Harry Sidebottom: The Amber Road

‘The Augustus Postumus would have men like you in his comitatus , if you would give him your oath.’

Arkil took off his helmet, so his face could be seen. ‘My father, the Cyning Isangrim, long ago pledged his friendship to your enemy the Augustus Gallienus. Isangrim is leader of our people. It is not for us to go back on the word of our theoden .’

The black horse tossed its head, and the Roman quieted it with a practised hand. ‘The tyrant in Rome does not merit the friendship of men such as the Himlings of Hedinsey or the brave Angle warriors they lead. Gallienus has treated your half-brother Ballista shamefully. He has shown him no honour for his years of service, no honour for the risks he has run or the wounds he has taken. Instead, it is said, he has sent him into exile in the distant Caucasus mountains, sent him to his death among strangers.’

At the mention of the hostage, there was a low hooming from the older warriors in the warhedge. Starkad felt his own emotions rise.

‘Gallienus wastes his time in idleness in the baths and bars of Rome. Dressed in jewels and silk as a woman, he leads a comitatus of pimps and catamites. There can be no shame in renouncing the friendship of such a man.’

‘What of our booty?’ Arkil asked.

‘What you left behind on the field of battle beyond the wood will be divided among my soldiers. What you have with you will remain yours.’

‘Where would the Augustus Postumus send us?’ Arkil asked.

‘If you give him your oath, the Augustus Postumus will lead you first against your hereditary foes, the Franks. He will reward you with an open hand. It is in my mind you will not find Postumus lacking in courage.’

Arkil laughed. ‘That I can see already.’

Postumus acknowledged this with a civil gesture.

‘The decision is not mine alone,’ Arkil said. ‘I must consult the eorls .’

‘It is a pleasant day. I will wait.’ The emperor, all alone, sat easy on his horse.

Starkad and the other eorls clustered around their atheling.

‘We could kill him,’ one of the eorls hissed. ‘They would not fight then.’

Arkil rounded on the man. ‘That is the thought of a nithing . Only a man of no account would think to harm a man who came as a herald, trusting our word.’

‘I have no desire to stay here,’ Wiglaf announced. ‘We should fight.’

‘Fight this army, then the army on the Rhine, and on the far banks the Franks? We are far from home,’ Arkil replied.

‘After we have defeated the fiend in front of us, we should seize a port, take their ships.’

‘My old friend’ — Arkil spoke gently — ‘the battle madness is on you. If we fight today, we will all dine in Valhalla this evening.’

A murmur of agreement ran through the ring of eorls.

‘Then it is agreed.’ Arkil turned back to the emperor, raising his voice. ‘We will serve in your comitatus for two years.’

‘Five,’ Postumus replied equitably.

‘Three, with the same pay as Praetorians.’

Postumus laughed. ‘The stipendium shall be as you say, and you will receive such donatives as are fitting, but you will serve for five years.’

‘Five it is then.’

‘Will you swear the military oath on behalf of your men?’

Arkil nodded.

‘Then take the sacramentum here in the sight of men and gods.’

Arkil drew his sword, placed his left hand on its edge, and spoke in Latin. ‘By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the emperor’s commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the emperor above everything.’

Five years, if he lived. Watching from the line, Starkad had to reconcile himself to five years before he could hope to return home.

The Island of Abalos in the Suebian Sea, AD263

The Roman was very far from home, beyond even the great forests of Germania. He was alone and afraid. This island, which had looked so small when first sighted in the restless grey expanse of the Suebian Sea, now seemed endless.

He could run no further. The wood here was mature timber, aspen and birch. There was little underbrush, no obvious place to hide. He looked about. Off to his left a big tree had fallen, its roots fanned up in a rough arch, a damp hollow where they had grown. He hobbled over and huddled there.

He listened, but could hear nothing over his own laboured breathing. The thick folds of the toga which had so hampered his flight were hot and heavy. He tugged and pulled until the voluminous thing fell away. Clad in just a sweat-stained under-tunic and sandals, he crouched, fingering the hilt of his knife. It was more suited for peeling an apple than a desperate fight.

His breathing quieter, he strained to catch any sounds of pursuit. Nothing except birdsong and the sounds of the wind moving through the trees. He leant back against the roots, exhausted.

Marcus Aurelius Julianus, a Knight of Rome, Vir Egregius , reduced to this. Only the gold ring of an equestrian distinguished him from a fugitive slave. When he was young, his father — may the earth lay light on him — had taken him to Nemi to see the priest-king. They had crossed the fence into the sacred space. It was festooned with strips of material, offerings to Diana of the Lake. They had found the runaway slave. He had emerged from a thicket, suspicious, blade in hand. When he had decided they were not of his own kind come to kill and replace him, he had moved off on the endless, fearful patrol of his haunted, diminutive kingdom.

Julianus knew this was all his own fault. He remembered his delight at the invitation. A formal banquet on the Palatine with the emperor himself in attendance was an honour beyond the hopes of most in the equestrian ordo . Many of the great had been there: Nummius Ceionius Albinus, Prefect of the City and Consul Ordinarius for the second time; Censorinus the Praetorian Prefect; Plotinus the philosopher; Cominius Priscianus, the new a Studiis ; and several eminent military men, including the Danubians Tacitus and Aurelian and the Egyptian Camsisoleus. Julianus had been on a table higher than some of the principes , no distance from the imperial presence. Gallienus had been wearing a magnificent amber amulet to aid his recovery from tonsillitis. Julianus had admired the piece. The emperor had been graciousness itself, asked if he was interested in amber. A collector himself, and warmed by the Falernian and other noble wines, Julianus had not been able to stop himself expounding on the errors of the Greeks concerning its origins. Liguria, Iberia, Ethiopia, all nonsense, as were Egypt, Numidia and the Pyrenees. The only true amber was washed up on the shores of the Suebian Sea. Julianus had gone on to talk of its colours and properties. And the very next day Censorinus had come to his house. It was not a social call. The Praetorian Prefect carried an imperial command. A discreet diplomatic mission was leaving for the north. Julianus’s deep knowledge of amber would act as a Trojan horse. He must have longed to travel to the Suebian Sea, to the fabled Cimbric peninsula and the islands where the precious resin was washed ashore. Now he could fulfil that desire, provide good service to his emperor, and purchase all the amber he might dream about. An imperial command was not to be disobeyed.

Too much wine, too much talking — hubris, even — had combined to lead Julianus to this dismal forest beyond the north wind.

Still no untoward sounds, but he could not stay here. Bundling up the toga, he did his best to conceal it under the roots of the tree. The sun was visible through the branches. It was directly overhead, no help in determining his course. There had been a fishing village on the southern coast, seen before they had rounded the headland and run up to the port. With money in his belt, the knife in his hand, he might get a boat. Casting around anxiously, he set off in what he hoped might be the right direction.