In honesty, the grief Ballista felt for Wulfstan was limited. The boy had been beautiful. There had been good qualities to him. He had served the familia well. He had been brave. A capacity for affection had shown in his grief for his drowned friend, Bauto. Occasionally, there had been flashes of humour. But his enslavement, the never spoken of but obviously terrible things that had been done to him, had made him something almost terrible himself. Wulfstan had wanted to kill. Too young to disguise it, he had enjoyed the pain of others. It had disgusted Ballista when Wulfstan had stayed with Castricius and Hippothous to watch the blinding of the Alani. Ballista was sad the boy was dead, but an unpleasant part of him was glad it was not someone he really cared about; not Julia, not one of his sons, neither Maximus nor Calgacus.
Ballista’s lack of compassion made him feel guilty. And, of course, there was something more tangible to feel guilty about. He had brought Wulfstan to his death. Unthinkingly, he had assumed that merely purchasing the boy from the slave market, taking him into the familia, one day manumitting him would be enough. But he had brought him into the familia of a man in imperial disfavour, a familia ordered first to the savage Caucasus mountains, then to this murderous journey. And the familia was cursed. Kill all his family, all those he loves.
‘Another day and we will reach the summer camp.’ The words of Uligagus brought Ballista back.
Up ahead was a flock of sheep. There must have been a thousand or more of them. They were herded by just two very young Heruli on ponies. One of the shepherds had the long head and dyed-red hair of the Rosomoni. As the sheep were driven out of the path of the horsemen, they bunched into a solid baaing mass; some were forced up off their feet by the pressure. The two herdboys waved. Some of the vanguard waved back. Andonnoballus did not. Lost in who knew what incarnadine thoughts, he paid them no mind at all.
Seeing the young shepherds, so full of life, Ballista’s mind turned back to Wulfstan. The northern poem he had heard the boy reciting came to him.
Storms crash against these rocky slopes,
Sleet and snow fall and fetter the world,
Winter howls, then darkness draws on,
The night-shadow casts gloom and brings
Fierce hailstorms from the north to frighten men.
Nothing is ever easy in the kingdom of earth,
The world beneath the heavens is in the hands of fate.
Here possessions are fleeting, here friends are fleeting,
Here man is fleeting, here kinsman is fleeting,
The whole world becomes a wilderness.
They came to the camp of Naulobates incrementally. First they crossed swathes where the grass had been torn and stamped to near nothing. The grey earth showed through, pocked by myriad hooves. Then they saw a drifting cloud of smoke. From a distance it looked like rain. It was as if the natural order had been subverted, as if some elemental force or capricious deity was drawing the water back into the sky. Getting nearer, Ballista smelt the sharp tang of woodsmoke and burning animal dung. Finally, breasting a slight rise, spread before them was the broad floodplain of a hitherto unsuspected river which ran away to the east. On the near side ordered rows of round tents and covered wagons stretched for a couple of miles. In the centre, one tent, dazzling white in the hot sun despite the smoke, was three times the size of any other. Above it was a standard. On it was a tamga drawn like three orbs pierced by an arrow being pursued by three wolves.
A messenger came to Andonnoballus and Uligagus. Ballista had been unsure since the relief which was in command. The messenger announced Naulobates would receive the Roman embassy at a place called the meadow. He stressed all members of the party were to attend.
Ballista, Castricius and the others took leave of Uligagus. The Herul led his fighting men off back into the Steppe to the west of the camp. Andonnoballus, Pharas and Datius remained with the Romans. When all, men and pack animals, were mastered, the three Heruli took them down through the camp.
Walking their mounts along a broad thoroughfare running down to the river, Ballista took it in. Small children watched big-eyed as they passed. Some trotted along beside, waving and calling out to the Heruli warriors and the strange outsiders indiscriminately. The women were more circumspect. They sat weaving or spinning in front of wagons and tents decorated with patchwork patterns of trees, birds, animals and many tagmas. Others tended the fires or prepared food. None spoke. Everything was hazed and gilded by sunshine and smoke.
Ballista had seen the camps of many tribes on the move; in Africa, along the Danube. Much here was what he expected. Wherever you looked, you met the guarded, solemn gaze of seated women. Some nursed babies. Everywhere ran gaggles of excited small children. Dogs — lean hunting animals — nosed about. Here and there a sickly colt or lamb was tethered. It took him some time to realize what was unusual. There were no men, and there were no old people. Come to that, there were no pigs either.
The river was fringed with stands of timber. It was wide, but shallow. The ford had a good bed of shingle. The water splashed up, refracting the light, as they clattered across.
The meadow was idyllic. It was ringed by trees: oaks, limes, ashes. Through the foliage could be seen a sweep of lush grass jewelled with flowers. Well watered, the meadow had not yet been scorched by the June sun. Evidently it was debarred to the herds. At the far end a group of men were sitting on the grass, at their ease in the shade. Off to one side two saplings had been bent down and their tops tied together to form a rustic arch. It was the sort of place in which Plato might have set a Socratic dialogue — the lovers of wisdom strolling at leisure, their minds freed from mundane cares by the beauty of their surroundings.
They dismounted at the tree line, hobbling their horses. Andonnoballus said there was no need to leave their weapons. It was the custom of the Heruli to come armed into the presence of their king.
The Romans unstrapped and unpacked those diplomatic gifts that had survived the journey. As accensus, Hippothous handed Ballista the small golden image of the town walls. Ballista buckled the Mural Crown — the award for being first over in the storm of a town — on to his sword belt. It seemed a lifetime ago he had won it in North Africa.
As Andonnoballus led them through the trees something high above caught Ballista’s eye. He had to look twice. There was a man precariously perched in the topmost branches of an oak. Ballista looked about. Another man was clinging high up in an ash. They did not appear armed. There were just the two. It was not an ambush. And they were unlikely positions for lookouts.
‘What the fuck?’ Maximus said.
Andonnoballus laughed. ‘The Allfather hung for nine nights and days in the branches of the tree of life to learn the secrets of the dead. Naulobates is merciful. Those two will learn the error of their ways from just one dawn to the next. And, unlike the Allfather, their sides have not been pierced with a spear.’
‘What if they fall?’ Ballista asked.
‘It is a long way down,’ Andonnoballus said.
Hippothous and Castricius joined in the laughter of Andonnoballus and Datius. Ballista noticed Pharas did not laugh.