Harry Sidebottom - The Wolves of the North

‘See, I bring you Saurmag.’

Maximus had been drinking for three days. He had stopped the afternoon before, when Naulobates rode back into the main camp. Waiting for the Heruli to return from their murderous harrying of the Alani across the Steppe, Maximus had consumed indiscriminately vast quantities of fermented mare’s milk and wine, and had inhaled so much cannabis his lungs ached. And it was not just the drinking. He had never had more sex… with the possible exception of one time in Massilia.

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at the Herul girl sleeping. He drank some water and tried to put the events of the last few days in order.

The panic had swept through the Alani like a wildfire. The Heruli had tried to get to Safrax. They had failed. The king had a bodyguard of a thousand or so of his nobles. Unlike the majority of the Alani, they wore armour — mail, scale or lacquered — and rode big horses, some armoured like the men. As their enemies closed around them, they had drawn up in a circle and fought. They had sacrificed themselves to the last man — no quarter had been shown — to win their monarch a start. When the nobles were dead, the Heruli had pursued the fugitive monarch south for days. They had killed many, but Safrax had escaped. It was said he was in the foothills of the Croucasis mountains, rallying his remaining warriors to face the inevitable assault.

Ballista and the familia had not been asked to join the chase, and they had not volunteered. With the others, Maximus had ridden back to the northern camp. They had spent two days there while the women and children returned, driving in some of the flocks, then three days moving south to the main summer camp by the river. When they had got there, Maximus had started drinking. Now Naulobates was back, and there would be a feast.

Maximus drank more water. He slid back next to the girl, moved against her until she woke, then took her gently. It was one of the few things that made a man in his condition feel better, if only briefly.

Afterwards, she slept again. Maximus lay on his back with his arms behind his head. He did not feel good. He had slept badly, sweating out the alcohol. Strange dreams had troubled him; the hanged woman Olympias, the other women pulling down on her legs.

Maximus got up and dressed quietly so as not to wake the girl. As he left, he wondered what she was called.

The sun was up, but the heat of the day had not yet come down. The sky was a bowl of pure blue. There was a cool breeze off the water as he walked down to the river.

A gaggle of Heruli boys were playing by the bank. They called out happily. No-nose, No-nose. Bring me more drink. He picked up a stone, and threw it at them. It missed. They ran off, laughing. No-nose, No-nose.

His clothes and body stank; drink, sweat, women, smoke. There was food spilled down his tunic and a leg of his trousers. His hair was matted, and his head hurt. He felt queasy, his limbs uncoordinated and heavy. He stripped naked and waded out. The water was cold, a fine silt giving under his feet. He swam to midstream, and floated on his back, letting the current take him.

In the altered state after his debauch, he thought about Olympias. The pointlessness of the blur of the last three days oppressed him. He thought about love. Ballista had Julia. Old Calgacus had the Jewish woman. And he had endless women, but nothing near love. Now he was older, he often wondered who would mourn him. Ballista, of course; probably Calgacus; and definitely Ballista’s sons. He might have sons of his own, scattered across the world. Perhaps he had fathered a few more in the last three days. He remembered Ballista once telling him how the old Spartans had believed the more vigorous the fuck, the more vigorous the child. Perhaps he would leave behind some strong, healthy young Heruli warriors who would ride the Steppe. Vitality was the only patrimony they would get from him, but it was not to be underrated.

It was quiet, just the remote sounds of the camp audible. The riverbank was deserted. He watched a brace of snipe darting about downstream. Self-pity could creep up on him in this condition. Not all men were made to love women. Some — young Demetrius, the insane Hippothous — found pleasure in other men. That had never interested Maximus. In truth, he could not understand it. But he had to accept that he preferred the companionship of men to the cloying demands of women. Constructing fantasies about a woman he had barely known, and who had hanged herself on the grave of her husband, would do him no good.

He swam upstream, back to his clothes. He regarded the filthy things, then scooped them into a bundle. Naked as he was, the malodorous garments under an arm, his sword belt in the other hand, he walked through the camp up to the big tent he shared with Ballista, Calgacus and Tarchon. As he passed, Herul warriors laughed indulgently, the women and older girls giggled, and the children ran after him, calling out, No-nose, No-nose; more drink.

The sun was going down as they rode to the feast in the meadow. They splashed through the ford. A flight of cranes were over the river, the undersides of their wings scarlet with the light of the dying sun. Maximus was alongside Ballista and Calgacus. The rest — Castricius, Hippothous, Biomasos and Tarchon — clattered after in no particular order.

Maximus felt somewhat better. He had persuaded Calgacus to cook, and he had eaten a great deal in the morning. If only there had been some bacon. He had dozed most of the rest of the day. Now, he was little worse than weary. Before they left the tent, he had drunk a cup of unmixed wine to liven himself up.

They came to the trees around the meadow, dismounted and tethered their horses. Even in the heat of August — Maximus made it eight days before the ides, but he was far from sure — the meadow was still green. The flowers had gone, but the grass was verdant. There had to be a spring or watercourse just below the surface. A quick look up confirmed that the treetops contained no miscreants, live or dead, to spoil the idyll. Perhaps his overwhelming victory had mellowed Naulobates. Still, they had better be careful. The gods alone knew what insane instructions for the First-Brother Brachus might bring back from the world of daemons.

A broad, roofless chamber of screens had been erected under the spreading oaks. They belled out in the steady northern wind. There was much activity around the cooking fires downwind.

At the entrance, they were greeted by two Heruli in the fine accoutrements of Alani noblemen. Both guards smiled, put their right palms to their foreheads.

One by one, they were announced. Somehow, Maximus’s thoughts were still not sharp. He was the last. Waiting, he noticed the screens were of fine linen and the sort of ornamented hangings the Greeks and Romans prepared for a wedding.

Inside, Naulobates sat alone on a couch at the far end. Two lines of chairs, most occupied, ran the length of each side towards the First-Brother. Maximus was given a silver cup to make his prayers. He was not a man given to bothering the gods, but he knew what was expected. He composed his face into what he considered a suitably pious expression, emptied his mind and drank the wine in one. It caught a little on the back of his throat and was unwelcome in his stomach. Thanks to the earlier livener, he neither spluttered nor brought it back up.

A Herul showed him to where the Romans were seated. Ballista was first, on the right of Naulobates, then Castricius, Tarchon, Biomasos and Hippothous. Maximus was seated between the Greek and the Herul leader, Pharas. Checking, Maximus could see no obvious danger. He was only a few paces from Ballista, and they were all armed. He must try not to get too drunk.