Harry Sidebottom - The Wolves of the North

‘Mules and asses die in the cold, and cattle lose their horns,’ Mastabates joined in. ‘Only animals small enough to live underground can survive.’

‘And summer lasts but a few days. Even then there is mist. On the few occasions the sun does appear, it has little warmth,’ Castricius said.

‘That is not what Strabo says,’ Hippothous put in. He seemed to be attempting to outdo the interpreter in pedantry. ‘According to the geographer, the summer heat is too severe for those unaccustomed to it. Anyway, as a man of culture, I look forward to seeing strange and wonderful creatures — the tarandos, which changes its colour, and the colos, which runs swifter than a deer. It drinks through its nostrils and stores water in its head.’

‘Fat and smelly? Well, I do not really care, as long as they are willing,’ Maximus mused. ‘Actually, even if they are not all that at first…’

A violent gust of wind ripped across the river, bringing the first of the rain. It was not yet heavy, but squalls flurried across the ground where the camp had stood, around the wagons. The beasts stood in what shelter they could find, heads down.

‘Enough of this. Everyone on their feet,’ Ballista announced. ‘Help get your things into your wagons.’ The company scattered, heads cocked into their shoulders against the rain.

Ballista walked over to where the auxiliaries were sheltering in and around the wagons with the gold. ‘Where is your centurion?’ Hordeonius stuck his head out from under the felt canopy, half sketched a salute. ‘Leave half your men on guard, and send the others to load the wagons,’ Ballista ordered.

‘But…’

‘Yes, Centurion?’ Ballista’s voice was icily polite.

‘Nothing — we will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’ The centurion set about rousting out his men with needless harshness, a swing of his staff here, a kick there.

Ballista stamped through the weather to the wagon where the haruspex and the staff were. He climbed up on to the tailgate and stuck his head through the hanging. Pale, sullen faces gazed at him from the gloom. ‘Everybody is to help load the wagons.’ The others looked to the haruspex. After an insolent pause, the latter nodded. Ballista got down. Led by the priest, the occupants clambered from the wagon and went off unhappily.

Ballista stood, the still centre of squelching activity. The rain ran down his face. His long hair was wet on his shoulders. He felt eyes on him. The gudja was standing on the driving box of his wagon. In his rain-slick sable cloak, he looked like a ragged carrion crow. The gudja smiled, obviously enjoying the disquiet among the Romans.

The first day’s travel was not good. There were only a few curtailed hours of daylight left when the wagon train finally moved out. Curtains of rain swept in from the north. Water sluiced off the felt canopies, darkened the hides of the oxen. The horses on their long leads plodded after, heads and tails down. Occasionally, one snickered its displeasure. The unsprung wagons jolted along at a snail’s pace. The noise was deafening. As the inexperienced occupants had not properly secured the coverings, they leaked. The Sarmatian drivers out in the elements, caps pulled down to meet their cloaks, only their eyes and noses showing, seemed impervious. Everyone else, huddled and jarred in the body of the carts, was thoroughly miserable.

When it became fully dark, they made camp. It was a protracted, chaotic affair. The fires did not want to light. Some of the provisions had got wet. Their patience worn thin, men cursed, cuffed the slaves. They had not travelled above three miles — four at most.

The next morning, things were much improved. Hippothous had slept well. He and his slave, Narcissus, had been assigned a wagon with Castricius, Biomasos and Hordeonius and their two slaves. When not in motion, the wagons were comfortable; snug, yet agreeably roomy.

Climbing down, Hippothous saw that the rain had blown away south. A line of trees marked the Tanais to the left. Above, the sun shone from an enormous, washed-out blue sky. They ate breakfast — rye bread, dried meat, salted fish — and set about getting ready.

Having checked Ballista had no need of his services as accensus, Hippothous asked if he could exercise one of the horses. There were only twelve, and he was delighted when Ballista assigned one permanently to him. The bandit-turned-secretary tacked up, slung his weapons and kit and rode out across the Steppe. Apart from the trees marking where the river ran, a flat sea of grass spread in all directions. None of the spring grass came up to the soles of his boots. There were some low mounds in the far distance, oddly regular in shape, but nowhere else could he see anything which offered concealment. The bandits — Alani or whatever they were — who had trailed them up the Tanais were nowhere in sight.

From a distance, the great wagons and oxen looked like a row of toys laid out by a serious-minded child. Hippothous watched Ballista riding up and down the train. The order of march was the wagon of the gudja, that of Ballista and his familia, the two containing the soldiers, that of the haruspex and functionaries, three wagons with the stores, the eunuchs’, and Castricius’s at the rear. Hippothous assumed Ballista’s thinking was to have the Goth at the front as the guide and the two senior officers at either end of the rest. Given his past profession, Hippothous was unsure it was wise to have half the gold in the last wagon.

When Ballista must have considered all was vaguely in order, the whole was got under way. The cracking of whips, the complaining of beasts and the squeal of the axles travelled clearly to Hippothous. With the breeze behind them, sounds could travel a long distance out on the Steppe.

Back in the town of Tanais, Ballista had encouraged those who considered themselves fighting men to purchase local bows and quivers. Now, Hippothous took his out and began to practise shooting from horseback. To his irritation, he found it almost impossible. At a canter, let alone a gallop, the string bounced out of the notch of the arrow. On the rare occasions he managed to keep it in place long enough, the shot careered off nowhere near where he intended. It proved impossible to find some of the wayward shafts in the grass.

After a time, Hippothous gave up. He stowed the recalcitrant weapon back in its gorytus, and fished in his saddle pack for a book. Other riders were about. Castricius, Hordeonius and Biomasos all galloped separately across the Steppe, exercising their mounts. Hippothous ignored them. With the morning sun on his shaven head, he unrolled the papyrus and read the Physiognomy of Polemon. His horse ambled along, the reins loose on its neck.

At midday, Hippothous cantered back. They were to take lunch on the move. At the lead wagon, Hippothous found a difference of opinion between Ballista and the gudja.

‘It is asking for trouble,’ said Ballista.

‘We are too many for casual bandits, and it could draw the unwanted attention of others,’ the gudja advised.

‘There should always be outriders,’ responded Ballista.

‘This grazing is disputed between the Alani and the Heruli. Both send out raiding parties of young warriors. Scouts and the like would draw them down on us. Remember, we Urugundi know these Steppes and these tribes. You do not.’ The Gothic priest was not to be contradicted. Reluctantly, Ballista gave way.

The second day went better. The wagon train made at least eight miles. By the third, they were getting into a routine. Although some dark clouds scudded across, the weather continued fine. Hippothous rode alongside Ballista’s wagon, where the northerner’s young slave, Wulfstan, was sitting up front alongside the Sarmatian driver. Hippothous had approached him before, the previous year back in Byzantium. The boy had turned him down flat, using words the servile should not utter. Hippothous had not taken much offence, none of it to heart. He knew the reason. The youth had been forced and mistreated by several owners before Ballista. Still, time had passed. His own slave, Narcissus, was getting past his first bloom. The young barbarian was more than attractive; he was beautiful.