he dragged it over the fresh-dug hole, arranged it just so.
Again, a splash behind him. This time, there was something more; a sucking sound — the sound of something moving through the water. Something, or someone, was moving downstream towards him.
Wulfstan flattened himself against the bank. He listened as hard as he could. Nothing, just the river. The hoot of a distant owl. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing made by man.
Wulfstan breathed out; almost a sob. His nerves were cracking like spring ice. He went to move. And there was the sound again. Closer now. Much closer now.
Allfather, Deep Hood, Death-blinder, hold your hands over me.
Wulfstan forced himself to look. A sombre, hooded figure maybe thirty paces away. A man was coming cautiously down the stream towards him.
If he moved, Wulfstan would be seen straightaway. If he did not, the man would stumble across him in no time. Wulfstan’s fingers dug into the earth. He began to pray.
In the milk-white light of the moon, the man came on. Twenty paces, less.
Nerthus, Earth Mother, do not desert your child.
An amorphous shadow detached itself from the bank behind the figure. With no sound, it entered the stream. Only faint ripples on the water’s silver surface betrayed its corporeality.
The hooded man came on. Silently, the shadow closed behind it. Steel glittered in the moonlight. An arm snaked around the hood. The steel flashed, cold and without pity, sawing across a pulled-back throat. Legs thrashed, churning the stream; impossibly loud after the silence.
The shadow lowered the dead man into the water, cleaned the blade on his clothes, pushed him aside into a clump of reeds. All was quiet again.
The shadow removed its muddied headgear. Its long hair shone white in the moon.
‘Come, time to go.’ Ballista held out a hand.
Wulfstan took it, let himself be helped down.
They both looked at the dead man.
Do not fear, and let no thought of death be upon you.
But come, tell me this thing and recite it to me accurately:
Where is it that you walk alone to the ships from the army
Through the darkness of night when other mortals are sleeping?
Wulfstan gazed up at Ballista, uncomprehending.
Ballista smiled. ‘An old Greek poem. Come, time to go.’
XIX
Although he had never been more deeply asleep, Ballista woke easily, without a sound, and was calm feeling the pressure on his neck. He opened his eyes. He saw one of the two men whom he had known he would find looking down at him.
Calgacus removed the fingers he was pressing below and just behind Ballista’s left ear. The northerner smiled. The waking gesture was one of many signs he, Calgacus and Maximus had evolved over the years. Sometimes, he thought these signs amounted almost to a private language. It was something to be used when words would not do: in the din of battle, among the intricacies of a court, or in the dead of night.
Calgacus’s face moved. In the light of the low, central fire, it lost much of its ugliness and assumed a delicacy it lacked by day. It wore a sad, tender expression.
Ballista rolled out of his cloak and painfully levered himself into a sitting position.