Mar Ammo was entirely unable to shape an answer.
‘Most pleasures are corrupting,’ Naulobates said. ‘Beating men, for example. Even sex and drink, if taken to excess, weaken a man. Reading too much is the same. But hunting is entirely good for one — the body becomes stronger, the soul braver, and it gives exercise in all martial skills. A man must ride, run, meet the charge of big game, endure heat and cold, hunger and thirst, and get used to suffering all hardships. An envoy from Palmyra told me King Odenathus has always lived in the mountains and deserts, facing lions, panthers, bears and other beasts of the wilderness. No wonder the Persians run before him and the Romans have ceded half their empire to such a man.’
An embassy from Odenathus to the Heruli — Ballista thought on that. It was important news; if it were true. He was not going to point out that, in Roman terms, the King of Palmyra was a magistrate governing the eastern provinces on behalf of the emperor Gallienus.
‘Hunting does more,’ Hippothous said. ‘It has a moral purpose.’
Naulobates turned in the saddle and regarded him.
‘A hunter sights his quarry, then he loses it,’ Hippothous said. ‘The repeated experience teaches him to bear the sudden reverses of fortune. Hunting instils self-control better than any philosophy lecture.’
Naulobates’ eyes remained unwavering, fixed on the Greek.
Silence, apart from the jinking of bits and the stamp of hooves. The entourage rode stony-faced.
Naulobates laughed, high and loud, with genuine pleasure. He reached across and patted Hippothous on the shoulder. ‘You,’ he told him, ‘would make a good Herul.’
They rode south-east, and by noon were approaching a bend of the Rha river. The Steppe, as if tired of its own flat monotony, rolled gently. It was greener here. There were copses, pools of standing water and small tributaries ran east to where the Rha lay broad and shimmering in the sun two miles or more distant.
Horsemen were waiting for them. Naulobates and his entourage took their place, the rest of the newcomers flanking them. The battue was formed. A great line of riders curved away on either side; rising and dipping, and passing out of sight among shaded trees. Five thousand mounted men in a semicircle would drive the game against the banks of the Rha.
It was hot. Ballista rolled his heavy coat and tied it to the rear horns of his saddle. They ate and drank on horseback; strips of air-dried meat washed down with fermented mare’s milk from leather flasks. Despite the presence of the First-Brother, an easy congeniality was on them. Ballista noticed it did not include the Manichaean missionary, or, oddly, Pharas the Herul. The latter fidgeted, and looked abstracted. He was sweating more heavily than the weather allowed.
‘The battue is real hunting,’ Naulobates said. ‘The Greeks on foot with nets are no better than the primitive forest tribes of the north. The Romans who sit on cushions to watch the slaughter of animals in the arena are too contemptible for words. The rich of the imperium, who hunt with horse and hound, are always too few. It is no training for the manoeuvres of war. The Persians are a little better. Yet in their paradises the animals are in poor condition, lacking the heart that comes from true freedom. The battue of the Steppe is the only real hunt. No nets, no walls, just the line of riders. It is a true test of horsemanship, of archery, of the courage of man. With luck, we will find wild boar, even bear, down by the riverbank.
‘It is time,’ Naulobates said. His standard dipped, and a horn rang across the Steppe. All along the line the signals were repeated. ‘Remember, you are not Persians waiting for the king to take the first shot. We are Heruli. We are brothers.’
They set off at a walk. Ballista had Maximus to his left, Hippothous and Castricius beyond him. To his right he was separated from Naulobates by Mar Ammo and Pharas. The Manichaean had a bow in his hands. He looked far from comfortable with it. Quite possibly he was suffering some crisis of conscience between his mission to convert Naulobates and the dictates of his religion that as one of its elect he should not kill.
Ballista fitted his thumb ring, chose an arrow, nocked it and part drew his recurve bow. The sun was on his face, the horse quiet and comfortable under him. Naulobates’ lupine banner snapped above their heads. The wind was rising again. Ballista noted its strength and direction. He should remember to allow for it. His head buzzed slightly from the drink.
They plodded down a grassy incline. Rabbits and marmots ran from them. Bows thrummed, and the shafts whistled out at their prey. Ballista took a shot and missed. Others had more success. Little animals tumbled and fell, white scuts and bellies displayed to the sun.
A covert of oaks tangled the line. When they emerged, a small herd of wild asses were in front. The Heruli yipped happily, automatically closed their spacing and trotted on. They wielded their bows with mastery. Where there had been motion, in moments there was dead game. Again, Ballista had missed.
A crane flew high across them. Naulobates called out something. The others did not shoot. He switched his bow to his right hand, leant far back in the saddle, drew with his left and released. The crane was transfixed. It plummeted, broken and ungainly. The Heruli applauded. Ballista joined in. It was a very fine shot, and worth noting that Naulobates could use a weapon with either hand.
The disciple of Mani seemed close to tears. Ballista could not understand these pacifist sects that seemed to be springing up: Manichaeans, Christians, Essenes. If god, or the gods, did not want man to hunt, why had he made it so enjoyable? Among the Manichaeans, at least, the non-elect were allowed to kill. None of the Christians were meant to take life; not human life anyway. They would have to change their tune, if any ruler ever were misguided enough to join them. Still, that was most improbable.
They were near the Rha; no more than two bow shots. Ballista could smell the water. He could see the great river here and there through the wide belt of trees and the high reeds on its banks. Naulobates called a halt to dress the line. Again, the order rippled away; banners dipping, horns blowing. The battue jostled into order and immobility. Horses swished their tails, flicked their ears. Horses and men were sweating. Gold-tinged horseflies bothered both.
The thickets ahead grew close-packed. They would be full of driven game, some of it dangerous. The riders’ formation would be broken. Ballista flexed his fingers and arms, rolled his shoulders. He took a long drink, put away the flask, and readied his bow. His palms were slick, and his thin linen tunic was sticking to his back. It was going to be chaotic in there.
Naulobates threw back his head and called a long, wild calclass="underline" yip-yip-yip.
Like hunting dogs, the Heruli gave tongue: yip-yip-yip.
Caught up in the moment, Ballista hallooed. Next to him, Maximus was bellowing. Everyone was yelling, except the Manichaean and Pharas. Ballista saw the latter’s mouth open but somehow knew he was making no sound.
Naulobates kicked in his heels. His horse leapt forward. They all surged after.
Ballista dropped his reins, let his Sarmatian pick its own way into the dappled shade. Men and horses flashed through the bands of sunlight. Ballista bent low to avoid a branch. There were many things crashing through the undergrowth.
A boar started out. Its bald, leathery head and shoulders faced the horsemen. The Heruli yipped. The boar turned and broke into its scuttling, bouncing run. The hunters raced after. Glimpses of the beast’s shaggy, reddish-brown quarters showed through the bushes. Ballista was up by Naulobates. The Manichaean had disappeared.
Ballista took a shot. The arrow missed. Naulobates aimed. At the moment of release, the boar swerved to the right. Naulobates’ arrow snicked into the earth. They wheeled after it.
The boar went tumbling, crashing snout first into the fallen leaves. It got to its feet, its tail flicking. An arrow was embedded behind its near-front leg. Uligagus was right above it; backing his horse. Another arrow, then another thumped into the boar’s flank. It toppled sideways.