Publius Egnatius Amantius to Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus, Praetorian Prefect, Vir Ementissimus.
Dominus, I doubt you will ever receive this despatch, or the others I have written. It is said the Alani will be upon us tomorrow. The Heruli lost the last battle, and there is no reason to think they will do better in this, which shapes to be the final one. It is most certainly a judgement of the gods on their disgusting customs.
Faithful to your orders, and in the vain hope that some deity will deliver it into your hands, I am prompted to write this last time to give one final piece of information I have gleaned. From a conversation I overheard between the Legatus extra ordinem Scythica and his Caledonian freedman Marcus Clodius Calgacus I learnt that Odenathus of Palmyra has sent ambassadors to Naulobates and the Heruli. I know neither the timing nor the purpose of this embassy, but it must give cause for concern as to the loyalty of the Syrian our sacred Augustus Gallienus has appointed Corrector totius Orientis.
It has been an honour to serve you, Dominus. I have no real hopes of returning safe to the imperium. Even if by some vagary of war the Heruli prevail tomorrow, it is an inordinate distance back to humanitas. And although the exigencies of war have driven it from all other minds, I have not forgotten the fate of my friend Publius Egnatius Mastabates and the others.
A Herul camp on the Steppe, some time in late summer.
XXVIII
Calgacus was unsurprised when Naulobates’ prediction came true. It had been two days since Aruth and his blood-brothers had been hoisted into the trees, where, their cages turning gently in the wind, they remained defiantly alive. The previous evening the scouts had reported that the Alani would reach the camp this morning. It was quite possible a daemon had told Naulobates. He had the look of one haunted by unworldly things. It was a look Calgacus had seen over the years in Ballista.
The torches were beginning to pale as Calgacus walked through the camp with Tarchon. The Heruli horde had ridden out long before dawn, and it was strangely quiet except for the lowing of oxen. Perhaps the beasts could sense the unease in the humans. Things would be decided one way or the other today.
Calgacus had got Tarchon to carry most of the food and drink for breakfast. The Caledonian’s right arm and shoulder were still strapped, and both his years and his war gear were heavy on him. It was a long walk. Rather than continue the futile retreat north, Naulobates had ordered the encampment put on a war footing. The hundreds of wagons had been set out in a great circle on the southern bank of the stream. They had been chained or lashed together, and any gaps barricaded. The thousands of draught oxen had been corralled in the middle. The non-combatants had gone. They had driven before them the horses, camels, sheep and goats to join the other herds in more distant grazing. The women and children were scattered in the vastness of the Steppe. Of course, should the battle be lost, it would only postpone their rape and enslavement, or rape and death, by a day or two.
It could be, Calgacus thought, that he was to witness the death of a people; an earthly prelude to Ragnarok, when the sun would be devoured, and the end would come for men and gods. But what could you expect when you travelled to the ends of Middle Earth with a man under a curse? Kill all those he loves. Let him wander the face of the earth, among strange peoples, always in exile, homeless and hated.
Since Naulobates had led out the fighting men, there were only a thousand or so souls to defend the two-mile perimeter of the camp. About two thirds were the wounded, the rest boys of thirteen or fourteen, fifteen at most. And, to the surprise of everyone, in the assembly last night Naulobates had ordained they were to be commanded by Ballista.
Many of the tribesmen had seemed deeply shocked. They had complained vociferously. He was not a Herul, not one of the brotherhood. He was the grandson of Starkad, the bloody-handed killer who had strangled their king, Naulobates’ own great-grandfather. Strangled him, but not before — gods below! — he had hacked off Sunildus’s penis and shoved it down his throat.
Calgacus had not known about the mutilation. He wondered if Ballista had known. He wondered if it was true. Folk memories were fallible. They changed to suit new circumstances, new needs. How could the Heruli have found out? Starkad had left no one alive on that desolate shore. And then it had occurred to Calgacus that he only believed that no one had survived the massacre because the Angles telling the story had said so.
Naulobates had dismissed the objections. It was universally acknowledged that no people were more skilled at defending a fortified position than the Romans. Had Ballista not been — for a day or two — emperor of the Romans? As for brotherhood, Ballista was brother by the cup and the sword with Andonnoballus. And as for the past, Starkad and Sunildus were a long time ago. It happened far away in a different country. As a sop to outraged tradition, he named an injured Herul called Alaric as the second officer of the camp.
Ballista had divided his command: the injured standing guard, spread thinly among the carts; the young inside the ring seeing to the oxen. He kept the Roman contingent with him. After walking the positions most of the night, he had taken his own station on a wagon in the southern arc of the laager. The one he had chosen was tall, and constructed entirely of wood. Come daylight, its roof should command a fine view.
Calgacus and Tarchon reached the wagon in the slate-grey light of the false dawn. There was a ladder. Calgacus climbed it, slow and stiff in his movements. At the top, he saw the dark shapes of five seated men. Muffled in their cloaks, they had the air of hooded crows.
Muttering, Calgacus put down the few containers he had carried. ‘It is no trouble at all. You fuckers just sit there. Let an old man do all the fucking work. Do not let it play on your conscience.’
Tarchon lugged up the rest of the things they had brought.
‘I thought you would never be back, not with all those baggage animals to bother,’ Ballista said.
Maximus got up and helped Tarchon pass around what had been brought.
Calgacus sat down where the Hibernian had been, next to Ballista. On his other side were Castricius and Hippothous. The second-in-command, Alaric, was beyond Ballista. When they had finished serving, Maximus and Tarchon hunkered down next to the Herul.
They all ate warm millet porridge and cold boiled mutton, drank fermented mare’s milk, and waited for the day.
‘I hope you do not mind me asking,’ Maximus said to Alaric. ‘Why have you not got a pointed head?’
‘I am not one of the Rosomoni,’ he replied.
‘Some of your tattoos — and very fetching they are indeed — are not red. I am thinking you were not born one of the Heruli.’
‘No.’
‘So what race were you?’
‘Taifali.’
‘No offence, but are they the ones that bugger the small boys?’
Alaric grunted.
‘Is that why you left?’
‘No, I killed a man.’
‘So what? Everyone has killed someone. Your men Hippothous and Castricius over there, they have probably killed dozens.’
‘The man I killed was my father.’ Alaric paused. ‘And both my brothers.’
The statement put a stop to conversation for a time.
It was quiet. The wind dropped and was backing towards the south. Yet it was still there, blowing across the measureless nomad sea, almost below the level of hearing, insidiously scratching and sighing through the dry grass.
Irrepressible, Maximus returned to questioning Alaric. This time his tone was less teasing, the subject perhaps less delicate. Were the Heruli not a fine tribe in which to be a man! How many women had Alaric enjoyed? Maximus had never known a better place for the women. Alaric was more forthcoming, and soon Tarchon joined in. By the tenor of their conversation, it seemed to Calgacus there could hardly be a girl beyond puberty one or more of them had not covered. Liars, all three of them, like most men.