Hippothous was waiting by the fire with one of the soldiers. Sparks whirled away to die in the darkness.
The change of pickets was shite. Calgacus would tell Ballista in the morning. If both men on watch came in to rouse their replacements, it would not take the most intelligent horse thief in the world to work out when to strike. Although if any of the fuckers were out on a night like this, good luck to them.
The horses were tethered in two lines running north-south out to the west of the camp. Between the lightning flashes, it was so dark they were barely visible from where the men slept around the fire. Hippothous disappeared off to the northern picket.
Calgacus walked through the lines to the southern post. The horses shifted and whickered at him as he passed. He liked the sweet smell of them. He muttered soothing things. A Herul pony tried to nip him.
Out beyond the shelter of the animals, the wind buffeted him. There was no cover, so he sat with his back to it. He pulled his cloak around him. Since they had been there, he had never liked the night on the Steppe.
Up above, the storm roared. There were no stars. All the constellations, the Pleiades, the Eyes of Thiazi — whatever different men called them — were gone. The moon had vanished as surely as if Hati the wolf had devoured him.
It was Ragnarok weather. At the end of days, Fenrir the wolf will break his bonds, Jormungand the serpent rear up from the sea, the dead rise from Hel, and Naglfar — the ship made from dead men’s nails — bring doom to gods and men.
Calgacus wondered if he believed it, any of it. They were the first stories of the gods he could remember. The Angles had seemed to believe. But it had been made very clear he was not an Angle. He was a nithing, a Caledonian slave.
He had grown up an outsider in Germania. All these years with Ballista, he had remained an outsider among the Greeks and Romans. When the traditional gods were always beings other people worshipped, it made his own belief in any of them improbable. Those religions he had encountered which offered a new identity — Manichaeism, Christianity — struck him as the self-evident results of human ingenuity.
Something warned Calgacus. He shifted, and peered out from under his hood. Hippothous was ghosting down the horse lines. He had a sword in his hand.
No daemon then; all the time, just a man’s murderous insanity.
Calgacus did not move. Under his cloak, he eased his sword in its scabbard. He watched out of the corner of his eye; waiting, waiting. As Hippothous closed, Calgacus rose, turned, drew his weapon and thrust in one fluid motion.
Caught by surprise, the Greek sidestepped. Too slow. The edge of Calgacus’s blade scraped down his ribcage.
Hippothous stepped back. He seemed not to feel the pain. In the lightning, his eyes were mad.
Calgacus roared as he cut at Hippothous’s head. Sparks as Hippothous blocked the blow, countered, and was blocked in turn.
They circled. Intense concentration made it hard for Calgacus to shout. Hippothous led on one foot then shifted his weight to the other and launched a flurry of blows.
The heavy impacts jarred up into Calgacus’s shoulder. The steel rang against the thunder. The horses were calling, fighting against their tethers. That would bring the others. Just stay alive.
Something turned under Calgacus’s boot. He staggered. Hippothous struck. Calgacus brought his sword across. Not quick enough. The breath grunted out of him, as the steel punched up into his stomach.
As the blade was pulled out, Calgacus doubled up. He used his sword to push himself near upright, drew the long dagger from his right hip, got it out in front. The blood was running hot down his groin on to his thighs.
Hippothous stepped in, chopping down at his head. Calgacus met it with the dagger. The force almost drove him to his knees. Movement, shouting off towards the fire. Just stay alive.
Like an animal seeking the warmth of his blood, the steel cut at him again. He blocked — slower, the pain hindering his movements.
The horses were rearing as men ran through the lines.
Hippothous looked over his shoulder, then turned and ran into the darkness.
Calgacus felt his knees give. He was face down, the grass coarse under his cheek. The blood was hot on his hands pressed to the wound.
How long would it take the fuckers to get here? From a great distance, he heard yelling, above the howl of the wind.
With surprise, he realized he was not thinking of Ballista, and not of Rebecca and Simon. He heard the crash of waves on rocks, caught the scent of a peat fire, glimpsed a woman’s half-remembered face.
XXXI
‘There!’ The Herul guide Rudolphus pointed.
Ballista shaded his eyes, though there was no sun coming through the low, fast-moving clouds. The air was misted with dust and debris picked up by the north wind. He could see nothing else.
‘To the right of the three barrows, well beyond.’
‘I see it,’ Maximus said.
Ballista screened the right-hand side of his face to try to keep out the grit. His eyes were watering. A thin smudge of more solid dust, glimpsed for a moment, then merging back into the general obscurity.
‘How far?’ Ballista asked.
The Herul considered. ‘Four miles, maybe a bit more.’
‘A fair distance,’ Ballista said.
‘Not far enough.’ The Herul nudged his pony on, and the other two did likewise. ‘He has made bad time. We will run him down today.’
How had Hippothous hoped to get away with it? Maybe, if he had caught Calgacus unaware and had managed to kill him with no outcry, he might have tried to pass it off as the work of horse thieves. Not trusting in that outcome, Hippothous had untied a horse from the line, saddled it, and left it tethered out in the darkness of the Steppe.
And that had been his fatal mistake. The Greek had not learnt from his time on the Steppe. He had taken one horse. The three men pursuing him had nine; eight now that one had gone lame and been turned loose.
Not that it would have done them any good without Rudolphus. How the Herul had tracked Hippothous west for the last two days amazed Ballista. The surface of the Steppe was baked too hard for hoof prints. Now and then, Rudolphus lost the line, and had to cast around. He would drop from his mount, peer at the scorched grass and feel the dirt. Eventually, he would grunt in satisfaction, and swing back into the saddle. Only once — a pile of horse droppings — had Ballista been able to detect any sign.
They rode on at a fast canter. Each time the thunder cracked, the red Sarmatian Naulobates had given Ballista flinched and laid his ears flat. The Heruli ponies gave it less mind. The rain would fall at any moment. By the look of the clouds, it would be heavy.
Back at the camp, there had been chaos after they had found Calgacus. Chaos, then hard decisions. Holding the old man’s head in his lap, Ballista had lost his temper, yelled at the others to be quiet — shut the fuck up and let him think.
A lone rider, even with only one horse, would outrun the column. Only some could give chase, and they had to have spare mounts. Ballista had known right away he needed Rudolphus. And he would not be without Maximus, not now of all times.
Tarchon had begged to come. He had ranted. He had failed in his duty. He had to redeem his honour. His passion led him to revert to his native Suanian. No one else understood the words, but his meaning was still clear.
Ballista had remained adamant. The column could not be too stripped of its fighters; the Steppe was full of broken men. Besides — he had told the Suanian — one of them had to stay with Calgacus.
Ruthlessly, they had thrown away baggage, and taken six of the ponies as remounts. Castricius had been left in charge. He still had two auxiliaries and the two ex-military slaves, as well as Tarchon. Six armed men should be enough. The interpreter Biomasos had shown spirit. They should be enough to see off any but the most committed or desperate bandits.