Harry Sidebottom - The Wolves of the North

It could be, Calgacus thought, that he was to witness the death of a people; an earthly prelude to Ragnarok, when the sun would be devoured, and the end would come for men and gods. But what could you expect when you travelled to the ends of Middle Earth with a man under a curse? Kill all those he loves. Let him wander the face of the earth, among strange peoples, always in exile, homeless and hated.

Since Naulobates had led out the fighting men, there were only a thousand or so souls to defend the two-mile perimeter of the camp. About two thirds were the wounded, the rest boys of thirteen or fourteen, fifteen at most. And, to the surprise of everyone, in the assembly last night Naulobates had ordained they were to be commanded by Ballista.

Many of the tribesmen had seemed deeply shocked. They had complained vociferously. He was not a Herul, not one of the brotherhood. He was the grandson of Starkad, the bloody-handed killer who had strangled their king, Naulobates’ own great-grandfather. Strangled him, but not before — gods below! — he had hacked off Sunildus’s penis and shoved it down his throat.

Calgacus had not known about the mutilation. He wondered if Ballista had known. He wondered if it was true. Folk memories were fallible. They changed to suit new circumstances, new needs. How could the Heruli have found out? Starkad had left no one alive on that desolate shore. And then it had occurred to Calgacus that he only believed that no one had survived the massacre because the Angles telling the story had said so.

Naulobates had dismissed the objections. It was universally acknowledged that no people were more skilled at defending a fortified position than the Romans. Had Ballista not been — for a day or two — emperor of the Romans? As for brotherhood, Ballista was brother by the cup and the sword with Andonnoballus. And as for the past, Starkad and Sunildus were a long time ago. It happened far away in a different country. As a sop to outraged tradition, he named an injured Herul called Alaric as the second officer of the camp.

Ballista had divided his command: the injured standing guard, spread thinly among the carts; the young inside the ring seeing to the oxen. He kept the Roman contingent with him. After walking the positions most of the night, he had taken his own station on a wagon in the southern arc of the laager. The one he had chosen was tall, and constructed entirely of wood. Come daylight, its roof should command a fine view.

Calgacus and Tarchon reached the wagon in the slate-grey light of the false dawn. There was a ladder. Calgacus climbed it, slow and stiff in his movements. At the top, he saw the dark shapes of five seated men. Muffled in their cloaks, they had the air of hooded crows.

Muttering, Calgacus put down the few containers he had carried. ‘It is no trouble at all. You fuckers just sit there. Let an old man do all the fucking work. Do not let it play on your conscience.’

Tarchon lugged up the rest of the things they had brought.

‘I thought you would never be back, not with all those baggage animals to bother,’ Ballista said.

Maximus got up and helped Tarchon pass around what had been brought.

Calgacus sat down where the Hibernian had been, next to Ballista. On his other side were Castricius and Hippothous. The second-in-command, Alaric, was beyond Ballista. When they had finished serving, Maximus and Tarchon hunkered down next to the Herul.

They all ate warm millet porridge and cold boiled mutton, drank fermented mare’s milk, and waited for the day.

‘I hope you do not mind me asking,’ Maximus said to Alaric. ‘Why have you not got a pointed head?’

‘I am not one of the Rosomoni,’ he replied.

‘Some of your tattoos — and very fetching they are indeed — are not red. I am thinking you were not born one of the Heruli.’

‘No.’

‘So what race were you?’

‘Taifali.’

‘No offence, but are they the ones that bugger the small boys?’

Alaric grunted.

‘Is that why you left?’

‘No, I killed a man.’

‘So what? Everyone has killed someone. Your men Hippothous and Castricius over there, they have probably killed dozens.’

‘The man I killed was my father.’ Alaric paused. ‘And both my brothers.’

The statement put a stop to conversation for a time.

It was quiet. The wind dropped and was backing towards the south. Yet it was still there, blowing across the measureless nomad sea, almost below the level of hearing, insidiously scratching and sighing through the dry grass.

Irrepressible, Maximus returned to questioning Alaric. This time his tone was less teasing, the subject perhaps less delicate. Were the Heruli not a fine tribe in which to be a man! How many women had Alaric enjoyed? Maximus had never known a better place for the women. Alaric was more forthcoming, and soon Tarchon joined in. By the tenor of their conversation, it seemed to Calgacus there could hardly be a girl beyond puberty one or more of them had not covered. Liars, all three of them, like most men.

Ballista leant close to Calgacus, put an arm around his shoulder, spoke softly into his ear. ‘I am sorry I have brought you all into this.’

‘You were ordered here. It was our duty to accompany you.’

‘I should have found us a way out before now.’

Calgacus gave a wheeze of laughter. ‘Oh, we are deep in the shite, and believe me, I have been looking for a way out, but I have not seen one.’

Ballista squeezed Calgacus’s shoulder, then stood, stretching until you could hear his joints crack. The big man sat down again to wait.

Maximus, Tarchon and Alaric moved on to discussing hunting dogs and horses. Say what you like about the Alani — and there was much to be said against them — they bred fine hounds. Maximus thought he would try to take a couple back with him. Hippothous and Castricius remained silent, wrapped in whatever clandestine and sanguinary thoughts motivated men like them.

The sun came up, a burnished plate of electrum on the horizon. The sky above the camp was empty, shining and translucent. But the wind had set in the south, and down there a storm was gathering, big black clouds trailing tentacles of night.

In the slanting clarity of the light, even Calgacus’s old eyes could make out the whole battlefield. It was demarked in the north by the camp and the stream. Three miles to the south, he could just discern the dark line of trees bordering a parallel stream. It would all be played out in this wedge of Steppe. It struck him as a small, nondescript place to host any such momentous event.

The horde of the Heruli was easy to see. It was assembled just fifty yards away. Despite all the herdsmen of the outlying flocks having been summoned, the losses from the first battle meant there were no more than fifteen thousand warriors. Unsurprisingly, no further reinforcements had arrived from the subject and allied tribes. The host was arrayed in three equal contingents, each ten deep and five hundred broad. On the left were the Agathyrsi and Nervii led by Artemidorus. The centre was held by Naulobates with the Rosomoni. Pharas on the right commanded what was left of the Eutes combined with the remaining Heruli.

The ponies were in ordered ranks. Through the gaps between the units, Calgacus could see the leaders and their aides walking about, their mounts held by handlers. The majority of the warriors were out of sight, sitting on the ground by the heads of their ponies. Above, banners cracked in the freshening air. Below, innumerable horse tails swished. The latter seemed always to be on the verge of forming some pattern, one that remained tantalizingly beyond comprehension.

Calgacus wondered how hard the Agathyrsi and Nervii would fight. They were not bound to the Heruli by bonds lasting generations like the Eutes. Calculations of flight, or accommodation with the Alani, if not outright desertion, had to have entered the thoughts of their leaders. Defeat bred desertion.