Harry Sidebottom - The Wolves of the North

Mastabates felt light-headed, and a little sick. The vapour tent was close, oppressive; the laughter too loud in his ears. It was not the amount he had inhaled or drunk but the strange alcohol the Heruli had dispensed. Although clouded in his thinking, he was quite adamant on that point.

Still, bizarre as they looked, you could not fault the hospitality of the nomads. No sooner had the wagons been circled and the beasts seen to than a feast had been ready. It had been completely without ceremony. There were no sacrifices or prayers beforehand, not even the most cursory libation. Men sat in no order, where they pleased, on rugs or on the grass. When they had served the food, the slaves of the Heruli joined their masters. And the slaves talked — not only to each other, loud enough to be heard by all, but they even addressed the free men unbidden. It was like an impromptu rustic Saturnalia.

There was no bread of any sort, but more than enough food: mutton stew, sausages — Mastabates enjoyed them even after he was told they were horsemeat — and a good, strong cheese. But the drink was another matter. When handed a leather skin, he had incautiously taken a long draught. The effects had been instant: a sharp stinging on his tongue, a sweat breaking out all over his body as the liquid went down. The Heruli had laughed as he spluttered. One who had a little Greek told him it was fermented mare’s milk. Not wishing to give offence, he had persevered with small sips. It was not totally unlike a thin yoghurt, but sharper; a Hellene would always sweeten his oxygala with honey or cut it with oil. Once he had got accustomed to it, he began to quite like its after-taste of bitter almonds.

Just when Mastabates had begun to relax, one of the Heruli had jumped up and grabbed his ears hard, tugging vigorously at them. Thinking he was being attacked, he had scrambled backwards to his feet, making ineffectual slapping gestures of defence. This had provoked uncontrolled mirth. His assailant had begun to clap his hands and dance. Ballista had come over, slapped Mastabates on the shoulder and explained that the Herul was doing him honour, was inviting him to drink with him.

Prodigious quantities of food consumed, they had split up and gone to the cannabis tents, taking many skins of alcohol with them. Mastabates was in a shelter with Ballista, Maximus and old Calgacus. The gudja was there; inscrutable as ever. Andonnoballus and another three Heruli crowded in with them.

One of the Heruli started to play a martial air on the lyre. As he began to sing, Ballista and Calgacus stopped laughing. Maximus’s hand went to his hilt. At a sharp word from Andonnoballus the singer stopped. He smiled, obviously apologized, and his plectrum picked out a different tune. Although unable to understand a word, Mastabates could tell this new song was a sentimental love ballad. He found himself giggling — as the singer was a Herul, most likely it was addressed to a donkey.

As the lyre player drifted into a lengthy instrumental passage, men began to talk again. The conversation, like the songs, was in the northern tongue.

The Herul to Mastabates’ left — the sickly-looking one, Philemuth — spoke some Greek. He exhaled and smiled sadly. ‘King Cannabas that guides our King Naulobates.’

Unable to think of any response, Mastabates asked him about the anarieis. The men who took a woman’s part, were there many of them, and were they really regarded with reverence in Scythia? It soon became apparent the Herul had no idea what he was talking about, and seemed set to take offence.

‘How did you learn Greek?’ Mastabates changed the subject. At the imperial court, you failed to learn tact at your peril.

Philemuth brightened. ‘I went’ — he used a barbaric word — ‘into the Kingdom of the Romans with the Borani and Urugundi. We were at Trapezus. There were many Roman soldiers. They were drunk, lazy. They had no courage. We placed tree trunks against the walls. The Romans fled. We sacked the town. It was good; much gold and silver, much wine, and women, many women. I took many slaves home.’

Unsure how to respond, Mastabates made a noncommittal noise.

‘One girl — a Greek, her name is Olympias — very beautiful.’ Philemuth coughed. The old Herul looked sad. ‘I took her as my fourth wife. She gave much pleasure; to me, to my brothers. But now I am ill. If I need to die, it will not be good for her.’ The Herul began to weep; openly, without shame.

The tent suddenly seemed very small to Mastabates. The fumes were suffocating. The elongated skulls of the Heruli were becoming ever more daemonic. Calgacus’s misshapen head was no better. The taste of almonds was cloying. Mastabates felt his gorge rising. He had to get out.

Stumbling over legs, muttering apologies, he crawled to the opening. He heard laughter; assumed it was mocking.

Outside, the air was cool. He could breathe. He gulped down big lungfuls. He steadied himself against a guy rope. It was a still, cloudless night. Overhead, the panoply of stars wheeled.

‘Too much mare’s milk?’ The voice was inebriated, but kindly. Mastabates had not noticed anyone approach.

‘Here’ — the man passed an amphora — ‘this will take the taste away, cleanse your palate. It is Arsyene. Not a noble wine, but light and clean.’

Mastabates drank. He felt better. He was surprised at the consideration shown him.

‘Thank you.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ The other took back the wine, took a long swig. He swayed slightly. ‘A beautiful night.’

‘It is.’

‘A night of endless possibilities, a night for wild feasting. Come, walk with me.’

As if in a dream, Mastabates fell into step beside him. They had a torch to light the way.

‘One of the kurgans has been opened — tomb robbers, I suppose. Let us go and see if it is true that the ancient chiefs feast by night.’

‘No, I am not sure…’ Mastabates had no wish to do such a thing.

‘Afraid?’ The other grinned, his teeth very white. ‘Me too. Come, unless you are not man enough?’

Again, Mastabates walked with him. There was something strangely attractive about his companion, as there often was with rough men.

Away from the camp, it was dark beyond the light of the torch. The mound loomed, massive and rounded. At its side was a black opening, like a door to Hades.

Mastabates followed him inside. A passage sloped down. After a while — twenty, thirty paces? — it opened into a hollowed-out circular chamber. They stepped over the worm-eaten remains of a wooden cart.

Inside, the chamber was large; twenty paces across. It was empty, except for some scattered bones and a large leather bag. Everything of value had been looted. The place smelt of earth and old decay.

Mastabates regarded the bones. There were a lot of them — at least fifteen skulls; a couple were horses’, the rest human.

‘They killed many of the chief’s servants to accompany him to the underworld,’ Mastabates said.

‘Maybe, but one of the Heruli told me these kurgans are often reused.’ He held up the torch, and Mastabates saw two entrances other than that by which they had entered. One was blocked, one open. ‘Sometimes there is more than one chamber. Robbers often dig more than one tunnel.’

‘What about their daemons?’ Mastabates asked.

The man took another drink. He seemed more sober now. ‘Not all daemons are bad. Anyway, only the ghosts of those unjustly slain harm the living. The gods let them walk to punish those who robbed them of the divine gift of life. It was the Scythians’ custom to sacrifice the servants, so they were killed justly.’ He passed the amphora to Mastabates. ‘Is it hard being what you are?’

Mastabates drank, trying to arrange his alcohol- and narcotic-fuddled thoughts. ‘Yes, it is not easy. Men — normal men, whole men — see us as things of ill omen: like eastern priests, cripples, like monkeys. They turn away if they meet us. No, it is not easy to be thought of as a monkey.’