Castricius had taken instructions from Rudolphus. These amounted to little more than to keep on south-west. Eight days’ easy march, and they would come to Lake Maeotis, if not straight to the port of Tanais itself. The interpreter spoke all the local languages. There was water along the way, and they had ample provisions. Ballista had few fears on that score. A man like Castricius — a man who had survived the mines, the sack of Arete, and whatever else had happened to him in Albania — was unlikely to fail.
Ballista felt guilty for the times he had thought Castricius might have been the killer. A much greater guilt tried to force itself up into his thoughts. He stamped it down. Time enough for that when this chase had run its course. Allfather, all these years and he had never bothered to ask what funeral rites Calgacus wanted.
The first drops of rain dimpled the dust of the plain. Soon it was falling hard, beating in at an angle, running down his face, sluicing off his riding cloak.
Ballista called over to Rudolphus. ‘There will be no dust to follow.’
The Herul turned, squinting against the downpour. ‘There will be tracks. His horse cannot hold out for much further.’
They changed mounts, and ate some dried meat and drank milk. The Herul stepped from one pony to another, not bothering to dismount even to urinate. When they moved off, Rudolphus had them spread out across the plain.
Riding alone on the right flank, Ballista remembered something Julia had said years before. The dead do not suffer; that is for those left behind.
Calgacus had been alive when he reached him. But with eyes beyond hope, mouth beyond speech… Ballista began to cry again.
Down in the darkness of the tomb, Hippothous waited. They would not be long now. He had seen them coming from the top of the kurgan. Three riders, each with a string of ponies on a lead rein. There had been no mistaking them, even through the rain at that distance: Ballista, Maximus and the Herul guide.
Hippothous hoped they had seen him silhouetted on the skyline. He had tethered the horse right outside the opening to make sure they knew he was here.
It was a story from Polemon’s Physiognomy that had started him on the long journey to this dark place. There was a woman in the city of Perge in the land of Pamphylia. The women there go veiled — as decent Hellenic women should — you can only see the eyes and nose. It had been enough for Polemon. ‘What a great evil is about to descend on this woman,’ he had announced. The sign was that her nostrils had darkened, and her eyes widened and turned green. Her head moved much, and as she walked her feet knocked together, as if from fear. To the astonishment of Polemon’s companions, someone ran up, shouting that the woman’s daughter had fallen into the well at their house and been drowned. The woman ripped off her veil, tore the front of her dress and threw off her clothes — even her loincloth of Egyptian or Greek linen. Naked, she fell on her face, sobbing for her beloved daughter.
It had been the first step on Hippothous’s journey. Physiognomy not only let you look into someone’s soul, it allowed you to see their future.
Polemon had also met a man from Lydia. His colour was dark, tending to redness, as if he had drunk wine or were angry. He was strong, his ankles were thick, the digits of his hands and feet were short, and in his voice was an ugly hoarseness. Of course, his eyes were evil. Often, he bared his teeth, like a wild pig when it turns on its hunter. It was evident to Polemon that the man was full of tyranny and enmity, often threatening evil; a killer, and a shedder of blood. Yet no one but Polemon was aware of the horror the man would perpetrate.
The man’s neighbours were celebrating a festival. The man sent them a basket of food. The basket was put among the offerings, and opened. On top were saucers of oyster shells. But underneath was a severed head.
The story had been a revelation to Hippothous.
The neighbours had cursed the killer, the polluter of festivals. Polemon had been among those who cursed him. As long as the physiognomist lived, he had not neglected to continue to curse him. Yet that was all Polemon had done.
The gods had put Polemon’s story in Hippothous’s hands. He was sure of that. Unlike Polemon, he would not stand by supine, and let evil men do the things their perverse natures drove them towards. Why had the gods given man the science of physiognomy, the ability to know the future, if not to prevent such horror? As Hippothous read the story, the Hound of the Gods had been born. For years Hippothous had laboured — alone, and in secret — to perform the necessary and dangerous work of the gods. He was their Scourge of Evil.
Even in the depths of the burial mound, the thunder could still be heard. Hippothous grinned. It was all suitably apocalyptic. The kurgan was perfect. He had lost a lot of time checking the ones he passed, but this was absolutely perfect; its perfection only visible once inside.
He did not want to kill Ballista. The signs of his physiognomy were conflicting. But it might well be necessary. If it was, the least he would do would be to wipe the blood on his head. The full mutilation — the entire ritual from the Argonautica of Apollonius — would be safer. One of the last things Hippothous wanted was to be haunted by the northern barbarian’s daemon. The little girl from Ephesus was bad enough.
Maximus was a different case. With the thick, dark hair of a savage animal and the never-still eyes of the enemy of truth and the lover of false conjecture, he needed killing. Any physiognomist could tell, if he was left alive, untold suffering and the deaths of any number of other people would result. For much of this journey, Hippothous had been unsure if he should kill him or the old Caledonian first.
The Herul did not much matter either way. Since witnessing the disgustingness with the donkey, Hippothous realized that all the Heruli were rotten, less than human, close to the beasts with which they mated. Conveniently, Rudolphus was missing most of the fingers of his right hand — which would make him easy to put down.
Hippothous had no fear of death. But he had no intention of dying here in this subterranean dark. The gods would not want it. They had held their hands over him in many bad places. They would do so again. Their work must continue. They would lead him back into the light.
Back in the imperium, back in civilization, he would move somewhere new. North Africa appealed, maybe a big city like Carthage. Or perhaps Syracuse in Sicily. Ballista’s estate at Tauromenium was just up the coast. The Hound of the Gods had unfinished business with others of the barbarian’s familia.
He would change his name and alter his looks. The thought of such reinvention made him feel curiously dislocated; as if his life so far were somehow unreal, the product of his own artifice or sleight of hand.
People said the gods sent insanity down on a murderer who stood on sacred ground. He had killed the girl, and had been in temples since, but the gods had spared him. It was their work he was doing.
Nevertheless, as soon as he reached Hellas, he would undergo purification. He would be rid of the daemon of the girl. It would be hard to find a priest who would be willing to proceed, once he had been told what he had done. That was no insuperable problem. Jason had been purified by Circe. But Hippothous would purify himself. He was closer to the gods than Jason had ever been. All the ritual, all he needed to know, was in the Argonautica of Apollonius; that invaluable work.
First, he had to rid himself of the three approaching men. The wound the old Caledonian had given him hurt. It would slow his movements. He needed to summon all his courage. If andreia alone did not prove enough, the gods would help.